Episode Fourteen

Blyth in Transit (or A Brief Interlude Before Summer Erupts Like A Boil)

It seems to have been March 22nd before the collective members of Blyth were assembled again, following the epic studio sessions. Let's face it. We needed a holiday.
And where better to spend it than on an interesting assortment of motorways between Harrogate and the south coast. Fortunately we have grown to love the zappy little numbers from the Harrogate Van Centre, which seem to run on air, and are fleet of foot besides. A nice change after some of the monsters we've travelled in over the years. Memories of juggernauts, laundry vans, and broken-winded screws fade away whenever we board the white wonders of HVC and hit the skies. Hurrah! No more the creak of timbers from the bolted in bunks conjuring up memories of heaving clipper ships tossed on tempestuous seas. No more the stench of old damp carpet that has been imbued with the mud of too many foreign fields, and definitely no more the howl of wolves at the door come to collect on the fuel bills. Yes folks, it's the stripped down corporate streamlined capitalist no nonsense away with the wasters cut the crap Blyth machine coming to a town near you.
In fact we like it so much that sometimes we hire the things just to drive around town, burning up the local Kevins. On this occasion, however, there was a job to do. A trip to Southampton for a show at the Talking Heads, courtesy of our old chum Mr Peter Chegwyn. Little of import to record about this one. The band did two sets, didn't have the new CD in time, but was feted with the usual cups of tea, which are always welcome.

April 11th in Leeds was a more controversial affair. This time we foregathered at The Grove, for an intimate soiree. Regular visitors to the rolling Blyth showroom will recall that The Grove is not only small, but is also nearly impossible to find. Fortunately the surrounding streets are used by professional ladies who seem to know there way about, and are both courteous and helpful. Thus the band met up with TDL after teatime, having had an adventure on the way. "She can't be at work," Bambi had exclaimed in wonder. "She's wearing a jumper!"
So we crammed the band in at one end of the room, and crammed the audience in at the other, and played two sets. Of note was the interruption of the second set by an attempt to steal the van. The alarm went off while TDL was waffling, and Annie went out to investigate. Confronted with a shadowy figure lurking by the cab door she challenged him.
"I mistook it for my car," he said, and vanished into the night.
Meanwhile back inside the very lovely Aston did the raffle and we all went home with a feeling of warmth and accomplishment at the end of the night. Bless.
Of course she was wearing a jumper. It was freezing.
Two days of furious rehearsal followed. Actually they didn't. We watched telly, and Mr Cooper went to Barnsley to see if a local football match could brighten his Southern-coloured opinion of the frozen North. Needless to say it didn't. If he'd gone trainspotting at Milford Junction instead he'd have had a better time, says TDL. Mr Cooper is not so sure.
Sunday, then, and over the Pennines to Ashton, for a wild night of rock at The Witchwood. We all blame TDL for forgetting the guitar amp, as he was in charge of loading the van. Tosser. Fortunately the sound engineer was both helpful and resourceful and produced this tiny little machine, which did a convincing impersonation of an amplifier. Ashton was notable chiefly for all the old acquaintances that turned up, and we had a ripping good time. But then, we always do.
Especially when we're going to Southwick for a one-off on a Wednesday. All that lovely mileage in one of HVC,s finest. Arrival at The Schooner was approximately 18.30 hours. It was grim and grey. Silverleaf turned up, and we were impressed to see that Mr John Rutherford, in the intervening years, has not gained so much as an ounce.

All this one offing is all very well, and it's nice to get back home of an evening, but summer is a coming in, and we do anticipate some longer stretches.

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Episode Fifteen

Here We Go Gathering Saggy Old Chairs In May

Aha! The merry month of may eh? Merry my arse. Not nearly so merry as it should have been, largely due to the hideous treatment both band and audience received at The Hibernian in Birmingham, thanks to the negligence and downright uselessness of both the promoter and his locum...
It started off well. TDL points out that the journey couldn't possibly have been worse than the last time he came here. Himself and Annie rolled down to Shrewsbury first of all, wherein our very own personal Father Jack (Bambi to you) was awaiting us. His mission? To collect a mangy old blim-burned armchair from his former residence, and to take it, via the gig at The Hibernian, to the residence of Miss T. Roebuck esq. who to the best of our knowledge has never done anything to warrant such an iniquity
Father Jack and his chair were heaved on board. Insiders have been quoted unkindly as saying that Annie is now in a band with not only the holy father, but with Alf Garnet and Albert Steptoe as well. If this were true we would all have been invited to play the palace on Jubilee night. We weren't - just in case you hadn't noticed.
You might have supposed that driving to Shrewsbury to pick up a manky old armchair would have been less fun than playing a live music concert in the fine city of Birmingham. You would be wrong. You have not yet had the experience of the rubbish gig from Hell. Then again, maybe you have. Still - at least it happened, which is more than can be said for the Market Tavern (boo! Hiss! Blackleg scum!)

Here then is a list of our experiences on the night in question:

1. Arrived at venue after meeting Steven at New Street station.
2. Steven expresses incredulity at chair. TDL slightly seasick, having ridden from New Street in back of van on said chair, the wheels of which had not been chocked.
3. No one turns up to open venue until about 7.30. Eventually we manage to get in. Nice PA man soundchecks us. General Winter arrive. Hurrah.
4. By end of soundcheck, bar next door is heaving with gentlemen watching association football on a televisual screen. This wouldn't have been a problem, but as events unfold we find that the bar does not open in our half of the building, so anyone wanting a drink has to go round and queue up with the thugs for twenty minutes, consequently missing large chunks of the bands they'd made the effort to come and see.
5. By 8.30 the promoter has not turned up. People are coming in. Eventually, just after General Winter start to play a dopey long-haired youth who might have been called Darren but I can't remember, begins to wander round collecting entrance money.
6. He soon gets bored and gives up.
7. TDL announces from stage that Blyth would be grateful if anyone who had not yet been approached by the dopey youth, who is lounging by the door reading a paper with a fag hanging out of his head, would be so good as to press coins upon him, as otherwise there will be no goose this Christmas. People very kindly endeavour to oblige, but dopey youth shows little interest.

8. Blyth come offstage to find that dopey youth has gone home leaving a desultory £30 with Jessie Adams, who has been minding the CDs for us. TDL swears so much that the PA man gets the manager and terms are discussed. It seems the dopey one had not been advised of our terms of engagement and had left £1 for each person he'd collected money from. As he'd missed half of them, TDL remained unmollified.
9. We complain to agent. Agent complains to promoter. Promoter accuses us of stealing equipment from venue, which we presume is his alternative to an honest apology and the outstanding balance owed of monies that should have been collected by his stooge.

Moral of this story: DON'T GO ANYWHERE NEAR THE HIBERNIAN.

But all is not darkness and the grave. There are still trains in this world, and so long as this remains the case, then 'Glad that I live am I.'

For Lo! It came to pass that in the aftermath of the horrid affair in Birmingham, and with the rancid chair safely installed in its new home, we took time to think, to pause, and to go trainspotting while Steven stayed behind to watch some kind of sporting engagement on the telly that was called something like The Effy Cup. I think it involved uncomely gentlemen in foolish shorts and a ball, but I could be in error.
The rest of us took advantage of the day off to go to Toton yard, whereat we made a documentary for the Discovery channel on the glory of trainspotting. TDL amused himself no end on Derby station taking photos of sprinters, but now that he is in his dotage we have to humour him.

Just as well we had a good long day of R and R, as the following day was to provide us with a singularly unpleasant experience. No - not the idea that a journey can be made for no good reason, that faith can be broken by a varlet in a pub, or even that local government officers are investing money in the arts and failing to get art in return - not the fault of the artists we stress. No, it is none of the above that perplexes us so, but the fact that we went to the town of Rochester WHEN THERE WAS NO NEED TO HAVE DONE SO!
There are many places in this land where one might find oneself washed up and arift, of which one could say 'oh well, now I'm here I might as well take the opportunity to llok around.' Of Rochester, with hindsight, we can only concur with TDL when he suggested that if the Dutch wanted to come back and bombard it again, then they were very welcome to do so.
Do not despair, oh readers of this journal. Rest assured that after the next dark interlude we will be pleased to report upon an experience that was actually pleasant. In the meantime here is, first and foremost, a list of the different things that were told us by various members of staff upon our arrival at The Queen Charlotte, High Street, Rochester, on Sunday 5th May, at which venue we had been booked by the local council to play as part of the famous Rochester Sweeps festival:

1. There's no band on here tonight. You should have been told. We've booked a disco instead.
2. We have no music licence. This in spite of the notices advertising various bands due to play over the festival weekend, and a prominent sign saying 'Live Music.'
3. Give us your forms to sign. We'll tell the council you played anyway, so you'll still get paid.
This was most touching. Fortunately the festival organiser had already turned up and reassured us of this. Mr John Forrester had arrived too, as he was on the bill with us. We were all a little peeved.

The fine gentleman from The Sweeps festival proposed we try another venue. He called up another pub in the High Street and we went off to check it out. It was immediately apparent, looking at the non-folk-punk-friendly lads and lasses from Strood and Chatham carousing therein, that were we to attempt anything so reckless as to play music in their bar there would be bloodshed and mayhem. We retired to our Northern fastness, having left a sign on the door at the Queen Charlotte to advise would be revellers of the turn of events.
This the management removed as soon as we had left. I am sure that all those who turned up expecting to see the band stayed for the disco.

So much, then, for May you might have supposed. But no. The month of mirth redeemed itself a couple of weeks later when the band rode down to London town in the usual HVC machine to play with Mr The Stockbroker and his band Barnstormer.

This involved a lengthy trip down the M and A1s, via Kettering wherein Father Jack was awaiting us. Everytime we go there, another six square inches of the garden has been dug. Such unwonted industry! High spot of the journey was the traffic jam in North London, wherein we were pleased to find ourselves stuck behind a huge crane, which had a sign on it depicting all the official crane hand signals. TDL can remember three of them still. Annie had them all down pat, but didn't bother remembering them once we were clear of the traffic, while Bambi has no short term memory, and can't remember ever having seen a crane in the first place.

Steven, who came down seperately, missed all these high jinks.
The Verge with Barnstormer was a jolly fine night out for us. Everyone was kind enough to forgive us for the Hope & Anchor, and no one threw anything unpleasant. Thank you good people.

Then it was back overnight and up with the lark as we were playing near Todmorden in celebration of the handfast ceremony of Mr Steve Maden and Stella. We know not what we have done to warrant this signal honour, since all we've ever done for Steve is to give him impossible deadlines for unpaid work, but it was a great day out, and you may all thank your lucky stars that you did not have to sit anywhere near Steven in the aftermath of the vegan food, to which he is not accustomed.

See you in June....

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