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
Friday, 18 January 2013
Friday, 9 November 2012
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
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
Sunday, 23 September 2012
Everybody say 'Yeo'
A couple of quiet ones to start the Autumn Campaign gave us an opportunity to start dusting off some oldies and get some new ones ready for action. And of course play silly buggers as usual!
First up was Sandford, and a fundraiser - the good cause in question was to send three young ladies to care for some ginger apes. Sadly, Bernie and Ben's Christmases hadn't come early - it was something to do with Orangutans. We were unsurprisingly hazy on the details, but we've been promised a photo of adventurous lady youths wrestling primates while wearing Thorvertones badges in the Sumatran jungle. It's a special interest thing, but we're not ashamed of our peccadillos.
The gig was a right lark, under-attended due to internecine village sabotage. But a right lark nonetheless!
Second up was a trip to Yeovil Labour Club. That's right - our chance to put the PARTY back into Labour. Yeovil is one of the safest Lib Dem seats in the country. The right honourable David Laws MP has majority of more than 13,000, so we knew we re up against it. Bernie's previous life as a redcoat and would surely give us the skills to triumph, though, and his rousing tales of the working men's clubs of the North filling us with equal parts trepidation and boyish excitement.
And the Yeovil Socialist Workers really did their thing. In the kind of tidal wave of left wing support that will surely see this shambles of a Government burned at the stake in Parliament Square and usher in a new future of communal farming and gulag-style work camps for Bankers, capitalists and Tory voters, every single labour voter in Yeovil turned out to support us. That's right. 100%. All twelve of them.
But whatever the event, we attack it like it's Wembley and party like it's 1899. Even with such a select audience, there was dancing and merriment, joy and laughter, and not always restricted to the stage. The smoke machine went into overdrive and pogoing was the order of the day. Markie's fingers were a blur and Turners Tubthumping reached Bonham-esque levels of lairiness. Bunting, newly nicotine-free had more energy than a horny jackrabbit and Bernie, ever the professional, was always two songs ahead.
In years to come, all 13,012 members of the nascent people's republic of Yeovilgrad will honour the bronze statues erected in our honour, and whisper 'I was there'...
- Posted from a wireless telegraph
First up was Sandford, and a fundraiser - the good cause in question was to send three young ladies to care for some ginger apes. Sadly, Bernie and Ben's Christmases hadn't come early - it was something to do with Orangutans. We were unsurprisingly hazy on the details, but we've been promised a photo of adventurous lady youths wrestling primates while wearing Thorvertones badges in the Sumatran jungle. It's a special interest thing, but we're not ashamed of our peccadillos.
The gig was a right lark, under-attended due to internecine village sabotage. But a right lark nonetheless!
Second up was a trip to Yeovil Labour Club. That's right - our chance to put the PARTY back into Labour. Yeovil is one of the safest Lib Dem seats in the country. The right honourable David Laws MP has majority of more than 13,000, so we knew we re up against it. Bernie's previous life as a redcoat and would surely give us the skills to triumph, though, and his rousing tales of the working men's clubs of the North filling us with equal parts trepidation and boyish excitement.
And the Yeovil Socialist Workers really did their thing. In the kind of tidal wave of left wing support that will surely see this shambles of a Government burned at the stake in Parliament Square and usher in a new future of communal farming and gulag-style work camps for Bankers, capitalists and Tory voters, every single labour voter in Yeovil turned out to support us. That's right. 100%. All twelve of them.
But whatever the event, we attack it like it's Wembley and party like it's 1899. Even with such a select audience, there was dancing and merriment, joy and laughter, and not always restricted to the stage. The smoke machine went into overdrive and pogoing was the order of the day. Markie's fingers were a blur and Turners Tubthumping reached Bonham-esque levels of lairiness. Bunting, newly nicotine-free had more energy than a horny jackrabbit and Bernie, ever the professional, was always two songs ahead.
In years to come, all 13,012 members of the nascent people's republic of Yeovilgrad will honour the bronze statues erected in our honour, and whisper 'I was there'...
- Posted from a wireless telegraph
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)