Founder · Bristol · Hamlet
Chris P Tee · Jack Mingus · World domination through kindness. One ember at a time.
You share the story of how you got to be who you are. You show how you love who you are. You help someone else learn from what you've learnt. Being famous takes your privacy. Feeling famous gives it back.
— Chris P Tee · Written live · 19 June 2026From the hamlet
I was on the CB radio before there was an internet. Before apps, before profiles, before any of it. And we figured out how to meet strangers safely anyway — because the community worked it out. Nobody wrote it down. Nobody had to.
The Blackburn eyeball. The Queen Victoria statue. The boulevard was wide enough that you could walk amongst people before committing to anything. We did it the way spies do it. And we did it with kindness.
Read the full story →I used to do voices on the CB. Hari Budgie. Rachee Bumpo. Talking Lithuanian that was really just double speak. Mad as a box of frogs. But I knew I had listeners. Lurkers. People who didn't want to talk. Who just wanted to be there.
So every now and again I'd say: "I know you're there. You don't have to talk. Just give me a couple of clicks of your mic so I know you're there."
And I'd get clicks back. Bleeps. The quietest possible signal: received. I'm here.
Channel Nine on CB is the international emergency frequency. You might sit in silence for an hour. Then you key up — and a big booming voice comes back.
That is FeelFamous. That has always been FeelFamous. I just didn't have the infrastructure yet.
Not everybody look at me and give me likes. Not "look what I've done." Not performance. Not broadcast.
Dead drops of kindness. You leave something for someone who needs exactly what you have. You don't need the audience. You don't need the credit. The lift is the point.
We are all Delta Force. We are all Autobots. Each person is whole, skilled, complete. FeelFamous doesn't complete you — it assembles us. One hour a week. See what it does to you helping others.
Just BE and share what you've got.
Culture is not your friend. It insults you. It tells you to sit down and shut up and not to dream. FeelFamous is the channel nine underneath the broadcast. — Terence McKenna pointed this out. Chaplin knew it in 1940. It's still true now.
At 17, I read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Douglas Adams said the answer to life, the universe, and everything was 42. I remember sitting there thinking that was the answer for me personally. Not a joke. A promise.
Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3: "To thine own self be true." — Polonius. I named this whole thing a hamlet before I knew that line was in it. The Celestine Prophecy says there are no coincidences. Only signposts.
This is the year. I got on with it.
People told me for years I should be on television. I believed them. Spent a long time trying to get there.
Took me fifty years to work out they were right about the talent and wrong about the destination.
TV was the right vehicle — for the era it was built for. When the greats were on it, it was a genuinely electric thing. A box that could put a comedian in your living room and your living room in a theatre at the same time. I wanted to be part of that. But by the time I was ready, the box had changed what it was for. It stopped broadcasting and started programming.
What I kept was the thing that made me want to be on it in the first place — the connection, the trick of it, the moment when a room full of strangers decides to be one thing together. That doesn't need a camera. It needs a room. And eventually it doesn't even need the room.
There was a man who spent the early part of his career collecting animals from around the world and putting them in boxes so people could look at them without going very far.
Then he stopped. Changed his whole method. Went to where the animals were.
Everything he became — everything that made him impossible to replace — came after that shift.
Sometimes the most broken people bring you the most value. Not despite what happened to them. Because of what they did with it.
I found three snails on their backs in a back alley. Two were gone. One was playing dead.
I put him on a leaf and talked to him for a bit. He came round slowly. Had to push past his mates to get clear.
I have no idea if he made it home. But I know he moved.
You work with what's alive. You get down if that's what it takes. You don't need an audience. You need to find the one that's still breathing, give it something to stand on, and get out of its way.
That's all this is.
Someone had something I wanted. I didn't have enough money but I had other things. I said: what have you got that you don't need? They started listing. I started calculating.
I walked away with more than I arrived with. I always did.
The radios came first. I was fifteen with a President Madison sitting on my desk, an International Jumbo on top of it, a Stereo Echo Bass Master Plus, a Turner JM Plus, two International Concord Twos, a Multimode Two, a TriStar 747, a Lafayette 1200 FM, and walkie talkies. None of it bought with money. All of it traded up from something smaller.
You don't need capital. You need to see the gap between what something is worth and what someone thinks it's worth — and close it with value rather than cash. I've been doing the same thing ever since. The currency just changed.
When I was young and small I couldn't afford to rip people off. Not morally — practically. If you told someone something worked and it didn't, they'd come round. I could usually talk my way out of it. But the truth had no comeback, and that was worth more than any extra quid.
The reputation built from there. Deal to deal, person to person. People would ask where something came from and I'd tell them exactly. They'd check. It would stack up. They'd come back.
I listened to people who said I needed to look a certain way, sound a certain way, belong to certain institutions. I joined the ones you were supposed to join. Got in eventually — I sent an application that wasn't as good as the first one, but it had the right shoes in it, so it counted.
That's the part I wish I could go back and skip. The skills were real the whole time. The institutions were just addresses.
When you don't know you're special, you don't get to enjoy it.
I didn't know for a long time. The last few years have been about catching up — learning to sit in something I apparently had access to all along but couldn't see.
What I'll say is that I could feel the weight of the thing — the direction everything was pulling — and I made a decision to put everything I had on the other end of the board.
Not for me, as it turned out. Or not only for me. There are people like me — people who've been looking for the right shape for what they're carrying — and I knew if I could get there, they'd find it too. I didn't expect kids specifically. That was a surprise.
The board has moved. Not far enough yet. But it's moved.
The lonely. The frightened. The weak. The disenfranchised.
These are the ones the fascists aim for first. Not because they're easy — because they're isolated. Cut one off from the herd and you can tell it anything. You can make it afraid of the other ones. You can make it forget it was part of a herd at all.
For pennies. For a little bit of status. For the feeling of being on the winning side for once.
We are not going to fight them. We are going to make the lie harder to believe. We are going to show the lonely and the frightened and the weak that there is a community — and they are welcome in it — before the other lot gets there first.
People who opened windows
The people the world calls strangers or weirdos are often exactly the people you need to learn from. Dave was one. So was the woman on the CB with the extraordinary voice. So was Colly in his workshop with his chickens and his kiln.
We must elevate the people who mentored us. Who gave us their spot. Who kept us going when the system was busy ignoring us. Not because they were famous. Because they were real.
And remember: bad people are perfectly capable of doing good things — if you let them. The window is still a window, whoever's holding it open.
— Chris P TeeI used to disappear at lunchtime. Ten minutes on my bike, up the hill between Pleckgate and Blackburn. The bullies spent their lunchtimes looking for me. I was already somewhere else entirely. Dave sampled before sampling was a thing. He got so excited when a thunderstorm came. I still do things he did.
Brian would read your stars over a cup of tea. Then he'd tell you everything was going to be alright — and you believed every word, because he meant every word. He had two gears: warm and lifting, or protective when someone was being hurt. The angel and the protector. The tea cake and the twat.
Kevin could tell you the pressing plant from the dead wax. He had that knowledge in his bones — been digging in crates since the seventies. And then he'd tell you none of it mattered as much as whether the music moved you. Anti-snob. PLUR to the core. Everyone's favourite uncle.
He makes vaporizers that look like Aladdin's lamps. Hand-built — the lamp AND the vaporizer, both his own work. Syrian heritage, German by birth, Gran Canarian by choice. He sat in one spot all weekend at Spannabis. I'd go dancing and come back, and there'd always be more people around him than before.
He had cancer. His voice box was removed. When he came round from surgery, he ripped the pipe out of his own neck. He says it's the best thing that ever happened to him — because in that moment he saw exactly how much his family loved him. Now he talks to kids facing the same surgery, as the proof that it gets better.
Sparky is the interview engine. You talk — it listens, makes sense of it, turns it into something you can keep. Your story is the skill. Share what you've got.
Ramble mode: record a voice note, get a proper write-up. Interview mode: answer a few questions, get your wiki entry. Both modes: completely yours.
✨ Open SparkyYou don't have to say anything. Just let me know you were here.
— Chris P Tee · Fifty years on stage · Bristol raver since 1989 · Still talking to strangers