Right then, quiet at the back, there… …If you’re all sitting comfortably, then I’ll begin…
Friday night’s expedition to Mangotsfield turned out to be – well, let’s call it a moral victory. At least we know that every single person in the audience thoroughly enjoyed our little game of “jukebox”, whereby they shout out songs, and we see if we can play them. We know that every single person enjoyed it, because we know their names – so, to Tony, Neil, and Donna – it was our pleasure, guys!
Good morning campers!
I’m your Uncle Ernie and I welcome you to… oh never mind.
[Editor’s note: We have a shiny new show reel video, yer tis …]
Good grief, that was knackering. After a relatively quiet gig on Friday at the Trident, Saturday’s outing to the ‘Cullis in Fishponds was enlivened by the new landlady there, Helen – who turned out to be as mad as a box of frogs, as mad as seven badgers in a handbag, as mad as a Walnut Whip on a rollercoaster – and actually has at least as many silly toys as we do. So, during the course of the set we were treated to “the pom-poms”, “the loudhailer”, “the corset”, “the hat”, “the vuvuzela”, and, of course, “the Miss Piggy wig” – which was immediately plonked onto Stuart, who rather to my terror, looked completely at home in it.
Yoho Ahoy!
[editor’s note: this one really started last week, see Guitar Madness]
All right, I’ll say this only once.
Which one of you lot thought it would be funny to vote the greedy thieving fascists back in for another five years, then?
Well, we know for a fact it wasn’t anyone from down in sophisticated Westbury; that’s because, based on the straw poll of drunk women who came marching up to Ben and I on Saturday night at our Charlie’s Bar gig, to loudly announce, unasked, who they voted for, it seems everyone there voted for UKIP.
May the Fourth Be With You.
No, no, I’m not a day late, I’m just really early for next year, okay?
Right, well we hope you enjoyed your sunny Blank Holiday weekend; mine was quite chilled, actually, thanks for asking – with Dem away down at Land’s End with the two most maniacal offspring, I managed to get a cheeky half hour in the guitar shop playing away on the lovely items hanging on their wall…
Unfortunately the upshot of all this is that I now need another guitar… If anybody has any suggestions as to how I can justify this to the Internal Finance Committee, I’d be glad of some assistance.
Beneficent salutations faithful readers.
Well, it looks like my predictions from last week’s were fairly accurate; with daughter Lil at the Mail Coach on Saturday, things did indeed get quite lively towards the Tina Turner end of the set; by the end of the night, several of the lovely locals were queueing up to buy us drinks, and to tell Lily she was “fabulous”. I reckon next time we’ll just let Lil wheel out a shedload of her musical theatre tosh, and they’ll be sobbing in the aisles.
I will be, for one…
Wassup homeys [editor’s note: Al clearly thinks this is trendy and current but I think it’s just verbal dad dancing, I would rather go for “Dear esteemed reader” or something … class!]
This rawk’n’roll thing keeps getting weirder.
Friday night, Ben & I rock up to our allotted venue, namely “Auberge” in Abergavenny. We stroll inside, it looks a bit too designer for our liking; still, the staff are friendly enough, and direct us to go round the back to haul our kit in. We lug the first armful in through the back gate, and ask where they want us to set up. “Over by there”, they point.
Aloha!
And, as what passes for a tropical heatwave in the UK slips away into the familiar springtime grey chill, and another weekend devoid of gigging fun slips quietly past (Well, actually, I had a very pleasant weekend, as it happens, thank you very much!) at last we can look forward to a relatively normal weekend coming up – i.e. one with some gigs in it!
Friday 17th April – Auberge, Abergavenny
Now, having spent some nine years living over the bridge up in the mountainous peaks of South Wales, I happen to know in advance that Abergavenny is the name of the town, which presumably means that Auberge is the name of the venue. Although it does sound rather more like the name of a fictional Belgian detective, or possibly even some kind of clever figure skating move, than the name of a pub in South Wales, which usually tend to have sensible names like “The New Inn”, and “The Old Tavern”, and possibly even “The Middle Aged Hostelry”. In any case, I think it’s fair to assume it will be a rather more upmarket establishment than the ones we used to frequent over there. I recall one time going in the local miner’s club, (when they had only recently allowed women to actually go and order their own drinks) one of the more elderly staff in up in the valleys expressed concern at my beloved Dem going up to order herself a pint at the bar…
Yo homeys!
Well, we hope the Easter Bunny brought you everything your little tummy desires – and if not – well, it’s your own fault, you obviously don’t Truly Believe, and that’s why you didn’t get anything.
Mind you, there’s any number of silly rumours going around that if you Truly Believe then – get this – after you’re dead, you actually get to live forever in a wonderful place where everybody is happy and nice. And it must be true, because nobody has ever come back to complain. On balance, a giant rabbit with a basket of chocolate sounds pretty credible, dontcha think?
Yo homeys
Well, I’m off on hols now for a week – so if anybody wants to go round to my house, break in, and tidy up a bit – maybe even redecorate the bathroom – now would be a good time.
Well, had a rip-roaring time this weekend, from a trying-to-remember-how-the songs-go evening up in Stroud, to a full-on silly jumping around dafty session down at Molloy’s in Bristol. Huge thanks and kudos to Massimo for coming along to film the gig, braving the inebriated with considerable aplomb.
I’m off to pack my bucket and spade now, so I’ll leave with our gig selection for next weekend: –
Hey gang
Seems like ages since the rawk’n’roll leviathan that is Angel Up Front surfaced from the murky depths of the abyss, but we’re just about to emerge blinking into the unfamiliar sunlight, dripping salty fluids and, quite possibly, encrusted with barnacles.
In the meantime, I for one have had a manically non-rawk’n’roll weekend, involving much rebuilding of gardens and shouting at children – sometimes my own – and, all in all, I really can’t remember what all the fuss was about at work last week. I’m pretty sure I was very worried at the amount of jolly important and desperately urgent things I hadn’t managed to get finished by the end of last Friday; but I’m damned if I can remember what they were. Possibly the answer lies inside the bottle of Jack Daniels that lurks in the kitchen cupboard. I shall have to investigate that possibility; rather thoroughly, I feel…
