Port Isaac's Fisherman's Friends

Cleavie’s Fish Counter #19

admin — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 11:44:56 +0000

Merry Christmas fish-heads, and a Happy New Year too! I bet you’re wondering why we haven’t got a Christmas song out, aren’t you? So am I, seeing as I wrote one last year and we’ve recorded it, along with a couple of Cornish carols, and it sounds good to me. Then, it would do, wouldn’t it? It’s called ‘The stars of the New Year Turning’, and is meant to fill us all with hope and optimism in these dodgy times….

‘And we’ll all be all right
When we walk home tonight,
The fires deep in our hearts burning.
If you want to survive
Keep your passions alive,
Be the stars of the New Year turning….’

There, that’s cheered you up already, hasn’t it?

So what are you all doing pre-christmas? Carol singing? I hope you don’t come to the Port Gaverne hotel Friday evening, or the Golden Lion on Christmas Eve, because we’ll be in there carolling and shantying together probably, with loads of other locals, and we wouldn’t want you to join in and bugger it all up. Maybe you could just listen from outside? The windows are generally open for you to hear, and if it’s freezing with a blizzard blowing in on a North Easterly and you’ve got icicles hanging off your nether regions, and you’re being attacked by polar bears or wolverines or the like, we could pass you out a ginger beer and bag of crisps.

We love our own carols, fish-heads. One in particular we regard as the Port Isaac carol, ‘Hark the Glad Sound’. That’s a good old hellfire, brimstone and eternal damnation number that is…

‘…The gates of brass before him burst,
The iron fetters yield!’

Good old Methodists, just like the Taliban only without the bonhomie and goodwill and wicked sense of fun. The best thing about it is that no one else knows it, so they can’t join in at all!

We always had problems with people joining in with ‘While Shepherds Watched’, however we put paid to that by doing it to the tune of Lyngham, which is hugely popular in Cornwall. Imagine how disappointed I was to discover that Thomas Jarman, the composer of Lyngham, was in fact from Northamptonshire. Still, it by far and away the most rattlin!!! version of the carol.

And just who was it wot rote ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithfull’? It is a fabulous carol I know, but what on earth possessed him to think up the line ‘…Lo, he abhors not the virgin’s womb’ ? What’s that all about? I’m surprised some rapper hasn’t ‘sampled it’ [pinched it in other words] – ‘…Yo, he abhors not the virgin’s womb etc etc’!

I think, for me certainly, therein lies the appeal of carols. They take you right back to your childhood, when you could change the words to give the lyric a naughty, silly little twist. You know, ‘Noel, Noel’ becomes ‘Oh hell, Oh hell..’, ‘Most highly favoured lady’ becomes ‘Most highly flavoured lady’, and ‘While shepherds watched their flocks’ became ‘While shepherds washed their…’, oh never mind. These little tweaks, seemingly inaudible to teachers and choirmasters, gave us little moments of fun through those interminable rehearsals for nativity plays.

And then some of us graduated on to doing complete sets of lyrics for traditional Christmas songs. I remember fondly my exquisitely filthy version of The Twelve Days of Christmas, the cleanest bit of which was where three French hens became three French tarts. Ahh, Christmas. The warm glow of nostalgia. My nuts roasting by an open fire and all that…

Talking of Nat King Cole, I’ve had a little tweak to the Christmas classic, ‘The little Boy that Santa Claus Forgot.’ I do hope you like it.

‘I’m the little boy that Santa Claus forgot,
And heaven knows, I didn’t want a lot.
I left a note for Santa for an X- Box and a gun,
I was so disappointed when the old bugger didn’t come.
Now I play out on the street with all those lucky boys,
Then wander home alone to last year’s broken toys.
I’d like to stampede all his reindeer,
But then I know he’d never come here,
To the little boy that Santa Claus forgot.

I recall one Christmas eve when Santa came to town,
With Dancer, Prancer, Rudolph and the sleigh.
I left a glass of sherry, and a carrot for the deer,
Then hid behind the sofa, for Santa to appear.
Yes, I hid there all night long and all through Christmas day,
Boxing day too…the old bugger never came.
I’d light a bonfire up my chimney,
But I haven’t got it in me,
Cos I’m the little boy that Santa Claus forgot.

It’s not as horrid as my original re-write, but you see he might just read it, and then I really would be the little boy that Santa Claus forgot, wouldn’t I?

A very Happy Christmas and New Year to all fish-heads everywhere!!!!

Dreckly dears xx

Cleavies Fish Counter #18

admin — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 14:30:46 +0000

Fish-heads! Hello dears. Just got back from tripping the light fantastic….or did the light fantastic trip us? Who knows or indeed cares now; we’re back in dear old P.I.. What an absolutely fabulous and memorable time we’ve had, and thanks to all you lovers of high culture for coming to see us – we were overwhelmed and a not a little touched by your response to the shows.

No accounting for taste…

Of course, were it not for the luxurious diva treatment afforded to top international superstars like us these days, the whole experience could be quite unpleasantly debilitating. The Hovelodges [or whatever they’re called] that we stayed in were rather resonant of a serf’s hut constructed of mud, cow dung and twigs from the reign of Widdlebert the Incontinent [the heir to Piddlebert the Incompetent]. Seemingly, all that was missing was bubonic plague and the occasional horde of marauding norsemen intent on rape and pillage….oh, and starvation. We had plenty to eat, as you’ll see.

To be honest, once we’d made ourselves at home by smashing the huts, sorry rooms, up a bit, they became home from home really. The fact that we’ve had no complaints about the state the rooms were left in tells you all you want to know….

And as for the lear jet, sorry stretch limo, sorry luxury tour coach, sorry…fish van. Oh my god. Has anyone seen the ‘I’m a celebrity’ gig with the contestant’s head in a glass box full of blowflies? Believe me, that’s nothing compared to the fish van.

It seems that a particularly sexually active couple of blowflies have been having it away behind the door and window seals, and laid enough eggs to provide the world’s spider population with copious snacks for the next fifty years. The only problem being that the fish van doesn’t have any spiders in it, only us.

Add together the unseasonably warm late November, and the combined body heat of ten FFs, and you have that peculiar zoological phenomenon, the mobile blowfly hatchery. At precisely 11.07 am daily when the temperature was apparently at it’s optimum, the little bastards, sorry big bastards, would start to emerge and lazily, dopily, dozily bump from one FF’s head to another, in our ears, in our eyes, up our nose, up our…oh never mind, I’m sure you can guess. And they were so massive. I’d swear one was bigger than a rook!

Now you always hear complaints from the rock and roll fraternity about all the hanging about and the travelling between gigs. Well, maybe they should all invest in fly blown fish vans. From the emergence of the first on day one, somewhere outside Bridgewater [you know, of Simon and Garfunkel fame – ‘Trouble Over Bridgewater’ remember that?], until the journey from Salisbury to Bristol on day three, we had found a new way of passing the long, tedious hours.

Rather than the usual needlework and embroidery, and in-depth investigation into the origins of the capstan shanty, and philosophical discourses on the role of the enlightenment in the French Revolution, we killed flies.

We progressed from primitive swatting methods, using rolled up bits of cardboard and newspaper, to more advanced fly destruction techniques. Sam pulled over at a DIY shop and equipped us with some spray left over from the Gulf War and some builder’s face masks. Sadly, these did not protect the eyes. How Lefty still managed to drive the fish van blind I have no idea. He did it by pure instinct, like Tommy at the pinball machine. That deaf, dumb and blind kid sure drives a mean fish van…

And then came the ultimate swatter, shaped like a mini tennis racket only with an electric charge, one only had to squash the unfortunate bluebottle against the window and crank up the voltage, and watch as the sparks flew and the smoke and stench of sizzled fly flesh drifted up our nostrils. My, how the hours flew by.

By the end of the journey, the fish van was like a fly cemetery. It was flymageddon. There were so many dead flies that we were tempted to give up our blossoming careers in entertainment, and turn instead to opening an organic Eccles cake and Garibaldi factory.

Anyway, fish-heads, we’ve decided to invest in a new fish van for next year – we reasoned that it’ll save money on flights if we get invited to the US or Australia. In the meantime, anyone interested in an old fish van, two hundred thousand plus miles on the clock, seats as soft as church pews, and with the unmistakable malodour of sizzled flies, stale farts and of course fish lingering imperceptibly within, give Lefty a shout. He’ll get back to you shortly….

Dreckly dears xx

Cleavies Fish Counter #17

admin — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 18:51:57 +0000

Hey! Fish-heads, where have you been my dears? What do you mean, where have I been? In therapy, obviously. Celebrity has it’s casualties, fish-heads, and all the global adulation [well deserved though it is!] has driven me and the boys back to our old lives for a period of respite. The brothers have been crabbing about the price of bait and lobsters and diesel and the Spanish and their bleddy great trawlers, Leftie’s been up at 3.30 every morning for an early start in the milking parlours of North Cornwall [or so he says], Trev and the Johney Mac are building as if there’s a housing shortage, Pete’s old farting about in the garden [he’s 78 you know – did I mention that?], Bill’s been churning out pots [playing golf according to Leftie], and I’ve been baking pasties with mother.

What better therapy for a Cornish boy? I love to cook, but had never even attempted to make pastry, let alone to bake a pasty. So I said to mother, who lives just up the hill from me [next to John Mac and next but one from Jeremy in fact], how do you fancy teaching your dear little boy how to make pasties?

I’ve got to say that it was one of the nicest things I’ve ever done. Mother and I have been spending Wednesday mornings together deep in conversation about nothing in particular, you know family stuff and village stuff and matters of extreme global importance as well, whilst slicing potatoes, onions and swede, cutting up skirt beef into tiny pieces, and trying out various pastry mixtures [not bought ones!]. It’s brilliant.

A little technical pointer or two should any of you decide to try this at home…

Firstly, please don’t even attempt to bake a pasty anywhere outside the county border. It is bound to taste disgusting and could even poison you or explode. This rule only applies to the Cornish pasty, and is not applicable to Yorkshire puddings, Welsh cakes or Lancashire hotpot, which can apparently all be made anywhere [according to Delia].

Secondly, you must slice your vegetable ingredients. Diced ones can tumble out of the pasty and can fall scalding hot onto your lap. Be especially careful if you are eating one on a naturist beach somewhere…

Finally, always use the most delicious and accordingly least healthy ingredients that you can find. We’re talking one third lard in the pastry mix here, and lashings of butter in the pasty itself, and plenty of seasoning especially salt. The heavier and more discomforted you feel after eating the pasty, the better it would have been. Come on, let’s block up those arteries!

Anyone transgressing these laws can expect an early morning knock on the door from the PIPPs [Port Isaac Pasty Police], that is to say mother and her mates, and I don’t give much for your chances if they find you guilty of baking a ‘nasty pasty’. You’ve been warned…

Just like the way our singing has almost become secondary to the whole social thing on Friday evenings on the Platt, so the pasties are but a delicious by-product of our mornings together. This week we’re doing yeast and saffron buns, and we will be discussing the Italian debt crisis and the demise of Mr Berlusconni, the tormented genius of Van Gogh, whether that other famous Dutchman Dick Van Dyke was in fact really a cockney, and evidencing whether Offa’s Dyke was a dark ages earthwork constructed to keep out the marauding Welsh, or in fact the King of Mercia’s first wife with whom he was incompatible for obvious reasons. Oh, and the price of fish of course….

On tour next week fish-heads! Looking forward to seeing all the girls from Redland College in Bristol on Friday week….well, I say girls, you know what I mean. I’m sure you’re all still drop dead gorgeous 35 years on. Just like me in fact. The years have been nothing but kind, haven’t they? Can’t wait!!

Dreckly dears xx

Tour & compilation CD

admin — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 15:08:31 +0000

Well, it’s been a while, but we’re back!
We’ve had some time off in October to recharge the batteries, we’re now getting ready to do a few shows at the end of November (have you got your tickets yet?)

22 Nov Cheltenham Town Hall – tickets available here
23 Nov Salisbury City Hall – tickets available here
25 Nov Bristol Colston Hall- tickets available here
27 Nov Plymouth Theatre Royal – SOLD OUT
30 Nov Birmingham Town Hall – SOLD OUT
1 Dec London Union Chapel- tickets available here

We are also singing, chatting and signing books at Waterstones in Truro this Thursday at 7pm (10th November). Tickets are £2 and available from the shop. Watersones website

Lastly 5 FF songs are featured on a new compilation from Proper Records. These songs are taken from our 2 albums ‘Suck ‘em & Sea’ and ‘Another Mouthful From…’
The full tracklisting is below and its available to pre order from Amazon.co.uk and Play.com

A Treasury Of Shanties And Songs Of The Sea
1. The Fisherman’s Friends – Shanty Man
2. The Fisherman’s Friends – John Kanaka
3. The Fisherman’s Friends – Haul Away Joe
4. The Fisherman’s Friends – Blood Red Roses
5. The Fisherman’s Friends – What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor ?
6. Long Dan Russell – A Hundred Days On The East
7. Long Dan Russell – Blow The Man Down
8. Long Dan Russell – Shoals Of Herring
9. Long Dan Russell – The Blackball Line
10. Long Dan Russell – The Wild Goose
11. The Cod Wranglers – Poor Old Man
12. The Cod Wranglers – Carry Him To The Burying Ground
13. The Cod Wranglers – For Those In Peril On The Sea
14. The Cod Wranglers – Shenandoah
15. The Cod Wranglers – Where The Codfish Grow
16. Ron Kavana & The Sherkin Crew – A-Rovin’
17. Ron Kavana & The Sherkin Crew – The Harp Without The Crown
18. Ron Kavana & The Sherkin Crew – Rounding The Horn
19. Ron Kavana & The Sherkin Crew – Willie Taylor
20. Ron Kavana & The Sherkin Crew – A Health To The Company

Cleavie’s Fish Counter #16

admin — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 15:21:36 +0000

It’s been a while fish-heads – how’s tricks? The boys and me have been winding down a bit, finished on the Platt for another year, just the America’s Cup gig on the Hoe at Plymouth to go on Sunday. Looking forward to that and then a break until the tour, end November.

So I thought like any real fish counter, I may close for a few weeks and give the place a good old clean out and hose down, and try and get rid of the all pervading stink of fish, which is really a metaphor for clearing out my head and trying to get some writing and rehearsing and stuff done.

So before I pull down the shutters for a bit, I thought I’d leave you with a little rhyme what I wrote a little while ago, and if anyone can set it to music please let us know…

The Ship’s Biscuit.

A cabin boy, with vertigo nervy
And fruitless, scared to death of scurvy,
Abseiled from his topsail gantry,
Resolved to raid the ship’s cook’s pantry.
There marooned upon the shelf,
Crumbling lonesome, quite by itself,
An unprepossessing, dry ship’s biscuit.
Mad hunger drove the boy to risk it.

For cabin boys, fed the least
Of all the crew, this was a feast.
But within that morsel, lurking evil
Rear Admiral Sir Reginald Weevil,
Who, from said biscuit, poked his head
In tricorn hat; so fill with dread
Ye cabin boys, for biscuit hogging
Is sure to earn a damn good flogging.

Dreckly dears xx

Cleavie’s Fish Counter #15

admin — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 18:21:41 +0000

Fish–heads, welcome to the fish counter, and I mean you are bleddy welcome to the fish counter this week. It’s not as if I haven’t anything better to do after all, as it’s August Bank holiday week and Port Isaac is completely overrun with tourists who have clearly never read the Sunday Times, and their 4 x 4s and dogs and kids, and we’re all run off our legs and going mental…

This is except Nigel, of course, who apparently employs more staff than the rest of the FFs put together [what a bag of scallops!].

Not only is it impossible to drive through the narrows of the village, it’s almost impossible to even walk through it without treading on unwary snot-nosed children with ice creams or bumping into old ladies with blue rinses and handbags full of sugar sachets and butter pats and mini pots of jam they’ve liberated from cafes ‘just in case’ [that’s what the war did to them, waste not and all that!].

Anyway, as you can probably tell, I’ve got augustitus, and the only anti-serum is septembritis taken in liberal measure.

Quite frankly, I blame Doc Martin for the extra hordes of people. It has nothing to do with the Fisherman’s Friends whatsoever, even the 3000 people who came on Friday evening and pretended that they’d come to listen to us sing. Look, we’re not stupid [well all right, some of us are quite stupid], we saw you looking over our heads gawping at the Doc’s surgery and Bert’s Restaurant, and hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr Clunes. Well you had to put up with Clooneyesque JB instead!

Certainly, the accepted route through the UK for most Australians now seems to be London – Stratford Upon Avon – Port Isaac, but now it seems that the programme has been aired on public TV in the US, and it is proving equally popular over there. That’s a worry, coach loads of over-earnest Burberry clad yanks trying to trace a direct line of ancestry to fictional TV characters with dodgy pan-westcountry Long John Silver accents.

‘Hi, my folks came over stateside in the Mayflower. My name is Dupree Beauregard Martin the 23rd, and ironically [although being American, I don’t get irony of course] I’m a doctor, and I’m trying to find the Martin family….’ Oh my god, what a nightmare scenario that’ll be.

So this week, fish-heads, comes the launch of our book ‘Sailing at Eight Bells’, whatever that is. I’ll have to ask one of the jolly Jack Tars in our naughty nautical ranks. The burning question is – what will it be? Will it be wildly hilarious, or just mildly diverting? Tragic, or merely a little melancholy? A reference book for fish-heads with a transitory and healthy interest in the subject, or an encyclopaedia for obsessive stalker types who want to get right inside us? May we expect crime or fiction, drama or romance? Bodice ripper or underpant creaser? Kiss and tell, or scratch and sniff? Chick lit or fish lit?

Whatever, going by my preferred adage of ‘always judge a book by it’s cover’, it’s pretty good, and made our photo shoot 18 months ago seem worthwhile, as we’re all posing with smouldering gothic menace on the front.

I always stick to that adage because of my own books about Gully. That is Gully the Mischievous and Wicked Cornish Seagull in case I haven’t subliminally plugged him before [only £6.95 per signed copy…]. The fact is, forget the storyline and content [which are all equally good obviously], and title [there are 6 in case you were interested, set of three for £17.95 – oh there I go again], the best seller is by far the blue one.

To be fair, it is a nice shade of blue. Sadly, the purple book [Gully Celebrity Chef], which is probably the best story, is the least popular colour and it follows therefore the slowest seller. This is just like our two first albums, ‘The FFs – Suck ’Em and Sea’, and the cleverly titled sequel ‘Another Mouthful from the FFs’. The former sells three times as many copies because the sleeve is in colour. Musically [if I may use that term with the FFs] they are much the same…challenged, shall we say?

At least the FFs didn’t have any problems with finding a publisher. When I’d first completed writing and illustrating Gully [only £6.95…!], I proudly sent the stories and artwork off to agents and publishers galore. What I got back was ‘We like the pictures, but not the story;’ or ‘We like the stories, but not the pictures.’ Most dispiriting. When I finally got a ‘We love the stories and the illustrations are divine…’ it was accompanied with a ‘…but we don’t think there’s a market for them.’

That’s what you get when you have to deal with people who used to get bullied at school. It just makes me regret that I wasn’t more of a bully back then, as that might have made the frustration all the more worthwhile.

So fish-heads, here we are spending our entire weekend, the busiest of the year, signing books with a collective glad heart ready for the launch on Thursday, which will be brilliant. At least it keeps us out of those streets!

Dreckly dears xx

Back at The Minack Theatre

admin — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 09:28:21 +0000

24th May 2012 will see us return to The Minack Theatre.
Not to wish the time away but we can’t wait!

If you can’t make it all the way to the Minack then we will be doing a short tour at the end of November and there will be more 2012 shows to announce soon.
http://portisaacsfishermansfriends.com/lives-dates/

See you somewhere soon!

Cleavies Fish Counter #14

admin — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 10:52:35 +0000

All right fish-heads? Ever wish you had the chance to be a Sun headline writer for the day? Monday was my day in my dreams. I can see it now – that pic with ‘Cameron Gets Crabs!’ emblazoned underneath.

He didn’t get them from Jeremy or Julian though [not that they’re at all angry or bitter about that]. No, obviously he got them in that shop behind him in the photo, which belongs to another fisherman in Port Isaac; a rival crab Baron.

But it just goes to show that even with all that security, you can’t be too careful, can you? Do you think that Gadaffi planted them, a sort of biological warfare? Bring the infidel to his knees with crustaceans? And they’re buggers to get rid of apparently….the Camerons that is, not the crabs. They’ve been coming here for years now, and we just can’t seem to get shot of them! Any ideas fish-heads?

Call me Dave was chatting to a couple of the boys when he came earlier this year, down on the Platt. It’s a mark of our new found notoriety I suppose that someone was heard to remark ‘Here, who’s that over there talking to the Fisherman’s Friends. He looks vaguely familiar…’

Anyway fish-heads, nice to make contact midweek for a change. Not a full sized blog this one, more of a ‘blogette’, rather like a baguette is a small, nasty French lady, as opposed to the full sized variety.

Dreckly dears xx

Cleavies Fish Counter #13

admin — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 11:58:22 +0000

Hello Fish-heads, how’s the price of fish today with you? John Brown’s got plenty of punters for mackerel fishing, the lobster boats are all out, cod’s come down, turbot’s up, pollack’s still cheapish, and the luckiest girl in North Cornwall and I had a half pint of prawns each at the Port Gaverne hotel last night, with mayonnaise and a fresh baked bread roll [is this sounding like one of them tweets?], and my middle boy George says that the punters in the fish cellars are driving him and all the other jowders [fishmongers] up the bleddy harbour wall.

Two prizes awarded so far – number one, most fatuous remark –‘Omigod, it stinks of fish in here!’ Please remember that this is a fish shop full of fishmongers selling all sorts of fish in a fish cellar in the middle of a fishing village.

Number two, most ridiculous question – ‘Are the green lipped New Zealand mussels caught locally?’ – No, of course not, they’re caught in Padstow you twat…oh I’m sorry, I mustn’t be like it, but it’s August right? And open season on those who perhaps are not the sharpest fish knives in the drawer.

Dear old, craggy old, cantankerous old grizzled Port Isaac fisherman Mark Townsend had a magnificent armoury of snidey ripostes to standard ‘tourismo stupidos.’ In particular, the ghastly, grating question that is always accompanied by the sympathetic smile – ‘Have you been here all your life?’, was always met by one of two replies, each guaranteed to bring an end to any hopes of a conversation with a real local. Either the acerbic ‘No, I was over there yesterday…’ with a nod to the other side of the road, or the more fatalistic ‘Not yet I hope.’ Maybe it was dear old Mark who that tosser from the Sunday Times bumped into….oh, enough…

Anyway fish-heads, celebrity is beginning to take it’s toll. I’ve not been asked to open anything yet [well, only my wallet, and clearly that’s as likely as Trev singing a cheerful song], but I have been asked to be after dinner speaker at two Rotarian evenings, and to hold forth for the St Minver old people’s morning.

So I had to make a little spiel about my exciting past couple of years with the FFs, and then on my writing and illustration and series of kid’s books that I first published when I was a mere stripling youth of 45. It’s always nice to give these things a little title, and after much thought and modest introspection, I decided to call the piece ‘The Late Flowering of My Artistic Genius by Jon Cleave aged 52.’ What do you think?

Where did it all begin? Well fish-heads, I have to tell you that I’ve been thwarted at every turn, but because I’m a spoilt, ego-centric, everyone else is wrong and I’m right only child [apparently], the glorious, magnificent late blossoming has occurred…

So I’ll tell you about the singing part of it. As a little boy I loved it, and sang to my mum and dad and aunts and uncles and grans and granfers. And in primary school – fantastic! We would sing ‘The Drunken Sailor’, ‘Westerlin’ Home’, and ‘The Skye Boat Song’. But then…

Then came Mrs Tyler, as our new music teacher and nasty old witch to boot [I won’t use her real name, she’s long gone now and it might offend the Taylor family…] and she used to take the school choir, which consisted of the entire school, to the Wadebridge Music Festival every year. At eight, my mate George Lyford [who later sneaked back in] and I, and Teresa Ann Tregaskis, were all chucked out of the choir for being ‘growlers.’

Growlers eh? Are you looking down now, you poison-sac poker-backed, bitter as the gall turkey-necked, never-been-kissed wizened old hag? Discarded on the musical scrap heap at eight? Eight! Really, I never sung again until I was over thirty [yeah, yeah, all right Lefty, it’s a pity I ever did...whatever]. Seriously fish-heads, consider what pleasure would have been denied to millions were it not for my selfless determination….

To be fair to her, and as you can probably read between the lines I don’t really want to be, she was right in the case of Teresa Ann, who did sound as if she was possessed by a chorale of tone deaf screaming banshees intent on drowning out low flying aircraft. But she too was only eight. What of Teresa Ann now, though? If Mrs Taylor’s, sorry Tyler’s, judgement was anything to go by she’ll be top diva at the opening night at La Scala. And if you’re reading this celestial blog and scowling down at us from above, stick that in your cauldron and boil it!

And what happened to dear old George, who incidentally had the best train set ever? I never blamed him for sneaking back into the school choir. You see, whereas I took the growler bit to heart, George joined the church choir on Sundays, and found that he could sing really well and loved it, and when the following year it was time for the music festival he stood in line and sang like a bird and no-one remembered that he’d been cast out….except Teresa Ann and me.

But we didn’t say anything. We growlers, past and present, have to stick together. I still see him from time to time and a thoroughly nice man he is too, and when our middle boy was born I remembered all this, and it made me want to give him that good old name. And do you know what fish-heads? My George loves to sing as well, as he’s packing in the fish down in the fish cellars…gangsta rap mostly….

Now there’s a cultural fusion to be proud of!

Port Isaac meets the East side projects…

Dreckly motherf****rz xx

FF on Sky Arts

admin — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 17:08:59 +0000

Highlights from this years Cambridge Folk Festival will be on Sky Arts 1 between

22nd and 27th August, every night at 10pm.
FF are featured in programs 2 (23rd) and 4 (25th). Lots of other great highlights to be seen as well. Full details can be found here

If you don’t have access to Sky Arts let’s hope for some resourceful people sharing them on youtube or something