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

You've been listening to... Some Thorvertones

What have we learned in the past week?

1. That with sufficient grit, determination, alcohol and a sufficiently inebriated crowd, we can achieve the impossible

2. That nobody should ever, ever, on any account, consume a Prawn Kebab that's been left out for the day then barbecued in the dark.

That's right - as we geared up for a return to the Racehorse (which is now surely the home of some of the more cockahoop receptions we've been blessed with), news came through the wireless telegraph that Markie was laid low.

"Never mind", we thought. "Given his iron constitution and masters degree in self-medication (as evidenced by the New Years Eve performance which he sadly can't remember), he'll be fit as a fiddle by showtime" ejaculated Bernie in remarkably realistic prose.

But it was not to be. Barely able to stand, having not eaten in five days and visibly reeling from the shock of the elevated sewerage charges levied by South West Water in lieu of his loo, he had to hold a trembling hand up in defeat.

After much soul searching, and a massive kick up the arse from Mary from Tipperary, we decided to press on as a threesome. And once we'd got that out of our systems, it was off to the Racehorse.




Despite initial nerves, we hit the ground running. Four songs in, during 'Gloria', and it started to become apparent that we might just get away with it. Two sets in, and a couple of impromptu stage invasions later, it became clear that the Racehorse Massive had drunk enough to almost guarantee it.




And when, apropos of nothing and having not played it in over a year, we decided to launch into 'Sally Maclalane' in honour of our Gaelic Mistress, the place went mental and we knew we'd be able to leave with our heads held high. Phew!

There's a bit of a video from earlier in the night to be found on YouTube here (thanks Claire!), if you want some insight into how we sound 'UnMarked'. And if you want to make a contribution to the 'Markie Get Well' fund, Jamesons is £2.30 a shot down the Exeter, he'll be there by next Wednesday.

See you soon.

Love you byeeeee!
X




- posted from a wireless telegraph