Ashy Ashy Ashy! Hill Hill Hill!

Despite the murk, drizzle and bracing chill wind, we were sure it must be summer - because it was time for the Ashill Beer Festival!

We were headlining the opening Friday night tonight, which was new turf for us having been the Saturday main draw the last two years (see previous editions). What with the weather, many of the good citizenry of the village were keeping their powder dry for Saturday. But if there's one thing you can count on, it's that we will play our little hearts out and sing until our poor blackened lungs are a-quiver.




And we did. Two hours, straight through, no breaks, no let up, no retreat, and at times, practically no audience. But once the sides went back on the marquee and the howling gale and accompanying sideways rain were shut out, we were back in our cosy element and the crowd built up.

And, as we do, we delivered. It was, all said, a great ending to the opening night to one of the finest beer festivals in Devon (mind you, ThorFest hasn't happened yet...). We'll be back next year!




And that is us done for now. The summer garden party and wedding circuit will be keeping us from the public arena until ThorFest, at which we will be fully intending to smash Thorverton's back doors in all the way til midnight.

See you there!

Byeeeeeee!
X

- posted from a wireless telegraph

The Fantastic Four

Its been a bit like bread without the butter of late. Or perhaps more appropriately, The 'Tap without St Hubbins. But rumours of Markie's demise have been greatly exaggerated it seems. That's right, the missing link has been unearthed, the fourth cylinder is firing, the cream is back in our skinny latte, the lead back in our pencil. Whichever way you want to look at it, we're back at full power!

And it was serendipitous that our favourite Exeter haunt, the Bowling Green, should be the epicentre of a Pub Rock Explosion that registered 7 on the Rock-ter scale, what with the best looking bar staff in Exeter being on hand to man the pumps and all. Come the zombie apocalypse, we want to be on their team.




The pub was packed despite the wonderful weather, a testament to our ability to tempt even the staunchest carnivore from a burnt banger. The crowd were excitable to say the least, and up for it from the off. The lessons learned from our enforced three piece experience were put to good use, and it all worked out rather marvellously. You can click this bit if you want to see a video!

Typically, with only three hours available, we didn't have time to play half our stuff, but there's always next time.

We're full steam ahead for headlining the Ashill Beer Festival next Friday night - come on down from ten 'til midnight and have a listen to the rejuvenated, re-energised and some would say repetetive Thorvertones! Friday is, after all, the new Saturday!

Love you long time

Byeeeeeee!
X

- posted from a wireless telegraph

Three is the tragic number...

Friday night rolls around again and STILL no Markie! Our appointment with the Crediton and District Skittles league wouldn't wait for his slow recovery, and given that the poor chap had only just managed to hold onto his second slice of toast in eight days, we could hardly begrudge him his sick bed.




So with palpitating hearts we took on another night as a three piece. However, the raucous crowd that bore us aloft through the previous weekends nerve racking festivities was sadly missing, with the trophy presentation, buffet and raffle a long way above us on the bill. Time to knuckle down.

Our first set passed with nary a ripple from the crowd, who were largely in the lounge bar next door. The occasional 'Woo-Hoo' was all we could elicit from the assembled skittlerati.




After a 90 minute break for the buffet and awards, broken only by a momentary reappearance of the pictured Bolham Revealer (see previous) we pressed on with our wildly inappropriate modwardian rock and roll extravaganza. Three songs in, and it was time for the raffle.

By the time we got going for the final push, with an empty room, we feared the worst. Without Markies stunt guitar work and melodic wailings, could we salvage any dignity? Turns out we could, just. As we sailed into the choppy waters of the 80s section, stirrings were visible, then dancing, then, against all the odds, widespread joy and jubilation and demands for more. With a My Generation encore duly dispensed, we disappeared into the night with our pride intact, but we've never missed you more Markie! Enough Malingering already!

See you at the Bowling Green. There will be four of us if it kills us.

Love you,

Byeeeeeee!

Post Script: Markie's experimental new spleen seems to be doing the business, and with a favourable tailwind will be on his converse clad feet in next to no time.

- posted from a wireless telegraph