Rave from the Grave...

You'd think it would be easy to mime to one of your own songs, wouldn't you? Think again... this was filmed in around 1995 (it's a bit hazy) for a now-defunct cable TV station that operated out of some Portacabins at the back of HTV West, who I suspect had an extension cable going out through their toilet window that they knew nothing about. The production values of this video have been much admired, particularly the 'no expense authorised' visual effects...

We were still called the Brew Band at the time (later on, Chris got fed up with our being constantly mistaken for the infamous 'Brew Crew', which probably lost us quite a few gigs), and this line-up includes the original drummer 'Old Man' Pete, Lenny on the whistle and Tim on mandolin, who kindly sent me a DVD of this. Tim was well known for making himself as inconspicuous as possible at gigs, usually hiding behind a speaker stack if possible - this explains the somewhat panicky expression he wears in the video. In fact, we had to tie his foot to a drainpipe to stop him from running away.

I've inexpertly chopped off the start & end of the song, as the worryingly 'perky' presenter kept leaning into shot to update her 43 viewers on local traffic reports and lost pets...

Right, you asked for it...

In complete disregard of my own 'sufficiently flattering' guidelines above, I present this picture of me sweating attractively at Ashton Court. Gavin challenged me to post a photo with nothing but a guitar, but a quick canvass of the mums at the school gate down the road yielded no-one willing to take such a shot, despite my pleading that I really was extremely cold. God, that was a long walk home...

Still, it took guts to post this one - some of them are visible in fact, hanging over my belt. This was taken in about 1995 though, since when I have embarked on a rigorous programme of self-improvement - as I always say, why settle for a six-pack when you could have a Party Seven?

Gavin ups the ante... look away now!

Shocking evidence comes to light of what happens when you move to France & go into 'showbusiness'! Apparently Gavin is now performing with these other leggy lovelies in a lap-dancing joint in downtown Marseilles, for the gratification of visiting sailors.
Full marks to Gavs for accessorizing though - the belt & hat combo does it every time. I'm slightly worried about the guy to his right - perhaps he did a bit of shopping on the way to work and couldn't find anywhere to stash his legumes? Either way, I'm sure he's a hit with the sailors... Not sure how this affects the 'which Simpson is better looking' debate, but if you think I'm posting a picture of me in my pants, you've got another think coming...

The Tap, Portsmouth

Better be a good gig, this one - I turned down a free ticket to http://www.hardrockhell.com/ at Butlins for this!
An inauspicious beginning though; Nige rang before we left to let us know he was returning home to throw up, so one man down before we started. A long drive later, we arrive in Portsmouth with our usual back-of-envelope instructions and proceed to get so lost we actually have to leave town & come back for another try...
We eventually find the pub, and I manage to slice my finger open unloading the van. So far, so good.
A large group of punters in flagrant breach of Government guidelines on alcohol intake were noisily abusing each other as we set up - one gent, honking like an elephant seal at the object of his affections, stuck in my mind particularly: "MAUDE! I'M GONNA DUST IT OFF FOR YER, MAUDE!" (repeat, ad nauseum)
Soundcheck done, everyone retired outside for a fag, while I kept an eye on the gear and seriously considered taking up smoking...
The gig itself went OK and we even got a festival gig out of it, but as we packed down the gear a Dean Gaffney lookalike made an ill-advised comment on the physical charms of another bloke's sister, and the whole place erupted into a vicious bar-room brawl that wouldn't have looked out of place in a spaghetti Western... chairs & glasses were flying, bottles were smashed over heads, and if it was the kind of place that had chandeliers, someone would have been swinging on them.
Eventually the various enormous, shaven-headed chavs & their attendant flotilla of shrieking harpies left, leaving the monumentally bored looking barmaid to sweep up the glass while the harassed landlord dealt with the Police, who had sensibly been waiting round the corner until it all died down before putting in a appearance.
In fact the landlord wanted to come with us when we left, and I can't say I blame him.