A rock group is entitled to their fair share of groupies, but three guys and a guitar (okay, technically it's two guitars and sometimes a trumpet)? Believe it or not, it happens. Prepare yourself for a tale of the lengths some creepy people go to be remembered:

A gig is a gig, regardless of the content. For Tripod a gig was a gig and tonight's went well. Now to spend what seemed an eternity signing away and posing for photos, with ninety-nine percent of the time, young, hormone-filled girls all with dreams of bedding them. Most people file off once their time is over, but some people have very different ideas and agendas.

"Hi! Hi! Hi! We, like, made you guys, like, all this, like, stuff!"

"Uh-huh... well thanks, I've always wanted a personalized photo album with pictures of me with people I don't know."

"Yeah, and I've always wanted a notebook with something that I said once, that was one of those "had to be there" moments, emblazoned across each page."

"...whatever this is, I've always wanted it..."

"Oh my God, I, like, can't believe, like, you guys, like, love it all"

"...we're crazy that way..."

Now imagine this scene playing out for much longer - a living nightmare and glimpse of hell. No human being could tolerate that much.

"Well, we, uh, better, you know, head home now." A quick glance at the nearest exit and some split-second, mental arithmetics on how long it would to escape out it.

"What?" A downcast face, a heart wrenching wail, "we thought you guys, like, wanted to hang."

"We do, it's just, uh, busy day tomorrow. So um, nice meeting you." A quick smile, then a hissed "Run!"

There's nothing quite like three grown-men running from fifteen or so fangirls. You could almost set it to Benny Hill chase music. Leaping over low fences, running through city parks, straight to an empty warehouse (where else do you run to in these situations?)

"Shut the doors! Shut the doors! Put that convenient heavy crate in front of it." They huddled in a corner. The girls' silhouettes could be seen through the frosted windows, their voices rising more in pitch with each second that went by.

"We, like, haven't given you, like, everything!" wailed one and a book full of sketches of the three men, flew through the window. More 'gifts' came thick and fast. One clocked Gatesy on the head, he started to bleed and became unconscious.

What happens next is up to you. Can you stop the menace to society that is fangirls?