“(…) They found a shadow on Gahan’s bladder which turned out to be a malignant tumour, since succesfully removed. (…) That Gahan has once again wriggled from The Reaper’s skeletal clutches says much for the agitated figure who spends much of this evening sweating himself ragged in what happens when your mortality’s been tested to it’s outer limits:

You prance in waistcoat and bare chest like Michael Hutchence, even if you’ve all the sexual charisma of Michael Barrymore. You believe you’re Elvis, even if every line on your face spells Essex.”
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