Swerving uncharacteristically close to going back on topic:
As one of the less enjoyable rewards of playing in bands in the 70's, I one day found myself back in the local clap clinic yet again (I can still remember my Patient Number, even now), after the pills they'd given during my previous visit caused an intense rash which covered only the lower half of my body from the waist down.
It didn't take very long at all for the novelty of having a two-tone birthday suit to wear off - particularly once the itching began. However, the clinic's interest seemed to lie, not with my discomfort, but in the fact that an allergic reaction to those particular pills was hitherto quite unheard of. Consequently, I was asked to hang around while a photographer travelled the 30-odd miles from Southampton hospital to take pictures of me doing a twirl with my kit off. Then, once that was done, asked if I wouldn't mind signing a disclaimer allowing the shots to be used for a feature in the Lancet.
Well, I've often thought I'd make a good centrefold. After all, if Burt Reynolds can do it... Any road up, somewhere out there is a medical journal with a picture of me doing a brilliant impression of a Strawberry Sundae and if you should still happen to have a copy in that box of questionable magazines you keep under the bed, I'll give you twice what you paid for it.