Pitch & Putt

JohnnyCeed

The Hinnies were a great band, unfortunately I seemed to be in a minority in thinking this as they never achieved the fame that they so richly deserved. It was a case of being out of step with their times, a bit too soon.

I first saw 'The Hinnies' playing in Blackpool at an odd place called Sequins, it was odd as it was a typical Blackpool tacky club that for some reason had agreed to have an indie band night on once a week, the only such night in town. 'The Hinnies' were brilliant and helped by the excellent lighting that to a struggling 18 year old would be musician made them look like Gods.

They sounded a bit like The Pixies but with lush Beach Boy's-esque backing and pretty much exactly how I wanted my band to sound. (We didn't). Like the worst kind of groupies that bands get the late teenage boys that want to talk to bands for hours about what guitar pedals they use or what they thought about Sid Barrett, we were them and they ended up having to crash at my mums house as they had rather foolishly set off from London with a lack of forward planning.

We went to the pub the next day my friend, myself and the band and after many drinks Roger, the bands lead singer, guitarist and songwriter asked everyone if they could make their mum cry. I always remembered this as odd.

We would stay in contact with 'The Hinnies' and see them whenever they played anywhere up north. Then next time I saw them was in Preston, they were on The 'Strollercoaster tour' a spoof of the Jesus and Mary Chain's recent tour but this one for not so famous bands. We were sat backstage myself and a couple of mates from my band talking with a couple of 'The Hinnies' when John 'fat bastard' Beast of Carter infamy and tour organiser walked past and warned everyone about smoking weed backstage. Just as soon as we had finished dismissing him an over excited bouncer stormed in like he was a member of the SAS. He proceeded to find a tiny piece of solid on the floor and started to interrogate everyone with in the face over the top behaviour, now I would have dismissed him but then I knew no better, none of us did. Except Roger 'Hinnie' when confronted by this officious oaf he merely told him calm and simply to 'fuck off' and he did, well from him and back to us.

Later, half a dozen of us were escorted by the Police into the back of the van and onto Preston nick. Here we had to take off belts and shoelaces and give names and addresses and all looked and felt a bit stupid. Again except for Roger who when questioned on occupation simply replied 'musician'.
I was so jealous and in awe.

We spent the rest of the night in the cells, which was quite exciting, something in a perverse sense I'm glad I have achieved. We may not have been as rock and roll as 'The Hinnies' but they were from London, we were from Fleetwood and back home recounting our stories we felt every bit as rock and roll.

The Hinnies went on to record one album and split up, if you get the chance to hear it do as it was and still is a great album, if released today I'm sure it would have been a massive hit, well if the Stereophonics can make money, where's the justice?

Paul Burke

JohnnyCeed

GENTLEMEN'S SOCIETY GATHERING

Steam Room, Grosvenor Hotel, London, November 2004

Gentlemen,

This is your officially appointed Secretary General. I am contacting you all on matters of protocol and policy within the Gentlemen's society.
Regrettably, I am leaving for Bahrain on the 2nd of next month. Marjorie
has become embroiled in things over there, and I must go there and defend her case at the highest court in that land. While I will always
remain a staunch affiliate of our society, matters of Gentlemen do not
attend to themselves.

I therefore call to order all that partook in the inaugural meeting. You
may recall I was blessed with the aforementioned title. With heavy
heart, I realise I must now pass on that torch to another. Please
consider carefully your choice of nomination. As my last act of office I
will oversee the voting process, providing pens, paper and a ballot box.
(Note: black ball rules apply).

During my tenure as Secretary General, I have been accosted by various women - inexplicable creatures of the opposite sex - who tried to berate me for not inviting them into the inner confines of our group. A
comprehensive explanation of the nature of our society provided little
relief. So I propose that the no-tails be allowed to attend, on the
understanding that they adhere to strict conditions.

The Conditions for Female Attendance:

1.They must have been formally invited by a Gentleman

2.Their designated Gentleman must assume full responsibility for
their female's actions.
3.The Gentleman must apologise for any
inappropriate or inane conversational gambits, and be prepared to escort
them swiftly from the premises should the female become unbearable or
'emotional'.
4.Any female attendee MUST wear facial hair - moustaches or beards
only please. (Fake facial hair is acceptable).

Any Gentleman found contravening these stipulations will naturally be
expelled from the Society.

Some of those attending were with me in the 'Mob' and although they will
tolerate civilian company, please be sure to elucidate any of your more
left-field or wish-washy views with a full rendition of the society
anthem - Whitesnake's 'Straight for the Heart'.

"...Stand and deliver in the name of love ..."

Roger J Harbinger QC Bar (retd.)

JohnnyCeed

Returned from a stag weekend in a train from Paignton this afternoon, grubby and emasculated by the great big hormone of a group I have spent the last 48 hours in the company of.

The weekend had it’s highpoint with a gloriously perverted incident in the early hours of Sunday morning. The group, dressed in mackintoshes and false moustaches (save the stag, in a pink panther suit) shambled down from the village towards the moonlit Cornish beach. As we got nearer it became obvious that a little local event or other was taking place on the beach. The sound of the tide punctured by chatter, and flickers of light leapt above the prom as we approached the shingle.

There were in fact a group of ten or twelve people on the beach. The men were topless and four females were in attendance. Forming a circle round two of the men who were brawling amidst shouts of some excitement, clearer and clearer as we approached. I saw the stag and his best man quicken the pace and happily jog towards the locals. One of the men was winning the fight. This much was clear from forty yards, and I decided to keep my distance. Our panther of a stag hastened towards the brawl, in many ways more animal than human, urinating as he ran.

“Oi’m a nutter!! Oi’m a nutter!!” screamed the stag.

“Fuck off back to London!” replied a male spectator.

“But o’im a fookin nutter!!” shouted the groom-to-be again.

“Fuck off back to London! This is our life and you can fuck off,” said the chap once more.

“Yeah, fuck off!” echoed two, maybe three others in the local party, difficult to tell as they all looked remarkably similar in features and dress. A sort of polyester plus four in the tracksuit style, white tennis shoes, and close cropped hair. It was hard to tell through the fire-light, and perhaps the emotion of five or possibly seven gin and tonics was fugging my brains somewhat – but I had to fight the urge to ask the first man if perhaps he, like Liberace, was fond of surrounding himself with look-a-likes.

The pink stag, himself a policeman standing a full head higher than the average man, seemed amused by all this. He turned his attention to the unbelievably hairy man with the four-pack stomach who at this time was standing with his foot on his last victim’s head while pulling the other man’s leg back in excruciating fashion. The man in his grip was crying tears of agony.

“Come on Haystacks. Fuckin’ fight me!”

My god! The thought! Panther’s head gnawed out of its sod by some son-of-a-Thursday-morning bread and cheese sexton. I took off my shoes and watched as our stag and Haystacks squared up. That peculiar rough yet pleasant feeling afforded by shingle on bare feet reminded me of my driveway at home, where in summer I trip gaily and sockless over my own Three Colour shingle from B&Q, in transit from clipping the hedge or tinkering in the nethers of my quad bike in the garage.

Blows were exchanged. Panther hit hard and the power of his shots belied the fact that his opponent would have been a good two stones heavier. A cry went up from the locals – “Toohey! Toohey!” And Toohey responded with a sickening combination of prize-fighting brilliance. Somehow the groom rode this assault and punched Toohey to the ground, but the bigger man took the Pink Panther down with him.

The crowd screamed and bayed and begged and swayed. For him who is overcome by death no protection is there from kinsmen, I thought. Siddhartha must still have been with me since my afternoon with Buddhism last week. The local man next to me tapped my shoulder and just audibly over the commotion he said (and I had to have him repeat himself twice), “As a child I had a toy dog called Rags, a teddy bear and a rabbit, but only Rags meant anything to me. It sat on the dining table at meals, until one day it fell with its ears into the mint sauce. It was hung out many days to sweeten, and washed and scented, but I never felt the same about it.”

From somewhere though, in amongst the shouts for Toohey, louder and louder came another cry. “Panther! Panther! PA-N-THER!!” The panther camp was not exclusively the stag-party. Some of the local girls were leading the chant.

The group was about half and half in support of each man, and the epic scrap continued until finally Panther was forced to submit. He walked away with a girl on each arm, and I heard him cut quite a dash with a composed “But of course darling, as you were about to remark with such truth, it really is lovely to work off a hard evening on the drink.”

Toohey got me to thinking what Giant Haystacks would be doing were he still alive today. I’ve come to conclude that his physique would make him a perfect and formidable nightclub bouncer. It’s likely that with his cult UK celebrity he would still work on TV from time to time.

I cried tears of happiness such as you read of in books.

Pitch & Putt

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The Harbinger part 6

Kid Kordial's Kompilations 3

The Harbinger part 5