Cider House Rules

Every so often a gig comes along that makes you wonder why you bother……..I’m sorry, I think I may have written this line before…on several occasions.

Anyway, Aaron & I were booked to perform at a new venue in Bristol, and by new I am referring for the promoter (a thoroughly decent guy who is committed to keeping music live in this fair city of ours) as opposed the building itself, which quite frankly looked like it had last seen a lick of paint during the Crimea War in celebration of the safe return of our brave troops.

Anyway, it was one of those gigs where the filthy lukka was waved seductively under one’s rather impoverished nose (those few months directly after Christmas are always a bit of a lean time) and so myself and the boy got ourselves booked.

I sadly had to abandon the significant birthday of an old and trusted friend in London to scream back down the motorway in order to get home in time to grab the PA and guitars and get to the venue.

I had done the obligatory promotion of the gig, sadly with no success as not one single person that we have ever met attended the session, and we set off for the venue itself.

Now I don’t know what pubs are like in other parts of the country or even the world but the West Country does seem to have its own particular brand of bar, which can only be affectionately known as ‘Cider Houses’.

This is generally a bar that is frequented by groups of men (or women) who have a rather dangerous fondness for the juice of the apple.

And when I am talking ‘Cider’ I am not referring to that nice clear fizzy stuff that is especially imported from Ireland to be consumed by groups of gay young people (and I by that I mean the traditional happy variety) in tall glasses with plenty of ice.

No, what I am referring to is ‘Scrumpy’.

It has been said that if you can see clear through a glass of cider then it isn’t scrumpy. I would say that after four pints if you can still see (or feel) your feet, then again it isn’t scrumpy.

Scrumpy is traditionally brewed in hidden places by farmers of dubious morals and reputation and includes anything they can find to lob into the mixture to give it ‘body’.

Now my father-in-law before retirement was an accountant and he once did the accounts for a rather famous West County Cider maker and was there when they emptied one of the massive vats. From within its murky depths was hoisted copious amounts of dead rats, cats, a dog and even a bicycle and this was from a reputable company with Health & Hygiene certificates and large contracts with major supermarket chains.

The scrumpy I am referring to does not fit into this category. The bodies of rats and the occasional sheep are considered to be a vital ingredient in this concoction. In fact if you are extremely lucky and you are drinking a particularly good vintage you might even find the foreskin of the original brewer in it.

It was into the domain of drinkers of this fine beverage that Aaron and I stumbled.
Every head turned to glare at us as we entered the room and the full weight of ‘cider breath’ slapped us firmly between the eyes. We had arrived, the afternoon’s entertainment, fresh meat.

As we struggled to carry our equipment down the full length of the narrow bar we were heartily jeered and heckled.

As we gingerly put together the PA the body of somebody looking, and walking, like the scarecrow in the wizard of Oz stumbled past us towards the bathroom facilities tripped over his feet and said…….”oh, tripped over your stuff I’d better make a claim”. He then collapsed into a hacking fit of laughter and smokers cough highly amused at the hilarity of his own humour.

That was irritating enough but he went through the whole routine on the return from the toilet to his seat.

Once the PA had been assembled and guitars had been tuned we set to get ourselves ready to roll.

I asked Aaron if he would like a glass of something local. His “hell no!” left me in little doubt that a couple of pints of lime and soda might be the safest option for the occasion.

We then launched into a two hour set performing to a wall.

The only people we saw were those performing the swaying dance of the sailor in rough seas as they fought their unsteady way toward the toilet and then back again. With each passage muttering some nonsensical rubbish that only they found to be in the height of good humour.

We were delighted when a group of students appeared about three songs from the end, however; we were just as quickly crestfallen as they marched as one out into the beer garden for a cigarette and to presumably converse with those already in the open air toilet.

It was a pleasant delight to get out of there with our bodies if not our egos in tacked.

I’m sure this wont be the last time I will be uttering the immortal words “Why do we bother”