Mark was at the very first Caister Weekender. Amazingly his mother, a local peasant girl, was pregnant with him at the time and was employed on the site to Brasso the coal scuttles. She remembers Tom Holland almost too fondly to this day.

Although tall, he failed to foresee the coming down of the Berlin Wall or butter-flavoured Polo mints.

He actually believes Chris Hill is the Hill on the Isle of Chris in the Outer Hebrides.

A former child star, his numerous stage, screen and TV appearances simply do not exist.

Mark's definition of Soul: "It's that music-y thing they sell to you on records, isn't it? Well, isn't it? When's my tea?"

Although he knows orange to be a colour, he still has trouble coming to terms with it as a fruit.

His trousers will hide a multitude of sins, even on-site.

His other car is the same one he's driving.

Mark's definition of Jazz: "Oh, that's like the soul-y stuff but with noisy bits. Where IS my tea?".

If he is seen during the course of the Weekender polishing spoons, he should not be approached.

Mark is delighted to be asked to DJ at Caister. He just had trouble showing it, that's all.

Yes, it is all his own hair.

Mark has no website. He has nothing.

Mark's final thought on life: "As long as you've got your health, you might as well have someone else's who's fit like Linford Christie or that bloke Brian from East 17. Is that my tea?"