Thanks to Shane Speck for letting me put this here!. This interview is also on his website.

Size matters in Texas. The roads are 12-lane, the meals are six-course and the 10-gallon hats go all the way up to 11. Before you have sex in the Lone Star State you engage in something known as fiveplay. Big is big. Everything counts in large amounts.

And Erasure are big in Texas.

Boys with pneumatic muscles and thrustingly busted girls jiggle energetically as the club Ka-Boom! in downtown Houston reverberates to a familiar symphony-of-answerphones sound. Tonight, they'll tell you without a whiff of irony, is an "Erasure-Fest". Yee, and in all likelihood, haw!

Presently, Erasure themselves will take the stage and perform two acoustic numbers. They'll then sit at a trestle table where they will sign their names and be told, "Y'all are mah favourites, like, toadally," many thousands of times.

It's a rum notion and no mistake: a pop group who have long flown the lavender flag going down large-style in a place characterised by its good-ole-boy rednecktivity. Erasure themselves are baffled by their success here but they're not going to over-analyse it, Erasure, you soon learn, don't like to over-analyse anything.

This month, the duo are quietly celebrating their tenth anniversary: a decade as the Kraft cheese Kraftwerk. Ten years that saw nine albums, seven of which glided effortlessly to the very toppermost of the charts (5 actually-Jackie), and 22 hit singles - none of which even the most attentive Unigate employee could begin to whistle (apart from Sometimes, obviously). Ten years of up tempo techno-romp and downbeat ballady blippery. Ten years of camp live pageant beloved of wearers of white stilettos and blokes called Tony (and sometimes blokes called Tony who wear white stilettos). Ten years which, both members are shocked to learn, is a lot longer than The Beatles managed to stay together.

"Nah," laughs Vince Clarke incredulously. "We can't've been together longer than The Beatles."

"Really?" splutters Andy Bell before deciding that the current bout of reheated Beatlemania is a bad idea. "It's not on, really is it?" he grimaces. "Getting Julian into the band."

"Yeah," concurs Clarke. "Bit sick"

When it is pointed out that The Beatles are doing no such thing, Clarke and Bell become intrigued by the finer details of the project: how Yoko Ono fits into it; whether it has been recorded in analogue or digital; what George Martin's role in the whole deal is and presumably because Erasure's next single will be contending with The Threetles' Free As A Bird come Christmas Number 1 time - whether the new Lennon-exhuming songs are actually "any good".

Ten years young then, ladies and gentlemen. And to what do Erasure attribute such Scouse-outlasting longevity?

"It's just a bit of a marriage, really," says Clarke. "We don't live in each other's pockets. We give each other breathing space. We never argue."

Never?

"Never," insists Bell, picking up Clarke's thread in the irritatingly intuitive manner peculiar to pensioner partnerships. "The relationship has become very much like brothers. If ever there's a third party involved, me and Vince always agree with each other against them. It's like a secret we've got."

Black Beauty once described Vince Clarke as a bit of a dark horse. It is a rare occasion indeed when Clarke leaves his three million quid Surrey home, let alone has any truck with the prying press.

"I don't know why that is," shrugs the bespectacled éminence grise. "Dunno, you know. Me and Andy done this interview together two years ago and it looked so bad. Just really boring. Probably as boring as this sounds now. So..."

Clarke, 35, will often finish a sentence with a three dot shrug, a furrow-browed frown or an inscrutable smile. Most of the time he just allows Bell, 31, to chime in or change tack and when he doesn't, both enjoy a short, comfortable silence before moving along to the more conversationally verdant pastures of a friend's recent move, the deterioration in the quality of fish fingers or the respective merits of draught and bottled lager.

Given an appropriately abstract topic, Clarke will ramble amiably in his Basildonian cab-driver baritone. But any question concerning Erasure's enduring appeal draws a blank. Ask Clarke, for example, why Erasure have always been popular with the public but never the critics and he replies with all the communicative zeal of the little feller out of Penn And Teller.

"Don't care."

Andy Bell is more talkative, but maintains a slightly detached, other-worldly air. This and a translucent pallor suggest many unwisely late nights spent in unhealthy discotheque environments - but at least he is prepared to discuss the Erasure micro-phenomenon. Like, how when they last toured, the whole show veered towards pantomime as an increasingly wardrobe-happy Bell paraded the world's stages dressed only in a skimpy singlet and a gold lame codpiece.

" I let it get out of control really," he says repentantly. "See, the thing is, I think that you're a clown and I really like clowns. I think they're really brilliant people. But it can get too ridiculous. The whole Liberace thing. I wouldn't want to be remembered like that. Not that I particularly want to be remembered but it's very healthy to be a clown. I think everybody should be one every now and then. It shows you how ridiculous you really are."

And what did Clarke think of his crooning chum's costumed cavortings?

"Thought it was funny really," he allows cautiously. "It was taking the mickey out of perceptions. When you do a live show, you put on a different head. You're not creating anything, you're just repeating the songs."

Which brings us neatly on to Clarke's own contribution to the live Erasure extravafandango. What, precisely, does he do?

"Nothing, really," he laughs breezily. "Just press a button and it starts. I've got all the sequencers going so I just load up the songs and that's it. On the tour we managed to plug in a little TV as well so I could watch that when I got bored. Unfortunately the only thing you could get a good reception on was MTV so I'd watch that for a while. But I got bored of that pretty quickly too."

Does this uninterested approach to his work not annoy other musicians who perspire on stage for a living?

"I don't think the people who come to the shows get particularly annoyed." Isn't he ever tempted to grab an electric guitar and belt out a hairy-arsed riff?

"Nah," he sighs. "Maybe when I started out, but not now. I haven't got the personality. I get acutely embarrassed on stage."

In the wrong job then really, isn't he?

"Funny, isn't it? When I was at school I wanted to not be noticed. I wanted to change my name to John because I thought Vincent was too weird."

Surely there's an upside to celebrity?

"I don't think there is really," he ponders. "Unless you can get a free drink. But that's a really rock'n'roll quote, isn't it?"

Despite his rock'n'roll reticence, Clarke has occasionally seen fit to dabble with that greatest of all showbiz indulgences: the risible haircut.

"True," he concedes without emotion, "but I was losing my hair. I thought I might as well have one last fling."

"Know how you feel," murmurs Bell sheepishly.

Sitting in a blankly swanky hotel bar in uptown Houston, Clarke and Bell endure their inquisition manfully. They're both slight men, Bell being the better built with a minor stomach nestling `neath his Deep Throat T-shirt. Clarke, on the other hand, is skinny enough to pass for an apprentice Old Man Steptoe. They are polite and patient, but both, you suspect, would much rather be doing something else. Having their spleens removed, perhaps. Still, as we're here ...

All Erasure's songs sound the same. Discuss.

"Not to me they don't," says Clarke emphatically. "So, erm, that's all I can say really."

"Mmm," interjects Bell, coming to his friend's rescue. " I wonder if the new Beatles songs sound the same. Because that's what people want, isn't it? If they came up with a completely different sound, people would run a mile."

You write to a formula. True?

"I think we are quite formularised," agrees Clarke.

"But," says Bell, "we wouldn't say, Let's re-write Victim Of Love."

Do you deserve the money you get for what you do?

"Dunno," says Clarke, whose estimated income from Depeche Mode, Yazoo and Erasure is around £15 million. "Difficult one that, isn't it?"

Do you have a God-given talent?

"No," says Clarke flatly. "Andy's got a natural talent. I've got a knack. I'm much more practical. I work with computers. If I'm trying to come up with an idea in the studio, sometimes I just mess around with numbers until it works."

Isn't that just reducing songwriting to mere maths?

"Yeah."

What does it say under "profession" on your pass ports?

"They don't have that any more, do they?" contests Clarke with irrefutable logic. "That was the old black ones."

"Mine says Musician," says Bell.

What's the best album in the world, ever?

"Dark Side Of The Moon," says Clarke in a flash. "Best album ever. No question."

"For me, it would be Parallel Lines, Blondie," declares Bell.

Where would Erasure be without the advent in Britain of mind-altering drugs?

"Well," Bell begins, "Hi-NRG came before Ecstasy, didn't it? Then there's acid house and Pump Up The Volume and S'Express. Then techno came along. But we played a club last night and they were playing this really hyper-deep techno and everyone was completely straight. No drugs or anything. But in Britain you see all these people E'd off their heads just dancing to one bleep. I've never been able to do that. Even on E, I can never get into it enough just to dance to one single pulse."

Can Erasure's music induce euphoric trance-like states?

"It can with me sometimes," confesses Clarke. "Not euphoric, but I get kind of hypnotised. Well, not hypnotised but you can end up just sitting there. Actually you don't just sit there, you might start talking ahout football or something."

"Have you ever used any sounds that you can't hear, just feel?" Bell asks Clarke encouragingly. "Sub-sounds?"

"Nah," says Clarke.

Who'd come out better if the two of you had a punch up?

"I'd beat him up," smiles Bell.

To alleviate the tedium of this grilling, we attempt a quick round of the popular '70s afternoon gameshow, Mr & Mrs. Stepping into quizmaster Derek Batey's shoes, I ask Andy six questions about Vince. Vince, meanwhile, has retired to the metaphorical booth where he is now listening to Mantovani on some headphones. Andy will answer these questions then Vince will return to give his own answers. The idea is to discover how much each member of Erasure really knows about the other.

Your opening question, Andy: what is the first thing Vince does when he gets into a hotel room?

Andy: "He looks in the mini-bar, eats something nutty, he'll put the telly on, undo his bag, put his socks and knickers in a drawer, hang his coat up and have a cig."

Question Two: Vince is going to the electric chair: what does he eat for his final meal and what does he drink?

Andy: "His last meal would be meat. Roast beef. Drink, he would have a Heineken Export. It would have to be more than five per cent. Strong lager."

Question Three: If you were both stuck on a desert island, does Vince think you would end up having sex with each other?

Andy: "We might do."

Question Four: If there was one event Vince could change in Erasure's history, what would it be?

Andy: "The last tour. He wouldn't have done it."

Question Five: If Vince could change one thing about you, what would it be?

Andy: "He'd stop me from being late."

Question Six: What would Vince consider to be the most embarrassing record in his collection?

Andy: (Long pause) "I really don't know about that one."

Thank you, Andy. Come back in please, Vince. Andy has answered six questions which I will now ask you. Be as honest as you can but bear in mind that your answers have to reflect what Andy thought you would say.

One: You get into a new hotel room. What's the first thing you do?

Vince: "Unpack, have a shit, switch the telly on."

Two: You're going to the electric chair. What is your last meal and your last drink?

Vince: "A beer. He'd have said a Beck's. He's not a beer connoisseur. And for the meal I'd say probably veal. What did he say? Roast beef? Close then."

Three: If you were stuck on a desert island would you end up having sex?

Vince: "No. What did he say? He said we might do? He'd be lucky."

Four: If you could change one event in Erasure's history what would it be?

Vince: "Nothing. He said the last tour? Well, then we wouldn't have learnt anything."

Five: If you could change one thing about Andy, what would it be?

Vince: "He'd get up a bit earlier."

Finally: What did Andy say is the most embarrassing record in your collection?

Vince: "He wouldn't know."

Correct! And what is the most embarrassing record in your collection?

"Art Garfunkel," he shudders. "Solo album."

Now if Andy would retreat to the spangly booth and Vince could take the podium to answer these six questions.

Question One: Is there one regrettable event in Andy's childhood that he'll claim affected the rest of his life?

Vince: "He got into loads of trouble for writing his sister's names on the walls."

Question Two (to number two): What is Andy's favourite guitar sound?

Vince: "Probably Buddy Holly."

Question Three: If Andy had to go out for a date with Oliver Reed or Michael Barrymore, who would he choose?

Vince: "Barrymore."

Question Four: Which TV programme would he say affected him most as a child?

Vince: "Top Of The Pops."

Question Five: Is there one song that had a profound effect on his life?

Vince: "Dancing Queen or Union City Blue."

And finally, Question Six: Can Andy juggle?

Vince: "No."

Andy, welcome back. Vince has answered his half dozen questions about you. They were ...

One: We asked Vince, is there one regrettable event in Andy's childhood that he'll claim affected the rest ofhis life?

Andy: "Regrettable? Maybe the fact that I had sex with my best friend at school? He said writing on walls? Oh, I was just a toddler then."

Two: What did Vince say was your favourite guitar sound?

Andy: "It would have to be the punk guitar sound. Loud and non-musical."

Three: You can choose between a dream date with Oliver Reed or Michael Barrymore. Who do you plump for?

Andy: "Oliver Reed. He said Barrymore, I bet."

Four: Which TV programme affected you most as a child?

Andy: "I should say Top Of The Pops, I suppose. But it was either Tiswas or Michael Bentine's Potty Time."

Five: Is there one song that has had a profound effect on your life?

Andy: "Dancing Queen."

Finally, Six: Can you juggle?

Andy: "Yes."

"You can't juggle," huffs Clarke indignantly, showing scant regard for housewife gameshow etiquette.

"Well not with three balls," Bell claims defensively, "but I can do it with two."

"That's not juggling," gripes Clarke. "That's just . . . throwing a couple of balls in the air.

The scoreboard tells us that Andy wins with four points to Vince's meagre two. Clarke takes a consolation bite on his sandwich and, for reasons best known to himself, launches into a joke.

"There's this rabbit, right, who has been raised in a laboratory. One day he escapes from the laboratory compound into a nearby field where he meets an animal with long, floppy ears and a fluffy tail. `What are you?' asks the Rabbit, never having seen one of his own before. `I'm a rabbit, and so are you,' says the other rabbit. `Here have a carrot.' He nibbles for a while and says, `That's delicious!' `Course it is,' says the other rabbit. `Rabbits love carrots. Have you ever had nookie?' `No,' says the rabbit. `Well follow me down the warren,' says his new friend. So he does, where he meets a lot of other rabbits and has lots of nookie. `That was great!' says the lab rabbit after an afternoonful of nookie. `But I must get back to the laboratory now.' `Why on earth are you going to do that?' asks the other rabbit. `You've got lovely green fields here, loads of carrots and all the nookie you want.' `Yeah,' says the rabbit, `but I'm dying for a fag.'"

Erasure unleash a long and loud laugh. Settle down now.