AROUND BRADFPORD WITH A DOOR

AROUND BRADFORD WITH A DOOR

Hello, folks; first of all, I am breaking my own rules here, a little. This is the only page with mildly adult material, expletives to be precise, but just in one section; but even then they are all asterixed to infer rather than being right there. So there you go, leave - or read on. . . .

A few years back, my good friend (and fellow Minesweeper), Tom, asked if I could / would write and publish a book about the antics of three lads in Liverpool in the late 70s / early 80s.. The three in question were of course the aforesaid Tom, our good friend and eponymous Gerry of Gerry and the Minesweepers, and � yours truly. The trouble was, the idea was first suggested in the middle of a really good session in the pub, so by closing time we had it nailed; the content from start to finish, the covers, and which well known international publisher we would favour with the manuscript. But, it was a case of Saturday Night Sunday Morning, even though the night in the pub was on a Tuesday and I didn�t finally decide on this until Friday. No, I jest, by the time daylight and a clear �though thick head came around, (the clear being clarity of thought belying the humungous headache) things looked very different to only a few hours before. I realised (and I know Tommy disagrees, but I can�t help that), that there was not the quality nor quantity of material which would be suitable for such a book, not even a small book. So � that was that � until now. A few years on down the line, and what better than utilising the informality and flexibility of the internet? Well, go on then, what? What�s that? There isn�t? Ok then, I will crack on.

What follows is basically a precious few snippets from the annals of Gerry, Tom and John, (aka, occasionally) Gerry and the Minesweepers, but, just like old Will and his business of walk on parts and all the world�s a stage, � other characters filled out these gems of youth. ( Well, not really, Tom at the time still just about qualified, but Gerry and I were in our mid 20s as were others we mixed with) � but it sounds good. So without further ado, here are the remnants of what never was, apart from four glorious hours in the Village Inn in Formby when we believed that the senior editors of Puffin and Penguin would be slugging it out between them. Please read on and enjoy � Around Bradford � with a Door. Please read on. . . . (�You�ve already said that!� � �So!� � �Well you don�t just repeat yourself like that!� - �Listen, Pal, this is my web site, and I can do . . . hey! Who the hell are you anyway?! Go on! Clear off!�)

AROUND BRADFORD � WITH A DOOR (eventually)

First there was John, me, to be precise. No, not my day of birth but the first to join the outfit that was integral to the coming together of the three of us. It was November 1976 and I joined the Speakeasy � a church folk choir and discussion group that was based at Saint William of York, Thornton, Liverpool. Seeing as what we did and when, is hopefully self evident, let�s fast forward two years or so. Atlhough by then I had joined the RAF, an unusual amount of leave (far more than the holiday allowance in most jobs at the time), I was home reasonably frequently and I was still part of the Speakeasy. It was during a Christmas leave in 1978 I first met Tommy; he had joined the group a short while before. Our first meeting was at a party; one of several hundred it would seem, hosted by various members of the Speakeasy, (hereafter, mostly referred to as �the group�), at that time., we seemed to hold more parties than attend Mass. This meeting was a very low key affair, I said �Hello, Tom, pleased to meet you� in a very silly, very low bass voice; he replied in much the same way until we were told off by Helen, the Speakeasy�s then second-in-command, eventually to be leader. And that was it, at that time, anyway. Fast forward a year, on home on leave again, and off to Lourdes, without Tommy; but, we then found Gerry, literally, on the train, singing and playing his guitar. He was terrible, but he knew how to have a good time, and in Liverpool and Lourdes that was more important. So, off I went back to camp, the rest could not shake Gerry off and he followed them all the way back to Thornton. Gerry then met Tommy and they became good friends, and to cut a long story short, (�Hooray!� ��I�ve warned you��), through frequent leaves and weekends at home, the three of us were soon a tight-knit little group of our own, I will not say click or clique, no sir, it wasn�t like that, we gelled with many others from the group, but, we had a special bond, there is no doubting that. Ok, so, the nitty gritty. What has been in Tom�s mind all these years which makes him believe that three lads from among a group of people of similar ages and mostly similar backgrounds, have something to commit to paper which would (maybe) appeal to others? Here, I think, is the answer . . . . - he's wrong. No, kidding, read on. . . .

I do not know why it happened, whether it was just us, the times, something else, but we developed separately, in a way, from the rest of the group. We had our own sense of humour; weird, not understood or appreciated by too many others, and this was combined with music and, in its own way, the more traditional Scouse ethos � the footy, Matt�s pure beefburgers, Beef Buryanis in China Town, and so on and so forth. (�Huh! So on and so forth?! Don�t you know to trail off with cliches is just bad, lazy writ�Ow! Gerroff!� � You were warned��)

This rather crazy sense of humour was a maelstromic mix of exaggeration / a sense of the ridiculous � a la Python and Spike, and, certainly Rutlish; but mixed in with again, part of the Scouse thing; it wasn�t forced, not to us, it just was.

HORSE AND CART

So let us set the scene. Much of the crazy crazy things we did, were punctuated by, or even influenced by music. Now bear in mind we were part of a larger, thriving community, (the Speakeasy at that time was so big and so vibrant, it really was a community). One cold, otherwise boring Saturday afternoon in late �79, (ah, poetic!), was spent in Gerry�s living room, cans opened, guitars tuned, microphone at the ready. Whenever we had our own version of �Jars out�, we automatically put the recorder on, no matter whose house we were in. This was in the hope that we would capture something worth keeping for posterity, even prosperity ( the latter never came to fruition, sadly). But, we did capture something that was to amuse us (�though not too many others), then, and even now as we look back. Gerry and I, (Tommy had gone to the offys at a critical point), would instrumentalise anything and everything, and we struck up instrumental renditions of some of the folk hymns we sang and played at Mass. But, one sudden shift, and we had something. Gerry was and still is a virtuoso on the rhythm guitar, he crafted a strange chugging beat which he learned, apparently, from an Uncle who in turn was tutored (or tortured perhaps, cannot recall exactly now), by a guard in Germany, as the uncle was a POW in the war. But Gerry adapted it from Jazz to Rock and this ended up with a really superb sound, thereafter called �chugachug� by yours truly, much to the amusement of Gerry. So, we struck up a folk hymn, and by accident, Gerry suddenly changed to a reggae beat. But, that�s not all, the first bars sounded just like the opening bars to the old BBC comedy about a father and son rag and bone company called, �Steptoe and Son�. This split second happening then became a catalyst for an imaginary situation involving our parish priest, intertwined with the essence of Steptoe and Son. No longer was Father Fed� just Father Fed�, he was now a clerical rag and bone man, whom, upon hearing the opening bars of this reggaefied entrance hymn, would emerge from the presbytery ready to say Mass, on a cart pulled by an old nag; no, not Mrs Hulligan, famed defender of the Piety Stall, but a huge shire house, a la Napoleon. The trouble with amusing but insane scenarios is, they, as with all parodies, become muddied with the reality. If the first hymn at Mass after that turned out to be the conventionally played and sung hymn proper, it made no difference to us three; we immediately had visions of the souped up version and that Father Fed� really was on a rag and bone man's cart pulled by a horse as he began the procession at the start of Mass. If you think that�s weird . . . you�d be right. Now why not take a trip back in time? Have a listen to both these tunes, from that self same session all those years ago. Do keep the Steptoe theme in mind, along with the vision of a parish priest who had unwittingly become a cleric-cum-rag and bone man. . . .

GERRY AND THE MINESWEEPERS

Although this part-fictitious outift never came into being until later, it was the episode just recounted which saw our minds, well, Gerry�s really at first, go off into this strange land of our own, were the mundane was just a fa�ade for something much more cosmic - and comic - underneath. Punctuating this was our fascination for visions of half empty pubs and dance halls on cold late January nights in Liverpool / Merseyside in the late 50s and 60s, were these many bands of dubious musical abilities would do their best to entertain 23 people including the caretaker and his Great Aunt who came along for a stout which lasted all night, to scant applause at the end from the three that remained; Bert, Aunt Alice, and the young wannabee with a Kay guitar. As we too played and sang, probably just as badly, (well . . . not that bad, but it was an attempt to be like a wall that can do its own graffiti � self defacing. (�Psst! Self effacing yer dope!�)) we became somehow fused with this fictional scenario, although, the name did not come into being until we had met the most bizarre priest on the planet, in Lourdes, 1980. . . .

We, (the whole gang), were in a bar, and I had just got the round in for a few of us. Father-who-shall-remain- nameless, came in, in his already beer stained white stole, steamed right across to our table, and said in his thick Wigan accent, �Is that mah pahnt, lads? Ee! Smashin! Champion!� and just drunk the lot in about 20 seconds. We were not happy; but, even when on the receiving end of something we felt we could do little about, we got something out of it. Ale robbers in this way in Liverpool pubs, maybe all over, not sure, are called �Minesweepers�; not long after, after yet more laughs over imaginary bands who got booed off the stage at the Shakespeare 28 seconds into the first song, we tied in this episode, in a protracted fashion, to a joke name for one such band, Gerry and the Minesweepers.

And that was it, and, the rest as they say, is. . . .

Shite.

HEAVY SNOW TO JADED THEME TUNE SINGERS

So, you know the score, we were nutters with guitars and an imagination which would see us skewing off into Crazy Land at the drop of a hat. Now at the time of writing this, we are in the middle of a bout of very bad weather, and so it was when this next little gem occurred. It was I think 1980, perhaps 81, maybe 84 or 85; no, not an onset of Alzheimers, more like Tetleys, but, serious (as much as one can be doing this), I think it was either 80 or 81. The snow was so bad that day on day, new snow simply fell on the previous unthawed snow, and in a split second you could be on your arse as you thought you were safe on 5 inches of snow, not realising that just underneath was solid ice. It was even worse when I left the house, I did tell Mum to get the council to put central heating in, but they never did. Ok, it was match day. Now, the three of us were footy fans, but at that time we were mostly armchair supporters, (�Come on the armchairs! Cha cha, cha cha cha!�). But we did occasionally go to the match; the trouble for me was, Tom and Gerry were Evertonians, I supported Liverpool, but it didn�t matter, I just went with them anyway for something to do. As we trudged along through the snow bound side streets of Bootle and Walton, the going was so precarious that to avoid slipping and falling over, we had to clomp our way along very very slowly; we looked stupid but one look around and we saw everyone else stupid enough to be walking along to a match that may never happen, doing much the same thing. As the three of us were three abreast, and as we were in perfect time, it was inevitable this would be noted somehow, and so it was. I don�t know why, but, in time with the clomps, I sang in a very doleful resigned voice, �dum -- dum -- de � dum dum -- dum -- dum -- de � dum dum�, Tommy immediately followed with an equally morose, �da � da � de --- da da -- da � da � de --- da da� and then we stopped dead; but in a split second Gerry just said in a plain, everyday but still doleful voice � �Batman�.

Here is where it got cosmic again; first, there was the sight of three lads, men really, in a fit of laughter and nearly losing our footing in the snow, but, as with the handcart and reggaefied hymn scenario, it didn�t take long before our imagination kicked in. It was no longer a silly melody to go with the clomping along in the snow, but was now the end result of twenty years of TV theme tune singers, singing the same thing, over and over again. What started off as something new and vibrant in 1950 whatever, had disintegrated badly over time. The theme tune singers and musicians, whoever they were, were, by 1971, so utterly and totally hacked off, that the exuberant ��DA DA -DA DA- DA- DA-DA DA -- DA DA -DA DA- DA- DA-DA DA � BATMAN!!� had become the rather sad and pathetic �dum -- dum -- de � dum dum -- �dum -- dum -- de � dum dum -- � da � de --- da da -- da � da � de --- da da --- batman�. Over the course of the next few weeks, each theme tune to each super hero show or cartoon was given the same treatment, but, none matched up to this off-the-cuff Batman scenario, although we did sign off on this, with. . . .

�Spiderman -- yeah, does what he can, great, good lad. . . . Mavis, are the teacakes done? I�ve had enough here.�

RICHIE�S CARPETS

As mentioned already, we totally embraced all things Scouse and has as much fun as we could with it. In the early 80s there was a carpet store that advertised on Radio City, our local independent radio station. Now I have no idea if it was really him, but, the ad seemed to be a home-made-and-proud-of-it effort, with the supposedly eponymous Richie telling the world how good his carpets were in an unapologetic thick Scouse accent. There were several adverts over a year or so, but the patter was pretty much the same. . . .

�A�right; Richie �ere, from Richie�s Caaarpets; gerralong to the store soon�s ya can, we�ve gorr all sorts o baargains for yer�.� . . . and so on. Well, how does one embellish this? There was only one way and that was to add bad language. None of the three of us swore that much at all, if ever, in our general conversation, but we would harness it to certain things to get a laugh, and this was one of them. With all three of us chipping in with ever more ridiculous banter, we often ended up with a new advert for Richie, which I am sure he would have been proud of, we hope. . . .

�Richie here; yeah, that�s right, that fr**gg*r from the caarpet shop. F**kin* ge� yaself down ere, ya b*s***ds. Don�t be a f**k**g tight arsed ****, although I suppose ye�ll come anyway coz I�m so �f**k**� cheap; yeah, got your number, you ****. We�ve go� Axeminster, Kidderminster, every other f**k**� �Minster yer can f**K**� think off, yer wazzers. For you real tight arsed scumbags up in Formby, we�ve gor- offcuts, shortcuts, every other f**kin� cut yer can f**kin� think of; and as for shagpile, there�s so many of the f*****s they�re comin� out me arse. So gerralong �ere now, if yer can wedge your wallet open to pay for petrol. Don�t f**kin* forget the f**kin� name � it�s Richie�s f**kin� Carpets!!�

What you may have noticed in recent years, is, this sort of exaggeration, minus the language, (well, depending on where it is being aired I suppose), is often part of a local comedian�s act. Unfortunately for local DJ / celeb�, Roger Philips, it always seems to centre on him and his daily day time radio phone in, particularly when a real out and out Scouse bloke phones in on a sensitive issue. . . .

�. . I�m in tears, here, Rog�, which is �ard for me coz I�m 6 feet 9, a hooligan, and I eat nail butties for me dinner, chisels on Sunday. . . (sniff) anyway, I just wanna say I agree, Bambi is sad at the end. . . .�

I think its fair to say the spirit of Richie�s carpets is alive and well.

SWING THE CAT

A short but delightfully silly episode, this, although animal lovers, do bear in mind that the animal was dead and much was due to the immaturity and lack of reason and decorum in youth(ish).

1980, I had just had my 21st birthday party. Now as I lived with Mum in a tiny flat in Seaforth at the time, this was no place for a party, well, not while Mum was home from work it wasn�t. . . .

So, my sister kindly allowed me to use her house in Waterloo, the party went down well, and at 3 in the morning, the remnants of the booze up � the three of us of course, plus several other good friends, all began the traipse from Waterloo to Seaforth to stay overnight at the flat. We were talking about footy, I cannot remember the match nor any of the players at the time so we�ll guess them. I said, �Yeah, well, Lyons is past it and Hartford�s still on the booze I�ve heard. . . .� Now while I blathered on, I came across a dead cat just by the roadside as we were crossing the little side road between Crosby Library and Park House. While still rambling on, I picked it up and swung it around and around and around � and let go, hoping it would clear the high wall of Park House; it didn�t, but it hit the sign for the place about half way down. But still I just waxed lyrical about how Everton would not fare well against Man U or whoever. It was if it was the most natural thing in the world to fling dead cats while holding a conversation about football. Sod�s Law dictated that at that very moment, the police pulled up and started questioning us. Gerry, taking a chance I suppose, said, �Excuse me, Officer, but there�s no room to swing a cat around here.� The gamble played off, the police laughed, and left. This is something the other two have not yet let go off, (although I had well let go of the cat), and whenever we meet and talk about Rafa or Moysey, Gerry always looks to see if there�s a spare dead cat handy. One more thing on the party. I had bought a large barrel of bitter to use instead of endless cans of disgusting tinnified tasting Carling etc, but, hardly a dent was made in it. On the Monday after, I arranged for the barrel to be brought to the flat, and every Friday night for about 3 weeks, all the lads were around and it was just like being in the pub, keg beer on the go, and tons of it. You wouldn�t think a barrel could stay fresh out of a cellar for so long, but it did.

�HERE Y�ARE, �ERE�S A BIT OF A TIP.�

The watering holes and eateries of South Road, Waterloo, figured a great deal in our social lives in the late 70s / early 80s. Many a night was had in one, several or all of the pubs in the South Road area; these were always followed by a meal somewhere. Now, I have to admit, that, although I see how ridiculous this was; this does not make me laugh much when we look back; but, it tickled the other two pink, then and now, so � for them, here it is. . . .

It was late on a Sunday night; well, early Monday morning. For some reason we had overspent (�Really! Now there�s a shock!�), during our traipse from the Liver to the �Volly� and several points in-between, and we were not sure if we had enough money left for a meal. But, we had a quick check of our pecuniar position � we had enough, just. Trouble was, we had enough for the highly cheap and cheerful Chinese restaurant that was on the corner of South Road / Church Street, but that was closed. We immediately went on to either the Taj Mahal or the Gates of India, can never remember which one was which. But then as now, Indian meals are a whole lot more expensive than Chinese � we had fogotten this. Before we did think on, we had ordered and eaten a starter of Dahl Soup, a Vindaloo each, ( purely for devilment), and some ice cream . . . then came the bill. We went rather a funny colour, commented on the predominant make up of the atmosphere (�Er, er. . . .�) and began to empty our pockets. We made it � just; although it was embarrassing paying with a great deal of copper, which at that time still included hapences. After sacrificing almost every penny, which included the cab fares, we saw the waiter still standing there grinning. Well, through a mixture of embarassment and not thinking. I had a little bit of change left, �little� being the operative word, and said with all sincerity, �Oh yeah, sorry; here�s a bit of a tip for you. . . .� I passed the waiter . . . one and a half pence. Now 1980 or thereabouts may not have been a vintage year for the British economy, but � one and a half pence! I did not go in there again for years and years. Now, as a bonus. . . . our plans for getting home were ruined, but, Tommy was ok, he lived in Crosby, I wasn�t too bad either as I lived in Seaforth; but Gerry was in Bootle; not a bad walk with a clear head and a reasonable time of day, but not 2am; although he was off on the Monday which was a blessing. Trouble was, I had to be back in Stafford by 8am. So, Gerry stayed overnight at mine; I gave him my bed as it would have been fatal to get too comfy, and so I got into my RAF uniform and sat in the chair, went to sleep, dragged myself up at 5am, and went. Trouble was, no note left for Mumsy to say Gerry was staying. Mum worked nights, I had well gone, but she came home, saw a foot sticking out of the bed and began yelling, �John! John! You�ll be Court Martialled! You�ve got to get up!� Before Gerry had a chance to stir, off came the cover, there was Gerry in his birthday suit! By the time I was home again on the Friday, both had got over the shock, and when I heard the tale, I couldn�t stop laughing.

PARDON ME, BISH�

In 1976, the same year that the Speakeasy started, the Catholic Archdiocese of Liverpool also had a new Archbishop, one Derek Warlock. As the Speakeasy were involved in all sorts of things, mostly associated with music for a Mass or a service but some other types of gatherings and get togethers, as well as the annual Lourdes pilgrimage of course, our paths crossed far more than perhaps was the case with other types of groups within the archdiocese. It could just as easily have not been the case, but, we, as did the whole of the Catholic community, and seemingly the whole of Liverpool / Merseyside, developed a great affection for the man, whom, along with his great friend from the other end of Hope Street, Bishop David Shepherd, fulfilled the Pope�s dictat to stop Liverpool from spiralling down into a cesspit of sectarianism. Seeing as Archbishop Derek did not want to come to Liverpool at the outset, his sense of duty and his own personal faith saw his original feelings pushed to one side and he ministered to his flock with a staggering devotion we are not likely to ever see again. Well, what could we three do to mark the man, his life and his mission? It had to be something comical, but with love in among the irreverence of it all. Gerry was the main architect of our tribute to Archbishop Derek Warlock, but Tom and I added to this over time. It was musical of course, and it was a parody of the song �Chatanooga Choo Choo�, retitled, �Pardon me Bish�.

Now, for a little friendly treason, we knew that the man himself, �though fully aware of the Scouse sense of humour, would not receive this so well if we ever tried to sing it in his presence, but, another Bishop most certainly did like to hear it, and often, and this was probably due to the seemingly unavoidable friction that exists between the No 1 and 2 in many situations, whether Church or Business. We were often in Bishop Tony�s company, more so than with the Arch� to be honest, and he would actually ask for this song to be sung, and loved it. So, here it is, lyrics anyway. . .

PARDON ME BISH�

1.
Pardon me, Bish, is this the Mass that has Confession?
Is the Mass here at Five? They�ve all begun to arrive.
There�s gonna be, a certain Bishop on the altar;
And Derek�s his name - and saving souls is his game.

Chorus
You�ll see him givin� out Communion with a smile on his face;
Dancin� and a jivin� as they pass round the plate.
Mass that has Confession, gets rid of depression;
Go to church my boy and you�ll go far

2. When Degs came to town, he then called in on Bishop David;
The cricketing ace, and they met face to face
From that moment on, things began to look more rosey;
For our great little town, they went and turned things around

2nd Chorus
And after Benediction when he gives you a smile
Its then you really know you�re gonna stay for a while
then just before the blessin�, to show that you�re not messin�
Genuflect before you leave for the bar.

Final Chorus
And when the Mass is over and he waves you goodbye
Can�t you really see he�s got a wink in his eye?
He�ll see you in the Liver, if he can cadge a Fiver
Then he�ll be knocking back the whiskey and dry.

HE�S NOT FROM YEOVIL

Although a very strange mix indeed, along with our being into 60�s pop music with a particular leaning towards the Beatles and Merseybeat, we also became fans of an Irish folk group that had, within folk circles, anyway, similar success (as far as it could be, given the differences), as the Beatles, and had an almost identical time-line re the group�s early days, hitting the big time in the late 50s, and then breaking up in 1969; this was the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem. Referred to by some in Ireland and USA as �the Irish Beatles with wooly jumpers�.

Their repertoire of material was extensive; they knocked the socks off anything we had on this side of the Irish Sea, (sorry, Spinners, but its true, but I�m still a fan of yours, too) and their stuff lent itself very well indeed from informal singalongs to serious renditions on stage. Hey Nonny Nonny they were not.

Now quite by accident, although it fitted the scene, for a short period I sported the biggest, grizzliest ginger beard that could ever be possible, and wore big thick wooly jumpers. Looking like a reject from an audition for the Dubliners, (CBTM�s big rivals), again I went to the match with the other two. Everton were playing Yeovil in the FA Cup. On this occasion, we started the day with a few pints in the pub before the game, and of course, we had to sing a song or two. We noticed we were getting funny looks from the regulars, at first, but it wasn�t long before they warmed to us a little, and then something clinched it and won the day. One of our favourites was �the Holy Ground�, a real belter of a song, done by all folk groups but CBTM were the best at this, and it was their version and style we copied, (we hoped). By the time we had sang the end of the first verse which doubled as a chorus due to the way the song was constructed, the whole pub joined in with the real hook line � �Fine girl you are!!� At the end of the song, one of the regulars came over to speak to us. �Hey, lads, when you first came in, I thought there was going to be bother, we played Exeter once, nothing but fights and they closed the pub. But you lads from Yeovil, you�ve been fantastic, please to meet you. What�ll you all have?�

Well. . .

�Oh, er, Guinness all round please � ooh aarr?�

Now one of the lads who did go to that particular pub often and also knew us, came straight across.�They�re not from Yeovil, yer pillock! He�s from Bootle, he�s from Seaforth and he�s from Crosby!� We still got our guinness though. Apparently my rustic, folksy, shaggy look combined with the singing, made them all think we were an Adge Cutler and the Worzels tribute band who�d come up from the South West for the match. So you see . . . a grizzly beard, an arran sweater and a song or two has its uses.

YOU�LL SING IT IN D AND LIKE IT

For a few years, our second spiritual home, if you like, was the Bull on Great Howard Street, just outside the City Centre. We would often wile the night away, standing at the bar, drinking bitter and whiskey, and of course, singing. At the time, as it had been for many years, the place was managed by an Irish couple, Vic and Anne, and a real Irish pub it was too; a real no frills gem � but nor was there ever any trouble; any of that, the cuplrits were out � for good. As small as the place was, quite often they had groups in, and most of these had a get up and sing session, so what did we do? Turn back to the bar and order more drinks � don�t be silly � we of course duly obliged. But one night it went badly wrong, but it was very very funny. As, (even with our penchant for creating our own music in mind), we were really choristers first, and all else second; and as we were used to singing as baritones and basses with only the very occasional straying into tenor territory, we did not make good pop singers; the others may not like to read this, not sure, but, our voices were never good enough; folk � or at the very best � Mafia style crooning - was our comfort zone, and the public at large could easily tell when we strayed outside of it. So, back to the open mic� session. We duly got our go, asked if the band knew �Just one Look� by the Hollies, they sure did. We then asked if they played it in C. They most cetainly did not, they played it in D. But, thinking that the band would easily change to C, we asked if they would oblige us, the answer was, � Oy! Either sing or f*** off. If you�re gonna sing, you�ll sing it in D, and f****** like it!�.

We sang it in D.

I was ok, I either stayed on the main melody or threw in a bass descant as long as Tommy held the melody, which he did. But Gerry was in trouble. He was the high harmony man, as much as a baritone can be. The real high notes are not that many in the basic arrangement, which was a blessing on that night; but as each high bit did come around, Gerry was on his knees, literally, screeching like a chimp trying to reach the note, it was pitiful. It was so bad, the song was not even completed, and we slunk off feeling like right amateurs, which, on this occasion, we were. So the moral of the story? No idea. but. . . . (�What do you mean by trailing off like that?! You can�t just . . . Ow!!� �I thought I told you to beat it?!� )

Lyrics and Music - Carter and Haines - their entire back catalogue of songs

Before we leave the music themes behind, I do have to tell you this. It concerns song writing - a la Carter / Haines. One night, during an otherwise nothing night, Tom was round at mine and as we were still well into Irish folk songs, we began discussing the scene in some detail. Eventually one of us, after so many cans, began to muse on where these songs came from, and after a while the other suggested, 'we could do that." Who said what and who replied, is lost in the mists of burnt bacon drifting in from the Haines' kitchen; a common occurence during these not so salad days. But, we enthused over this new possibility, got my guitar, and duly commenced (ironic thus impossible), our new career as traditional folk song writers. Now, as you now know we were big CBTM fans, but we did not dismiss the local Liverpool biggies either, the Spinners - and we did like their song called The Ellen Vanin Tragedy. So, Tom with pen and notepad, me, ready to strum and pick. First chord - A Minor, second - D Minor - flip - Ellen Vanin. "Stop stop stop! That's Ellen Vanin!," said Tom. "Oh, yeah" said me, "sorry." "But," said Tom, "whose to say we can't write about a ship? If there were no ships, every flamin' folk concert would be over in 5 minutes." "Yeah, but, which one hasn't been written about, or that we've not heard of at least?" said me. "Got it!" yelled Tom, 'The Marie Celeste!" We now had the story soon to become a song, that was a start - more cans - resumed. "Ok, Let's go!" Am - Dm - again. "That's still Ellen Vanin!" Tried again, different chords, but, although cannot recall now, just 2 equivolent chords giving out the same sound, melody, feel. "And that's still Ellen Vanin! Just in a different key!" Well, we tried, and tried, and tried. But eventually, thankfully - by the end of the night we had the song and the words . . . . Tom and I were - and are so impressed with this, that I cannot cheapen it by just mentioning it here, it deserves a page of its own, just click on the link below.

Marie Celeste - by Carter / Haines

IF WE WERE A HORSE RACING BET. . . .

. . . . We would have a been a treble, which is three doubles and one treble all in the one bet and total stake.

As it is with life and friends, not every memorable occasion can fit it into 'The Gang's all here' scenario. For a variety of reasons, many nights saw Tom and me, or Gerry and Tom or me and Gerry, in each other's company without the other being there. I am sure one day, hopefully soon, this can be extended with snippets provided by the other two. When I get these I will then add a few more snippets of my own to keep it all even.

ALL THE WORLD�S A STAGE, ETC

As mentioned a few times now, the three of us were really part of a much larger group, filled out with much the same type of people as we were, and it is only fair to widen this a tad, and bring in these (more than) Shakespeare�s bit part players, with their own entrances and exits, (exeunts perhaps). The very very best thing about the Speakeasy was, all were good lads and lasses; no trouble, no scandal, and all good fun. We did our level best to embellish the Masses and services we played at; and all worked hard to learn the more and more intricate pieces and their harmonies; our two leaders, first Father Leigh and then Helen, made ordinary singers, which we were and are in essence, seem to be far better than we really were, such was their brilliance. This culminated in a great but unsung (pardon the pun) local song writer, Turloch Holmes (no kidding, that is his name), in virtually giving us the total rights to sing whenever we wanted and without royalties due bar any recordings made and sold, a spectacular hymn he had put together. This was, �Calling my Name�; this has every twist, harmony, descant, chest-beating chorus you can think of, combined with fantastic lyrics. It took some concentration to get it all right, but, we did, (and still do when we get back together), manage this; it used to make my hairs stand on end, when I had hair, anyway. Funny, for such a superb piece of work, it is so so difficult to find in sheet form or a recorded version by other groups. I am sure that as generous as he was, old Turloch surely never meant it to just fade away, so, if you are into church music at all, do look for this and do try to keep this song alive. Anyhoo, that�s digression enough.

From hereonin, think of these reminicences as being more �Rentamob� than just the three of us.

As already stated, as well as doing our best in the job we found ourselves in, we also liked to socialise � a lot. If it wasn�t house parties, it was nights in the pub, or for special occasions we would book a church hall out in the sticks of either Little Crosby or Ince Blundell; quite apt really, we did feel as if we had a special affinity with these places, perhaps linked to its Catholic heritage, and we did have one Little Crosby member and two brothers from Ince Blundell in our ranks. Anyhoo, I�ve digressed . . . again . . . what I was going to say was, we were a self contained entertainment unit; no one ever worried if anyone would turn up, it was always more a problem of too many. Quite often we would fill the small lounge of a quiet pub, such as the Grapes in Thornton, with many occasions causing young couples etc caught right in the middle of us sitting all around them, to get up and leave. Now, as the core of the group when it started was made of up mostly of 5th and 6th formers, it was inevitable that university would come calling, and so it did. But, similar to me in the RAF, they still stayed part of the group and made a beeline for each other when home for holidays and weekends. But, it soon became a two way thing. We began to get invites to the universities for weekends; Manchester, Leeds and Bradford were the main places, but there were others too, over the three years the Speakeasy Under Grads were studying.

Now for the following to happen once, may be regarded as a misfortune; but twice looks like carelessness, to shamelessly rob from Oscar. But, the three of us, as we often did, did our own thing in the afternoon prior to joining the others for the mass exodus from the Crosby region. We were all off to Manchester, with some vague idea of the address.. We duly arrived via some South Manchester watering hole. As ever with many student parties, the main hubbub was in the basement. But it all seemed odd, those already there did not look like students, they looked at least a little older than the usual age range and were dressed rather too well, and the others were late, our hosts not in sight. We then espied the food table, and as we had missed both dinner and tea that day, we shrugged our shoulders and tucked in. Some of the others began to chat to us, we explained that we were friends of Nick and that he had invited us down, this was met with polite nods but strange looks, and a hurried retreat from our presence. A few minutes later some 6 feet 5 ogre came across, smiled, then asked us to leave. After our somewhat expedient apologies for an offence we were not even sure of, it turned out that Nicky was a 10 year old boy; the party we had gone to was one of those �seeing as you are all here� type things when friends and relatives get together for one of the kids / cousins etc birthdays, resulting in the adults� far outdoing the original reason for the get together. Well, no sooner were we shown the door than the proper Nick appeared in his own doorway right across the street; gave us a quizzical look, and waved us over. But, the food was nice, nicer than �our� Nick�s . . . but don�t tell him.

So, could this ever happen again? Yes! This time it was the eternal beer and fun merchants, Bob and Mark who invited us over to Bradford. (Sorry for the seeming self indulgence going on here re names, but its difficult to be more general when this approach would not flow so well. But, although you don�t know them, just imagine the typical carefree beer-drinking rugby playing students, and you�ve got it.) Anyway, same as usual, the other 107, well, certainly 40 odd, made their way over the Pennines; the three of us made ours, and as usual stopped off for a few before the party. Sure that we had the right address � this time � (but to be sure we deliberately hung back on saying the name), we got a big smile and were invited right in. Yes, the ubiquitous beer filled basement and plenty of grub. No sooner were were we settled in (no sign of B and M by the way), than a gang of lads struck up a raucous sing song. Bang on cue. We soon had it all nailed, all the usual Irish stuff, and Maggie May thrown in too, it was great � until someone finally asked us who we were. Thinking back to our cheery welcome, we said we�re friends of Bob and Mark�s, the reply - �who are they?� Apparently, the person at the door misheard, he thought we were friends of Rob, whom, apparently, was the host. One thing though, they didn�t mind, knew it was a genuine mistake, and off we went into the night to find the right house. It didn�t take us long; there can only be so many parties on the go, even in a student area, and soon we were settled in � again. Now I�ve mentioned before about our rent a gang public countenance, well, on occasions like this, we would commandeer a room to ourselves, (not just us three - the other hundred too) and declare it �The Crosby Room�, even hastily making out a placard to stick on the door.

And now we come to the epyonymous, �Around Bradford with a door� saga. I am sure many of you will have realised that the title is inspired (part nicked, to the cynical) by the famous book, �Around Ireland with a Fridge� by Tony Hawkes; well, this was our own microcosmic effort before the fella even had a fridge or had even been across the Irish Sea.

AROUND BRADFORD � WITH A DOOR

Invited once again to Bradford, we again had a whale of a time, and we had even been invited to stay for Sunday dinner. The trouble with students, even well off ones, it really is a mice and men scenario; come Sunday, no provisions, and the task to feed well over 30 people (biggest domestic Sunday dinner I�ve ever been to), resulted in an expedient trip to the shop. So � think � students � no food, and at the time, no proper supermarket (before Sunday opening) and, worst, not a bag, not even a suitcase. (Where were the rucksacks, you may ask? Well hidden, probably.) Anyway, Gerry, who had had a few already, said to Bob, �Have you got a screwdriver?� Well, no food, no bags � but a screwdriver? No problem. Ten minutes later, ten lads, including us three, were carrying a back door all the way to the nearest shop; not too near on the best of days, but with a door, it seemed 10 times the distance. We get to the shop, and then, (and yes, it was all hamming it up but it was funny), some of the lads went into foreman mode, giving the rest of us directions on how to manoeuvre the door right into this little corner shop.

�Easy on the left, Tom; now you wheel right, Mark, Bernie; that�s it fellas. Now straighten up, back out a little � that�s it! We�re in! . . . . Now, my good man, a sack of your best locals, if you would, please.�

A few minutes later the reverse journey was made. All the food was on top, with more over-loud hammed up directions and instructions for the benefit of passers by and residents along the streets as we negotiated even the easiest of turns. It was so funny I nearly lost us all our dinner; I laughed, the shoulders heaved, the door wobbled, but the grub survived � just.

So, next time you need something to stand in for a shopping trolley. . . .

Don�t use a door.

And, it�s that time again. (�What do you mean, it�s that time again? What were you doing at the same time last week to merit say- OW!! I�m goin� home!!� � Good, no one asked you to comment anyway!�)

It is that time, though; this is the best I can do to bring Tommy�s idea to life, if it made you laugh, great, if not, well, � As Meat Loves Salt � as Maria McCann tells us. I have absolutely no idea as to why that would be even remotely relevant, but as ever, it sounds good . . . hopefully.

I would just like to add that, yes, the three of us are still friends; yes, the chemistry is still there when we meet � in our old school lab � odd place to meet that. But no, the mad days have gone as in the here and now, but, we love to look back, in fact I�d love to look back, but these rheumatics. . . .

As for Rentamob? We meet (and sing) every few years. We�ll meet every few years until we�re all gone. It (and serious now) will be like the last verse of the Bogle classic , (Eric Bogle is a neighbour of my Aunt in Australia, there you go, something worth reading after all.) �And the band played Waltzing Matilda�, where each year the parade has fewer and fewer of the old gang. Never mind . . . Turloch has it right � He is calling my name, and every one else�s � yours, too.

Thanks for reading, and sorry for the expletives earlier, but, art and expression and all that. . . .

Back to Home Page

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws

Back to Home Page

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws