Episode Twenty Seven

In the bleak midwinter frosty winds did blow
All except for Norfolk where it’s never cold

So back they came from the wilds of Germany, laden with juicy photographs of quality traction, and the odd bottle of beer. Hurrah for Blyth Power! But Germany was not to remain far behind our heroes, for no sooner had they returned home and washed the accumulation of rancid socks accrued during the trek, than they were off to the wilds of Southern England to play some punk rock concerts with a lot of fellows from Frankfurt and such places. It was a weekend in the company of The Blaggers and The Stage Bottles. It was November. It was deepest darkest mid-winter. It was cold…

Thus the arrival at Brentford Football Club took place in darkness, which was by no means a harbinger of things to come as it turned out to be a jolly fine evening. Blyth were doing the PA, so like fools they got there at half past five to set up and soundcheck all the bands. Like even bigger fools they were surprised when no one else turned up before half past seven. Even more foolishly they failed to accept as normal the fact that the first band on, due to start at 8.00, strolled in casually at 8.15 without their guitars for all the world as if there was no hurry.
So there was no cause for concern at all really. Everything went according to plan. It wasn’t the plan we would have chosen, but it was a plan of sorts, and against all the odds, Blyth even got to play for longer than 25 minutes.

The following night found us all again in gallant company. This time it was a wild night of rock at Shoreham Airport. Once again we foolishly turned up in time to soundcheck all fifty million bands. This time, however, it was different, as one of them turned up too. We were at a loss. What to do? The band are all here? On time? Crikey!

The band in question was the rather splendid ensemble pertaining to Andy Baron. Imagine the old man’s surprise and delight when it turned out that their drummer was a former member of the Astronauts, and remembered him from ancient days at the George Robey. Ah me. Such history!

You may have noticed a certain vagueness creeping in here, as we attempt to describe events that have only partially registered in our memory banks. We seem to recall Blyth managing to do about half a dozen songs, and we seem to recall a number of disgruntled punters asking them why the set was so short, but these are all matters of little moment compared to the entertainment value afforded by the site of a large quantity of young German folk, most of whom had been drinking alcoholic drinks, trying to work out how they were going to move themselves from Shoreham Airport to Brighton at a quarter to midnight.

We also recall that Mr Steve Drewitt performed a short set of Newtown Neurotics songs with Mr Porter and Mr Bambi, as a dry run for the following night’s epic event in Brighton.
Chief among the aged despot’s fond recollections of this weekend is the breakfast we were given by our kind hosts, whose A-Z of Brighton Mr Porter duly nicked. Sorry Mike. Hospitality was splendid.

This was Sunday 9th, and was the day of the Joe Strummer memorial benefit, which was an extremely well-organised and well attended event, which everyone enjoyed immensely. Full marks to everyone involved, for triumphing over the indifference of all the great and famous people whom you might have expected would have made a bit of an effort to have been part of it but didn’t. Blyth left early as they were driving to Yorkshire, but we are assured that the whole thing was splendid.

Next weekend found our heroes back for a wild night out in Leicester, which is always a pleasure as the sound at The Musician is sublime. The customary two sets was followed by a drive to Birmingham, wherein we were pleased to stay at the residence of the noble Swag, which kept TDL up all night reading old copies of Warlord magazine. The following day found the kids from fame trundling over the border to Llangollen for the third of their engagements at The Sun. You need to come to one of these dos. They are always very strange, but always sublime.
Then the weekend after that found a freezing visit to Hebden Bridge on the cards. The Trades Club, no less, and an opportunity to play in a venue with a kettle, which always warms the old one through and through. Not a lot to add to this one really. We’ve been there many times, and the fire escape doesn’t get any shorter – the gear just gets heavier…
Saturday night and we’re going to the movies. Oh no we’re not. We’re going to Cockermouth. It’s much the same, only without all the excitement and adventure of the big screen. Fortunately it was dark by the time we got there. Nice venue, mind you. The trouble with Cockermouth are the appalling road signs that utterly fail to direct you back out again onto the main road South. Someone should do something…
Are we being a bit too brief with this episode? Could be because it’s March, and we can’t remember much about it all. Still, if you think the last couple of paragraphs have been swift and devoid of detail then check out the next one, which deals with an event of such overwhelming regularity that we are at a loss to find anything remarkable to say about it at all:
December 13th. Club 85, Hitchin. Actually this was notable for two things now we come to think about it. Firstly, it was the first bash in a hire van since the grey machine was returned to its rightful owners. Secondly, the Old Man foolishly drummed in a pair of lined skiing trousers, which resulted in a nasty case of itching thighs once he’d sweated buckets into them (read no further those of faint heart). His legs itched so unbearably in the van on the way home that he was obliged to make the journey to Kettering in the back of the van with his pants down. At Ketters Bambi lent him a clean set of bottom garments. “I won’t want them back,” he advised. This may well be the least glamorous episode in the entire 20 year history of Blyth Power.
Which brings us to the wild and hilarious time we had on the last weekend of the Blyth Winter term. This was centred round a trip to that great big lump of England on the right, a bit above London, which is shaped like an enormous arse, and involved three dates in the company of Norwich’s finest ever, the very wonderful New York Scumhaters.

Round one was a return to The Ferryboat in Norwich, which involved the usual gallivanting down in the back room next to the river. Needless to say the sun shone on the event, and we all had a super time. The following day was a new venue, The Rock in Cambridge, at which we were pleased to find condiments upon all the tables, and diners being frightened by the Scumhater’s antics.

Those in attendance were pleased to note that the band’s regular Osama Bin Laden look-alike had failed to turn up, so someone was obliged to stand in for him. This correspondent is offering no prizes for those guessing correctly who the chap in question actually is, but you may reward yourself with a congratulatory pat on the back if you think you are correct.

 

Last hop of the year found the ensemble in Ipswich, at The Drum and Monkey, about which we will say nothing, for fear of upsetting the Norwich fans among our number.

This has been huge. Wait until the next one.

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