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Riverside, Bradford-On-Avon - Fri 4-Aug-2006
Maybe it was my fault for not putting it on here.
I know its an effort to scroll down to the gigs at
the bottom sometimes.
But Bradford-On-Avon wasn’t the best attended gig for us.
Shame really, since it’s a good place to play and the last
one was a blast.
The phrase Cant Win Em All springs to mind.

We were ably supported there by an Australian band called
Spargo. They’re over here doing a nationwide tour.
Their music was a bit at odds with the music of both ourselves and 2 Sick Monkeys, but thats by no means a knock.
They were crackin at what they did, and i know that can sound condescending at times, but i do mean it.
Check em out at www.myspace.com/spargomusic

So as i said, 2 Sick Monkeys joined us in Bradford and needless to say they were their excellent selves.

Saturday. I didnt even put Saturday’s gig on the site.
We knew next to nothing about it. We knew it was a big thing, and we knew it was in Warmely, if thats how you spell it, but we didnt know the name of the pub or what to expect.
It turned out to be in the King William, and as we drew into the car park we realised it was a bigger deal than we first thought it was gonna be.
The pub had a huge area out the back, and it was now occupied by a bouncy castle, a merch stand, an outside bar and a nicely sized stage, with lights an all.

We eagerly hopped onto the roof of the new van to witness the Bolsheviks churning out some punk rockery and thought Hey, this might be rather good you know.
Then a cretin decided he’d join us on the roof.
un-invited, this pea-brained non-entity decided he’d earn his place on the roof by promising us a ’ Good sized spliff ’.
To many, that may pass as payment, but not to us.
Manners were not on the agenda, and he decided he’d get on the roof regardless.
Dancing like an e’d up buffoon, he was soon spilling lager down the windscreen and making his fair share of dents in the roof.

That was our fun over, and we decided to venture inside.
Once in the door, we were stopped by another rampallion who
insisted on payment to enter the establishment.
After a brief spell of ’ Do you know who we are?!?!? ’ the pied-eyed gumma then let us through complaining he was only doing his job.
If your job my friend, is that of a cider swilling simpleton, then you clearly excell in your work, and you should be promoted immediately, if not sooner.

Visibly shaken from that encounter, we shrug off our procasity and decided to watch the Bolsheviks from a better view point.
By that i mean away from the dancing eejit.

After the Bolsheviks, we thought we were up next, but then a man was summoned to the stage. Dave. He was a muscular chap, and i thought he’d prove his worth by some eye-popping display of upper body strength, like supporting two scantily clad beauties on each arm.
Instead, he used those biceps to pick up a microphone, and
engaged his vocal cords and diaphragm to ’ treat ’ the audience to a collection of the most turgid, vapid, and vaccuous karaoke songs the world is likely to hear.

I later discovered this X-Factor wannabe was the landlady’s son, and so had the license to do, and sing, whatever the hell he pleased. For however long he wanted.
And he really made full use of that priviledge.
We had the Eagles, Elvis, and i think thats where my brain shut down, and decided to keep awake just the part of it that was needed to keep me upright with a beer in my hand. My eyes glazed, my ears pushed to generate more and more wax, in the vain hope of shutting out the griding noise seeping through the speakers.
And no, i didnt miss an N there. I meant griding.

Then another band came on stage. Didnt get their name, but for 3 minutes they were Gods. They had succeeding in shutting Warmley’s answer to Darius up.
They should be immortalised in stone for that acheivement.
They finished just on ten. We were supposed to be on ten till eleven, and were told in no uncertain times by the sound men that music would cease at 11.
Another one of those instances where the headlining band dip out.
But not Far-Cue, we set up in about as long as it takes to play a song.
And we did this time too. Ready to go at 5 past 10.
But whats this? A figure through the fag smoke, he’s big, he’s clutching a microphone, oh fuck me. He’s back.

Picture the scene, youre raring to go, the audience want you to play, you’ve set up in record time so you can play as many punk rock ditties as possible. You’ve waited 2 hours for this moment, instruments on, set list written, 1234!
And, in that position, whats the LAST FUCKING song you’d want to hear.
The last song in the world you’d want to sit through before you could get rid of all that aggression, all the adrenaline that’s been building up?
Wonderful Tonight by Eric Fucking Clapton.
Which is his real name by the way.
Despite our best efforts, and a gargantuan effort by the sound man, we had to wait on stage while Warmely’s answer to Brian McFadden belted out his ballad to a dis-interested audience.

Well the instruments got a hammering i can tell you, Guy snapped two strings, thats how pissed off Dave got him.

Me? I just think its another thing that makes me think that thanks to my time in Far-Cue, i am growing less and less afraid of anything.
its getting to the point where nothing scares me, nothing and no body.
Bring em on! Ive sat through Dave singing Wonderful Tonight, you think im scared of you?
Back to yer Ranarium mate!
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