2006-07-26T11:29:00.000-07:00

Introduction by Fenny.
Blowjangles started as a community band with no name, back in january 1997 in a nissan hut, that sometimes housed the burnley youth theatre.

the instigators of the enterprise were brass and woodwind expert, paeder long and percussion expert, leo nolan. why the meeting was in burnley, no one is really sure because there were no residents of that borough involved. of the original 16 members at that inaugural meeting, they were mainly from blackburn, accrington and the rossendale valley.

the current line-up still boasts four members who met for the first time that night.
it took from january to june to make that set of desperate bodies into a bone fide gigging band with the first public appearance being at hippy wood mill in altham in june 1997. it was at the occasion of someone's 40th birthday.

by then, a democratic vote had decided that blowjangles would be the name - just pipping master bakers to the honour of band name.

that summer of '97 saw us play several high profile gigs, including the accrington lions carnival where we played for the mayoress and other accrington dignitaries. luckily, we were augmented by the considerable talents of both paeder and leo who made us sound like a proper band, despite the very rudimentary talents of most of the rest of the members.

over the next several years, the weekly practice sessions certainly didn't make us perfect, but what we lacked in musical ability, we made up for in enthusiasm. an increasing variety of weird and wonderful costumes prevailed, aided by lots of beer and the ability to grow rhino-like skin, shaped blowjangles into the band as it is now known and loved.

the venues for practices were varied and interesting. before arriving at our current place of rest at the action factory [god bless] in blackburn, we used padiham town hall, blackburn ymca, the upstairs of a community house on shadsworth estate in blackburn - not to mention, various parks in various boroughs of the region.

as time has gone on, many members have come and gone, but we have always had a nucleus of between 12 and 16 members. during that time, we have sported many members who could not play a note or keep time if they had a clock intravenously injected. we have had people with learning difficulties, a man in a wheel chair, a 67 year old grandmother who fell off the stage in blakeys in blackburn and was never seen again, a juggling vet, and a whole female percussion section of seven players who turned up out of the blue one night and stayed for a couple of years - despite the fact that they could hardly hold a beat between them.

as far as is known, only one member has died. rip eddie, his dog, monica is not now a member for obvious reasons.

the gigs we have done have been many, various and strange.

from the high profile ones like the jubilee procession through manchester were we played live on the local radio in front of 10,000 people, to the blackburn mardi gras when we have twice led the procession. the bradford carnival, several lions galas - not to mention the opening of the m65 to pedestrians where we played off the back of a lorry at 7-30am in the morning, justa few hours after princess diana had been killed.

bizarre gigs r us

an asian wedding in bury - reception in huddersfield town hall after.
a horse fair in a village near sheffield
a wake [see gig guide]
9-00am on a sunday morning around whitebirk estate [twinned with the gorbals]

if we have a motto, it would probably be, "have silly costume, will travel!"........

the history of the band does not seem to be abating, it is driven by enthusiasm, copious amounts of liquor, and a need for acceptance and acclaim by the record buying public.

if you are strange, manic, one sandwich short of a picnic, insane and a all round good egg, why not join us in the bizarre world of - BLOWJANGLES. www.blowjangles.com email blowjanglesband@hotmail.com

The tale - by Bernard

I was just saying to lynn how naffed off I was with this whole dublin thing. I was, of course reacting to the news that rob’s brother was now part of the trip. I have nothing against rob’s brother, in fact I have never even met him. He’s probably a nice person, but for goodness sake, he was the fifteenth change or amendment to the original arrangements since I placed the booking in march. It took me back to the sixties and ewood park. I would be sat there in the riverside stand with my dad, programme and pen in my hand, waiting for the man on the tannoy to announce the team changes. “at number 7, Douglas replaces Pickering, at number 2, Newton replaces Bray”, and on and on. It naffed me off then and it certainly naffs me off now.
I was keeping my fingers crossed that irish ferries didn’t check to closely the names on the tickets with the identities of our party.

Enough said about that, it is friday 5pm and I am at old langho hitching up the west mobile to the car. At the other end of town - park lee road to be precise, two expectant women in the shape of lynn and kath are awaiting my arrival. We hit the road around 6-30pm and trundle down the M6 and M56 with slow but sure progress. it was maybe 10-15pm when we reached the caravan club’s highly recommended farmer’s field.
It wasn’t exactly five stars - more like five cow pats. Anyway, what does any self respecting blowjangler do in circumstances of severe stress and hardship? Yes, we went to the boozer.

I can’t tell you the name of the pub that lynn, kath and myself walked into that night but it served a mean pint of cider for this very thirsty traveller. The familiar and welcoming faces of ben, lez, fenny and rob greeted us, plus a couple of cooing local groupies who were drooling at fenny’s incantations and pluckings on the guitar - where did that come from?
Rob was there, trying to talk posh, like he always does when he’s had a few - a bit like brian sewell on speed.
After a few beatles numbers and a pretty passable version of “my babe”, last orders had come and gone. Tell you what, these welsh folk are miserable gits, a pub, miles from anywhere, and you couldn’t get a “lock in.” Probably some sheep needed tending.

On leaving the establishment, we managed to secure the services of a taxi driver who promised he would pick us up later and take us to the ferry terminal - obviously, not enough sheep to go around.

Back at the farmers midden, me and ben supped cans of kronenburg in his camper when I perchanced upon an amazing discovery. “Rob’s music” and “quiet” will never appear in the same sentence - similar to fenny and “how do you like my new music stand?” With respect to the other campers who had the good fortune to book this highly respected and select campsite, I had to tell rob to lose a few decibels as Blowjangles had a reputation and good name to uphold. Anyway, I thought level 10 to level 9 was a result, so I retired to ben’s camper and opened another can.

I’m not quite sure when I first saw it, maybe it was in a dream or nightmare, but there it was, two square metres of bulk, weight and awkwardness that rob’s brother was to lug around 30 different pubs in dublin, disguised as an organ - I didn’t mean rob’s brother was disguised as an organ! I felt that I had a duty to tell rob that we had no place for an organ on our gigathon, that it was totally impractical and that it would all end in tears. Rob, must have convinced me otherwise, because the said instrument managed to get a boarding pass.

The organ may have got a boarding pass but it’s owner, rob, had somehow lost his in the space of thirty seconds - perhaps there was a god after all. In the nick of time the pass made a reappearance and rob was allowed onto the ferry, enabling him to obliviously wreak more havoc to his unsuspecting public.
Thankfully for me, the crossing was a blur, whether it was the alcohol or the fact that I had not slept for twenty four hours, I wasn’t sure. I think I managed about an hours kip before the trusty ulysses berthed in dublin.

A short bus ride into the temple bar area of the city meant we had about half a mile walk to kinlay house, which actually seemed like a half marathon in the condition we were all in. On the way to our haven of rest and recuperation,[wishful thinking] we passed bob’s bar which was number two on our list of gigs.
I thought that this was a good omen - at least we knew where one of the performances was to take place. You stupid fool bernard, why did you have to speak so soon? At this early stage, we were already a man down as rob and his brother had fallen out over the wisdom of bringing a church organ on a sightseeing trip to dublin. The said brother legged it leaving rob holding the baby, or was it rick wakeman’s keyboard bank?

We did eventually reach kinlay house and although we could not check in until 1-00pm, we were allowed to deposit our gear in a lock up until we set off on our mammoth task. As we were leaving the lock up area, plans were already afoot to build an extension to accommodate rob’s grand piano.

Released of the burden of our luggage, me, lynn, kath and ben set off in search of the full irish breakfast, complete with both black and white pudding. We opted for a market cafe opposite the famous walton’s music shop and ate the proverbial hearty breakfast. On our way back to the hostel, we stopped at walton’s and bought a pair of drumsticks for mel.

Back at the lock up at the pre-arranged time, the blowjanglers turned into quick change artists as we parade in our finery in the rear courtyard of our hostel. This is it, the hour is upon us, the posse is ready and the posse leader [me] leads his cohorts onto the first bar which, according to my list was the lagoona bar, to be found inside the irish film centre on eustace street. Piece of cake, five minutes away and in good time too.

Not for the first time that day I spoke too soon. The one thing missing when we reached the irish film centre was the lagoona bar, where could it have disappeared to? For the next fifteen minutes I trawled the surrounding streets in a desperate search for the errant establishment, but to no avail. However, there was an outdoor market on the steps to the ifc which was in full flow.
The owner of the potted meat stall was so impressed by our suits and instruments that she requested us play for the assembled. Never ones to disappoint a willing audience, we duly obliged with the first set of the day. It was then that we got a phone call from rob’s brother who was in the lagoona bar, which was in the international finance centre about two miles away. It was just like the irish to have two ifc’s.

Three taxis and half an hour later we all dribbled into the very swish, but almost empty lagoona bar with our tails very much between our legs. In the audience was barney the purple dinosaur and the thin one in the blues brothers looking on menacingly. After the required performance of fifteen minutes we noticed that the dinosaur was collecting money in a bucket with the blues brother making sure that the four or five punters in evidence dug deep into their pockets. Our two new friends were jimmy the collector and richard the minder, my how blowjangles have come up in the world - brian davies, eat your heart out! After a disastrous start, things were looking up. Again your stupid narrator was too quick off the mark when I realised that I had lost the folder containing all the details of the day, and more importantly, the return ferry tickets. Could it get any worse?
Paddy the dublin white van man confirmed my worst fears that it could get worse. Two miles away from our next venue, which coincidentally was the same bob’s bar that we had passed earlier that morning, our white van man volunteered to take us there. Fine man you are, thought I. At least we knew where it was and that very shortly we would be back on course for our record attempt. Two fortunates climbed into the cab of the van whilst the other nine were entombed into the back with no windows, no air and stiflingly hot. To make matters worse, in the back of the van was a single bed, all made up and looking decidedly inviting to nine sleep deprived janglers. After fifteen minutes of sweat, nausea, claustrophobia and lack of air we escape the confines of sweltering prison and breath fresh dublin air. During the course of the day we must have passed or seen bob’s bar a dozen times - this wasn’t one of those occasions.
Paddy white van man had taken us to the wrong bar, not only that, we were at least a mile away from our intended destination. We had no alternative but to return to our self-imposed chokey,[as in the shawshank redemption] and trust to paddy and lynn, who took up the mantle of school mam to guide us to bob’s.
After another fifteen minutes of excruciating torture, we were finally dumped outside bob’s bar. It was at some point in that second van ride that I surrendered the world record attempt. Give it half a dozen bars and we will call it a day.

Explanations given and permission granted, we performed our third set thus far. Not wishing to interrupt the die-hards who were watching live premiership football, ironically blackburn rovers against manchester united, we kept the set to a minimum.
At this point I would like to mention our two dublin compatriots, jimmy the dinosaur and richard the minder. Jimmy, as previously stated, was dressed in a purple “barney” dinosaur suit, which given the heat of the day must have been uncomfortable in the extreme. Not only that, he peddled a three wheeled bike throughout the day, pausing only once to get a puncture repaired.
He asked nicely for contributions for the temple street children’s hospital, he pleaded, he begged, he threatened, he even stopped traffic - such was his persistence. Richard on the other hand had obviously been sent along as his minder, making sure that nothing untoward happened to either jimmy or blowjangles. He was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie and looked exactly like the charicature ira man that irish history has given us.
These two men were with us throughout our epic and enjoyed a drink or two in tp smiths when we had broken the record. Our thanks goes out to these two remarkable men of dublin.
Brogan’s, thomas read and the oak came and went, the next abiding memory came outside the front lounge where jimmy stopped the traffic for donations - at one time, he was actually sat on some poor soul’s car bonnet asking for a release fee. Next it was the turk’s head and the band were rocking.
We laid up at the forum for a while to take stock and realised that it wasn’t going too bad after all. It was at this time that I caught the last ten minutes of the rovers match, only to see united equalise in the forth minute of injury time- lucky bastards!

Past kinlay house and onto darky kelly’s where the reception was spot on. Although it was very quiet, this was an obvious music venue that appreciated the live event. Would have been nice to linger a while, but we had to press on.
And press on we did, and as a whirlwind we demolished isoldes tower, porterhouse and even U2’s very own octagon bar in the clarence hotel. I gave bono a ring later and he said, ”yeh, for the music bernard and the record, tell blowjangles to go for it.” - I was inspired.

It’s now four o’clock and farringtons and food awaits. I had   arranged with farringtons to have their menu sent to us prior to leaving blackburn so that we could all chose our meals to make sure there was no delay in continuing our quest for Guinness book immortality. Special thanks to christine and sandra who dropped off the completed menus. Given the events of the day so far, I was deflated when we arrived at farringtons only to see it heaving - wall to wall, choc a bloc. Oh yee of little faith, the manager escorted us upstairs to a dining area where tables had been reserved for blowjangles - fan bloody tastic! The food arrived minutes later, and what a meal it was, irish beef stew never tasted so delicious. Even having to go to the door for that post meal fag wasn’t too bad.
Not one dissenting voice - perfect.

Gigs at farringtons, fitzsimons and the famous temple bar followed, only for the whole day to be overshadowed by the gig of all gigs. We conducted a straw pole amongst the band to determine the highlight of the weekend. This next gig polled around ninety-nine per cent.

After temple bar we headed towards mezzanine bar which was a sort of night-club/bar, quite a distance from our last place of play. At this stage of proceedings we were straggling and struggling. The forward party had reached the mezz bar and had chatted up a band who were on their break. They were persuaded to perform with blowjangles in a rendition of louie louie that will go down in dublin folklore history. The packed audience went absolutely wild. It was a moment to cherish.
I have no doubt that the boost we got from this one performance carried us through to break the record.
I can honestly say that this was the highlight of my career with blowjangles.

As afternoon turned into evening we saw off oliver goldsmiths and foggy dew, couldn’t find the vathouse, but had no trouble with eamonn doran’s. At this stage we had performed twenty gigs out of the twenty six needed to break the record. The question was, could we last another two hours or eight bars when we were already on our knees and some dissenters wavering?

Aching bones, blistering feet, bleeding tongues and frayed    tempers somehow saw us get past the auld dubliner,          j. gogerty’s, busker’s, the hard rock cafe and the palace bar.

Unbelievably we had drawn level with the existing record for the number of gigs performed in one day - yes, we had twenty five in the bag. However, we had very little left in the tank. The record breaker was at fitzgerald’s on the banks of the liffey, just on o’connell bridge. We played our hearts out because we knew that we had done it. On our way to tp smith's, which was to be our last performance, we stumbled upon the viper rooms which was also on our list but, being a night-club, would not be open until late. A remarkable stroke of luck took place when the owner turned up and invited us in to play our 27th gig of the day. It was a surreal moment playing in an empty night club to the owner, who bizarrely invited us all back later.

Tp smith’s and our 28th and final performance of the day saw us collapse into the bar, in relief, I suspect. We decided not to play until we had downed several pints of guinness and totally wound down, which we did in true blowjangles fashion. I took my shoes off and counted blisters, which was a big mistake, because I could not get them back on again which meant that I would have to walk barefoot home to the hostel later. Our performance at tp smith's was probably our best of the day and it left a packed pub wanting more. However, we had done our bit, broken the record -all we wanted to do now was to get pissed, which we did. Whatever happened to rob’s giant wurlitzer I hear you ask? The offending item made an early and, as predicted, unsuccessful appearance at the gigathon only to be rapidly confined to the kinlay house lock up’s newly built extension.
Last orders came and went but nobody cared, this was ireland - not wales. Eventually the five of us that were remaining decided to walk home. Me, fenny, lez, stan and rob crossed ‘Anna Liffey ‘on route to kinlay but couldn’t resist stopping in temple bar to entertain the late night revellers with a couple of numbers.
For our pains we collected twenty eight euros - not a bad start for the kitty tomorrow. Buoyed by the day’s events, we traipsed back to kinlay house - bruised, blistered, bloodied but happy.
Although it hadn’t occurred to me whilst walking back to the hostel, we hadn’t even seen the room or beds that we were sleeping in. I don’t think it would have mattered to me for I could have slept on a clothes line, but, feeling an obligation to some of my fellow record holders, I was concerned that everything would be ok. Word of some early unrest had reached me that steve frisby had moved into the smaller room, leaving kath and lynn to fend for themselves in the bigger dormitory. I knew they would have to put up with ben’s snoring, my shouting and stan and lez’s synchronised farting, but what the heck.
I needn’t have worried because the accommodation was clean and the beds were comfortable, certainly not like the mental picture I had of a backpacker’s hostel.

After a blissful nights sleep and a gradual re-emergence into consciousness I had the proverbial three esses, ****, shower and shampoo - pure heaven. When I booked kinlay house, I didn’t specify a cafe directly across the road that served the full irish, but it was there. And that is where a gang of us piled into with the idea of replenishing depleted energy levels. We were not disappointed as we tucked into an assorted array of breakfast fare. Fortified, we headed towards grafton street to check out busking pitches for later. We saw a bronze warrior type man with a feather who rob took a shine to, a girl’s string quartet, a guy playing dylan and an african dude, limbo dancing under a burning pole which was about six inches from the ground. We came to the conclusion that these were all recognised pitches and that we would be better employed on our old stomping ground in temple bar. To while away the time we went into st stephen’s shopping centre at the top of grafton street and found ourselves a cafe.
La Croissanterie was its name, and for the next hour we all became dublin’s finest raconteurs, with tale after side-splitting tale. On more than one occasion I had to wipe away tears of laughter from my face, with old tales being retold and contemporary ones being aired for the first time. Magic moments that I wish that I could bottle. Thank you rob, fenny, lez, kath and lynn for the moment.

It was lock up time again to don our zoots and hit dublin’s temple bar and it’s unsuspecting public to the blowjangles busk.
We set up stall in the square outside the quay’s bar in the heart of temple bar and very soon attracted a crowd of sightseers intent on photographing and videoing the band for posterity. The money flowed, and I could see enough for the first round after the first tune. After about fifteen minutes, we decided to move on and eventually found ourselves across the liffey and in a very crowded o’connell street. We played a couple of numbers outside some department store, only to be approached by two very polite garda officers who waited until we had finished to approach us. They like our music and if it was up to them, we could stay here all day, but buskers were not allowed on this side of the river. Tell you what, I’ve never been moved on in such a polite and civilised manner. Back across the river, on our home turf, we couldn’t pass the bridge bar without saying hello - come on, some things are impossible.
The bridge is a weird and fascinating dublin establishment, full of nooks and cranies and very unexpected places - more like a labyrinth than a pub. The easy chairs that we sat sat in gave lie to a gentleman’s club, rather than a public bar in the heart of dublin. A stag do chanced upon us and proceeded to con money out of us in the name of , truth, dare and wish. Trouble was , that all the dares were directed at us, designed only to take money of us. Fortunately they soon tired of us and moved on to some other unsuspecting tourists.
This was only the second stag or hen do that we had encountered on our weekend. The other one, which I had neglected to say, was on the saturday, outside gogerty’s when we were surrounded by a group of lads, all very curious of our suits and instruments. After a little persuasion we gave a beautiful rendition of, “good times up ahead” to the groom - appropriate and in good taste for the occasion.
After liquid refreshment and a few more tales of the weekend so far, we headed for temple bar to give our last performance to the dublin public. We didn’t play for too long, just enough for our coffers to provide us with the necessary funds for another guinness and a bite to eat. Several guinnesses were imbibed and hearty meals were consumed in the upstairs lounge of fitzsimons as the last chapter of this epic event were unfolding before us. We really did not want this weekend to end. Being realists, we knew our mission was into it’s twilight stage, let’s just enjoy the rest of it whilst we could. We had to be dragged from fitzsimons in order to check out and depart in good enough time for our ferry crossing to holyhead.

At kinlay house for the last time and it’s back to the lock up to retrieve our belongings. In the courtyard where we were told by our taxi driver that handel’s messiah was played for the first time, we honoured the celebrated composer by playing on the same spot. Oh what illustrious company he now finds himself in.
Our taxi arrives on time and we are transported to the ferry terminal in good time, and with time to kill. It wasn’t too long before we realised the reason why rob had brought along his much maligned and oft cursed weapon of mass destruction. Of course, it was to provide backing to his trumpet playing whilst entertaining the very much captive audience in the port of dublin ferry terminal. Eventually the checkout queue starts to move and we slowly pass through and onto the ship. Suddenly the queue stops at rob who is refused entrance by the check in guy. “Sorry, but you cannot board until I hear you play the one from tommy that you played earlier.” Try as he may, rob could not for the life of him find the requested backing track to facilitate the boarding requirements. As I went through, rob was giving a rendition of green green grass of home to the bemusement of the ticket collector. On passing a lurking custom’s guy, I just happened to mention that the bloke with the trumpet was a bit dodgy and should be given an internal - without gloves.

On board and homeward bound we all adopt preferred positions, some watching the closing ceremony of the olympic games, some trying to get their heads down and sleep, some shopping in the duty free and the hardy ones, propping up the bar. Sometime around midnight we dock in holyhead and Ireland is no more, a memory that in time will improve with the telling. One typical blowjangle moment happened during the crossing, ben realised that the lock up in kinlay house had not given up all of blowjangles’ possessions. He had left keys, some clothes and a video camera back in dublin and given himself a bit of a problem. The problem was solved by a stroke of good fortune in the shape of rob’s brother. He had arranged to return to england later than the rest of the party, and was actually in dublin whilst we were in england, and almost home. A few frantic phone calls were enough for arrangements to be made for ben and his property to be re-united at some later stage.
Safely on terra firma we wearily trudge through the terminal at holyhead, instruments and baggage making it an even more arduous task. Not so for rob, who decided he was carrying too much and couldn’t go on anymore, so he just dumped everything on the floor, pleaded insanity and left some complete stranger and kath to bale him out. I was getting irritated at rob’s     behaviour, which culminated in me telling him where I would permanently stick his beloved bontempi tempi if he continued. This was after another laurel and hardy type incident getting into the taxi.

We still hadn’t seen our ploughed field in the cold light of day, and as we arrived at the five star establishment to settle down for the night, I felt that it was for the best - ignorance is bliss. The sleeping arrangements for the night were as follows, lynn and kath in the caravan, rob in his own caravan, bernard and ben in ben’s camper, steve and christine in steve’s car and sandra, mel and sam in a tent. It is important to know this to understand the actions and reactions of everyone as the plot very quickly thickened. I left lynn and kath to their own devices, talking women talk, whilst me and ben, back in the camper, were religiously finishing off the rest of the kronenburg and chuckling at dublin tales. Our peace was soon broken with my good lady tapping on the side of the camper and uttering a plaintiff plea. Apparently, rob was playing his music too loud, and to make matters worse, he was joining in with his trumpet. Steve was objecting to this and after banging on rob’s door, threatening to tear him limb from limb, attempting to turn the caravan upside down, the music played on. I knocked on the door and pleaded for reason - deaf ears. Lynn tried the female touch again and got a result. Rob opened the door an inch, but to steve it was a mile as he launched himself at the trumpet player’s throat. A short discussion on the wisdom of playing loud music in the vicinity of two tired children in a tent and a pissed off steve took place. I think rob got the message, and steve got a better result than I had previously - level ten down to about two or three. As we were all returning to our places of sleep, rob uttered the immortal words, “ I suppose we’ve all had a good night then. “ Honestly, sometimes I think the man has a death wish. Crisis over, back to the camper and a last can before I slept the sleep of the truly contented. As for rob, I expect he eventually drifted into unconsciousness and would wake up tomorrow morning as though nothing had ever happened. Listen folks, we are rock and roll in what we do, the who had keith moon - blowjangles have rob.

It was strange feeling waking up on that monday morning to realise that, yes, the ‘campsite’ did look better in the dark. In all fairness, the views all around were stunning, and we were leaving very shortly. However, not before I had my constitutional, which sent me off in search of the gents. The outbuilding in the farmyard served as a toilet, with it’s broken windows and door that wouldn’t close, allied with the fact that it was blowing a gale, left the whole business an unforgettable experience.
We soon had hitched up the van and in tandem with ben we set off on a fairly uneventful journey back to blackburn. Just before chester we stopped at a little chef to take on board some sustenance in the shape of it’s speciality, the olympic breakfast. And very satisfying and fulfiling it was. Low and behold, who should walk in, but a rather sheepish and apologetic rob with some tell tale hand prints around his neck. We never asked and he never offered, but we looked at each other knowingly and changed the subject. Very soon we were mobile again and it was around about five o’clock when we were all back in blackburn with our feet up. Lynn and I were then able to look back over the weekend to what had been achieved. What started out in the early new year as a dream had been brought to fruition, producing a happening the like of which could never ever be repeated or emulated.

Bernard.

Blowjangles Dublin Gigathon 2004. --- Fenny’s tale.

It all happened like this.

Chapter 1: The Tide is High and I'm holding on.

On Friday 27th August 2004 at 3.30pm, me, Lez and Ben set off in Ben¹s
camper van for Holyhead to catch the early morning ferry to Dublin with the
other members of top street band, Blowjangles.

It was the first proper trip Ben had done in his camper since he bought it,
and after sometime drummer, Pete, had done the brakes and got it through the
MOT. This was no mean feat by Pete, and obviously, his MOTing was better
than his drumming because it got us there, noisily, it has to be said, but
without any hitches.

We stopped on the way at some faux American Diner, and for the first time in
my life, I had pancakes and maple syrup. Washed down with a nice cup of
welsh tea, and fortified to the hilt, as we resumed our journey, Lez
played some free form jazz on his sax and I drummed on Lol's old floor tom
like a man possessed. Ben drove and took the occasional photograph with his
all-singing, all-dancing mobile phone. The day should arrive when he works
out how to make a phone call on it.

It is difficult to pinpoint the time when we arrived at the closest pub to
the prescribed campsite, it was maybe 8.30. Already in attendance was Steve
Frisbee and his entourage of Christine, Sandra, Sam and Mel.
Rob, apparently, was setting his caravan up on the campsite, which,
according to Steve, was a field with no amenities or toilets. He decided to
go into Holyhead and make his way to the ferry. We decided that as we were
in a lusher, it would be churlish not to check out their Grolsch. Which is
what we did.

Eventually, Rob turned up, and more Grolsch followed. Ben decided to have a
kip in his camper. Some time later, a crestfallen Ben returned to inform us
that he had lost the keys to the camper. I'm sure that under normal
circumstances, we might have been fretful about this, considering that our
clothes, bags, potions and instruments were still locked in there, but our
worries were focussed on what might happen when we arrived in Dublin.
Worrying before that didn't seem an option, so we didn't. Eventually, we had
various cursory skens round a pitch black car park and a crowded boozer, but
the keys would not reveal themselves. Top man that he can sometimes be, Rob
walked back to his caravan and returned, probably half an hour later, with a
guitar. Oh, and a torch. Another, feverish by this time, search ensued
without success, until Ben managed to open the van with the keys to his car
Lo and behold, the camper keys were in the camper ignition. You might think
that isn't very funny. It made us laugh a lot.

There was only one thing to do. By this time, Bernard, Lynn and Kath had
arrived, so we took more trips to see the landlady, got the axe in tune, and
proceeded to sing our way through the Bob Marley, Buddy Holly and Jim Reeves
songbooks. Some of the resident welsh speakers, playing cards in their red
rugby shirts with the inflated fronts, didn¹t seem too keen that their
womenfolk were Peggy Sueing it with a load of English drunks, but hey, it
was all for charity at th'end o't day, so what the hell.

It must have been somewhere between midnight and 1am when we rallied
ourselves, and someone wisely sent for taxis to take us to the port of
Holyhead.
At the rendezvous point, a motley collection of Blowjangles gathered. Some
half asleep, some half drunk, at least one, fully drunk. But more of that
later.
I suppose the difficulties with Rob started at that point. First of all, he
had to cart a 5ft keyboard with his other luggage. It was supposed to be for
his brother who was supposed to meet us at the ferry, but he wasn¹t there,
so Rob had to kop for it. Next, he had lost his boarding pass. In his
eagerness to find it, he managed to pour half a can of strong lager into the
keyboard. The band leader, Stan, and his Dad, John, were amused to see this,
because they knew that Rob¹s boarding pass was at the bottom of the half
destroyed bag he was carrying the keyboard in because they saw him put it
there. Stan rushed off the bus that was taking us to the ferry to retrieve
the boarding pass just as Rob was being turned away.

Finally, on the ferry, we made half hearted attempts at getting a bit of
shuteye, but all to no avail. Rob continued his alcohol intake and resorted
to large glasses of whiskey and talking large doses of crap.
Various members of Blowjangles could be seen slouched over unfeasible
objects all over the ship. Ben and Lez had disappeared totally from view.
The rumours about them having booked a cabin began to start making sense.
We drew nearer to Dublin, but we were still a long way from having a proper
kip. That, is, except for Rob, who by this time, had managed to fall asleep,
but had decided to walk the decks in this dozing, alcohol induced trance. It
started to go properly wrong when he started unzipping his flies to relieve
himself against the lounge wall, perilously close to the head of a sleeping
man.
Being a nurse, Kath realised what the consequences of this action may have
led to. She tried to explain to Rob that pissing on someone¹s head in full
view of the public while representing Blowjangles, and hence, the whole
unitary authority of Blackburn with Darwen, was not really on. But, despite
her best efforts at persuasion, Rob¹s trance-like state could not be
penetrated. His hands moved inexorably towards his todger. At this stage, it
called for a bit of a firmer approach, so Rob was dragged unceremoniously to
the Gents where he was left leaning his head on his forearm, eyes closed,
over a urinal.
On returning to the Gents, ten minutes later, Rob was found to be gone,
although, curiously, his shoes were in the middle of the toilet floor! There
may have been some understandable, psychological reason for this, but it
beats me.
Lo and behold, who should turn up at this point, but Rob¹s brother, John.
How he had managed to miss us at the terminal and avoid us on a relatively
small boat for almost three hours is still something of a mystery. His shock
at the retelling of Rob¹s antics indicated that he had not avoided Rob on
purpose, it must have been a genuine stroke of luck on his part.
Eventually, Rob, his shoes and his luggage were reunited, but his sleep was
deep enough for us to contemplate letting him make the return journey to
Holyhead. Not being that kind of band, every effort was made to awaken him
enough to collect his belongings and disembark. Fair play to him, by the
time we were off the ferry and waiting at the luggage carousel, he was
almost back to his annoying best. I wouldn¹t say he had his trumpet out at
6.30 on a Dublin morning, although I wouldn¹t have put it past him, he did
manage to wind up the first Irish people we came across.

The next trial was to catch a bus to Dublin¹s fair City. The first one to
arrive was soon full. The second was soon full downstairs, so we made our
way to the top deck carrying a various assortment of luggage, saxophones,
and drums, and of course, Rob was still carting his brother¹s keyboard. He
managed to find the seat right next to the top of the stairs. Under normal
circumstances, this shouldn't be a problem, but Rob didn¹t seem to feel that
it was his responsibility to move the keyboard, which was pretty much
blocking the passage and the top of the stairs when someone wanted to get
off. As you might imagine, all hell broke loose when on old, grey haired
Irish chap couldn't get down the stairs. I wasn't party to the conversation,
but I am sure not a lot was done for Anglo/Irish relations at that moment.
When we eventually disembarked at the side of the Liffey and a good jag from
the hostel we were due to stay in, Rob¹s brother told Rob how disappointed(
I think that¹s what he said) he was with Rob¹s behaviour, and promptly
stormed off. It appeared that Rob and the keyboard were now joined at the
hip. Apart from the fact that he had brought it all this way without the
prescribed batteries and the pedal to make it go.

After trudging round the back streets and alleyways of Temple Bar for half
an hour or so, we eventually happened upon our place of residence, Kinlay
House, the building formerly known as the Dublin Working Boys' Institute. On
being allowed access, we were told we could not go into our rooms until 1pm
This, of course, put paid to any plans for a couple of hours sleep before
the Gigathon commenced.
Various flotsam and jetsam of Blowjangles could be found perched in awkward
and, sometimes dangerous, perches, trying to get a bit of shuteye, again,
all to no avail. It wasn¹t until the boy, Sam, happened upon a telly lounge
with various expansive settees, that our lives were saved. Several of us
managed to take up every spare bit of the room that allowed some kind of
sleeping situation and get something loosely described as 'sleep'. By 10
o'clock, the peace was broken by instructions that we had to retrieve our
luggage from a communal lock-up so we could get dressed in our finery, ready
for the assault at 11o'clock on the Guinness Book of Records for the most
venues played in a 10 hour stretch.

With best feet forward and dressed up to the nines, we set off for the first
venue at a bar connected to the IFC (Irish Film Institute). We did the usual
Blowjangles bonding ritual and had a man to man (child and woman) talk from
Stan the band leader who gave us positive instructions and an order that we
were not to partake in the alcoholic beverage until we stopped for tea at
4pm, and then we were only allowed the one.

We were then perturbed to find that there was no one to meet us from the
hospital we were collecting euros for, and the bar was closed. Not a great
start, so we played outside at an impromptu market. We were received
relatively well, but we were still concerned that we had not been met by the
appropriate people. A few phone calls revealed that, although we had turned
up at the IFC, we actually ought to have been at the IFC (Irish Finance
Institute) which was on the other side of the City. Retracing our steps, for
the first of what would turn out to be the umpteenth time that day, various
members of the band stood in the road and flagged taxis down.
Eventually, taxi by taxi, we arrived at the prescribed bar and were met by
several people from the Temple Street Children's Hospital. We were even
joined by Rob¹s brother, John, reunited with his keyboard.
We played a couple of tunes we had to play to legitimately get ourselves in
the record books, to an audience of about five. But, we weren¹t bothered. It
was still relatively early, and the drinking population of Dublin was not
yet in full swing.
Luckily (we thought at the time), the hospital had provided a van to
transport us back to Temple Bar. We piled in with about 10 of us crammed in
the extremely dark back of the van. The next time we saw daylight, we
realised that the driver had taken us to the wrong bar!
Back in the van we went, and waited, and waited, and further waited until
some members were on the point of expiring due to the heat and
claustrophobia.
Little did we know, cooped up in the back of that van, there was an
important Irish Football match taking place between Mayo and Fermanagh, and
we were caught in the traffic heading to the match.
This was not boding well. Some people thought we were in that van for an
hour, some people thought we were all drowned on the ferry and this was
Purgatory on earth, John thought his keyboard wasn't loud enough, so he went
off to buy an amp, leaving Rob in charge of the keyboard again.
It would be several hours before he caught up with us. In fact, being more
specific, he caught up with us at the last venue! Not a totally daft lad,
John, unlike his brother, who continued to cart that keyboard round the
highways and byeways of Dublin for several more hours before finally finding
it a resting place.
What happened over the next few hours is a blur of recollections. I remember
walking past Bob¹s Bar at least six times and playing in it at least
once.How Bernard and Lynn kept going and cajoling us in the right direction
to the correct venues was a feat of engineering Isambard Kingdom Brunel
himself would have been proud of. It was like going to the zoo with your mum
and dad. You didn¹t feel like you had any particular responsibilities other
than to ³mak show² as the Frankfurters used to shout at the Beatles Band.
All hail that duo who made such arrangements, even to the point of ordering
our tea in a bar at four o'clock.
There were occasions that day when we couldn¹t get access to some of the
venues for various reasons. On those occasions, we played outside on the
street (best place for us, some people reckon). This is where Jimmy came
into his own.
Jimmy was accompanying us every step of the way as the Temple Street
Children¹s Hospital Money Collector. He was a portly man wearing a purple
dinosaur suit, and riding what can only be described as a three wheeled bike
with a tray on the back for his over large bucket. When we played outside
venues, he jumped into the road and stopped the traffic and demanded dosh in
his receptacle. As often as not, people were prepared to make a donation due
to his startling approach and his fearsome appearance.
Overseeing all this, was another man sent to make sure we weren¹t robbed by
bandits. Richard. A man of few words, but nicely turned out in a black
suit reminiscent of the narrower of the Blues Brothers.
As the bucket became heavier, the reception from the crowds became more
enthusiastic. Inside the bars, the audience seemed slightly perplexed by
this invasion of red and yellow gangster suits and a bloke in a purple
dinosaur suit, but on the streets, we were treated like long lost brothers
and sisters and hailed as the saviours of popular entertainment. Cars honked
their horns, the passengers on the sightseeing buses cheered, and the
audiences on the streets wanted their photographs taken with us. It was a
far, far cry from some receptions we¹ve had over the last seven years.

At 4pm, feeling a lot more confident, but a lot more knackered, we broke for
tea, or lunch, if you want to be more specific.
Lynn had ordered our individual food requests previously, so it was almost
waiting for us when we arrived, and then we had the first official drink of
the day. I say ³official² because, if you want to know the truth, I clocked
Bernard having a half of Bulmers in what I think was the Parliament Bar at
approximately 2.58pm. I didn¹t report him to the band leader on this
occasion, but I did keep a close eye on his future activities.
The highlight for some of the members during our tea, was the appearance of
one of the serving maids who had blonde hair, came from Lithuania and didn¹t
have much of a grasp of the English language (or Irish if it comes to that)
That girl will never know the debate she caused for the next several hours.

Continuing on our tour after tea, we became seriously tired. Various older
members complained about their, feet, lips, and gums hurting, and some parts
of the body we won¹t go into here. Throughout all this, 12 year old Mel
drummed like a good Œun without a word of complaint or dissent, and she was
a beacon of good manners and practice to us all.

By about 6.30, though, we were definitely in a state of weariness. With
still up to a dozen venues to go, there wasn¹t much banter or even
complaining as a long crocodile of Blowjangles in single file trudged up a
long street in search of the next venue, which was the Metz bar. Several
members had already gone in, and several other members were trailing behind
me. From the street side of the large wooden door could be heard the muffled
sound of Blowjangles playing Louis Louie, but with some extra
instrumentation. What the hell could be going on here?
As I walked through the door, I was greeted by a clapping, swaying cheering
audience, and various members of the BJ¹s on a stage, being augmented by a
kind of electric guitar band. As each member of the band walked in to be
assaulted by this wall of noise, the audience cheered louder, until we were
all on or in front of the stage being backed by a Drummer, Guitar, Bass,
and a Vocalist. It was like a scene from the Commitments, but a lot
crazier.
To add to the madness, after about 10 minutes of attempting to out blow an
electric rock band, each member of Blowjangles left the venue one by one to
an even more raucous reception.
As we assembled further up the street, we seemed to have got a second or
even third, wind. There was no doubt at that point that we were going to
crack this world record and probably surpass it. The weird thing was, I
realised I had left my bag in the Metz bar, so, with a little trepidation, I
returned to get it, not knowing what might happen when I walked in. As it
went, the venue was very quiet and almost empty. It was like it had all been
a mad dream sent to encourage us, like a visitation of angels to the
Israelites crossing a barren dessert.
Who could keep track of the next set of gigs? Well, luckily, Bernard and
Lynn. As we approached the last two venues, we were walking alongside the
Liffey. I was in front with Rob and his brother, who had suddenly
reappeared. We walked past a shut bar called the Theatre Club aka the Viper
Club. I distinctly remember thinking that I would have loved to have had a
look in there. Several minutes later, we looked back to see in the distance,
the band trailing into that very club. We turned round and caught up to them
to find that, although the club was closed, the owner had appeared as if by
magic and said he would still like us to play there even though there was no
one in. Not only that, he said he wanted it videoing! Inside, it was not
much longer than an average living room, about 12 feet wide (make that 4
metres) with a bar down one side and a long mirror down the other, and a
large TV plasma screen at the end. You can only use your imagination,
really.
So, as it had been the list of venues, we proceeded to play, but whether it
was because there was no audience, or whether it was because we were being
videoed, or maybe it was the sight of Jimmy in his dinosaur suit miming
saxophone playing, I don¹t know, but it was probably the worst we played all
day. Never mind, the owner seemed amused and asked us if we wanted to return
after we had finished playing and when his club was open.

The last venue loomed, and it was the only one on the other side of the
Liffey. We didn¹t really know where it was or how far. Unfortunately, it was
a bridge too far for Steve and Mel, and they decided to retire back to the
hostel. However, for the rest of us, the quest continued.
It wasn¹t long before we happened upon the oasis that we had been seeking.
Before doing anything else, we took Guinness, Lager and Beer in various
quantities. Then we played the last three tunes of this mammoth task. To say
we rocked would be an understatement. We had a packed bar buzzin¹ like a
large swarm of Irish bees.
At that point of no return, we returned to drinking and then we drank some
more.
Well after midnight, as some members had returned to the hostel by taxi, it
was left to me, Bernard, Stan, Lez and Rob to find our way back to the
hostel by foot. In Bernard¹s case, this was literal, because the size 8
fancy shoes on size 10 feet had finally taken their toll. The lad couldn¹t
get the shoes on, never mind walk in them. So he walked the way back to the
hostel in his socks.
We did have one short break on the way, though. As we walked through a
Temple Bar crowded by Saturday night revellers with each and every one of
them in a good mood and wanting to hear some music, we couldn¹t disappoint
them. Despite delicate instruments clogged with phlegm, food, beer, blood
and bits of gum, we managed one last version of Peanut Vender and collected
28 euros which was spent on kebabs and cake.

What should have been a triumphant return to the hostel ended as a mad
scramble for the last of the Pringles and a cold shower with the only drying
implements, towels found lying around on the counter in the kitchen.
Sometimes, you reach a point where things like that don¹t really matter any
more.
I¹d like to tell you that what followed was a good restful and well earned
kip.
There¹s no way, is there?
The room in the hostel we had been allocated had 8 or 10 bunks in it, and
various people in there that we had never laid eyes on before. That wasn¹t
too much of a problem, but the snoring and chest rattling and sudden shouts
in the night proved to be distracting. The wail of police sirens was also
unnerving, and, of course, various people were still arriving back. Although
they weren¹t obviously noisy, having a big lump of a lad climb into a bunk
directly over the top of you at 3 o¹clock in the morning is not an
experience I care to repeat too often. I recall two American youths
arriving and insinuating that they had found their way to a zoo, which was
probably an unfair comparison to the inmates of a zoo.
This is a queer thing as well. How is it that people who snore and rattle
the floorboards in the process, never admit to it and always blame someone
else?
Chapter 2: Oh, Baby, We gotta go.

Our second day in Dublin was pleasant and sunny.
We must have caught up on a little sleep because by the time we had risen
and all the arguments about who was snoring were over, the hostel niceties
of the communal toast and coffee were finished.
Still starving hungry, we went right across the road from Kinlay House to a
charming if cosy breakfast bar where I ate fairly substantially for the
first time since 4pm the previous day. Just as a little guide, there¹s no
way Dubliners skimp on their muesli!
Finally re-stoked, several of us walked into the hub of the metropolis and
checked out the busking competition on Grafton Street. Cheered by the
thought that there was nothing to fear except the unfeasible African limbo
dancer who limboed under a burning pole about six inches from the ground
(there¹s no way you can follow that), we took further refreshments in the
Croissanterie in St. Stephen¹s Shopping Centre.
It amused us no end that all the goods on sale had labels written in French
Why? Presumably to give English visitors a good laugh.
The laughing didn¹t stop there, though. Veteran members of Blowjangles like
nothing better than to regale newer members with tales of the eccentric
goings-on of previous members. This is a lesson for us all. If you are
actually a current member of the band and you aren¹t with the main body of
the band at any specific time, basically, you are fair game to be discussed
If you leave the bandŠ..oh heckŠŠit is unlikely that the remaining members
will ever tire of recounting tales of your eccentricities.

Returning to the hostel, we, again, went through the rigmarole of waiting
for the lock-up to be unlocked so we could get our bags. We then had to go
into the laundry to get changed. Such was my paucity of clothing, the tee
shirt I had taken off before we had started playing the previous day because
it smelled like the proverbial Chinese wrestlers jock strap, was infinitely
less stinky than the one I had taken off the previous night, so that one had
to be rescued and sprayed with deodorant for the next onslaught of jollity
on the back alleys of Temple Bar.
We then had to wait for the lock up person to return to lock our bags up
again.
As we assembled in the court yard, we were three members down. Colin had
flown back to Blackpool that morning, and Steve had decided to take his
family sightseeing and taken top percussionist, Mel, with him.
Pressing on regardless, we trailed, suited up, back to Temple Bar and tried
to recreate the enthusiasm of the day before. It wasn¹t easy. Neither was
finding the breath in our bodies to sustain any kind of prolonged saxophone
blowing.
After about three tunes, we found that we raised enough euros to buy one
round of Guinness for eight people, so that¹’s what we did. Everything we
earned, we spent in the nearest bar. At one stage, we even ventured over the
Liffey onto O¹Connell Street, but it started to rain and the Irish Police
asked us to move along, there, now, Sir. Apparently, busking is allowed
around Temple Bar, but not over the river.
At that point we back tracked to the Bridge below Bewley¹s Café on
Westmorland Street for more Guinness and an embroilment with several Irish
men on a Stag Day. Their day was cheered up by them all having to complete
bizarre tasks such as persuading unsuspecting holidaymakers to give them
money for nothing, or persistently asking the same if they had found a
³special² Euro. This had the appearance of any old Euro, but it was
³special² to the person doing the questioning. In a lot of ways, you did
have to be there.

Even the lacklustre efforts of the band did not diminish the enthusiasm of
the Dublin public. We were constantly stopped and asked if people could have
their photos taken with us. People would stop and tell us they had been
watching us yesterday for varying lengths of time in various areas and how
much they had enjoyed it etc etc. We were definitely ³stars² for the day. We
certainly had stars in our eyes. This is in direct contrast to some of our
previous busking experiences in the likes of Blackburn and Accrington,
where, instead of stars in our eyes, we have had thrown in our direction, if
not in our eyes, buckets of fish water, eggs (boiled and raw), frozen
kippers and those small milk cartons stolen from McDonalds.

After tea where the carnivorous members opted for the Irish Stew and more
Guinness, we meandered back to Kinlay House for the last time. As a taxi
driver had previously told us that Handel had first performed his Messiah in
the courtyard of the building, and that the audience had been advised to
dress smart, but casual, it seemed appropriate to continue the big band
tradition. (There is some possibility that this impromptu session actually
happened at another time in the proceedings, but for the sake of continuity,
let¹s say this is the accurate version). So, in honour of the Big Man, we
played in the courtyard, much to the annoyance, probably, of all the people
in the surrounding apartments who were trying to get a bit of shut eye after
their evening meal. The actuality of doing a gig where Messiah had been
performed seems like a good anecdote, but research would reveal that,
although the taxi driver wasn¹t exactly lying, it is more likely that
Handel¹s performance took place in the nearby, and most likely demolished,
Neill¹s Music Hall. One thing is for sure, though. There¹s no way Handel
left the gig in a private mini bus, dressed like a Christmas tree, heading
for the 9.30pm ferry from Dublin Port to Holyhead. That¹s pretty much what
Blowjangles did.

Blowjangles - a Dublin tale