Rebellion 2008, Day 2. Back to my normal style

I woke up at 6.49am precisely on Friday. Very early indeed considering I had consumed a fair amount of alcohol the day before. I left Darcy sleeping the sleep of the just and after taking an Ibuprofen and making a cup of coffee, I sat in front of my trusty computer and wrote up the first day. I got Darcy up at about 9.30am and we very slowly got ready to go out.

Outside the Winter Gardens just before seeing The Duel

We made it into Blackpool in time for the Duel. I really like the Duel. I have their CD “Let’s Finish What We Started” and I can assure you, it’s good stuff. Unfortunately, the sound was poorly mixed: the bass and backing vocals were too loud. This spoilt it a little for me but I still enjoyed it a great deal. Tara, as always, looked great. One thing, though, why does Andy Thierum never face the front of the stage? Any explanations will be welcome.

We went up to the Bizarre Bazaar next and caught the last ten minutes or so of a comedian, Chris Brooker. My hearing was still a bit shot at so I didn’t catch much of what he said. However, he was followed by another, Ben Schofield, who was good and I could hear him. He did good observational comedy but I’m not going to quote any – it always loses something in the translation and I never remember things properly, so you’ll just have to take my word for it that he was funny.

After that, we went for a wander and Danny from Middle Finger Salute said “Hello” to me. I like these lads a great deal. They’re much the same age as my older daughter and have amazing energy. They always say hello when they see me too, which is very polite of them and makes me feel like punk royalty. He told me that they had played the night before at short notice. I was heart-broken. I hate to miss a chance to see them. Still, I knew they were playing on Sunday, so it wasn’t as if I wouldn’t see them at all.

Danny 2 days later on stage

The next band we saw was Outl4w. I first saw these boy wonders in 2006 and boy! was I impressed! They’re two years older now (obviously) and the music has quite a thrash feel to it. The ah-factor has lessened as they have grown older, although it hasn’t disappeared fully yet. There is a massive amount of respect for them amongst grizzled old punks and skins. They have a very mature sound for such young lads.

Then we went to see London. They are not a band I’ve heard before but they came highly recommended so we decided to give them a try. Definitely worth it, although they had a couple of hiccups at the start of the set. It was all sorted out eventually and they played good noisy punk. I can’t find anything about them online so if anybody knows if they have a myspace, let me know. I want to find out more.

After that another wander and then we went to see Argy Bargy. It is absolutely scandalous that I have never got round to buying any CDs by them. I think they’re brilliant and their set was the highlight for me on Friday. I can’t name any songs, although they were familiar, so I’m really showing my ignorance here. I will have to make sure I rectify this disgraceful state of affairs before much longer. Next year, I promise I’ll be able to give a decent account of their set.

We saw Blood or Whiskey after tea. Darcy assures me they don’t always play as fast but, to be honest, they can play as fast as they like. I did feel my age (I’m 45, you know) during their set because I was on the edge of the moshpit and got moshed into rather more frequently than I like. We moved further back after a few songs, where the view was not so good but at least I wasn’t being bumped into quite so much and I could hear them just as well. I like Blood or Whiskey. They manage to mix Irish and punk music so it’s exactly to my taste.

Blood or Whiskey, note banjo player in the background.

After they finished, we rushed next door to catch the end of Deadline’s set. This was one of a few nasty clashes where we had to choose between bands. Darcy had never seen Deadline before and I think he was impressed. So much so that he’s put my Deadline CD on his I-Pod now and will soon be listening to them on a regular basis on the bus home from work.

GLC, unfortunately, I couldn't find a picture of the Final Vinyl EP

We had a break for alcohol after Deadline and then went off to watch Bad Manners for a while. It was only a while because I wanted to see Menace. Menace is one of those bands I’ve liked for many, many years. I had three singles by them back in the day: GLC, The Young Ones and my long time favourite, Last Year’s Youth. Those singles were taken to the council tip by my ex-husband sometime in 2007, along with all his old vinyl too (just so you don’t think he’s an utter bastard). Last Christmas, my excellent son bought me a Menace compilation CD. I played it on my way home from work a couple of days later and I still remember where I was when “Last Year’s Youth” came on. I was driving down St Anne’s Road East and I started crying. Sorry, I’m a softie, I know, but that song means so much to me.

Well, when we went in to watch Menace, I had back ache, so we sat down leaning against the wall to give ourselves some relief (Darcy had the same problem). They played some stuff I didn’t recognise, some stuff I did but couldn’t put a name to and then “GLC”. I sang along with gusto. Then more songs and then “Last Year’s Youth”. Somehow the back ache went and the years fell away. I was 17 again and I leapt to my feet, rushed to the front and spent the rest of the time bouncing around like a lunatic, pointing at the stage and singing along at the top of my voice. So much so that the skinhead in front turned round to look at the old pretender behind him, who thought she was more “last year’s youth” than him. I think he conceded the point. I am 45, you know.

We finished the evening by going to see the Cockney Rejects. Well, I say see, but we actually didn’t see a great deal of them, although we did hear them. The back ache had returned with a vengeance and my feet hurt like hell, so we found an empty bit of wall and sat down against it. The sound was quite poor where we were (although I now know that if we’d braved the front of the crowd, it would have been much better). However, it was heartening to hear Stinky Turner singing about Flares and Slippers. It makes me realise I’m not the only old one there.

After that, we made a dash for the taxi and went home. Oh, one last thing, my radar was working brilliantly all day. I managed to spot John Robb,  Charlie Harper and Animal during our peregrinations and turned round during Deadline’s set and found myself facing Stuart Pearce. I even held the door for him when we were all leaving after they had finished. Not bad for somebody who usually can’t see beyond the end of her nose.

Rebellion 2008, Day One in the style of my lovely bf, Darcy

To Blackpool for this extended weekend with my travelling companion. We set off like two intrepid explorers into the bleak wilderness that is The Square, St Annes and from there we caught the number 11 bus to Blackpool. I was attired in a pair of skin tight, pink and black tiger or zebra stripe trousers, a black t-shirt and a pair of size 6 baseball boots. Darcy was looking very dapper in a plain black t-shirt and black bondage pants. The first thing we did when we got to Blackpool was to get some money out and I then went and bought a pair of size 7 baseball boots. Phew! Those size 6’s had been a bit tight. The 7’s were much, much roomier. So much so that I will have to buy some insoles and some thick socks for when I next wear them. Never mind: at least they didn’t pinch my toes. Only Darcy’s allowed to do that – oo-er!

After that we went and got ourselves “banded up” at the Winter Gardens. The bands this year are a very nice matt stainless steel colour. They show off our tans very well indeed. Well, they would if we had one.

Then it was off to the Blue Room for a pint before going to watch the first act we had rather anally ticked off on the programme, Razordog. Razordog were a no show and The Lobotomies stood in for them gallantly, playing a noisy brand of punk. I was so disappointed that Razordog had pulled out (or so we think) that I decided to have a look at the stalls.

We did and I emerged about an hour later with a mini skirt, some fishnets and a new studded belt – bright pink too. I told Darcy that we will need to rip some holes in the fishnets. Fortunately, they are from Marks and I got a twin pack, so I can keep one pair for best.

Back to the Blue Room for another pint. Unfortunately, the Black Sheep was off so I had a Hobgoblin – oo-er again. Darcy had his usual JD, ice and water. He had already received some gentle mocking from the insolent young chappie behind the bar in the Arena in the Winter Gardens but fortunately, the bar staff at the Blue Room are more polite and his request went unremarked. There was a very sweet young lady in the pub this time with a bottle of juice with a sports cap on and a very nice pair of purple docs. We saw her later in the winter gardens with her dad, wearing a punk t-shirt. These punks are getting younger by the year.

3CR, a picture I stole from Stuart Chalmers

The next act we had anally ticked on the programme was 3CR. I might have mentioned this band in passing once or twice in previous blogs. Well, I love them! How many bands berate the audience for not heckling? Boggy is about 8 foot tall from the soles of his boots to the tip of his Mohican (which isn’t red this year) and, to be frank, is a touch big-boned. The songs are great. I think my favourite is “I fell in love with a minger” but “What a carry on” comes a very close second. Boggy is a good impressionist; at least he does great impressions of Kenneth Williams and Frankie Howerd. The music is loud and obnoxious, just the way I like it, and the gigs or sets are over way too fast. We did get an encore out of them and in the tight schedule they have at Rebellion, that is good.

We had a few more drinks and a couple of reunions with friends from previous years and one of Darcy’s colleagues from work. Somebody in the bar said he recognised me but did not know where from. The feeling was mutual. Some time later, I remembered who he was. We had travelled up to Blackpool from Preston on the same train in 2006. At that time, he had a tag on his ankle and I remember being amused about it. He was a nice bloke too and very friendly (but not in that way). Hopefully we’ll bump into each other again this year and I can remind him where we’ve met.

Pink Hearse

The last band we saw was Pink Hearse, an all-girl band. The lead singer, Nikki Hearse, is slightly reminiscent of Siouxsie Sue but with pink hair. I can’t say where they stand in my pantheon of punk; I was a tad drunk by the time I saw them AND I’d had a KFC, so I wasn’t at my best, but I would definitely see them again. Maybe next time I can make my mind up a little better.

After Pink Hearse, it was back to the bar for another half of Fosters (not good but better than the bitter on offer in the Winter Gardens). I was a bit tired now and I really couldn’t be bothered with any more bands, so we caught the bus home. Once home, I tried on my new skirt and fishnets to see how I look and I don’t think I look too bad in them for a 45 year old. I definitely know what I’m wearing today if the sun continues to shine.

No Straps this year, which is a shame, because I was a huge fan of them back in 1980, when I was still a sprog, and became one of their most loyal fans again in 2006, when I discovered Jock and Dave had reformed the band with some new band members. Jock tells me they are gone for good, which still brings a tear to my eye, two days after I found out. I will still be able to see a whole host of bands I love, though. There’s still Middle Finger Salute, Outl4w, Anti Nowhere League, Goldblade, UK Subs (original line-up – Way Hey!), The Duel, Chas & Dave (last year’s highlight), Cockney Rejects and the prospect of seeing the Rezillos. Oh and a whole host more.

I can’t wait!

Sir Crash, the gentleman bus driver

In the good old days, when I worked in the centre of Preston and could commute to work on the bus, that’s exactly what I did. I caught the bus to work in the morning and caught it home again at night. This was a great arrangement, although I thought the bus fares were a rip off (and still do). I read about 2 books a week, and listened to music on my personal cassette player. I didn’t have to worry about sitting in traffic – well, I didn’t worry about that, although I frequently sat in traffic; I do nowadays, now that I drive into work. I just sat there, reading my book and listening to the Foo Fighters or Nirvana or whatever took my fancy that day.

I think that was a great benefit of commuting into work on a bus: I got to read books and listen to music. Well, I suppose they were two great benefits: reading books, listening to music and not worrying about sitting in traffic. Ah, it’s getting a bit Spanish Inquisitiony here…

One other benefit was that some of the bus drivers were very pleasant, some were great characters and some were all three. One such was an Asian bus driver. I never got to know his name but then I didn’t really need to. I called him Sir Crash.

He always had a smile for all his passengers and was just a generally friendly kind of chap. It was his smile that earned him the name Crash. He raised his eyebrows in a way extremely reminiscent of Crash Bandicoot. The way he got his honorific title was probably not company policy and might have got him in serious trouble. He saw me walking up my road one morning to catch the bus and stopped his bus to let me on. He was on a roundabout at the time and held up traffic until I’d got on. Thereafter I referred to him as Sir Crash because he was a gentleman to do it. He stopped on the roundabout a couple of times and held traffic up on the dual carriageway once or twice to let me on. In a way, there was a danger that he could have lived up to the name Crash in more ways than one if he hadn’t been careful. Fortunately, he didn’t cause any crashes when I was on the bus (or running for it).

He did have an altercation with a taxi driver once. I was sat on the bus, reading my book and minding my own business when I noticed something was going on. We were stopped at a red light and I think there was some shouting and swearing - something like that - and Sir Crash pulled the bus out and round in front of the offending vehicle: a taxi. He hemmed him in and got out. So did the taxi driver. I don’t know what he said but he took the taxi’s number down and the taxi driver swung for him, at which point, Sir Crash got back into the bus and carried on his journey as if nothing had happened. However, at the bus station, he asked us all if we would be witnesses for him. I gladly agreed and gave him my work number.

I got a call later that day from an ex-policeman, who was now working in the taxi licensing department. I told him what I’d seen and hoped the taxi driver got in real trouble. I liked Sir Crash.

I think he was moved onto another bus route after a while because I stopped seeing him. Occasionally, I’d be waiting at the Bus Station, head in a book and miles away, and someone would tap me on the shoulder. I’d look up and there would be my favourite Asian bus driver, smiling and raising his eyebrows, just like Crash Bandicoot. These meetings got rarer and rarer and then my company moved offices and I had to start driving to work.

I now read a book a year, if I’m lucky. I can listen to my favourite music on the CD player in my car, if I want to, but I seem to listen to Radio 4 more than anything else. I hardly ever catch a bus nowadays and it’s always a treat if I do, although I still think the fares are a rip off. I never see Sir Crash at all. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I miss him but I did enjoy being a passenger on his bus and I hope Stagecoach treat him well nowadays.

Mereside Estate, an outsider’s view

Recently I have discovered a gem. A little bit of Britain that I love. I do like the obvious gems:

Stonehenge

Brighton Pavilion

Rochester Castle

and of course many others, too numerous to feature here.

This one is probably not one that would spring to most people’s minds but it has really captured my imagination. It’s Mereside Estate, Marton, Blackpool.

I’ve been spending a lot of time recently with Darcy and in the mornings I drop him off at work before going into work myself. He works flexi time which fits in nicely with my fixed shifts.

While dropping him off I had noticed the outskirts of Mereside Estate and thought it very much typical of council estates around the country. Not everybody’s idea of a desirable area to live in. However, more recently, instead of turning the car round and risking life and limb to turn right onto Preston New Road, Darcy suggested I drive through Mereside, so I would come out on Clifton Road where I could turn right at the lights.

So I got to drive through what I now believe is the heart of Mereside. I absolutely loved it. To my ignorant eye, it looked like the original houses must have been built in the 1950s (I wasn’t far wrong, as I have since discovered through intensive research on the Net).

Actually, it is a post war social housing development, built in the late 1940s, a time of huge financial problems for the whole country and a massive shortage of housing but, amazingly, a time of huge optimism and also, significantly, the founding of the Welfare State. I don’t know exactly when Mereside was built but I do know that the first houses were occupied in 1949 (Rootsweb ENG-LAN-FYLDE-L Archives). The heart of Mereside has optimism written large all over it. The houses are grouped together in fours mainly, with plenty of green spaces. The roads are quite narrow – obviously not a problem in the late 40s - with cars parked either side that effectively render them single lane, a bit of a problem if I’m late for work. The estate is very characteristic of social housing built at roughly the same time all over the country but it also has plenty of character of its own. The roads are named after places in Lakeland; I think it is quite common to name roads in council estates after beautiful parts of the country. I would like to show a picture of the estate but there are none I can find on the Internet, which I think is disgraceful. I will have to take my camera there, take some shots and upload them, labelling them “Mereside, a model of optimism” or something similar. If I do that, I will definitely grace this blog with them.

Mereside has plenty of later additions. I can only say they detract from its original charm. It also has a windmill nearby that doesn’t:

It was built in 1838 and was in use until 1923. It has been a target for vandals recently but it appears that there is a bid to attract lottery money to restore and possibly get it back to full working order. (BlackpoolGhosts) It provides a great centrepiece to the estate (this was probably the intention when the estate was built) and I sincerely hope Meresiders are proud of it.

What else is there to say about Mereside? Well, while I was trying to find out when it was built so I could write this blog, I found a couple of entries in the Blackpool Council Corporate Performance plan, Key Milestones, sub-section Council Housing, where they intend to extend the reassurance project to Grange Park and Mereside (yes, I would like to know what that means), that they have a Consultation and development of Mereside Estate Action Plan and, to my optimistic eye, the best of all, they want to develop “positive activities for young people on Mereside … in consultation with local residents, extending the dream scheme pilot from Grange Park”. That to me suggests that they want to steer young tearaways from vandalising the windmill to such wholesome activities as playing pool and darts and socialising with other young tearaways. Well, that’s how remember youth clubs from 30 odd years ago.

Something else that I found, which really gladdened my heart was an article in Blackpool Council’s website about plans for a “green makeover for Mereside”. The link is here but briefly, it involves Mereside primary school, the housing association that has taken over the running of Mereside, Blackpool Council and Mereside Tenants’ and Residents’ Association to regenerate an underused green space on the estate. Always involve the young. They’re the most optimistic of us all.

Finally, lets go back to where it all began and where I finally discovered, if only roughly, when it was built. I would just like to quote the man who finally led me in the right direction:

Jacqui
You forgot to mention the most notable event in Blackpool in 1949! I was
born , and a year later we moved to the Mereside estate (Cartmell Road)
Regards
Phil

Thanks Phil, you’ve got a friend for life now.

Stone the Crows in North Lancashire

On Good Friday, Darcy lost his virginity. Not in the normal sense of the word or phrase, I should add, but in a peculiarly Morris Dancing sort of way. You see he danced out in a rag coat (lovingly sewn by yours truly), top hat and blacked up face for the first time. It was his first official engagement as a Stone the Crows Morris Dancer and he did us all proud.

The event was a tour of various North Lancs towns and villages organised by John O’Gaunt Morris for their day of dance. We met in a car park in Lancaster, where Darcy and I put the finishing touches to our “uniforms” – i.e. I blacked my face and then blacked his. When he was finished, he did look a little like Papa Lazarou from The League of Gentlemen or maybe a mad, morris dancing Slash. 

So we were bussed out with fellow teams John O’Gaunt, who dance North West and Cotswold morris and Amounderness Ladies Morris, who also dance North West Morris. Our first stop was Milnthorpe, a small market town in South Cumbria on the A6. There was a farmers market on and a respectably sized and appreciative crowd.

John O’Gaunt danced first. Then Stone the Crows. The first dance I did was Ragged Crow, which I love, and I might have developed a certain degree of hubris about it. I really thought I knew it. It was the first time I had danced in public for a while and Nemesis was waiting round the corner for me. I went wrong and spectacularly so (well, to me anyway) during the dance but managed to keep a smile on my face and get to the end without any further wrong steps.

Then Darcy danced a White Ladies of Aston, which is a rather long and complicated dance. I watched him from the steps leading up to the church and he didn’t put a foot wrong. I was so proud of him and he looked fabulous. Then Darcy and I wandered off round the market to see if there was anything to buy. We found a stall selling scarves (long and flowy types) and we each bought one to put on our hats (my previous scarf having been purloined by my youngest daughter). It was freezing that day so I wrapped mine round my neck to lessen my shivering. It actually was quite effective.

Next stop after Milnthorpe was the Limeburners Arms in Nether Kellett, where a hotpot lunch and apple crumble were supplied by John O’Gaunt. The hotpot was delicious and Darcy and I went back for seconds and I would have gone back for thirds but it had all gone by then. We danced in the pub car park, feeling slightly heavier than before. This time, because there was room, we did a double White Ladies. White Ladies is a very complicated dance already, in my opinion, and I have this theory that if you double the number of dancers, the complicatedness increases exponentially. Fortunately, I danced opposite Natalie, who is a very good dancer, and made sure I didn’t put a foot wrong. Darcy also danced this double White Ladies, but not particularly close to me, so our paths did not cross.

The one thing that really stands out about this dance was the wind got up during it and whipped half the feathers and flowers from my hat (I have these rather cute artificial black flowers on my hat). I had to rip the rest of them off and throw them to one side so I could see where I was going. They were retrieved by a fellow Morris dancer, who returned them to me later.

I was inconsolable. I managed to keep up a brave face while eight of my colleagues danced a Woodhouse Bog and even shook a tambourine during the dancing of it but I sulked on the coach all the way to Arnside and was silently vowing never to dance again. I could be heard to say time after time that wind should be banned. It should be illegal and the penalty for the wind blowing should life.

We arrived at Arnside, our last stop on the tour, and, after a bit of a to do with a car driver in a narrow street (silly man decided to have an argument with the driver of a large coach and ultimately lost face with his wife and children), I got off the bus with my hat and my feathers etc still unattached. I think we only danced the one dance there. It was freezing and the wind was blowing a gale. Our foreman, Murray, said that we could dance sans hats, so I muscled in on our last dance, Ashpole: one of the first dances I learned and therefore one of my favourites. After that we adjourned to the pub where I sat down opposite a couple of John O’Gaunt dancers, chatted with them and Darcy and nursed my Apple and Mango J2O lovingly, revelling in the warmth. I would have happily had a cask ale or a mulled wine even but I was driving and Darcy was my passenger so I stayed off the booze.

We returned to Lancaster and then Darcy and I went home via Sainsbury’s and his Mum and Dad’s, still blacked up. Darcy made me wear my hat into Sainsbury’s even though it didn’t have feathers on it. He can be cruel sometimes!

Now here are Stone the Crows dancing Ragged Crow at an earlier date. Unfortunately, it does not have the full dance on it and please note I am not dancing in this video so there will be no wrong moves!

Cars, Ferries and Rod Stewart Conventions

I just had a look at my last post to see when I wrote it and what it was about and I’m not exactly surprised but it’s a long time ago and it’s about a gig I saw in October. I haven’t had much time to blog since then because just over a week after I wrote that blog, I left my husband and found myself with no computer, no internet, no television, no radio or CD player and no entertainment except for a Sudoku book and some pens.

Actually, it wasn’t quite as bad as that. I was given a telly about a week or two later and a little later I got a threatening letter from the TV licensing people, so I got a TV licence too.

My last blog mentions a friend called Darcy and it’s time to come clean. He was a bit more than a friend then and he still is and it’s on his computer that I’m currently writing this blog. Darcy lives not far from the quaint seaside town of Blackpool and I’m there (in his flat, not Blackpool) at the moment. He’s in bed feeling sorry for himself and suffering from Manflu so I’ve nicked his computer and internet connection and I’m writing this.

Let me tell you a bit more about Darcy. You might have guessed that I’m a bit of an old punk, who’s gone a bit respectable in her old age. Darcy isn’t a punk but he is a rebel so it’s all good there. He’s more into Metal but likes going to gigs and humours me by accompanying me to such bands as Anti Nowhere League and the Adicts (bloody marvellous last November). He has long hair and a goatee beard and, to my biassed eye, looks fabulous.

This weekend has been quite exciting for me. Maybe not as exciting as a weekend in Amsterdam (or Nice for that matter) or Rebellion but still quite exciting. It started yesterday, Saturday, well, weekends always do, don’t they? I’d booked my car in for a service; not particulary exciting, I hear you say, and well, no, it wasn’t that exciting. Catching the bus back to Darcy’s flat wasn’t exciting and collecting the car and seeing the bill wasn’t either but it happened. In the afternoon, Darcy went to the football and I went and had my hair cut. Still not particularly exciting but then life can be boring, can’t it? In the evening, we stayed in and watched Harry Hill, Primeval and then the Bourne Ultimatum.

Okay, I admit it! Saturday was pretty run of the mill. Today was a little bit different. After not doing very much this morning, we went to look at The Ferry or Das Boot as Darcy and I like to call it. Anybody from the British Isles who reads this blog will know exactly what I mean but for those who aren’t from hereabouts, The Ferry was blown onto the beach just north of Blackpool on Thursday in high winds and is still there and quite an attraction at the moment. Here’s a picture of it for anybody who’s interested. 

Darcy took a picture on his camera and on his phone but it is too much of a palaver uploading them onto this computer so I nicked this one off the internet and I apologise for my temerity but it’s a good’un so I wanted to use it. It looks big from quite close up and we were well impressed but it was very windy (not as bad as last Thursday but still bad) so we high-tailed it back to the newly serviced car and went off to look for somewhere to eat. After much driving around we tried a pub near Kirkham but it was closing for refurbishment so we decided to go onto another hostelry. This was the Grapes in Wrea Green. I had Roast Beef and Darcy had Shepherds Pie with cold bits in it (yack!) While we were eating a bevy of ladies attending a nearby Rod Stewart convention appeared. They were wearing Rod Stewart t-shirts and copious amounts of tartan. One even had a tartan shopping bag (thus making Darcy very jealous indeed – I might talk about his tartan fixation at a later date).

They suggested to Darcy that he would be able to blend in that evening because it was a Seventies night. To my jaundiced eye, Darcy looks very 21st Century but we took it all in good heart. They were very pleasant ladies from Surrey and I was trying to show my local knowledge by saying they were speaking Estuary English and therefore must be from Kent or Essex. It never does to show off, does it? Sometimes you can end up looking silly. Never mind, Surrey is not too far from the Thames Estuary and I’m sure the accent has spread – a bit like the Norovirus did earlier in the year.

So that was my extremely exciting weekend. I’m not sure if I can cope with all the excitement. I think it’s time to go to bed with a cup of hot cocoa and and hot water bottle. Before I do, I’ll find a video of Rod Stewart for you all. As Darcy just said, “What an exciting life!”

Middle Finger Salute, 3CR and Anti Nowhere League at the Manchester Academy 3

Okay, so I don’t usually mention the support acts in my title but I went to see all three bands, if you know what I mean. What I mean is I have already seen Middle Finger Salute twice and loved them, 3CR three times and loved them and Anti Nowhere League twice and loved them all, so I wanted to see all three bands.

To elucidate further, I usually go to see the main band and end up liking the supports.

I drove into Manchester with my lovely friend. I always give my friends and family pseudonyms on this blog to ensure anonymity and, as I have said on many occasions, this will be no exception. His real name is ******* but here he will be known only as Darcy. This is not a private joke and he looks nothing like Colin Firth; the name came up when I Google searched his name.

So having reached Oxford Road and having demonstrated my complete lack of a sense of direction and the ease with which I descend into road rage, I parked up on a side road not too far from the venue. We walked to the Academy building and went in. We headed for the bar and Darcy bought me a drink – coke.

Then I looked around the bar to see if there was anybody I knew there and there were a few I know by sight, including Boggy from 3CR (bless him!). By the way, the photo is from Rebellion because I didn’t take many photos at this gig. Also, I was wearing much the same apparel last night as in the photo, including my lovely black and white bondage pants. There was one other person there that I know quite well but he spotted me before I spotted him. He didn’t do a runner, I hasten to add but I’m beginning to think I need to wear my glasses more often.

My guts had been bad all day and the coke made me feel quite iffy, so I left half of it – something I hate doing but it was either that or feel really bad and miss the gig.

After I had abandoned my coke, we went up to the venue to watch Middle Finger Salute. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. I like Middle Finger Salute. They’re great. They’re young, energetic, loud and punk. They were also pissed, which made them even more entertaining. Well, Cal, the lead singer was, anyway. They did their great cover of 5,6,7,8, which is far, far better than Steps’ verson, a new song or two and finally, one of my favourites, We’re Shit. This last one has some audience participation in it: when they get to the chorus, Cal sings “Let me hear you say it:” and we have to shout “You’re shit!” It was one of the things that attracted me to the band in the first place. I explained what was happening to Darcy and told him not to take offence on the band’s behalf before the song started. Cal even gave us a couple of warm ups, but it wasn’t really necessary for me because I’ve been practising in the car for months (i.e. every time I listen to the CD). Needless to say, I didn’t get the words wrong and yet again, the photo is from Rebellion.

After their set but before 3CR’s, Cal and Danny from Middle Finger Salute were selling CDs. Well, Cal mainly. Cal came over to me and then realised he was preaching to the converted (although I must get the new CD) but still chatted to me. Danny came over and said ”Hello” too and I felt like punk royalty. A sort of punk Queen Mother (but doesn’t she have a nice smile!) It produced a warm and fuzzy glow in me. 

Next, and after Darcy bought me some water (all my stomach could cope with), came 3CR. 3CR are magnificent and Boggy is the most amazing front man. He’s about 10 foot tall, about 18 stone (well, the 10 foot is probably an exagerration but his t-shirt does say he beat Anorexia so I’ll stand by the 18 stone) and has a huge mohican. He actually complained about a lack of heckling right at the start and to be honest, a 3CR gig would not be the same without copious amounts of heckling.

Boggy gurns at the crowd and the songs are some of the funniest things I’ve heard (and I’m a fan of the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band, Tom Lehrer and Spike Jones, so I’ve heard some pretty funny stuff.) They did SUV, Preacher Punk, I Fell in Love with a Minger, Bang, Bang, Bang Where the Sun Don’t Shine (don’t ask, I’m still giggling now) and loads of other blatantly offensive but still, strangely loveable songs. They didn’t do the Columbo song (is it about Columbo? I’ll have to ask them) but they did What a Carry On with Boggy’s magnificent impressions of various Carry On actors (including a great Kenneth Williams and a fantastic Frankie Howard – “oo-er Missus!”) and to coin a cliché, a fabulous time was had by all, including Darcy, who was a 3CR virgin up to that point.

Finally, came Anti Nowhere League. I first saw them at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, last October, and saw them again at Rebellion in Amsterdam. I criminally forgot to go and see them in Blackpool this year and I’ve had to pay a severe penance for missing them. Mainly involving hair shirts and barbed wire underpants (and no! I don’t enjoy it!)

I’m not sure what music they came onto but I’m certain I heard it at the Adicts this year in Blackpool. It’s the sort of music that stirs the heart but not quite as much as seeing Animal come on stage. The man is a bit of a god to me, after all. I finally took some pictures (time to upload them onto my computer, methinks). Here’s my favourite one of Animal.

I’m really not sure of the order but they played all the crowd-pleasers: Animal, So What, Streets of London, Woman, Nowhere Man, Let’s Break the Law, We Are the League, (We Will) Not Remember You, I Hate People, For You. The moshing was a bit manic (since when did punks mosh?) and Darcy and I got moshed into once or twice. I’m way too old for that sort of thing, nowadays; it tends to put my back out and I get frankly irritated when others do it in my direction. However, I did sing along to So What enthusiatically, pointing at Animal vehemently whilst singing the chorus with gusto. I think Darcy might have thought I’d gone mad but he didn’t edge away from me with a worried look on his face so maybe not.

During The League’s set, I felt a cold, wet finger tap me on my shoulder. I looked behind me, confidently expecting to see a familiar face (and probably grinning like the demented loon I am) but there was nobody there. Then I spotted Danny from Middle Finger Salute on the other side of Darcy, with a mischievous grin on his face. It was a form of punk Knock and Run. I gave him an indulgent Queen Motherly smile and poked him in the stomach. Yet more feeling like punk royalty – I don’t know!

Much, much too quickly, the gig was over and we made our way out of the building, stopping only to collect our coats from the cloakroom. My ears were buzzing and I was hot and sweaty and my stomach still felt wrong but it’s a fantastic feeling when you’ve just been to a great gig and none of the bands have disappointed.

So I drove Darcy home and then drove myself home and got in far too late for an old bag like me. I’m knackered now but I’ve got yet another great memory and I’ve actually got something to blog about. Marvellous!

Spiral Tower at Preston Covered Market

I think I’m being silly here. When I write up a gig, I’ve usually seen more than 15 minutes and 2½ songs. If I put photos on the blog, I use ones I’ve taken with my camera or ones that I’ve nicked from the bands’ websites. I frequently don’t know the names of the songs I’ve heard (unless it’s a Goldblade gig) and I don’t this time, so there’s no change there but I’m going to blog anyway.

Let’s set the scene. I’m stood in the kitchen washing up after Sunday tea. Sunday tea consisted of roast beef, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, carrots and turnip mashed together, cauliflower, baby new potatoes, yorkshire pudding and gravy. You can tell I didn’t make it, can’t you?

Well, it’s 6.30pm and earlier in the day (17.21 to be precise) I’d received a text message from my eldest child and only son, Harry, saying “We’re on at 6.30″, so I told the younger of my two daughters, Bobbie, that she would have to finish washing up for me. I got into my car and drove into the centre of Preston and parked up near the covered market (there, on the right). It was by now about 6.40 and I’d missed 10 minutes of their set. “Their” being Harry’s band, Spiral Tower, and the set being at Preston Live – a showcase of Preston bands.

I think (I’m never sure with Spiral Tower) that I saw 2½ songs. Amazingly for me, I can name the 3rd song (or the 2½th), Keith’s Contraption (which you can hear on their MySpace page), which starts off with a bit of keyboard wizardry from my very own Harry. I stood there feeling very proud and with a maternal smile on my face until I decided I needed some pictures of the band.

I took this one with my mobile phone and I apologise for the quality – it’s rubbish. As you can see, I was stood to the right of the stage and a little way back with the rather foolish but proud smile on my face. That’s Harry behind the two keyboards. You can just make out Phil (who had a little trouble with his mic during Keith’s Contraption, due to it cutting out and making him sound like Norman Collier) at the right of the stage. Ben’s on the left and Raz is playing the drums.

Then I moved over to the left side in front of the stage, held my phone above my head and took this rather shaky picture. I’m very, very sorry. It’s not at all clear but you have to remember I was overcome with maternal pride and I was holding my 1.3 mega pixel mobile phone high up in the air. I really shouldn’t be so hard on myself, should I? There was a good mix of people with several long haired gentlemen who seemed to be enjoying the set (well, one of them threw horns at the stage after each song – I feel a little silly using the expression “throwing horns” being a little elderly for the activity myself).

Spiral Tower are good, even if I do say so myself. They’re good instrumentalists and Phil has shown that he can sing as well as growl. They play a mixture of Prog and Metal and it works very nicely in my opinion. I wish I’d seen the whole half hour set, instead of two thirds of it but it wasn’t to be. I felt it incumbent upon me to do the washing up and that took priority.

I won’t be so damn silly next time and hopefully, they’ll be on for a bit longer – at least 45 minutes.

Inme at the Manchester Academy 3

I once started a blog with the words: “I’m hot, I’m sweaty, I’m wearing three t-shirts and my hair looks like a bush but I’m happy, very happy indeed.” It seemed a good idea at the time and, to be perfectly honest, I still think it’s a great way to start a blog. It was honest and it summed up my situation quite succinctly.

Well, I’m not hot, sweaty and wearing three tee-shirts but my hair looks like a bush because I’m not long out of bed and I’m sat here drinking a cup of coffee and wondering how best to start my blog about Inme at the Manchester Academy 3 on Monday night. Okay, I don’t need to worry anymore, do I? I cheated and used the beginning of another blog so here goes.

Inme is my daughter Charlie’s favourite band. She’s seen them 6 times now and she has every CD they’ve ever released and knows the words to all their songs (well, I assume she does, anyway). When she first went to see them in 2003, she was fourteen and had bought (or got me to buy) a ticket for her little sister, Bobbie, who was then twelve. I was quite worried about my two girls being out in Manchester late at night on their own so I went too.

I didn’t like Inme at the time and thought Dave McPherson sounded too much like a duck for my tastes (I’m really, really sorry Dave and any of your fans but I’m telling it like it is here). My concern about my two children outweighed my taste in music so I tagged along. I won’t bore you with details of the gig. It was a long time ago and I’m really pretty hazy about it all now but when Inme came on, I was blown away. They were superb. The sound on the CD was much the same as the sound on stage and they made a hell of a lot of noise for a 3 piece.

I came away totally impressed. They were a bunch of young lads. I think Dave was only about 20 at that time, Joe Morgan, the bass player, was a similar age and Simon Taylor, the drummer, was the baby of the group. They had an amazing maturity to their music and they were damn good.

On Monday, I saw them for the second time. Times have changed. Joe has left to study at university and has been replaced on bass by Dave’s younger brother, Greg. Dave now has alopecia, which I am aware from interviews has made the past couple of years very difficult for him. This time, though, my expectations were raised and I expected them to be very good, very good indeed.

Before we actually get to the main act, I should mention the two support bands. I really (and I mean really) liked the first support act, White Subway. They’re another 3 piece and they play good, honest, loud rock music. The bass player also sings lead vocal, which I believe is very difficult to do (although he might dispute this or maybe not) and is a very good bass player. Obviously an intelligent band, I was struck when he introduced one song by saying it was about the last great prophet to walk this earth (“Uh oh,” I thought, “Not a christian band, surely? He’s already used the f-word about 30 times.”). It was about George Orwell but please don’t ask me which song on the CD it is because I really don’t know. My hearing is not that great nowadays so, although I hear the music well enough, I don’t always hear the introductions too well. So that was White Subway. Well worth a listen if you like rock or punk.

Then we were treated to Fei Comodo (I do apologise for nicking the photo from MySpace). Not really my kind of music and very reminiscent of Bullet for my Valentine. However, I did have to resist the urge to keep saying “Ah Bless!” and “Aren’t they cute?” because they all look so very young. Charlie and Bobbie thought they were great, so, to quote Meatloaf, two out of three ain’t bad.

While Fei Comodo were playing, Bobbie, always eagle eyed, spotted Dave McPherson in the crowd quite near us. She was totally overcome and starstruck. I really didn’t know what to do. I did text Charlie, who was at the front, to let her know but I now know she didn’t get it until afterwards. I wanted to go over and ask them to dedicate a song to Bobbie, who is 17 today, but I thought that wouldn’t go down well with Charlie. I also thought about asking them to mention Charlie but then it’s Bobbie’s birthday so she might have been miffed. I wondered about mentioning the signed drumsticks Charlie got for Christmas a few years ago to them (kindly supplied by a friend of mine who is a friend of Simon Taylor’s big brother). In the end, I did nothing.

So, eventually, Inme came on. As I said before, this time my expectations were raised and they did not disappoint. The music might have been a bit rawer but that would never bother me. The sound was good and Greg is a good bass player. I get the feeling Greg likes the adulation he receives from the crowd. He performs to the crowd and seemed to spend the whole time with a huge cheshire cat grin on his face.

Dave’s voice is amazing. Yes, he is quite raw at times but he has a superb range and can sing falsetto, which is unusual in rock, but then Inme is an unusual band. I find them impossible to pigeonhole and I think it would demean them to try to do so. The music is, on the whole, loud and frequently fast but they can do ballads too. They’re all three good musicians and Dave’s songwriting is fantastic. He never goes for easy melodies; I can’t sing along to any songs I don’t know extremely well and sometimes the rhythms seem to do strange things, sending my foot tapping out of time.

I am in my usual position of not knowing the names of all the songs they performed and certainly not the order in which they performed them. I do know they did Faster the Chase, Seven Weeks and Underdose. They also performed others I recognise but cannot name and plenty from their new CD, Daydream Anonymous and also the first and second CDs, Overgrown Eden and White Butterfly. They were good and I wasn’t disappointed.

Near the end of their set, Bobbie got cramp in her foot. When she gets cramp, she gets it with style and it was a nasty end to an otherwise great evening. Charlie and I went to get some merchandise (t-shirt, hat and wristband for Charlie and the White Subway CD for me). While we were there, I saw the bass player/singer, Janne Jarvis, and guitar player, Vox P, and told them how good I thought they’d been. Charlie had also liked them so I said that they’d done very well, having a mother and daughter enjoy the set. Janne (can I call him that?) made some cheesy remark or other. You know the sort of thing: “You’re not her mother!” Still, I like a compliment every now and again.

We were reunited with Bobbie downstairs. Bobbie had taken off her shoe and insisted on walking back to the car without it on. This makes the cramp go more quickly. I managed to get lost in Manchester on the way back to the M61 and we got home very late indeed. It was a great gig though and I really enjoyed myself. Next one is Anti Nowhere League, supported by 3CR and Middle Finger Salute. I can’t wait!

Birthdays and Young Love

My mum was born on the 29th December. So was her older sister and her younger brother. She had a younger sister too but she was born in July. Mum was born in 1930, Auntie J was born in 1928 and Uncle J was born in 1934. Auntie J#2 was born in 1936. After 1934, the 29th December must have been a pretty big occasion in Mum’s family. Sadly, Auntie J#2 died in 1948 at the age of 11 and Uncle J followed the next year at the age of 14.

However, Mum liked to keep the 29th December a big occasion and when I was little, it was a big occasion. It turned out that Auntie A, my dad’s sister-in-law, had also been born on the 29th December and years later, my big sister’s mother-in-law also shared the birthday. Anyway, we’d be tidying, dusting, polishing, cleaning, cooking and preparing for hours, no days, in advance for the multiple birthday party she would throw every year on that date.

Mum used to like telling the story of the time she set me the task of arranging biscuits on a plate. I was pretty young at the time and I have no recollection of the incident at all. I can, however, state with absolute certainty that I love biscuits. She told me to eat the broken ones and left me to it. The next time she saw me, I was breaking biscuits and eating them. I can’t imagine I got off lightly but she laughed about it afterwards.

One year, my older sister and I made quiches for the party. We thought that quiches were pretty boring (and, to be honest, I haven’t changed my opinion since), so we added our favourite ingredient to them to make them more interesting – food colouring. One was blue and the other was green. Nobody ate them except us.

Mum used to invite loads of people to the parties. Aunties J and A, of course, were invited; the party was for them as well. All the other aunties and uncles and cousins were invited and so were loads of family friends. What was more, they would all turn up. She also invited colleagues and clients from work (she was a probation officer). One of her colleagues brought her son, Jason, one year. He was a similar age to me and my sister.

He was also into punk, like us and, also like us, was a punk and dressed the part. My sister and I had a great rivalry about him. He seemed to like me at first but later seemed to switch his attention to her. He was never really interested in a relationship (at least I think he wasn’t) but liked to hang around with us and discuss music and politics (his two biggest interests). He was also very artistic and did a beautiful picture of Siouxsie Sioux in pencil, which we had in our room for years.

The following year, he brought a friend, Dave. Dave was also a punk and had a punk name, like me, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. Dave was 11 months younger than me and therefore two school years below Jason. He was also amazingly mature for a 15 year old.

So we got talking and hit it off immediately. The party was in full swing when we went upstairs to my parents’ bedroom and got to know each other better. I’ve never really given it much thought until just now, when I was writing this down, but I’m all of a sudden gobsmacked that nobody walked in. Well, when we went back downstairs again, we were boyfriend and girlfriend.

I went out with Dave for 11 months. He was an intelligent and mature lad and even though he was nearly a year younger than me, at an age where a chronological year can equal 5 years in maturity, I never even noticed it or gave it a thought. We had a really good time together and, to use a phrase I really like, presented a united front.

We went to see the UK Subs together. This was when I saw the Straps for the first time. While we were there, some lads asked him if I was his girlfriend or if I was single. Dave was really chuffed about that and took it as a compliment about me. He made sure he passed it on to me as well.

He took me home to meet his dad, who made us dinner – sausalatas, mash and peas. Dave was a vegetarian. He was also a pacifist. Once, when his dad was away, he had a party. There were some skinheads there, who had been invited (the significance of this will emerge shortly). I impressed them mightily by playing Swan Lake à la Madness on the piano. Later on, some other skinheads gatecrashed the party, made an utter nuisance of themselves and smashed a pane in the back door as a parting gift.

One of Dave’s friends tried to sort it out and ended up cutting a deep gash in his arm. We tried to staunch the bleeding and then made the rather stupid decision to drive him to hospital. The person who drove had been drinking all night. Our cut friend got patched up in A & E and we left the hospital. Unfortunately, our driver turned on to the wrong side of a dual carriageway (he was drunk, after all) right in front of the watchful eyes of the Metropolitan Police. They stopped the car and breathalysed the driver and then took us all back to the police station. After they had gone through whatever they had to do (I’m particularly vague about this because we waited in some waiting room or other), they suggested we should go back home. One of the girls who was with us (we had gone to hospital mob-handed) asked if they could drive us home and a humorous policeman asked, “Where? Battersea Dogs Home?” I was not amused but I have since realised that you have to expect this sort of thing if you are going to wear a dog collar.

Our relationship started to fizzle out in the end. Dave never actually tried to end it but I realised that he was treating me more like a friend and less like a girlfriend and I wanted more than that, so I finished with him. He didn’t seem upset and took it very well. I determined to stay friends with him but nothing ever works out like you intend and I lost touch with him.

My sister didn’t, well, not for some time, anyway and the last I heard of him, he was out in New Zealand and working as a nurse. Which, to me, seems absolutely typical of him.