A winters tale...

The old stovepipe is getting more irregular than the technicolor belchings from the Vatican, and in a fashion not entirely dissimilar to the bong-based confusion that saw 'Mad' Franky annointed as pontiff, we've stumbled through the winter months in a haze of stage theatrics and flu remedies.
From where we stand now, the weeks and months since New Year's triumph are a little hazy.

We had to bid a sad farewell to the Twyford in January. Global Economic Meltdown has finally reached Tiverton, and nailed down the coffin lid of one of our favourite venues. We're a little light on the details, but I'm sure it was marvellous and I put our mental blank down to the aftermath of New Years Eve. Mark's hangover of New Years week was such that even his teeth were visibly throbbing, so anything is possible.




February? Bow. As in Selecta. Always nice to play on a big stage - and now the citizens of the people's republic of Bow know what to expect at the Heart of Devon festival in May, they have plenty of time to make alternative arrangements. There may have been another gig in February. Again, answers on a postcard.




There has definitely been a trip back to the Pinhoe and Whipton Labour Club. Although largely apolitical, I can't see us accepting a similar invitation from Cameron's cronies, but we would make for a great soundtrack to a Billingdon Club style riot - especially now the Onanism Suite is coming together.

We've played a wedding. Notable for its wonderful lady bride, sweet shop, bonhomie, and the unwelcome reappearance of the 'Bolham Revealer' (pictured) an excommunicated 'Fifth Tone', who's amphibious exhibitionism got us in hot water with the WI on more than one occasion before we spurned him. We're stronger without his free jazz trombone.




We've been to Tiverton again, but breaking new ground at the Hare and Hounds. Our sound was strange, but apparently welcome. Whether we'll be back we don't know - the 'business for sale' sign doesn't bode well, especially after the Twyford closed down. The Lengths some landlords will go to to be rid of us know no bounds.

Next stop the Bowling Green - and a return to coherence. Maybe.

Love you!
Byeeeeee
X
- posted from a wireless telegraph

Tap... tap... tap.... Is this thing on....?

Uncle Bernie here. I'm not usually found at the controls of the blog engine, but brother Bunting has asked that I summarise the run up to the new year in sparkling prose.

Trouble is... my short-term memory is shot to pieces after forty years on the laudinum, and I spend must gigs with my eyes shut tight to prevent my eyeballs from popping out.

Well, here goes... The main theme running through the gigs in December was illness. I have seldom seen such displays of stoicism as would compare to the lads bravely soldiering on through dysentery-like symptoms, simply to keep the patrons of our various haunts entertained.

That said, there's a lot to be said for the curative effects of the best-looking-bar-staff-in-Exeter (c) at the Bowling Green. On this occasion, nobody was afflicted too badly, and spirits were high as we dusted off the Christmas single, managing to get the whole place singing, even without the aid of the panto-style lyrics board.

By the 22nd of December, the Exe Valley was well and truly submerged. I always thought that if Stoke Canon ever made it onto the national news, Tessa would have something to do with it. However we hoved bravely through the rapids that were once the main road, amidst soggy ITN reporters and degraggled refugees in dingys and got  to the Whipton and Pinhoe Labour Club well on time. I had, by this point, eaten a whole packet of 'Vocalzone' lozenges, so my voice was in great shape. Pity the same couldn't be said of my pants.

New Years Eve. Well, there lies a tale. Markie 'Mark' Williams had taken to his bed some days earlier, and was a sorry sight as he limped into the Racehorse, and collapsed on a monitor. We considered setting up a temporary field hospital in the kitchen, but sadly it was full of canapes.

The lad did good though, seeing in the new year by boshing an entire bottle of Jamesons (I swear - we should have shares) and kindly donating an extremely expensive stratocaster to some drunk girls after losing his glasses.

Good work - bring on '13.

x

Yes yes yes its my autumn almanac

Well, its been a bracing start to the Autumn campaign. indeed, with the first snows still lingering in the Blackdowns, and the Christmas Single (available on iTunes and Amazon) being dusted off yet again, it's time for another stovepipe.

We kicked off with another stonking trip to the Racehorse - and one that nearly never happened. in five years ofmgigging, only once have we ever had to cancel. But we cam perilously close this time. Only with the support of industrial doses of Imodium and a prescription of Port with a Brandy mixer was poor Harry able to make it through a typically manic night out in Tonetown. Fancy New Year's Eve? Get your free tickets now, they're disappearing fast and you can't come in without them!

No sooner had Harry trodden on his first duck without dropping a pebble, than we were off to Tiverton for a 70th birthday. The theme was 'music through the Ages', and we do like to hit the dressing up box. Whtndid we learn? That 70 year olds aren't what they used to be. Especially if you're in Tivvy. With more pep than a Naga Viper, and more energy than a fast breeder, our host put the majority of attendees a third of her age to shame. She got the moves.



With all this gigging activity, we kind of gave up rehearsing so used our time up Jon Mann's back alley at the Exeter to do some recording. With professor Gleeson back at the controls, the fruits of a couple of hours guerrilla recording are free for you to download to enjoy at your leisure. We recommend you listen naked.

With our mojo rising, it was back to where it all started, the Thorverton Arms, for a bit of a homecoming. The surprise Friday Night party had a James Bond theme, which although no-one told us of, we were able to contribute to by muddling our way through a passable stab at 'Live and Let Die'.



With a quick stop at the Bowling Green, which we love, allowing us to press the flesh with the good folk of the big city, we were on a roll. So much that we were playing at an alarming pace and had to pull 40 minutes material out of our stovepipes as we'd played 43 songs by twenty past eleven. Sometimes, the extent of our knowledge of inappropriate party songs surprises even us. It's that limited.

So with our danders up, it was time once again for the Bradninch Halloween Party. This gets bigger every year. It was our third time in a row, and there will definitely be a fourth. The best performance of a straight run of seven in a row, it was inspired by the smell of greasepaint, regular doses of the spirit of jazz and clear sight of a range of devilish corsetry. What a combination. We loved it, we love Bradninch, and we'd like to come play your festival this summer. Can we be your Friday night lovers?



So, that's Autumn. And when winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Next stop the Black Horse, then back to the bat cave for a rub down and a strategy session. What we need is a Manifesto.

Love you you lovely lovers.
Byeeeeee!
X