Why do you beat me up, buttercup baby…

Sooo many of my previous efforts have been on the subject of pubs…but I’m not a big fan of pearoasts and constantly fight the temptation to dig up a story which you've already suffered once before.

The reason I am saying this is because I can’t remember if I’ve already told this…Apologies if I have, but I’m going to carry on anyway…

‘Wavy lines’ aplenty to the end of 2006…and my crap cover version band are in full, busy flow – we know the set like the back of each other’s hands and could play through it utterly shitfaced...which was handy, because that's what we often did.

We had a few regular haunts but were always keen to get new mugs…sorry, ‘gigs’…and we were informed that our services might be required at a ‘Firkin’ pub in the middle of Coventry town centre.

Being conscientious drunkards we decided to go on a ‘reconnaissance piss up’ beforehand to check the place out.

It quickly passed our discerningly high standards…it sold beer. On the weekday evening we went, there were only a few students rattling round the place. The landlady seemed like a nice enough girl, if a little young and naive to be running a town centre pub (she offered us top whack money and free drinks), but overall, everything was fine and the gig was set up.

That Friday, as we arrived with our gear, the atmosphere was strange. Yes, there were the expected few student types about, but the place was heaving with rough-looking Goths, Emos and Skankheads…within 30 seconds I was nostril-deep in piercings, black trenchcoats and gravity defying hairdos.

I have no problem with these types whatsoever (I used to dabble in these fads when I was younger). I did however, fear somewhat that our happy, foot-tapping bop-a-lot 60’s pop sing-along set would not be their particular cup of herbal tea sprinkled with magic mushrooms.

As we shifted about nervously we were approached by a man who, judging by the response of the barstaff, looked to be in charge. “Where’s the landlady?”, we tentatively enquired.

“There’s been a ‘situation’…we’ve had to let her go” said the podgy, stern looking gent.

At this point I was expecting (and almost looking forward to) the: ‘Now get your stuff, and fuck off!’ speech, but the stand-in landlord continued:

“She’d been skimming off the takings for months…blagged thousands” (not quite so naive then) “But it’s not your problem lads, you can still play”

Aww…shit

Then, with a facial expression that alone sent my spider senses tingling into ‘fucksocks’ mode, he said: “It’s just that…she didn’t exactly leave on ’good terms’…She’s promised to get ‘the lads’ to come and smash the place up…tonight!”

My insight had indeed served me well…and ‘fucksocks’ mode was well and truly engaged...with a hearty side order of 'crikeybuggeration'.

We weighed up our options. Bravely, my initial gut reaction was to bollock the fuck out of the place so quickly that there would be a Pooflake shaped hole in the wall.

But, strangely, and after a pint to pursuade us, we decided to stay (we had unpacked everything by now anyway). We sat down with our drink and discussed what we would do when it kicked off, how we would communicate mid-song if anybody saw any trouble…what gear we could grab and still swiftly make it out of there alive…all with a fixed, glazed gurn that was a combination of fake bravado, alcohol fuelled petulance and the clear and present danger of a monumental brown trout nudging in my cowardly squit-factory.

All too soon, it was time to go on. The soundcheck was non-existent. Brushing our way past the white-faced scowling masses we began our set…and I was quickly given a lesson about prejudging stereotypes.

Every single person got up, smiled, danced and sang along. They were fucking brilliant. Applause and cheers rang out as we played – the drinks flowed, the atmosphere was fantastic and I can’t describe the joyous relief as I realised that everything was going to be alright…

Then, just as I was beginning to enjoy myself…they walked in.

Six menacing blokes, built like the kind of concrete bunker you would construct if a brick shithouse just wasn’t sufficiently sturdy enough for your faecal needs. They bought a round of drinks and sat down at the back as the place fell silent. The band looked at each other and thought ‘This is it’. I clutched my guitar, then glanced down at the set list, saw the next song, and started to play…

The song was ‘Build me up, buttercup’.

All heads turned towards the group of hard-arsed headcases. Word had obviously got round what was going to happen. But as I watched…one of the mens’ granite-faced grimaces slowly melted into a smile, and then he began to sing along! The whole bunch of musclebound mentalists then visibly relaxed as they got more and more swept away by the carefree atmosphere.

Within 10 minutes, they were up and dancing with everybody else. The night was a total success!

Eventually, after a few encores, the gig ended and gaggles of people approached us to thank us…who then quickly parted like the Red Sea as this hulking man who appeared to be the ringleader of the wrecking crew walked up to me.

Towering over me as I quivered in fear, the half-man, half-gorilla boomed; “You guys...were fucking brilliant tonight mate”

“W-w-w-w-well thank you“ I stammered.

He then continued: “Hey, tell you what, It’s my dad’s birthday coming up soon, He'd love your band...have you got a business card?”

With my hands still trembling I handed him a card.

His face then changed from a smile, to an angry sneer contorted with rage as he bellowed: “OI!, YOU CUNTS!...”

(At this point I deduced that the appropriate course of action was to cry, run, shit my pants or a combination of all three), before he turned and continued:

“…Come and give these lads a hand”.

The turd was schlurped back up my arse as I realised he was talking to his mates, who then cheerily got up, and helped us carry our equipment to the car, each of them complementing us on how they hadn’t had such a great night in ages.

The place soon cleared as we packed up and after a while it was just us left. As the last bit of kit was packed the ringleader asked us: “Are you guys off now?”

“Yes…cheers” I mewed meekly.

“Righto then, Seeya! ” he said with a grin, a wink and a wave...

I then watched in disbelief as he picked up a huge lump of wood from a broken crate on the floor, strolled happily back into the pub…and started to smash the total shit out of the place with his mates.

We drove off just as a chair was thrown through one of the windows.

I learned a lot that day… about the power of music…and the simple truth that everybody really just wants to have a good time.

I went back the following morning to discover the place was totally destroyed…but not one person had been hurt. I shudder to think what would have happened if it had kicked off when they first walked in.

Mind you, the bloke never did book us for his dad’s birthday though. Cunt.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:45, 13 replies)

*click*
That's brought a smile to me face
(aarghapanda, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:48, closed)

Clickity
"Then, with a facial expression that alone sent my spider senses tingling into ‘fucksocks’ mode,"

and

"there would be a Pooflake shaped hole in the wall."

Make this a work of art.
(Sahara Desert http://www.twitter.com/thesaharadesert for swears, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:44, closed)

I'm clicking for this....
...."The turd was schlurped back up my arse"

Good work as ever Mr. Flake.
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:47, closed)

Nice!!!
Nice indeedy!!!
( SpankyHanky, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:59, closed)

Ah yes, I remember it well!
Absolutely bostin' evening!

More mohawks than you could shake a stick at, enough leather in the clothing to reupholster Surrey and anough metal in the piercings to make an entire chieftain tank.

Happy days, and we all got out alive!
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:47, closed)

Now I remember the reason I didn't run...
...Like the yellow bellied bell-end that I am.

You were there.

I would've been fine - there were only 6 of 'em...and it takes at least 20 to equal 1 Captain Placid.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:51, closed)

Those were the days
When I used to pay for the privilege of being trained by the best Aikido teachers*, 4-5 times a week.

As I said, happy days.



*Thrown about like a 17 - stone dishrag and having my joints manipulated into positions that are specifically banned by the Geneva Convention.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:59, closed)

Now look 'ere
What are you sayin' about mohawks?!

*reads the Aikido comment*

Ah, well, carry on!
( Labia Majora You keep on talking but it makes no sense at all, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 13:53, closed)

My theory:
He never had any intention of booking you for a birthday party.

He just wanted to know how to get hold of you if you provided any inconvenient "witnessing".

Or am I too cynical?
( The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 20:34, closed)

I see why mine reminded you now
It's easy to sneer at happy bopalong 60s pop but we all secretly love it.
( The Light in Chains don't touch the Pope's boner, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 7:12, closed)

Indeed...!

Our philosophy was to only play songs if we were confident that:

'90% of the people would know 90% of the lyrics'

It's served us well.

Thanks for the memory jig by the way ;)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Sat 7 Feb 2009, 10:36, closed)

*clickah*
Top talery - and 'concrete bunker' :)
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 14:54, closed)

More Pooflake genius...
And no pun in sight!

*click*
( snee held his breath since, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 16:02, closed)