SPEAKING as a confirmed snob, it was with equal amounts of disbelief and despair that I read in yesterday's Herald about the re-emergence of the Scottish rock band Gun.

Readers of a certain age will recall the late 1980s, when a trio of useless Glasgow groups by the names of Gun, Texas and Slide leaped on to the music business gravy train - by then out of control, daddio -- and hoovered up unfathomable sums from major record companies before snotting it out of their collective nose on high-end recording studios, Brylcreem and acres and acres of denim and leather, once the management stable which looked after all three groups had pocketed their 20 per cent.

We all know what happened to Texas, and the less said the better. Suffice to say I doubt the late John Renbourn will miss them one jot now he's gone to the great howff in the sky. Slide at least had the generosity of spirit to exit stage left without making a kerfuffle. Gun, though, seem determined to hang around like a fart in a spacesuit.

Still, snob or no, you have to hand it to the band members - they've got stamina to burn. And their resurfacing at least allows me to recount an entertaining episode in my own social development.

The year was 1987, perhaps 1988, and as schoolboys whose musical inclinations were known in the Largs area, my friend Dan and I were invited by a local musician to join him in attending a showcase gig in Glasgow by the hot band of the day - Gun.

Up we birled in said muso's Honda and into the Fixx II we sallied. Though underage, we were handed a succession of fizzy beers to savour (it was all Schlitz, Michelob and Rolling Rock in those days) while marvelling at the band's box-fresh equipment and tapping our toes to their hard-rockin' tunes. Our quiffs remained erect while our knees grew weaker and weaker from zealously drawing on the succession of what I presumed to be menthol cigarettes being passed round our gaggle.

On the way back down the road it all started to go a shade off-piste, predictably enough. Though generally a healthy boy, I could feel my temperature rising, the blood coming all too readily to my chubby cheeks as I sat in the back seat struggling to focus. Then, just as the Civic hit peak velocity on the moor road from Kilbirnie to Largs, my stomach gave up the ghost, issuing forth a lagery gastric soup which stained both the upholstery and my cream chinos.

Looking back, I reckon my body was reacting naturally to the evening's entertainment. Nothing to do with the gassy beer or "menthol" cigarettes. Oh no. Gun can seriously damage your health.