Heck but time flies by past!!

It was only five minutes ago that I was telling you about the tractor fancying Hillbillies of Vermont and here we are just a few days away from Christmas and not an utterance from me.

It was Billy Connolly who said that he could sum up his year in the words “May old acquaintances be forgot….happy birthday to you…we wish you a merry Christmas……where the hell did that year just go?”.

Musically 2010 has been a relatively quiet one. We have only performed 15 gigs as The Mudheads and about another three or four acoustically as the Loaders. Now not many years ago that would have been considered a good number for any group. However; only a few years ago for us as a band we were up to about fifty a year and turning down more work than we could actually take. The sign of the times I suppose.

Most of the venues that we had played in regularly have now closed their doors, either to live music or totally…..some just to us (we are rather expensive now and there is a recession on after all).

It is rather sad to drive around the city of Bristol and see so many venues boarded up or given over fully to that other evil ‘Sky Sports’….shudder!!

However; as a band and as a singer we are not over and done with just yet…….although the way we all felt after our last gig a few weeks ago might suggest if we don’t spend just a few more days in the gym we might all be physically ‘over’ permanently real soon.

We don’t know what 2011 has in store for The Mudheads but we intend to keep bashing away at it and fine tuning the old set to perfection. My main ambition is to get my old partner in crime Bassbin to attend one of our gigs and go “Blimey, that was a good choice of songs”………a rock god must have his dreams you know no matter how deluded!

We have also discovered the joys (or curse) of video.

CJ had purchased a digital video camera and we thought that we ought to try and get something up on You Tube from a live gig. I think the text speak for this is OMG.

Personally I think the other two look great, however; I look like a middle aged, over weight civil servant (any comments to the fact that this is exactly what I am will lead to unfavourable responses on my behalf…….Keith Richards may look like a walking corpse but he does not require anybody to point this out to him as he is a bonafide rock giant and above such trivialities as the ravages of time).

This instigated the immediate need to tweak my image ever so slightly…..I now am on the hunt for a Pork Pie hat…….!

Now many have pointed out that my general peer group all look pretty much as I do. One too many late night curries and beer leaving its indelible imprint around our mid rifts. What hair we have left is grey to the point of going white. Eyesight so poor that where as we used to struggle with the concept of spelling ‘eagle eyed’ now we use words like ‘Varifocal’. Bodies that could scramble into the branches of a tall oak like a primate gazelle now require helping hands to retrieve us from the insertion of a dvd into it’s player.

Basically at my age, most of mates like me looked slightly …well ..clapped out!!

However; as I like to point out…most of my mates don’t have to have this particular indignity paraded in front of several hundred revellers of a Saturday night. My own particular addiction tends to leave me rather vulnerable to this kind of humiliation and leaves me painfully aware of my physical imperfections.

So 2011 will see me once again pledging to get my backside into gear to lose several dozen pounds and working on my stage image and presence. After all Antonio Bandaris, Bono and Adam Clayton are all slightly older me at 50 years…and being honest, they all still pretty cool.

So that’s my goal….again!

“Oh Lord, won’t you buy me…..a mince pie and a large glass of scotch!”

‘Driving along in my automobile’

I have a terrible confession to make, and it causes me great stress to have to admit to it.

During my three weeks of travel state side the sound track of my whole trip was laid down by a digital radio station called ‘Prime Country’.

Now before you turn off your computer in disgust never to return let me at least try to defend myself……..at least try.

Forgive me if you are reading this in the USA, as I know that Country & Western is very much the back bone of music for a large proportion of the populace, but bear with me.

Also in regards to my American friends, I know that there are a fair few of you, but I have always endeavoured to be honest with you and I have to state this as fact, American television is dreadful!! I don’t mean the programmes themselves, to be fair we get most of them over here a month or so later anyway, what I am referring to is the amazing amount of commercial breaks the programmes get.

In the UK, during an hour long episode of a programme such as ‘House’ we get four ad breaks each lasting approximately 4 minutes each.

On one occasion during a wet evening in Boston, whilst endeavouring to watch said Hugh Laurie in his medical Sherlock Holmes interpretation I counted 10 breaks. And to ad insult to injury the commercials themselves were even worse than the bilge we get over here……mainly aimed at 4 x 4 drivers and the best place to get barbequed ribs.

Having had this experience of the television I assumed that radio would also be an unbearable experience. However; this could not have been further from the truth. In fact I would go as far as to say the quality of the programmes our car’s Bose system picked up wiped the floor with UK radio programming (there you go friends over the pond, we have the TV, you have radio).

Far from loads of ads they had none and very little chat, just pure music, Chris Evans please take note. Also as you flicked through the dial you’ll discover that they have stations dedicated to pure genres, the 40’s 50’s 60’s 70’s, 80’s, rock, blues, blue grass, swing, jazz and of course….country.

Now we managed to negotiate our way through the back end of Brooklyn towards Boston listening to the 50’s rock & roll station, and believe me there is no more suitable and exhilarating song with which to start an adventure like this than Chuck Berry singing ‘Driving along in my automobile’ and that is what we got as we negotiated our first freeway.

Now in any relationship you have to have a modicum of compromise and on long journeys the choosing of the right music to travel to always involves a huge dollop of give and take.

You see whilst I can tolerate and even enjoy my wife’s choice of driving music (she is HUGE Bon Jovi fan), she dislikes my favoured tunes immensely… 11 hours of bands like ‘The Living End’, ‘Span’ and ‘Greenday’ would probably have caused marital disharmony right at the very beginning of our tour.

So with this in mind we flicked through the DAB channels until we settled upon a station that was neither offensive nor plain dull to both our senses. And as I said, I am ashamed to admit it but we settled on ‘Prime Country’ which basically played the top country music from the 90’s.

One thing you need to bear in mind before you think I have drifted to the dark side of ‘good ol boy’ straw chewing moonshine supping hillbilly is that during the 90’s country appeared to have enjoyed some what of a renaissance and become more in line with the rock of bands like said Bon Jovi and Robert Plant than singers like John Denver and Jim Reeves.

Singers like Shania Twain (great country name) turned her back on the gentler expressions of singers like Tammy Wynette and Dolly Parton and gave the whole genre a bit more rock & roll (her husband/producer Mutt Lang did produce Def Leppard and Bryan Adams after all) and gave the thing a lot more ‘bottle’

You can still find the traditional stuff all over the airwaves, but for British cynics like myself who had cut there teeth on music that was the antithesis of C & W ‘Prime Country’ did help paint a positive pallet for the weary driver as he drove along the never ending Interstate.

However; lest I lulled myself into too much of a country luvin stupor as we were winding our way through the beautiful countryside that is Vermont in the fall following three gorgeous Harley Davidson motorcycles, a song arrived that reminded me not to get too complacent. “My girlfriend thinks my tractor’s sexy and it really turns her on”.

In the UK during the 70’s we had a bunch of local lads (to those of us from the West Country) called the Wurzels who sang a cider fuelled rendition of a song called “I’ve got a brand new combine harvester I’ll give you the key” . However; it was universally accepted that this song was a parody and a bit of a laugh. The guy whose girlfriend thought his tractor was a bit of an aphrodisiac sounded like he was being serious.

As the trees got thicker I thought I could hear the gentle plucking of banjos and smell the sweet sickly aroma of moonshine……..we quickened our pace.

More from our journey on the far side of the pond to follow.

Fly me to the moon!

Hi all,

I'm back from my trip to the mighty US of A, which thankfully gave me fuel for things to write you about. It was a trip rich with experience and music....sort of!

If you could bear with me as I have four CD reviews I need to write and I am also at the tail end of a Jet Lag like I have never experience before and as such I am struggling to find my own feet of a day time.

Just to keep you enticed.......I discovered the lyric "My girlfriend thinks my tractor is sexy and it really turns her on" on the prime Country channel.......not even the Wurzels could have come up with that particular line.

I will start writing shortly I promise.

Paul

" Hello Springfield, are you ready to Roooccckkk"

I am going to be off of the radar for a few weeks on my American tour. I say tour what I actually mean is that I am going to throw myself off of the Niagara Falls in the despair of having hit the ancient age of 50 years old.

To me this is a matter of depression; however as my son often points out to me, I may generally be the oldest thing on the bill normally by a good 20 to 30 years but I can normally rock all my opponents off of the stage any day of the week. So I should rejoice that I am still in the game and I am still rattling a few cages.

My plan had been to find myself a platform somewhere in the States in order to sing just one song. This would then give me the right to proclaim myself an ‘International’ singer.

I’ve sung in far flung European places such as Romania, but as yet not out of the European Union.

I did in fact sing a stupid song I had written 10 minutes previous all about ‘messing about in boats’ whilst on a cruise down the Nile in Egypt, but to be truthful, that didn’t really count.

However once again, my plans to visit the Colonial shores guitar in hand have once again been thwarted…this time purely by the hands of lady time.

I had been offered the opportunity to perform in Philadelphia but common sense and the need to get some sleep at some point on the trip dictated that the Philly connection be set adrift in favour of a dash across the border into the Canadian Territories.

However; if you hear tell of a Brit who has been arrested endeavouring to sing “I fought the Law” on the steps of the Whitehouse whilst his wife accompanied him on the rice paper and comb then there may be a very good chance that it was me.

Oh, incidentally, if any of my readers are those of the ‘scan social sites in order to find whose away in order to burgle their property’ types, then forget it…….the Loader junior clan are taking up residence in our abode and we are praying Lord that we have a house to come home to.

So be warned…all trespassers will not only be tortured by being made to listen to loud and offensive music, but made to clean and tidy.

The Toilet Circuit

I was having a shufty through some old articles and having a bit of a clean out. I came across a short story that I had written a few years back when this incarnation of the band was still performing for 60 quid in the corner of the 3 Sugar Loaves. These were thankless gigs and hard work all round.
The Story made me chuckle and brought back a few memories so I thought I would share it with you again.
So pour yourself a beer, make your self a cup of coffee, sit back and share the experince of being on the road once again.


The Toilet Circuit


Sid pushed himself back into the upholstery of Bernie's car and yawned. He didn't know why, but he always had this feeling of fatigue on the way to a gig. Sid wondered if this was nerves although he had never suffered from stage fright. When other band members had been bringing up their lunch in the porcelain shrines, Sid didn't feel a flutter of fear. Perhaps he did. Perhaps this was his way of dealing with the panic that saturated many performers before they walked on to the stage. Instead of feeling as if the world was about to end and that he was going to evacuate every last meal he had ever eaten one way or another, Sid just wanted to climb under a duvet somewhere and go sound asleep.

He wound down the passenger window and sucked in a deep breath of ice cold February air and tried to focus on what was going to happen this evening. He ran through the mental check list that he always held in his head before a gig like this. PA, had all the leads been packed? He could remember when somebody had taken some out of the case once before and then forgot to put them back. A right royal bunch of plonkers they had felt on the night. All revved up and nowhere to go. Especially when they had to rush off and find replacements, leaving Reg to put the PA up on his own, a major gamble in itself as Reg preferred the company of a pint of Guinness to graft any day of the week.

Guitars, check. Stands, check, set list. Ah the set list. Sid had left that sitting on the printer tray on several occasions and had to phone home and get his wife to read it out to him. You try and find a pen that works and a dry piece of paper behind any bar in this country. Not possible.

The first game of chance of the evening now came into play. Would they be able to find anywhere to park the car? Or would they end up doing that strange perverse ballet of emptying the car in the road, whilst being shouted at by a myriad of impatient taxi drivers, then navigating the gear through a pub crowded with after work office drinkers whilst Bernie endeavoured to stow the car somewhere that wouldn’t result in him being towed away.
Tonight, Lady luck was with them. There was a single space at the rear of the pub. Sid offered a grateful prayer of thanks to the patron saint whose sole responsibility it was to guarantee parking spaces to weary travellers and musicians.
As Sid wearily uncoiled himself from the car the all so familiar perfume of the rear of a city pub hit in full in the face. This particular establishment had it’s own particular heady aroma, that of rotting fish (next to the pub was a particularly good fish and chip shop) and urine. Sid could never fully understand why the human male, having consumed several pints of the amber nectar, felt the need to piss up the side of wheelie bins, especially when they had passed perfectly good bathroom facilities only a few feet away inside the very same establishment they had just vacated. Perhaps it was all part of the ritual. Like offering a flame to a glass of Sambuca, or nosing the bouquet of a fine wine or even swilling expensive vintage Brandy around the side of a crystal glass, the experience of eight pints of lager could only be enhanced, tackle out, swaying slightly, singing 'Danny Boy' or something suitably Irish whilst splashing your shoes.

Everybody slotted into their own particular roles of responsibility at this point. Years of touring these venues had shown them that everybody had a job to do, and Sid's was to make sure that the pub hadn't double booked. More than once they had arrived to find some spotty punk rocker or slightly suicidal folkie lamenting the death of the fairies in the band's place simply because the landlord couldn’t be bothered to buy a new diary. Of course the pub couldn’t care less who turned up as long as the punters were 'entertained'.
Tonight was going well, the crew of the Fox & Turnip were expecting them, and due to a particularly depressing set the night before from a singer whose wife had dumped him for somebody slightly less morbid, were actually pleased to see them.

Sid’s other job was to clear the space where they were going to set up of drinkers. By drinkers I mean suits and skirts that knew that they really ought to go home, but had already fallen over their own safety limited, and were by now under the false illusion that their partners were not going to flay them alive when they staggered home, 'as the newt' a full four or five hours late.
Sid engaged in the usual banter with the drinkers. 'Yes he was in the band', 'no they couldn't join in as it sounded bad enough as it was', 'No they did not play any flamin Bob Dylan'. Why did these people always want to hear Bob Dylan? Sid bet that not one of them owned a Bob Dylan record, he suspected they couldn’t even name a Bob Dylan song let alone recognise one if they heard it. Yet still the call went up every time.
He thought he'd been clever one night when some drunk had yelled 'Got any Donovan'. Sid had replied 'What! Jason Donovan?' Thankfully the drunk was a lousy pitcher and the glass was empty. However; Sid had learnt a lesson, don't take the Mick out of drunks, they don't like it!

As Sid cleared the space, the acrid air full of smoky promise bit into the back of his throat. Now Sid didn't object to people who smoked in pubs, far from it. In the day he used to smoke those foul smelling French things himself, that was until his wife gave him the ultimatum. 'Smoke those things, and sleep on the sofa!' It was just every time he performed in a smoky pub his mother's voice would ring in his ear 'Remember what happened to Roy Castle'. Sid did, and yet he kidded himself that Roy had another chance, he would have done it all over again. Of course Sid didn't have the first hand experience of feeling your lungs implode as the cancer ate its own body. But hey! Sid always thought, live fast die young!!! which by now wasn’t strictly true in his case. Even so, when in doubt, delude yourself that it will never happen to you. That was Sid's philosophy and he was sticking to it.

By now, the rest of the band had appeared including Nev who was acting as roadie for the evening. They staggered under the weight of the guitars and the small PA that would hopefully give Sid and the boys at least a fighting chance of being heard over the din of the pub.
No matter how many times they had put the gear together, the boys never seemed to tune into one another and always ended up tangled in leads and straps and tripping over cases.
As Bernie was putting together a small drum kit that required neither leads, mics nor tuning he was invariably finished before anybody else and was generally first at the bar.
Signalling towards Sid, he made the universal sign of 'Do you want a beer?' this involved a mime of an individual lifting an imaginary glass to his lips.
Choosing the right beer had become quite an issue for Sid. A life time lager drinker he had been devastated to learn that his favourite brew, far from being simply ‘reassuringly expensive’ was in fact nicknamed by almost everybody as ‘wife beater’. Sid always thought himself to be a man of peace, kind to animals and children. And yet to discover that his favourite beverage was the fuel that leathered up the more Neanderthal nutter in order to give them the courage required to go home and beat seven bells out of their old lady made Sid think seriously about what he was drinking. Sid, who could never associate himself with this kind of behaviour, switched immediately to another leading brand of the yellow stuff. However, he soon began to realise that European beer makers really do like to fill their beers with chemicals. Sid had no idea what those chemicals were, only that awakening from a night of gigging and Dutch lager usually left him feeling like he had imbibe a small child's chemistry set. And to make matters worse the small child in question would be clattering around in his head trying to get the chemistry set back.
Reg and Bernie were both fanatical 'Real ale' drinkers and so saw this as the opportunity to introduce Sid to the glories and joys that is 'Black Bishops togger' and 'Bullocks old scrotum'.

Sid soon found out that drinking real ale was akin to playing Russian roulette, you never knew when the next one was going to kill you. Sid also discovered that the brewers like to 'add' things to give their beer to give it more body. Lengths of rusty chain, rats, the foreskin of the original brewer. All these added extras went to give the beer more taste and an added 'surprise'. If you were really unlucky, that 'surprise' would be delivered with full force about three o'clock the following morning. On more than one occasion, whilst clutching frantically to the sides of the toilet bowl and at the same time biting chips out of the sink, Sid had wished that he could say 'to hell with my principles' and go back to the wife beater.
Tonight Sid thought he would play it safe, 'A Guinness please Bernie', millions of Irish drinkers couldn't be that wrong. At least Sid knew that he would get through tonight with his bowels intact.

Sid then went through the most important ritual of the evening, he loving opened his guitar case, and gently, ever so gently, as if he was raising a new born baby out of it’s crib, Sid lifted the guitar from it's case and took a few moments to drink in it's beauty. He allowed his senses to float over the curves and edges, the colours and shades. The sliminess and subtlety of the neck, the fullness of the body, the depth of the shine. It wasn't an erotic experience, but damn it was close.
Sid knew that he wasn't odd, he knew that he wasn't even alone, hundreds, if not thousands of guitarists before him had had the same reverential love and respect for their guitars. Hell, Ian Hunter from Mott the Hoople went all the way to Memphis to reclaim his mislaid 'instrument of fame'. Sid looked down upon his old friend a look of proud recognition in his eyes.
They say that a bad workman blames his tools. Sid, however knew, that if he loused it up on an evening, it wasn’t the fault of the guitar, not this guitar. It had been made by a craftsman, using the best materials, not hurried or rushed, but crafted until every aspect of the neck and body were perfect, and Sid loved it.
Sid wasn't materialistic, he had quite a few other guitars, some even more expensive and beautifully made than this one. Sid however, was as loyal to his guitars as he was to his friends and family, and tonight he was with his 'best girl'.
Having slipped the strap around his neck he took a few moments to tune the guitar. It didn’t take long, it generally stayed in tune pretty much all of the time. Sid smiled. He remembered in his youth guitars that he could not even get in tune let alone stay in tune. He reminded himself how fortunate he was that he now had instruments that at least went some way to helping him sound good.
The boys were ready to check the sound. Sid left all the technical details to Reg. He had never really been interested in that side of things himself and was more than happy to leave getting the sound right to somebody younger who hadn't already totally shot their hearing. Mind you, Sid didn’t think that Reg was all that far behind him in the hearing stakes.

The sound checks never really took all that long, at least not in the pubs. There was no need really, not when eighty five percent of the punters would not have known the difference if they had been playing Kylie or Kurt.
Sid then retrieved the set lists from his case and handed them around. He placed his copy on the floor before him. He stared at it for a few moments. Could this be another moment of reverence? Was Sid soaking up the subtleties and nuances of the words as if studying scripture? Was he simply composing himself for the show that was to follow? All these were possible to the casual observer. Ask Sid yourself and you will receive a different answer. 'Hardly, I can't see a flamin thing once I have taken my glasses off, which isn't vanity incidentally, if I don't take them off, they fall off. I'm just trying to memories the first few songs. After that Reg and Bernie have to feed me the order'.

Then the band is off. Ebbing and flowing as if they were the tide rising and falling upon rock pools. Sid expertly teases the crowd as a priest calling the faithful to pray. Trying with all his heart and soul to win converts from among the disinterested. Bernie totally lost in concentration, oblivious to the drinkers, the din, even those that have been captivated. Reg, at one with his guitar, always one verse ahead, always chastising himself for imperfection, always pushing to improve, better, more. He spies a group of old college friends, he had somebody to perform to, his eyes turn to greet theirs and his face ignites into a Cheshire cat grin.

Almost as if time had stood still, it was over. Sid hears over the music, through the banter across the general milieu the cry that all good things must come to an end 'time ladies and gentleman please'. The band knew that this was their cue to wind down, slow up, call it a day and bid the crowd adieu.

If, and I really do mean IF, they are really lucky, they might get an encore, but not tonight. Tonight, it was as if they were not there. As if they did not exist. Despite having given of their best, of themselves for over two hours, it was if they were mere musical wallpaper. The occasional punter would tip them a nod of approval as they left the pub, but not many.

They dismantled the equipment virtually in silence. Not for any other reason than they were exhausted. Sid had sung his heart out, but most of his throat had gone out with it. Bernie rubbed his wrists and winced, knowing that he would pay dearly for his labours in the morning. Reg was deep in thought as he coiled away the leads, his mind on another day, another concert.

Past the connoisseur of fine wines leaking his night’s entertainment into the street. Past the couple shouting and screaming their undying love for one another through an alcohol fuelled haze of obscenities and spiteful name-calling. Past the drunken, middle aged promenade lothorio undeniably convinced of his animal magnetism as he endeavours to seduce the teenage temptress by leering at her indiscreetly and making crude suggestions that his wife would never have allowed. Back to the waiting car, and then home.

'Another night, another date, another SM58'

As Sid walked up the steps into the foyer of the hotel, Nev turned to him and spoke. 'Sid, mate, I have been your tour manager for nearly twenty years, right?' Sid nodded his head, nearly too tired to respond verbally. 'Tomorrow night', said Nev 'You and the boys are playing the Millennium stadium. There isn't a single ticket left available. In fact the whole European leg of the tour sold out within twenty four hours of going on sell'. Nev was beginning to get hot under the collar. 'With this in mind', Sid had by now stopped walking and was giving his old friend and tour buddy his undivided attention. 'Why the hell do we need to play these 'toilets' like tonight? Surely it's a complete waste of time. You worked hard enough all those years ago to get out of the toilet circuit and now you are deliberately putting yourself back into them. What the heck is that all about'.

Sid smiled and gently shook his head. 'You're right Nev' he said, responding patiently and graciously to his old friend. He could see that Nev too was tired; Nev certainly had more important things to do on the night before a mammoth three month world tour than play nurse maid to these three idiots. 'You're right, tomorrow night is sold out as are the forty two nights after that. That stadium will be packed out with punters expecting to be entertained, expecting us to give of our best. They will be expecting enthusiasm, passion and not just a little sweat, blood and rock and roll. They don't want to see a bunch of ageing rock stars that have done it so many times before that they are simply going through the motions.
Because of what we did tonight, because of the hassle and the total lack of response from the punters in the pub, when I go out on that stage tomorrow night I am going out with passion, enthusiasm and not just a little gratitude. I'm free of it, I escaped. How many poor sods are still stuck every night, playing their hearts out for nothing in those places? When I take to the stage tomorrow, I will be fully reminded just how damned lucky I really am, and that keeps me sharp'.
'Besides' said Sid with just the touch of a wry smile on his lips 'whilst we were playing tonight, slogging our guts out for nothing. This joker was stood at the bar with his mates, holding court. He was explaining proudly how had had managed to snap up two last minute tickets on the Internet for our concert tomorrow night, and they had only cost him two hundred quid for the pair. Whilst he was rambling on about this, the very band he had just paid a fortune to be going to see was playing just ten feet away from him and he was ignoring them for free!! Now that's comedy!'

The long hazy days of summer!

It certainly has been one long wet summer in terms of the lack of live music for myself and the band and certainly in respect of interesting dilemmas to enthuse ones readership with (the promised wedding went as sweetly as you like so no stories there I’m afraid)

In days past it would have been far different as I would have been involved in performing at some of the many summer festivals that were around at that time, sadly many long gone. I’ve played in fields, on race courses, in football grounds, on the back of trailers, in parks, tents, bandstands, double decker buses and even on top of portable radio stations. I’ve done it all.

My initial enthusiasm for the great outdoors began when I managed to blag myself onto the bill of a small festival on the south coast called ‘Kingston Festival’. It was based originally in the National Trust’s ‘Kingston Lacey House and had a great atmosphere about the place.

I managed to get 3pm on the main stage, however it was the Sunday grave yard slot and it was lashing it down. All in all though it wetted (no pun intended) my appetite for more and I vowed to get myself onto the coveted 9pm slot on the Friday night just as the sun was setting.

This I managed with my band Mudheads Monkey. About three thousand happy revellers rocking their socks off to our tunes. Sadly it was to be our very last gig as a band as the ties that were holding us and ‘it’ together were fast beginning to unravel by then.

We had performed at the Brixton Academy only the month before. We were getting known, this was the break we had worked towards. But there was pain and tension and that was never what we were all about and on the day we had returned from Kingston I sadly phoned each band member and pulled the plug. A sad moment indeed.

However; on the whole my memories of festivals has always been happy ones.

As a band MHM had the cheek of the Irish and we would blag, cajole and con our way onto any stage or situation.

If this meant taking up residence out side of the promoters caravan and ‘busking’ until 2am in the morning then we did it. We were cheeky yes, but on the whole the promoters and organisers appreciated our sense of unquestionable enthusiasm and 9 times out of 10 we got our break.

At every festival we then promoted our socks off. This meant handing out flyers on mass. Busking to the queue’s waiting to see other more major acts, buzzing the on site radio stations and refusing to leave until they let us play a song, we even ran onto the stage during other people’s acts (they were always friends of ours and generally joined in the lunacy and gave us a name check and plug).

The camping that always went with these events was a major pain mind you as we rarely got much sleep and we all looked and smelt like refugees from The Somme for the entire weekend.

At one festival we decided to pack up the tent before we went on stage as we were planning to leave directly after the event. A particular enthusiastic fan generously tried to help us and ended up stabbing me the face with a tent pole cutting my cheek just below the eye.

By the time we took to the stage I looked like I had been in a bar brawl…and of course after a weekend with no discernable wash facilities smelt like I had been sleeping in a cow shed. Not a great look and feel for a budding rock god I can tell you. Camping was fast becoming my least favourite thing of all time.

Our guitarist Matt didn’t fair much better in the pain department as in the same year he had managed to bang himself up on his motorbike quite badly. Although he was on crutches throughout most of the summer he had completely overlooked this fact during a particularly exciting main stage set. He completely forgot himself and in a blind moment of guitar heroship leapt from the stage into the crowd.

His silent scream was audible only to dogs and those of us in the band who were fully aware of the damage he had already inflicted upon himself as tendons and muscles ripped and tore. God bless him, he still finished the set, but with perhaps just a little less running around.

Thankfully CJ was solely a car driver and apart from rolling his mini on several occasions at speed appeared to have avoided the summer pain of that year.

By the end of our festival days we had allotted to wave our fee in return for a comfortable bed and soft pillows (apart from CJ who for a reason known only unto himself absolutely loved camping and along with the entourage of family and friends that would travel with him to these events would set up a city all of his own…….he’s the only bloke I know that could camp at these things, have a decent wash AND still keep the beer cold….a talent Aaron & I have grown to love appreciate since those days).

The kit generally didn’t fair much better as we were often unloading onto a stage or into a marquee through rain and mud and I was invariably picking straw out of my bass for weeks afterwards.

We always made great friends at all the festivals we played at, most now have slipped into the distant past but I hope they sometimes reminisce fondly about a bunch of nutters they stumbled across all dressed in military jackets and tie die shirts (it was the 90’s) while they themselves looked like they would have failed the audition for a Wurzel Gummidge audition. Fond Memories indeed.

Those days have long gone and the nearest we get to performing at a festival is the British Mountain Bike festival and as we are the only band on the menu it isn’t quite the same.

Would I play at them again? Probably, but the same rules apply. Soft comfy beds or share a tent with CJ, his portable bathroom and beer fridge.

I'm stil here

Hi all,

I trust that everybody is enjoying their summer holidays, albeit the wettest August since goodness knows when if you happen to reside in the UK.

As previously mentioned we have musically closed down for a few months and so there is very little to report, apart from an impending wedding tomorrow evening. As this is in a tiny Devonshire village and down a country lane that you would be hard pushed to ride a bike down I think I might have some interesting tales to tell come Saturday.

However; I just wanted to assure all of you who kindly read my scribblings that I have not given up, but that I was giving my brain a bit of a rest (and at my age I need that from time to time).

We will speak again VERY soon

Paul