Episode Seventeen

Every year when Summer comes
Blyth play cricket with their chums

No, it's not the adventures of Rupert Bear. It's Blythwatch. Back after a lengthy absence due to our scribe being overcome with an attack of inertia so overwhelming that for a while we were hard put even to persuade him to swallow his daily ration of gruel. Thus, while our gallant band has been out spreading the word, this archive has fallen into disarray. Fortunately, with the looming threat of a Christmas present embargo, the worthless one has been shocked out of his stupor, and is plunging through the records to bring you a report of what happened to Blyth Power over the Summer. Here we go then...

Documents prove conclusively that on 6th July the band played in Hitchin, an event made remarkable by the fact that the usual free curry failed to materialise due to the chef being on holiday. In a rare display of public-spiritedness this side of the channel, the band was feted instead with pizza, which was most welcome, and all the more tasty for having been paid for by someone else. Other venues take note! Free food for bands good. Chips from round the corner bad! Even better was the total lack of train strikes and similar public transport upheavals, which enabled all the good souls to find their way to Hitchin without being done down by surly ticket staff, an occurrence which marred the band's previous visit. Thus, we all had a lovely time, and a great deal of the relics in the jumble sale basket were flogged to the needy. Beyond these sketchy details, little remains in the records, although we know for a fact that TDL purchased no less than three cups of tea from the garage down the road during the course of the evening. It's the little trivial details like that, though, that can turn this column into a dreary morass of pointless irrelevancies, so henceforth where we cannot recall facts of interest, we shall simply abstain from saying anything at all, although we have had a number of people writing in to ask what exactly everyone's favourite cheese is.
We do know that the van went onwards to Harrogate after the gig, as the following day found the band once again at Fibbers in York. This has been a regular venue for Blyth since the demise of The Spotted Cow, which turned into a rather fine Chinese restaurant many years ago. Fibbers has always been a fine venue to play, on account of its hospitable staff and the rather fine coffee they serve there. Alas no more.
Fibbers has now succumbed to the growing tentacles of the Evil Empire, a nameless organisation which seems to have started in London, and has spread across the face of the country like a lichen, buying up venues and only allowing bands to play in them on the most stringent and unacceptable of terms. So it is that although they are doing nothing illegal, and nothing that the Musician's Union could seize upon to wreak justice, it is possible to play in one of their venues to over 100 people, all of whom have paid £6 to get in, and at the end of the night find that you are only being paid £75. Not even the bungling incompetence that has characterised Mr Porter's grasp on the reins of business is able to find this acceptable, so it's bye-bye Fibbers. R.I.P. We'll be back when they've taken out the Death Star.
Fortunately the last Fibbers gig was a good one, and we were ably supported by rude folk-rock band Ryan Shirley and the Bloody Marys, who were not only a decent bunch of chaps, but sounded good as well. Not always a combination one finds in such circumstances. Even better was the appearance of some old faces, not seen since time immemorial, as they've either been round the world, or off bashing rare sprinters. Hello chaps. Nice to have seen you again.

Need we say anymore about Tallington? Apart from that WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON WON WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON! If you really haven't had the full story of the weekend of light and laughter, then check out the report elsewhere on this site, where it will tell you, among other things, that WE WON!

So we come to the weekend of July 19th-21st, and a trip so silly that it makes some of Wob's wild one-off excursions look almost sensible by comparison. It came to pass that we had a gig booked in St Agnes, and the following day one in Bath - a Hunt Sab benefit arranged by our good friend and former besuited avaricious agent Dee. Now, there are those in the band who don't give a tinker's cuss about fox hunting (euphemism), but work is work, and a shekel or two extra in the petrol tank is worth being hounded by angry young people with badly xeroxed leaflets for. Even the prospect of a night spent explaining to angry fox-lovers with bad haircuts why our CDs cost more than £2.99 did not dissuade us from accepting the booking, and so keen were we to see Dee, whom we love with all our hearts, that we threw caution to the winds and assumed the gig would go ahead.
There are certain words that, when found in the same sentence together, should set alarm bells ringing in the heads of any honest musician trying to earn a living from their art. 'Hunt-Sab', 'Benefit', and 'Bath' are four such words. So it came to pass that the headline band, whom Dee had booked, decided that they'd play the venue the week before and keep all the money for themselves, leaving Dee with no option but to pull the plug, and Blyth Power with a one-off gig in St Agnes, way down in the Royal Duchy of Cornwall.
If only that were the end of it. Events had conspired to place two cats in a cattery North of Ripon, who needed transport to a new home in Cardiff, and it had been decided that the only way this could be done - without overburdening the transport budget - was by dropping them off on the way to Cornwall. Annie, therefore, started the driving around 07.00hrs with a trip to the cattery. Thence it was down to Kettering with the two loudly protesting cats, where we met the rest of the band. Kettering to Cardiff was achieved by tea time, and by the time we steamed into St Agnes at 40 knots, the sun was setting and it was almost time to get the band on stage. Fortunately our well used crash PA drill programme got the band on with a minimum of fuss, and a fine time was had by all. Thanks to all those on the peninsula who remembered us and made the night a joyous occasion, and well worth all the trouble and cat piss we went through to get there.
Having passed the night in a safe house in Lympstone, it was back to the frozen North, via the quiet country roads of Somerset and Wiltshire. Steven's assessment of the A303 was a delight to behold, especially when he discovered that the reason we had taken two hours to traverse a certain section of the road was because people were stopping in the road to photograph Stonehenge. The words 'by-pass' and 'bulldozer' were heard, among some other less polite ones of an anatomical nature. By the time we paused for a little light trainspotting at Didcot, his head had almost exploded with rage, and not even a beer in the station pub was able to mollify him.

According to tatty scraps of tea-stained notebook, the band next went to Derby and London, on the hottest weekend ever. Three big boos to the agent who booked Derby to coincide with the finale of Big Brother. Fortunately there was a telly in the bar. This office is informed that considering the baking heat, and sundry other adverse conditions, the gigs were remarkably successful, but as we only have Mr Porter's ageing and unreliable memory to go on, we will have to gloss over this particular episode. Suffice it to say that we came, we played, and then we went home again. There was, perversely, no gig on the Saturday night, so the band spent a quiet day in Kettering, during the course of which TDL entirely failed to take any decent photographs of Midland Mainline 170 units whatsoever. He did get some in Derby the day before, but all he achieved in Kettering was a). to locate no less than four sources of plastic model aeroplanes, against all the odds, and b). to get molested by midges on Kettering station, the down platform of which provides a strange haven for such creatures. Apparently he didn't notice them, as Scale Aviation Modeller International was fresh out that day, with an eight page article in it by himself, upon which he spent the afternoon gazing narcissistically.

'Returning to Derby,' read the posters. 'The original sound of what folk music did next.' As this was on the door of the Talking Heads in Southampton it could mean only one thing. Bloody Porter had cocked up when printing the posters, and forgotten to change the name of the town in the top line. Can we not replace him with a more up-to-date model? So began August on the South Coast, with a date at the newly refurbished Talking Heads, which is excellent, a wild night of carousel in Romsey after the show, and a staid drive to Plymouth the following day, during the course of which Steven was able to unburden himself of a number of opinions on people who clog up tiny roads with caravans.

Plymouth was a town the band had not been to for a while, and it was with some interest they discovered that there were three support bands. "What time will we be offstage?" they asked, knowing that the hire van had to be back in Harrogate by 08.30 the following day. Well, it was. Just. Fortunately all the bands involved were jolly good eggs, and no one objected to Blyth getting on at a civilised hour - least of all those people who had trains to catch. It's always a pleasure to come to Plymouth, not least because of the opportunity it avails us to harass our noted entomologist friend about the habits of the common woodlouse or crawly-baker. Which reminds us - Dave - if you read this can you get in touch, as your e-mails keep bouncing back in a most spectacular fashion.

We interrupt here a moment to congratulate Mr Dave T Womble and Karen on the occasion of their wedding celebrations on August 10th. Mr Porter was booked to play on the boat that day, and the whole party cruised the Norfolk Broads for the afternoon, serenaded by Himself, Mr John Ward, Mr Robb Johnson, Mr Murray Torkilson and Mr John Otway. TDL opened proceedings, only to be upstaged by the helmsman who drove the boat into a bank of reeds in order to avoid a swing bridge which had closed across its path in order to allow passage to one of Norfolk's infrequent railway services. It was a class 150, for those of you interested in quality traction. Annie and Mr Porter were pleased to share a table with Mr Otway and his party at the Indian restaurant later on, although Mr Porter's mind was still addled by the fact that he had spent most of the afternoon in the company of one of the Mighty Tharg's art droids (if you don't read 2000AD then this will mean nothing). "Zarjaz!" said the quaxx del Thargo slavishly. "You mean you actually draw Rogue Trooper!"

By some bizarre twist, the band had THREE GIGS ON CONSECUTIVE DAYS a couple of weeks later. This can only be due to an oversight in the bookings department, who have a grudge against Annie and Steven, and want them to drive millions of miles to no good end. Sheffield's Boardwalk was the venue for the first of these, on Friday 23rd. As usual the sound was impeccable, the band rocked, and all was well. Not so Hebden Bridge on the following night, where things were marred by the Arriva train strike, which prevented a number of regulars from getting there. The band did two sets, the sound was great, and there was unlimited tea, so it wasn't a complete disaster. The weekend was completed with a return to the Adelphi in Hull, where the evening's show was a continuation of a council sponsored acoustic event that had taken place in a park that afternoon. Lots of young people played acoustic guitars to each other and then went home, leaving Blyth and their company a half hour or so at the end of the night. Apologies to all those who felt they were sold short on this occasion. Next time we're in Hull we'll do a longer set.
Mr Porter had spent the day gallivanting round the local traction sites, culminating in a visit to Immingham, wherein our namesake, 56134, currently lies stored serviceable against a possible upturn in traffic. Steven and Annie made their way down from Harrogate alone. Mr Cooper was immensely excited at the prospects of a gig in Hull, as he had been led to believe that its geographical location meant it was just like Norfolk, a place for which his affection knows no bounds. Imagine his surprise and disappointment..

Can this be possible? Another three gigs on consecutive days? Who is the madman at the helm? They even made a kind of sense. August 29th commenced with the usual trek South to meet the band, and a brief pause in darkest Wiltshire to pick up TDL's train-driving brother, who came along for the ride. The journey took us to Dorchester, and also involved a pause at Stamford along the way to pick up Steven and our fine German Brother Dirk, who was over for the weekend's festivities. The Old George in Dorchester is currently the place to be seen, and what a splendid venue it turned out to be. There was tea, there was light and laughter, and there was even Mr Simon 'just this' Guy. Another face from the distant past, who missed the first set but got there eventually.
Overnighting at the Porter family seat in Wiltshire, it was on to Bristol the following day, where the White Horse has come under new Management. Imagine our surprise when we found the biggest, shiniest drumkit ever occupying the stage. Enquiries were made as to the possibility of its removal. Permission to do this was grudgingly given by a friend of the kit's owner, who informed us darkly that we could move it, but that we must treat it with love esteem, affection and only the tenderest of care. "It plays with a band, see, innit," the gentleman explained. "That kit goes on tours an' ting." In which case one would have assumed that the fuckwit who owns it would have had the professional courtesy not to leave it set up on the stage in a venue where bands play live regularly. There is simply no etiquette these days...
The usual night's affray at the White Horse was followed by an overnight drive to darkest Norfolk, wherein the weekend's main event was to unfold on the following day. 'Billstock' it was called, in honour of Steven's father, whose birthday it was celebrating. Much stuffed with the epic buffet, Blyth played after night had fallen to a gathering of the clan, in a small open-fronted marquee in the spacious grounds. It was an event to rival Tallington - with the added bonus that we didn't have to make idiots of ourselves by trying to play cricket. And there was a donkey.

So ended August, and with the onset of Autumn, your scribe pauses for a cup of tea and a fag before taking up the story once more.

Inexplicably, Blyth Power seems to have managed to avoid most of September altogether. In fact the first gig didn't happen until Thursday 26th when, for the first time in its history the band went to Scarborough.
Scarborough on a Thursday? Why not? Neither were they alone, for Attila the Stockbroker and his Barnstormer chaps were due to play four gigs that weekend with them. A wild odyssey round the frozen wastes of the North, and down to Birmingham it was to be.
Blyth's arrival in Scarborough was greeted by a wall full of posters that said 'Bomb Iraq,' the top halves of which had been mysteriously torn away. In actual fact they should have said 'Do not bomb Iraq,' and had been put up by the organisers of the evenings event, which same people, even as we negotiated the town's winding streets, were busy making vegetarian sausage rolls and mashing up enough hoummus to satisfy even Jessi Adams, who thrives on the stuff. Yes people. It was a BENEFIT.
Usually these events benefit no one except the bar staff, the bouncers, the PA guy, and anyone else actually getting paid a working wage for doing them, but this one was well-organised, and there was lots of free food, although by the time Blyth came off stage - having wisely not stuffed themselves to burping point before playing - most of the good stuff was gone. We are reminded of the time the Mayor of Worksop and his cronies beat us to the buffet at another benefit some years ago. On that particular occasion, the only people who benefited were the chauffeurs, who stood outside on double-time all evening with a fleet of mayoral limos.
In Scarborough we had a splendid time listening to Barnstormer, although Attila had a nasty lurgey, which cut their set short. Personally we don't think the government should bomb Iraq - we think they should invest the money instead on a nice new dual carriageway across North Yorkshire, as the existing road to Scarborough is a pain in the arse.
Being thrifty folk, we'd saved on the van hire and opted to do the weekend in cars. To this end, Barnstormer were bringing a bass amp, and we were sharing gear in order to cut transport costs. Alas. They forgot the bass amp, and some very complicated footwork was involved in borrowing one in Hull on their way up. The following day, therefore, Blyth had the additional joy of piling a full back line into two cars for the trip back up to Hartlepool, where The Studio Art Centre was the venue for the wild night of rock mayhem. Actually, by all accounts, the karaoke in the pub across the road was just as entertaining if one is to believe Bambi, who had to be dissuaded from joining in with a rendition of Howard Jones' 'What is Love.'
I wouldn't lie.

Big event of the weekend was the Saturday night in Northallerton, playing bottom of the bill to John Otway's Big Band. This was a fine night indeed - one of the best live sounds ever, we have been informed, and splendid performances all round. Tea all night too. What more could the heart desire. Scant days before the release of hid second hit, Mr Otway and Co. were sublime. So were we all. Oh yes.

This doesn't mean that the following night in Birmingham was an anti-climax. Indeed not. Every time we play a venue in Birmingham that is not the Market Tavern we get a little warm thrill of pleasure in the knowledge that we are not contributing to the coffers of the people who blew us out at a week's notice - and only bothered to tell us then because we phoned up to check the get-in time. Bear a grudge? I'll say. TDL goes a strange shade of purple and starts foaming at the mouth whenever the Market Tavern is mentioned. It's quite amusing to watch, so we recommend you try it some time.

Consequently it was the Old Railway that found Blyth and Barnstormer battling head to head with the most stoned PA guy ever. Enough said. It was a good weekend. We'll do it all again next year.

October 4th found us all foregathering in Kettering, for Bambi and Trina's wedding, which event passed off without anything outrageous happening at all, except for the fact that Jessi Adams wouldn't go to bed and kept us all up until dawn being an ace laugh. It was back to business as usual the following night with the first Blyth show in Leicester since the Princess Charlotte vanished up its own arse. The Musician turns out to be an excellent venue, with a great live sound, friendly management, and stronger coffee than even Fibbers used to sell (they probably water it down now). We were pleased to put Leicester on the map again, and were even more pleased to learn on the night that Britain had won the International Extreme Ironing event in Munich. Why does it come as no surprise to anyone that Extreme Ironers turn up at Blyth Power gigs? It's even less surprising than the presence at a subsequent gig of one of the Greek planespotters. Do we cater to a certain type of clientele?

So from Leicester, it was back to the frozen North, and a couple more towns beginning with 'L' again. The Grove in Leeds on October 10th was the usual intimate affair, although we could have done without the room full of after-work drinkers during the soundcheck. Sorry lads. We don't know any Moby songs, and probably never will. Not that I've got anything against Moby, mind you. Seems a nice chap. But I digress. Actually I might as well digress, as there is nothing really to say about this particular event, other than that it happened, we played two sets, and the following day Mr Porter played a solo show in Brighton, which involved an unusual degree of travelling.

Lincoln, on the 19th was an interesting event. Following a mix-up with the promoter last time, we were uncertain as to what we could expect from this return to the Duke of Wellington. However, thanks to some local promotion by the trainspotter formerly known as Hancock, things passed off very well. Thanks to Hudwynk for supporting, and to everyone who made it out and ensured a splendid evening of bacchanalia... OK, maybe not, but it was a good gig all the same.

October 26th and it was party time again. This time it was the second installment of Bambi and Trina's wedding. The bit without the grown-ups this time. Morning found Annie and TDL getting up far too early (as usual) and heading south with a van load of gear. The venue was a village hall in the middle of nowhere, North of Kettering. Music was due to kick off mid-afternoon, so it was an early get in and much running around like blue-arsed flys in order to get the event up and running.

And what an event. Never have we seen so many scotch eggs being eschewed by vegans. It was a treat to behold. By tea time the guests were pretty much all in, and the music kicked off with Mr John Forrester, who needs to get his arse in gear and start playing his own stuff live again. He was joined on this occasion by Mr Steven Cooper on harmonica and additional guitars, and their polished performance reflected the early hour at which they commenced, as everyone was still pretty sober at that point.

Sources are uncertain as to the precise running order, but there was a Finnish band on next called No Direction who, if you'll pardon me for venturing an opinion, hadn't, although they pulled some interesting faces. Also up that night were General Winter, Giga-0, and Eastfield, who proved to be the high spot of the evening with a set that was so utterly fun, even Jessi was momentarily bemused by the sheer funness of it.

Blyth played last, but as by that time the whole event had dissolved into an ocean of liquor, no one can remember anything about their performance. Phew!

And so we found Winter nigh, and with it the end of this episode. Once again we apologise for the sketchiness of this tardy update, and resolve to be quicker off the mark with the next one. We will also bring about world peace, end poverty and famine, cure all known ills and turn base metals into gold.
And if we achieve all that we might even manage, one day, to get a decent deal out of the Barfly organisation.