Man Of Nothing Man Of Skin And Bone
How
many Yankees does it take to change a lightbulb? Pretty much all of them
it seems. Sorry about that, just a little witticism at the expense of
our colonial cousins. We’re sure no one will take offence.
OK, after the last rather threadbare issue, and the ensuing months of
inactivity, some of you have been wondering what the dickens is going
on, so the Dear Leader has instructed this office to spill the beans and
stop pretending that the band is doing lots and lots of stuff that you
simply haven’t heard about. Here, at last, is the unexpurgated five-year
plan of Blyth Power incorporated.
Well, not quite here. There’s the little matter of our caption competition
first, which oh so many of you guessed correctly last time as being the
Boomtown Rats, in honour of Mr Bob Geldof’s rambling insanity. He
was going on a lot about something or other on the telly and the boss
overheard and made us stick the dishevelled old whiner in. This month
we have a real band!!!
Sorry I Can't Come With You But I've Got To Mind The Kids
So what’s the story? Many of you cannot have failed to notice the
appendage on Mr Porter’s arm at the last two Tallington festivals.
Likewise many will have read between the lines and worked out that the
reason Emma the Office Junior is able to be exploited so ruthlessly without
recourse to industrial action is that she is dependent upon the old tyrant
for her rusks. In a word, the ranks of potential Blyth Power members are
being rapidly swollen by an ever-increasing swarm of children.
Ugh, some of you may cry. Not so. Far cleaner, politer and more intelligent
than the average crusty, they have an added advantage in that they do
not complain about the price of CDs or admission to musical events. Furthermore,
Emma has so far not asked us to do a Hunt Sab Benefit, so as far as all
here are concerned she is OK – even if she is a direct descendent
of the Old Man. Not content with an heiress, however, management have
decided that a further addition to the workforce is required, as the chimneys
need sweeping. Thus we predict the patter of tiny footsteps again next
Spring – that will be Madame Chairman Meeow making a run for it
as the next new offspring arrives.
As if all this were not enough, tattooed love-boy and guitarist Mr Steven
Cooper is about to become the father of another West Ham United fan. Congratulations
to Steven and Fiona on this. Commiserations to the child if he is born
in Lodden General. There was a certain Hannibal Baskerville who was born
on an Elizabethan battlefield, upon which all the regiment’s captains
became Godfathers. It is devoutly to be hoped that the heir to the Cooper
millions does not find himself born on the terraces at Carrow Road, thus
winding up with several thousand. Especially if they are at home to Ipswich…
Of course this has all added a number of interesting factors to the logistics
of operating the band. Nowadays we have to be able to get home each night
to rescue the fiends from baby-sitters, or vice-versa. Alternatively,
we have to plan epic three day expeditions involving extra days van hire
and bizarre cross-country diversions to safe-houses with travel cots.
Consequently the band will only be playing occasionally until all the
little brutes are either old enough to enjoy coming along for the ride,
or old enough to get by without us for a couple of nights while we go
off gallivanting. Blyth Power are, of course, ready to consider any booking
as usual, but these weird logistics will have to be taken into account
On the plus side, this means our going rate for a Hunt Sab Benefit is
now £1200, so no one’s likely to ask us to do them any more.
It's A Young Man's World
So what is going to happen? Are these witless excuses for throwing in
the towel, and is everyone’s favourite band simply going to f-f-f-fade
away? Not so! For starters the old fool invested in a shiny new PA back
in the summer, which has now taken up residence next to the stinking pile
of old rusty metal that He claims is a drumkit in that annexe known euphemistically
as ‘the equipment store.’ For the time being, though, only
a couple of its sacred channels will be seeing use as TDL is resuming
his temporarily interrupted solo career. Red Wedding, of course, will
continue to perform, but until the Cooper heir is old enough to lift his
own pint glass, it will only be within striking distance of Norwich. The
recent adventure in Belper saw both Messrs Cooper And Porter performing
solo spots midway through the set. Porter strummed that old dirge Rubenstein,
while Mr Cooper played a couple of the songs that he has been unleashing
on audiences at Eastfield gigs of late, during his increasingly frequent
solo performances. So now you can save some of the buns for him too.
Following the Blyth trip to Cumbria for the Solfest – at which eco-green-cavy-loving-conchie-pinko-fest
the wind did blow and the rain fell – the firm was pleased to renew
its acquaintance with Mr Steve Lake of Zounds fame. Rumours are in the
offing that he and Mr Porter will be playing acoustic spots together in
the Home Counties. It all depends on whether or not either one of the
ageing sloths can pull their fingers out and arrange it. Zounds, by the
way, were jolly good. Brer Porter was forced to admit that they sounded
much better than when he was in them, but as there are very few people
on this planet who ever actually saw them back then (far fewer than claim
they did nowadays), there aren’t many people in a position to contradict
him. The old fool got up and sang Dancing with them, which was a shock
for those present who have never seen him onstage without a drumkit stuck
to his rear end, as he is surprisingly lacking in height.
You Once Were The Cowboy But Now You're The Cow
What then, you go on to ask, is the old fool doing with his time, if he’s
not floating around in smelly vans? Mr Porter, we are now able to reveal,
has got a proper job. Well… not really. The old fool has managed
to con his way into the position of Deputy Editor on no less than two
magazines, and claims he now makes a living as a writer, which is what
he’s wanted to do for years. Readers of Scale Aviation Modeller
International – that’s the one in Smiths this month with an
orange P-59 Airacomet on the front – have found some increasingly
strange editorials confronting them on the occasions when the Managing
Editor passes over the reins for want of inspiration. Mr Porter (writing
as his alter-ego Mr Hatcher) now loafs about playing with Airfix kits
for a living, and has the gall to claim he works in journalism. As if
this weren’t bad enough, he is also practicing the same silliness
on unwary readers of Scale Models International. This latter has been
around for 37 years. The Old Man is going to hound it into the grave and
this month has managed to include a full page on a silly Corgi diecast
Noddy car that he bought his daughter for £2.50 from Toys-R-Us.
How long he will get away with this sort of behaviour before the publishers
realise he may not be treating the subject with the solemnity it undoubtedly
merits is anyone’s guess.
So, if you are really hopelessly addicted to Mr Porter’s gilded
prose, then next time you pass Smiths pop in and browse at his latest
silly attempts to subvert the readership of these hapless magazines. Either
that or stump up the cash to produce the latest heroically unpublished
novel he has finished. It’s called Stonehaven, and is a nasty piece
of work set in an uncertain future 20 years hence, in which the War on
Terror has reached its logical conclusion. Here’s a bit for your
edification:
‘When I was a very young boy, we had something called the balance
of terror to keep the world from tearing itself apart. I never tire of
shaking my head in wonder as I hear the youth of today bemoaning the hard
lot they have, what with all the restrictions and intrusions into their
personal freedom and the suchlike. “Terrorism,” they moan,
“and state oppression. How did it come to this?”
I blame their parents. The conchie-pinkoe surrender monkeys of my generation,
who banned the bomb, opened Pandora’s box and are the cause of all
our woes. At least when I was young there were litterbins on the railway
stations. “Stop whining,” I tell them. “OK, so you have
a slight chance of getting blow up nowadays. When I was a boy we were
expected to come to terms with something called ‘the four minute
warning,’ whereby if x+y happened to = w instead of z, then a siren
would suddenly go off, announcing the commencement of the last four minutes
of our lives. You have nothing to worry about by comparison.”
“F**k off grandad,” is the usual reply.
Nowadays, instead of the balance of terror, we have a much shakier balance
in place. It is the balance between power and will. On the one hand we
have the North Atlantic Union, which theoretically has the power to do
anything it wants. It has the weapons, the technology and the means of
production. Fortunately for the continued survival of the planet it lacks
the will to use this power, and instead persists in the time-honoured
course of paying other people to do its dirty work. This, so they might
argue, is how we beat the Soviet Union and won the Cold War.
On the other hand, we have the United Islamic States, who have the will
to do absolutely anything, but lack the power to project this will. Thus
they are obliged to continue along their time-honoured path. That of the
guerrilla – or terrorist, depending on your point of view. What
will come to pass if, in the fullness of time, the NAU overcomes its squeamishness
and the UIS overcomes its inertia and begins to make use of the boundless
mineral wealth it holds in the palm of its hand is anyone’s guess.
Personally I don’t believe Armageddon will come with a four minute
warning this time. I believe things will continue in their nasty untidy
way, and we will spiral into an ever more dangerous and unstable situation
until we wake up one day to the realisation that things cannot get any
worse, and that the bombs, the poison, the terror and the filth and corruption
of our day to day lives have slowly but inexorably brought us to the same
place that Polaris, Minuteman, Trident and all the other nasty toys were
designed to send us all those years ago.’
(From ‘Stonehaven’ by Joseph Porter)
Swish Goes The Stick As The Ball Hits The Netting I'll Play With The Girls On The Old Village Green
Enough of this gay repartee. What has been going on since we fobbed you
off with that half a page of widely-spaced data on Tallington? Well –
Tallington was an absolute belter. It was huge and sprawling, ran like
clockwork and was absolutely brilliant. The only sour note was that we
lost the ashes, but only because Blyth’s REAL cricketers are used
to playing on proper grass, and this year the complete lack of any space
on the campsite whatsoever meant the match had to be played in the beer
garden in front of the stage instead. High spots were many, but Anal Beard
were one of them on the Saturday night, and by all accounts have decided
not to split up after all, as they had such a nice time. Jolly good show.
It really was a huge success, so make a note in your diary of the dates
below for next year – where we aim to sort the parking out, so there
will be a bit more room for the tents and the cricket. Thanks to all the
bands and performers for turning up and doing the dirty deed. We’ll
look forward to seeing you all next year. Drop us a line if you want to
play. As usual we won’t be asking anyone, but everyone is welcome
back again.
Space precludes a full and frank account. There will be one up on the
website soon, so shame on you if you haven’t sorted a connection
out eh?
Minx Of The North Lake Mad Bitch Of The Nile
(Madame Chairman Meeow is too angry to hold forth on the issue of issue, but a spokesperson for the Dragon Throne of Katkins – her high judgement seat – was heard to suggest that her reaction to the arrival of another child in the household would not be one of unmitigated joy. ‘She will have kittens,’ this reporter was told.)