Circulation: Round and round and up and down we go again…

THE"PIG VINE"

PIGGY HEALTH WARNING:

YOU SHOULD NOT TAKE SERIOUSLY ANYTHING SAID DONE OR IMPLIED IN THIS "PIG VINE" BECAUSE IT’S PURPOSE IS THAT IT HAS NO PURPOSE WHATSOEVER AND TO TAKE IT SERIOUSLY OR EVEN SLIGHTLY SERIOUSLY COULD ALTER THE VERY POSITIVE EFFECTS OF THE SHEER NONSENSICAL NEGATIVITY AND POSITIVITY OF THE TRUTH WHOEVER OR WHATEVER THAT IS AND WHENEVER IT ARRIVES OR LEAVES..OR

 

(Issue 4 /2005 – 26 March 2005)

"NOT NEATE PIGS!"

NOT NEATE PIGS!

Well, you might ask why the Vine is called what it is, and if you do we will tell you. It’s because that great little vocalist, guitar and fiddle player, Miss Andi Neate, returned to Scotland on Tuesday after a visit to the Islands for gigs with the Pigs. Those who made it to some of the gigs were extremely fortunate to enjoy such talent in the Islands; those who didn’t simply missed some great music at some great shows. Not only did Andi play great music as a solo artist at the Trough and the Vic, we also had a sort of small folk club up here at The Trough on Monday last, and in addition to Jock and Liz and the illustrious Tim Stenning, we also had Nathan and Sam Elliot playing some cracking music with Marcus Porter. Andi spent an afternoon at the FICS with Shirley Adams-Leach and her students, and also played guitar and fiddle for the old folk at the hospital. What a week that was! We’re pleased to say that Andi got back safely to Scotland and her partner, Matt. Unfortunately Andi didn’t see all the sun and penguins we promised down here in the south so we’ll have to see if she’s got a slot in her diary for next summer! So you buggers who missed her might just have a second chance! Oh so Neate, huh!

Patagonian Fox: Possible Sighting Near Surf Bay: Yep, it’s sad, but we live today in fear of having our buns bit to bits by what might be a Patagonian fox what stowed away in a box, or a bunch of bananas, to get it’s little butt across to the Falklands. It might have heard that it has relatives on Weddell Island. What with the Internet being so widely available here now, we just don’t know how the buggers are communicating. From a disused Jackass Penguin burrow on Weddell they might discretely be using www.patfox.falklands@yahoo.com to keep in touch with foxes and foxy ladies everywhere, and sell selected bits if Falkland wildlife on e-Bay? They might even be getting their latest sounds from Amazon? Strangely, at one of Andi’s gigs, the lights went out several times and we were plunged into darkness. Something was causing them to "trip out", and we wondered if it was perhaps the Patagonian fox trying to sneak into one of her gigs without paying on the door. The case is still open on this one and we’ll be keeping an eagle eye out for anyone trying to get in for free tonight.

Trough Entrance Fee: We have been charging £3 on the door for 10 years and we have decided that in order to be able to pay the bills and keep improving the Trough for the benefit of customers we are increasing the entrance fee to £4 with effect from the next gig, which is likely to be next week. That said, the entrance fee does not now, and will not then, include permission for anyone to put fags and chewing gum into the Trough carpets!

 

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(Issue 3 /2005 – 21 March 2005)

"NEATE PIGS"

Andi Neate - All the way from Scotland for Falkland Gigs!

 

Well, we had to do it didn’t we: "Neate Pigs" just sounds so good that we had to use it before time ran out! This is a one-off Pig Vine which is a traditional way of extending a Pig Thankyou. It’s been a real fast week and it’s been a lot of fun. A huge amount of great music has been performed – mostly by you of course - and the interface of Pigs and the fiddle was a new and exciting experience for us. You’re great and we’ve really enjoyed having you around. Perhaps we can do it again sometime when the sun’s out?

(THIS SPECIAL EDITION PIG VINE WAS SIGNED BY THE BAND AND PRESENTED TO ANDI)

Kev, Ali, Len, Andi, Pete, Tim, Gerard

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(Issue 2/2005 – 15 March 2005)

ANDI NEATE

All the way from Scotland for Falkland Gigs!

Andi hails from a remote peninsula on the West Coast of Scotland, but now lives in Kirknewton near Edinburgh. She says she finds remoteness very inspiring, and is looking forward to her Falklands visit. We look forward to hearing her music first hand. Andi’s music has been described as "a blend of folk, jazz and strong female song writing, intimate, atmospheric, and magical" (Peter Mac Calman, Acoustic Affair). Andi has played Glastonbury and the world famous London jazz club "Ronnie Scott’s". This year she is also playing Glastonbury, the Prague Fourth Fringe Festival, the Palermo Festival in Sicily, and in October she will be in Canada for a tour of Ontario. The Falklands will be her first gigs in the southern hemisphere, so let’s do our best to make them great ones!

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(Issue 1/2005  – 12th February 2005)

"WEE ZEE PEEGS!"

What’s been Piggin’?

The last Pig Vine was in October 2004! It was entitled "Another Rasher!" That was when Hensrickle Schmitt went back to the Trough to try his luck with the lady in the low slung red dress whom he had met the week before. That was then, and this is now, and Hensrickle is on holiday, but he will be back! We promise!

We’ve played some thirteen gigs since October. We’ve guested a few people, like Martin Evans (a harp, guitar, bongo and washboard player extraordinnaire), and of course Mathew McMullen and Martin Plato have sat in on more than the odd occasion. Last week Martin and his band (Chris George (bass guitar and odd places!), "Ducky" (vocals and shirt returns), Stu Goulson (guitar and vocals) did a full gig at the Trough, with of course the illustrious Kevin de la Shed on the drums. That was Ducky’s last Falklands appearance as he has gone, or is going back to, Saint Helena. Good luck mate! And keep yer shirt on!

And of course the "Fag Ash Blondes" have had their CD available for a few months. It’s great! Get one from Fred the guitarist tonight! It’s a real bargain at £5. And it’s not often you get a bargain from Fred!

What’s Gonna Be Piggin’?

Well we have to tell you that the Trough and the Falklands will be extremely fortunate to be graced by the presence of a lady musician from Scotland by the name of Andi Neate, who is visiting from 16-22 March for, as is the norm, "gigs with the Pigs". Andi has played Glastonbury and the world famous London jazz club, "Ronnie Scott’s". This year she is also playing Glastonbury, the Prague Fourth Fringe Festival, the Palermo Festival in Sicily, and in October she will be in Canada for a tour of Ontario. Andi’s music has been described as being "a blend of folk, jazz, and strong female song writing, intimate, atmospheric, and magical." Get the dates in your diary and keep an eye out for the gig list, which will of course include gigs at The Trough – de rigueur!

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(Issue 7/2004  – 16th October 2004)

 “ANOTHER RASHER!”

Following on from the last Vine, Henrickle Schmitt had had a whale of a time (perhaps even a Pig of a time) at the Trough on the 9th October, and had danced the night clean away. Not only that, he seemed to get on well with a few of the ladies and in a sly sort of way he fancied his chances with at least one of them.  In fact he had so enjoyed himself, that he decided to hit The Trough again on 16th, so he booked himself into Lookin Lodge.  He laid relatively low during the week, only venturing out a couple of times to the local bars he remembered:  Deanos, The Vic, The Rose, The Gander, Malsomething, and The Planet.  But the week duly passed and Hensrickle suddenly found himself showerin’ and getting’ ready for the Pigs again on Saturday evening. “Crimony, how time passes” he mused. And mused again. And again.

As Hensrickle showered, dried off and splattered body lotion all over his lean but wiry frame, he thought  again and again of the ladies he had danced with at the last Pigs do.  He couldn’t even remember their names, but he could still remember what they looked like. And none were like Betty Bouldercrutch. His mind raced and he shivered as he struck up visions of himself dancing again with the lady in the low slung red dress, holding her tightly, smelling her sweet perfume; in his imagination they were dancers, bosom pals, acquaintances, cuddlers,  friends, and perhaps even, at the end of this evening, lovers. He was fast becoming a tiger, a warrior, a, hero, a lionheart!  He felt like a tomcat fresh up from a day’s eatin’ and sleepin’ goin’ out on a crisp  and crunchy Winter’s evening to see what the world had to offer.    

Hensrickle hated to be late. He was hangin’ at the door of The Trough when Fred and Phyl arrived at 1055 pm.  He went in with his bag of beer and got himself a table near the stage. He wanted to be pleasantly pummelled by the rhythms de los Pigaroonies, and dance. Soon the place started to fill up. He recognised a few people. Jay Moffatt with his guitar, the Pigs themselves with Ali the very sound engineer, Martin, Mike Biggs, Mathew McMullen, Jock and Liz, Kevin and Teresa, Rosie. Roxy, Jane, Pampers, and Emily, and a load of other young folk also came in struttin’ their stuff about the place.  He wondered if the Wicked Old Witch would be there, but then he remembered she was on holiday in the US. Huh!

Then Hensrickle saw the lady in the low slung dress appear in the doorway. He took a big swig of beer, but dribbled most of it into his beard and down his shirt.  He caught her eye at almost exactly the same time as she caught his. She walked across the crowded room straight towards him. She sat on his knee, which pleased him very much, and it showed. “Hi Hensrickle” she said, “back for a bit more Piggy pork?” “Sure thing” said Hensrickle, as he gently squeezed her, “guess you must fancy another rasher yourself!”

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(Issue 6/2004 – 9th October 2004)

 "THE BACON’S BACK!"

Henrickle Smith hadn’t been to town for quite a while, mainly ‘cause Ol’ Nancy (his faithful old nag) hadn’t been feelin’ up to scratch for some time. That wasn’t surprising ‘cause she was getting’ on in years and the candle had already been burnt at both ends on many occasions. The burnt whiskers on her nose and tail adequately illustrated that! However, one fine Spring day in October Hensrickle saddled her up and headed off to town via Le Lancia House where he had a quick glug or two with the Sheriff. Anyway he’d been in town for a day or so and was suckin’ on a Swinekin beer whilst reading the Pengwing News when he came across the Piggies advert. "Crimony", he muttered to himself, "the Trough’s open again Saturday so methinks I’ll delay my trip back". He hadn’t heard the Pigs for a while, indeed not since he’d had to make that mad dash (see previous Pig Vines) from the voluptuous clutches of the sex-starved Betty Bouldercrutch (a formidable hunk of woman with cleavage famously known locally as ‘The Impassable Valley’). He hoped very much that she would not be out huntin’ on Saturday night.

So Saturday night came around and Hensrickle got out his boot-skootin’ gear and rode up to The Trough early. Whilst most folk arrived by taxi these days, he had to tie Ol’ Nancy out in a sheltered little spot he knew just east of the Trough. And he did. Then he strode up to the Trough. Hey! Hey! Hey! Things had changed. He did a mental check: the door was about 8m further East; there were nice new steps, new cladding and sexy new lights on the end of the building. He reckoned things were looking up. Then he opened the door and entered the domain de los Pigaroonies. It took him several long North Camp strides to reach Phyllis, who casually took his £3 and wished him a happy evening. "Still £3 after 10 years" muttered Hensrickle, as he and his bottle of JW Red headed towards the bar/dancing area. "Mullet a la mode" he muttered to himself, "there’s another room on the left: the whole place has changed, and I like it!" So into the throbbing part of the Trough he went, found the Piggies in full swing, grabbed a woman and took off ‘round the floor. "This is the life," said Henrickle to his partner, "The Bacon’s Back!" "Whaddya mean by that?" asked his partner. "Nothin’ like a bit of pork and blues" said Hensrickle, as he danced happily on.

Indeed we Piggies are pleased to be back playing for you again, and we’re happy as Pigs can be that the Trough is open again. The new part is still work in progress, but things will get better and better over the next few months. That’s a promise! This is not really the time to thank anyone for anything, but we will do so later on when we think we’ve finished the work. All we need to do now is keep piggin’ and giggin’ to pay for it all. Thank you for perpetuating Pigism and helping us develop The Trough. Pig on! Pig on!

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(Issue 5/2004 – 15th May 2004)

"WHAT’S TIME TO A PIG?"

Owing to lack of time this Pig Vine is very short. This is because time is very important to pigs. People sometimes don’t believe it, but it’s true. So we regret to say that this week you get two jokes and that’s it. We regret this is the last Pig Gig for about five weeks, but we look forward to seeing you when we re-open. In the meantime just keep on Piggin’ an’ Jiggin’ and keep safe!

Joke 1: A farmer walks into a pub with a pig under his arm. "Why have you got a pig under your arm?" asks the bartender. "This isn't just any old pig," the farmer says, "This pig has twice saved my life. So, just to be on the safe side, I carry him about everywhere with me." "Oh really?" says the bartender, incredulously. "Yes, once I fell into the river and he jumped in and dragged me to the bank. Another time my house caught fire and he ran in and saved me, the wife and the kids." As the farmer is talking the bartender can't help noticing that the pig is missing a leg. "In which of those accidents did the pig lose its leg in?" he asks. The farmer replies: "Neither. An animal like this you don't eat all at once".

Joke 2: There was once a man from the city who was visiting a small farm, and during this visit he saw a farmer feeding pigs in a most extraordinary manner. The farmer would lift a pig up to a nearby apple tree, and the pig would eat the apples off the tree directly. The farmer would move the pig from one apple to another until the pig was satisfied, then he would start again with another pig. The city man watched this activity for some time with great astonishment. Finally, he could not resist saying to the farmer, "This is the most inefficient method of feeding pigs that I can imagine. Just think of the time that would be saved if you simply shook the apples off the tree and let the pigs eat them from the ground!" The farmer looked puzzled and replied, "What's time to a pig?"

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Issue 4 /2004 – 8 May 2004)

“PSEUDOPIGIA!”

Well here we are 10 years on from the first day we let people into the Trough on a  semi-commercial basis.  Yep, it was Claudy’s birthday 10 years ago on 6th May 1994  and whilst we’re on the 8th May today, who’s gonna count the odd day? Funnily enough Claudy had another birthday two days ago and we can only presume that she enjoyed it!  But we have all moved on another 10 years since 6th May 1994.  There’s a great Pink Floyd lyric from their 1973 Dark Side of the Moon album – 31 years ago – where they said: “And then one day you find, ten years have got behind you;  No-one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun”. Sure makes you wonder what you did with the last 10 years,  if you enjoyed them, and who keeps that gun!

 But hang on a moment, it’s only time at the end of the day!  And what is time? Is it a resource? Can we bottle it? Save it? Stop it? No we can’t. Time goes on and on and on and we have to run with it or fall far behind in the race. As the Stones sang years ago: “Time waits for no-one, and it don’t wait for me”, but they’re still going strong and rockin’ and rollin’, so from here on we’d all better get on and enjoy it, make the best of it, have a ball,  burn de candle at both ends occasionally, goof about, have the odd beer (perhaps even an even one), cry a tear, dance,  and/or  slap the monkey! 

So what have the Pigs done with the last 10 years. Well, basically, we’ve kept on giggin’, jiggin’,  and piggin’ in the riggin’.   We’ve hosted ace blues man “Bob Pearce” from Southampton four times. We brought down “Blues etc” - also from Southampton - in February 2003 with assistance from the Shackelton Fund. “Geoff Rich”, the drummer from, Status Quo has played in the Trough and been supported by the Pigs. “Hank Wangford” has also played the Trough with his merry men.  So have the “Avocado Monkeys” (Jay Moffatt, Chris Didlick, Mike Triggs, Noel Igao, John McLeod),  “Free Beer”, “Too Much Brass”, “Thunder Alley”, “RIP (with Bosie and Stuie)”, and “After Hours” (who were here last week), the latter three bands featuring the illustrious Martin Plato!  String picker extraordinnaire Alan Stroud has played the Trough. So too have Jock and Liz, Norman Clark, Les Lee, Ian Goss and his country pickin’ tycoons, Martin Howells, Folks off the “Able J”, various ENT consultants, Ant Touson, David Fyfe, Don Powell the drummer from Slade,  and Kevin George when he’s allowed out of his shed (Le Shed de Kev)!  

We’ve undertaken a week’s tour in Santiago, Chile, in 1996.  In 1997 we played some gigs in Swindon and were proud to contribute to the 15th Anniversary of the Conflict bash at Gosport.  We’ve played the Fool, Port Howard, Mount Kent, Mount Alice, MPA (Gull and Penguin), Mare Harbour (Port Squadron), the Globe, the Vic, the Rose, Stanley Arms, FIDF Club, Falklands Conservation bashes at the Town Hall and Fitzroy, and we contributed to the Millennium bash on the football field. 

 We actually started off at the Trough – and prior to that - with a bass player called Charles Keenleyside but he went off to greener, but pigless pastures, in New Zealand not long after we opened. Then we were fortunate to recruit Ray Robson (whom we’d known for years) as a replacement, but sadly he shredded his finger in a winch about 18 months ago and hasn’t been able to play since. Subsequently we’ve been provided with great big, bum reverberating, bass sounds by the fabulous Tim Cotter and his Rickenbacker (not a Backenricker).  

And we’ve double glazed all the windows, bought some bar stools, have a 24x7 heating system, and have an extension going on the East end to provide more space.

But we have to thank a whole host of people – too many to list – for helping us out in so many ways, and/or permitting us to play. These are friends and family people and of course you, the audience, without whom we would probably still play, but securely locked in the broom cupboard, or in Kev’s shed  at the end of the garden.

So, what next? Well, whether you like it or not we’re gonna keep on piggin’ and jiggin’ for a while yet: just so long as we can stand  up, the feet can still tap, and the fingers can still pluck!  But we have to remember to stop before we crash. Apparently the abattoir won’t take worn out pigs!

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Issue 3/2004 - 27 March 2004

    “ELEPHANTS ON THE EYELIDS!”

Y’all will recall that in the last Vine Hensrickle Schmitt ended up guzzlin’ some discarded Piggies “Swineken” beer with the Sheriff at Le Lancia House, and how they yarned themselves in three scrapes of a fiddler’s bum into a good time, and then went to sleep. Y’all will also recall that when Hensrickle woke up he had such a sore head that he swore he had elephants in the attic! Anyhow, notwithstanding all that pain, he decided he’d better get along the track ‘cause it was getting’ late in the day.  He could tell time was movin’ along ‘cause the shadows were pointing the opposite way to when he arrived, and they were quite long with it!  Indeed, they were quite long without it, whatever “it” is!.  The Sheriff was still asleep, with fag ash upon his chin but he looked real comfortable with his head resting on a banker on the peat bucket by the Rayburn.

 Hensrickle strode out into the evening to look for his old nag, Nancy. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and produced a shrill whistle. The pressure from producing the whistle also produced a few tight, raspy, sounds into the still evening air.  Yuuurrgghhh, Hensrickle spluttered as his nostrils and sense of smell were subjected to air viler than any emanating from the mud, duck muck and rotting weed in Le Lancia Creek.  Not as bad as that guitarist with the Pigs, thought Hensrickle, but maybe a close match for the injured bass player.  (Singer and drummer excluded!)

Old Nancy trotted up, breathed in, and rapidly trotted off again. When the air cleared she came back and was obviously ready to rock and roll.  Hensrickle sensed her eagerness and remembered her love for Status Quo, so he quickly mounted up and they trotted off with Hensrickle singing “Rockin’ All Over The World” at the top of his voice.  Nancy and Hensrickle quickly got into the swing of things.  They thought of Betty Bouldercrutch, Syringebutt the cat, the Do Wockums, the Sheriff, the Pigs & the Trough, Ali the Engineer, a fine Victory Bar curry, and a host of others. 

In a very short time – 1.5 scrapes of that eminent fiddler’s bum to be precise – Hensrickle began to feel drowsy and his head started to hurt again. “Darned Swineken”, he thought, as every plod of Nancy’s hooves reverberated through his body and soul.  He felt real bad. His head became heavy and he struggled to keep his eyes open.  His eyes seemed to be full of grit (darned Sandman) and it felt very much like he had elephants on his eyelids. ELEPHANTS ON THE EYELIDS? SURE! That’s exactly what the trouble was and, in less time than it takes a mosquito to get blood from a fiddler’s bum,  Hensrickle and Nancy rode off both into and through the sunset. Goodbye Hensrickle and Nancy!  They deserve a rest, but will no doubt be back in a future Vine!

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 (Issue 2 /2004 – 13th  March 2004)

    “ELEPHANTS IN THE ATTIC!”

In Pig Vine 11/2003 Hensrickle Schmitt had fallen asleep at the Muddle Bridge whilst smokin’ a big thick  Capstan (medium cut) fag, was transferred mysteriously through time and space, ended up guzzling beer and whiskey at ‘The Wheatsheaf’, a quaint little pub in Sussex, England, and wondered whether at any moment there might be elephants at the window.  That was in September, and indeed there were elephants at the window.  So, Sir Hensrickle (when did he get a knighthood?), it’s time to wake up and move on, for there definitely are elephants at the window! 

Hensrickle rubbed the Capstan tobacco ash from his eyes and looked around him. There was his old horse, Nancy, standing patiently waiting for his next move, and dawn was fast approaching. Hensrickle had always fancied being up at the crack of dawn, so he picked some bogues from his nose, some stale sausage roll from his beard, scratched his buns, and took a long draw of whiskey from his hip flask. Then stood up.  Then he fell over.  Then he got up again. His mind had become a fairground, a rainbow, a kaleidoscope of vivid colours……...sheer fantasy, dizziness and nausea all at once.  Notwithstanding the mental and visionary chaos, he managed to muster even more hate for Betty Bouldercrutch,  thought of his old cat Syringebutt, fell madly in love with dawn, took another swig of Whiskey, then mounted old Nancy (got on his horse) and rode off westwards towards home.  He knew he was heading west because the compass he had mounted between old Nancy’s ears confirmed his direction (and he didn’t think old Nancy was capable of tampering with it).   

Hensrickle knew where he was going but he was still seriously confused.  Hensrickle often burst into song when he was confused, so he did:    “R soles,  R soles,  R soles, R soles, R souls, R souls, R souls” he sang loudly at the mountains that surrounded him.  He sang it at the grass, at the small birds that eyed him suspiciously from the cover of shrubs, at the field mice, the nervous sheep, the Diddle Dee, the buzzards circling overhead, and at the rising sun.   Soon Hensrickle had sung his way past Mount Went on his left and the Le Lancia Mountain on his right.  He could see the Le Lancia House at the end of the valley and he turned old Nancy towards it .  The sun had just risen high enough to shine down the valley and it looked heavenly.  At that point old Nancy  ‘let one go’ and blew a thrush right off a grass bog 10 yards away! Time the old girl had a feed thought Hensrickle,  temporarily adjusting Nancy’s direction  to avoid a following wind.  We’ll get some scran at Le Lancia House, he thought, so long as the Sheriff’s home.   

And so within a small amount of time (two scrapes of a fiddler’s buttocks in fact)  Hensrickle was knocking on the door of Le Lancia House.  This certainly wasn’t a police post but a Sheriff answered it.  Hensrickle and the Sheriff went back a long way. Then they came back again!  “Howdy,” said the Sheriff, and inviting Hensrickle in for a yarn, a cup of tea and some odd rums.  The Sheriff had guzzled all the even rums the evening before, ‘cause he reckoned they were stronger than the odd ones.   The Sheriff was a great guy, however he had been subjected to some mal administration in the past for drinking too much rum and he hoped that this visit of Hensrickle would not lead him too far into temptation.  Hensrickle went in and, sure enough, within a short time,  the yarns started in earnest.   They were always hungry for news at Le Lancia, and Hensrickle had a lot to tell.  Time passed, and  Hensrickle tried to explain in detail where he had been and what he had been up to. He had real trouble describing Betty Bouldercrutch to the Sheriff.  She was so god darned ugly that he just could not adequately convey an image of her, or demonstrate the fear he felt when her name was mentioned. He even tried drawing a picture, but that didn’t do the trick;  just talking about her made him feel sick. 

So Hensrickle and the Sheriff continued to yarn away,  and within three scrapes of another fiddler’s buttocks they began to exaggerate and the tales became taller, wider, and so far-fetched it took them at least 15 minutes to go and get some of them.  The rums went down well. Both Hensrickle and the Sheriff began to feel odd, which is not surprising because they had been drinking ‘odd rums’ for quite a while.  Then it got real dangerous!

The Sheriff went out to the shed and brought in some bottles of an evil looking brew. He said that he had had a visit from a couple of lads from the Fighting Pig Band a few days before, and they had enjoyed a fine evening of guzzlin’, guitar playin’,  and yarn tellin’.   The Piggies had left a case of their fine beer for the Sheriff to enjoy at his leisure, but he hadn’t had any leisure until now (Hensrickle happened to have some spare leisure in his saddle bags, which he had nicked off the Manager of The Wheatsheaf, which he was happy to share). So the time was exactly right to try a few bottles of the Piggies’ beer.  And they did. And it was strong.  And they danced around the kitchen to an old, well-worn,  scratchy, country honk record and a few Scottish reels.  And they drank and they danced until Hensrickle said his feet were as sore as Neville will be on his 52nd birthday on Thursday 18 March. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY NEVILLE” they shouted loudly and sincerely. The Sheriff said Neville should “keep squeezin’ the lemons” for some reason which he never let on.  It  had now gone noon and the Piggies’ beer seemed to have sapped their energy and made them feel tired.  They sat down and it wasn’t very long before sleep had overtaken them both.  

When Hensrickle woke up and stood up and he wished like hell that he hadn’t done either.  He felt as ragged as he imagined Betty Bouldercrutch’s drawers would be, not that he’d seen them mind.   He felt like a tom cat recovering from having had a large dose of turps applied to its backside.   He felt stirred and shaken.  He had never felt this bad after a booze up with the Sheriff. He picked up one of the empty Piggies’ beer bottles and read the label for the first time. It said: “THE FINEST BEER FOR PIGS EVERYWHERE  -   SWINEKEN -  8% Proof”.  “Swineken”,  thought Hensrickle, “Swineken at 8%”.  Better than the SCB’s interest rate, and no wonder  my head’s so sore and thumpin’ that I think I’ve got  “ELEPHANTS IN THE ATTIC”.  

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(Issue 11/2003 – 6th September 2003)

“ELEPHANTS AT THE WINDOW!”

In Pig Vine 8/2003 we recounted how Hensrickle Schmitt had made his escape from both the Trough and the potentially deadly grip of Betty Bouldercrutch. He had escaped on his old nag ‘Nancy’, made his way to the Three Spinsters Gate where he had a beer, then headed down the Three Spinsters Flats towards the Muddle Bridge composing a poem about the whole affair as old Nancy plodded on. Affair? Well it wasn’t an affair, but it would have been a darned sad affair if Betty Bouldercrutch had got him. The effects of the beer he had guzzled at the gate had relaxed him, and Hensrickle felt safe in the knowledge that he was heading home to where his old tomcat “Syringebutt” would keep guard at the gate with the threat of a squirt of the vilest, most acidic, most stench-ridden liquid on Earth to any potential danger or intruder.

 It wasn’t long before he made the Muddle Bridge where his dismounted (got off his horse), laid back in the grass and rolled a fag (Capstan Medium Cut). The smoke from his fag hung mystically in the cool night air and, with his latest poem tucked away in the ‘Peat Bogs of His Mind’, Hensrickle began to doze and dream as he was wont to do (Bloody fool) whenever he smoked Capstan. (But  was it really Capstan?)

Hensrickle’s mind took him to his little house, Syringebutt, the beach, his favourite trout fishing spot, ladies he used to fancy like hell, and then his peaceful mood was completely wrecked as Betty Bouldercrutch’s ugly mush snuck into his mind again. And he panicked. He was still asleep, but in his dream he up and boarded old Nancy (the horse) and galloped off through his mind’s eye. Hensrickle hung on tight as Nancy galloped faster and faster through the night, seemingly achieving extreme speeds. He knew not where he was going, but he felt he was travelling very fast over huge distances. His senses were teased frequently by new smells, and at one point the temperature rose quite substantially (could it be the Equator?) and he heard bongo rhythms (Brazil?), then he saw a tall tower called ‘Ethel’ (?) and smelled frogs’ legs cooking in hot fat (France?).  The next sensation was like falling and gliding over water at the same time, then trees gently brushed his face and then old Nancy touched down on a grassy verge. Hensrickle dismounted and looked around him. He scratched his head and then his buns, and decided to tether old Nancy out and investigate his new surroundings. The alternative was to wake up but he’d tried that already and failed miserably.

 Hensrickle strolled along what he decided must be a country lane as there was evidence of ‘the country’ all around him (rabbits, voles and hedgehogs, and houses set back in flower and shrub filled gardens). He felt as ease and then felt even more so as he turned a corner in the lane and saw a most inviting building ahead of him. Hensrickle’s nose twitched uncontrollably as it recognised the smell of beer. As he’d lost his specs on the trip he could just read the name above the door….’THE WHEATSHEAF - Traditional Draught Sussex Ales’, but he could see enough and he went in and ordered a beer. “Jings” said Hensrickle to himself, “what a big glass and they’re getting the stuff out of a tap by pulling a handle”.  He wondered why they called it ‘draught’ and wondered if there was any connection with ‘drawers’? And why was it traditional? Did the aftereffects traditionally shred ones shreddies. Hensrickle worried about that a bit as he only had the pair he was wearing, but he downed his first glass of beer and ordered another. He looked around him.

 Hensrickle could not understand it at all. It certainly wasn’t the Trough but the people there were wearing Fighting Pig Band polo shirts and, whilst he was puzzled as hell, he immediately felt at home. He guzzled down his second glass of beer and ordered a third. He thought he recognised one of the ladies and he felt sure he had seen her at the Trough on a few occasions. Could it be Sarah-Jane Rich? He was certainly not yet brave enough to ask dumb questions, so he ordered up another beer, a whiskey chaser, rolled a Capstan and lit up. That’s it for now, but thankfully he managed to transmit an image back to the Trough for this September gig. Hensrickle thought this one would be of interest because there were seven people with the funniest lookin’ horse he’d ever seen, and it looked like it could carry all of them and their drinks without any effort. “Whatever next?” Hensrickle thought to himself, as he ordered up yet another beer and another whiskey,  Elephants at the window? Elephants at the window? Elephants at the window?

Wheatsheaf_crowd_Sussex_England

(More Wheatsheaf photos on Page 3 of Photo Gallery)

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Hensrickle Schmitt Rides Home

(a poem; complete fiction!)

I am Hensrickle Schmitt my friends,  I’m a cowboy through and through

Me and me old Nag Nancy, came to town to attend a "do" (a ding dong do?).

I was boozin' hard up at the Trough, I was having a real good time

I’d had some beer and whiskey (lots),  some hot plods and some wine (lots of that too).

I was standing quietly by the bar, and I wasn’t up to much

Then I saw this lovely pair of bunz, in tight Levi’s they were tucked.

I thought I’d like to touch them, just hold them for a while

They looked so nice and firm my friend, and I couldn’t help but smile.

I decided I must whack them, Oh! Lord! Help me please

Perhaps she’d really like it (there’s always hope), and she’d let me have a squeeze (if my luck was in!).

So I lifted up my hand so high, and I gave dem bunz a whack (ouch!)

But they weren’t firm like I expected, they were really, really, slack (shock!).

The owner turned round quickly, how she stared me in the eyes

She was so goddarn ugly (yeagghh!), that I let out such a cry (yeaagghh! again).

Her name was Betty Bouldercrutch, and she scared me quite to bits

The impassable valley quivered there, right between those great big ___(you choose word).

That impassable valley scared me, like the real one scares me too

I was so plumb froze down to my toes, and I wondered what to do (escape, man, escape!).

She is such a hunk of woman, could have escaped from a zoo

I wondered about her ancestry (brave man!), rhinos, pigs, and kangaroos? (good grief!).

But escape was on my mind, my friends, there was one thing I could do

I told her that I loved her so (fool!), and I’d always be real true (liar!).

That caught her off her guard, indeed, it was then I took my chance (why wait?)

I ran out the door, mounted Nancy (the horse), without a second glance (why look twice).

We galloped off, we headed west,  it was the only way to go (To the East is but cold ocean)

We travelled at such high speed (40 trots at least), we could die if we went slow (if she gets us!).

So here we are just trotting down, the old Three Spinsters Flats (rock and roll baby!)

We’re on our way, we’re heading home, why’d I suddenly think of cats? (don’t ask us!).

Well if Betty ever cat-ches me (did you cat-ch that?), there’ll be some hell to pay (what currency?)

I’ll need some strong distraction, to give me time to get away.

I thought of my tomcat "Syringebutt", and how he just might be of help

If he could squirt into her face (shouldn’t be a problem), that would really make her yelp (close your ears!).

The vile liquid he does produce (and it is vile!), would really make her cough (and more!)

I’ve seen him spray a Rover wheel, and the paint just peeled right off! (honest!).

So if I get home soon,  and keep Syringebutt close at hand

I can be unafraid of Betty (at a reduced level at least), and move freely about my land (that’s my job!).

I know I said I loved her (darned fool!), but I admit I am a liar (brave man!)

I’m not so daft to jump straight from, a frying pan into a fire (now that would be stupid).

So beware Betty Bouldercrutch (I’m sure she’s scared), old Syringebutt’s out on guard (faithful old soldier!)

Don’t dare to step inside my gate (or near it!), Syringebutt’s marked your card! (a real threat!).

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(Issue 8/2003 – 19th July 2003)

“HENSRICKLE SCHMITT RIDES HOME!”

Y’all will recall that a few Pig Vines ago, Hensrickle had attended a fine evening of grog and gallivanting in the Trough, and how it had all gone wrong when he whacked da wrong bunz, dem bunz actually bein’ the property of the fearsome Betty Bouldercrutch. And y’all will recall how just before Betty got to bouncin’ his head on the Trough floor, Hensrickle had bravely told her that he loved her and then, while she was swooning about,  made a quick escape on his old nag, “Nancy”.

Hensrickle galloped off into the moonset and headed west to his little house on the hill where he knew he’d be safe from the beastly Bouldercrutch woman and all the beer, bad breath and wind, that went with her.  She was so evil that even the biggest and bravest Falklands’ bluebottle wouldn’t get within 10 feet of her! Hensrickle remembered that Rock Bergenstein, the drummer with the “Peat Bog Bogies”, had told Hensrickle that a couple of years ago they’d seen Betty exhale her cigar smoke so forcefully she blew the feathers clean off an Upland Goose! 

Anyway, it was a fine night for travelling and Hensrickle had made his way without incident to the Three Spinsters Gate, where he decided to give old Nancy a break, and himself a can of beer. He glugged back his beer, and wiped the sweat off his brow. The moon was full, there was frost in the air, and he could see the shiny, silvery, ice crystals on the grass and other vegetation. He realised he was a lucky man to be enjoying such beauty and tranquillity, when in the alternative he could have lost his teeth in the Trough carpet, and ended up with Betty Bouldercrutch’s boot on his bonce. Or, as an even more unthinkable alternative,  she could have dragged him off to bed with her, and that would have been so much worse!

The very thought of Betty sent massive shivers of fear down his spine again, and Hensrickle decided he’d better get away on old Nancy before the fear ended up in his shreddies. He mounted up and he and old Nancy headed off down the Three Spinsters Flats towards the Muddle Bridge, his next pitstop. Nancy trotted gently on and the motion relaxed Hensrickle so much that he began to compose a poem in his mind around the night’s events.  He even began to consider options for defence if Betty came after him, which he feared she would. Hensrickle’s poem will be  reproduced in the Vine shortly.

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(Issue 7/2003 – 5th July 2003)

PEAT BOGS OF THE MIND!

First Some Definitions:

Peat: noun. Decaying vegetable matter found in uplands and bogs and used as a fuel (when dried) and as a fertiliser.

Bog: noun 1. a wet spongy area of land. 2. Slang. A toilet. Boggy adj. Bogginess noun.

Bog down: verb. Bogging, bogged – to impede physically or mentally.

Mind: 1. n. The part of a person responsible for thought, feelings and intention. 2.Intelligence as opposed to feelings or wishes. 3. Memory or recollection (his name didn’t spring to mind immediately). 4. A person considered as an intelligent being (one of Europe’s greatest minds) etc.

And so we can now move on to explore the concept of the “Peat Bogs of the Mind”.  For convenience we will occasionally refer to them as PBOTM.  These are the places where people can get stuck (bogged) and end up dwelling on bad thoughts for too long.  If you have ever had to cut peat you will remember that “clinging suck” as your wellie boots gradually went deeper into the peat underfoot.  And it always found its way onto your hands and clothes. You will remember how the peat stuck to your boots, and built up until your boots felt quite heavy, and you had to stop to “de-peat” them.  Sticky, sludgy stuff.  Like doggy doo but less smelly….and you didn’t usually find it on your shoe after a walk in the park , or a trip to the supermarket!  But it was sticky and messy, and it was a real chore to get it off your boots. So what’s all that got to do with PBOTM? Well after a spending a couple of months of one’s Summer going to the bog to mark the peat bank, cut peat, rickle peat, and then cart peat home, the  peat bog took on a different perspective in one’s mind. It became a foreboding place, a dark place, a stark, sticky, sludgy sort of place. Even though some darned fine evenings were spent on Stanley Common at the peat bog, memories of those times can tend to be bad ones.  One remembers sweat on the brow, tiredness, temper, bad thoughts, dust in the eyes, peat on the boots, blisters on the hands, and sore backs.  Peat bogs are therefore places you probably don’t want to return to… EVER!  You do not want to get bogged down in memories of the peat bog. They are bad memories! They will chill your soul! 

So what are PBOTM? Well, they are the places where you store bad memories: like falling off your bike as a kid and being laughed at;  having stiches for the first time; getting hit by the school bully, wetting your drawers at some kid's birthday party, or of changes that have driven you very nearly daft.  Like Hensrickle Schmitt put Betty Bouldercrutch into the Peat Bogs of his Mind ‘cause she’d a bad girl and a bad memory for him. 

So what? Well, if you want some free advice come up to the Trough next time we’re open and take advantage of the Fighting Piggies music and the “Sheer Pigmosphere” we create. You will free yourself from the Peat Bogs of  Your Mind, at least for a while. So be bold..............come on up and PIG OUT!

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(Issue 6/2003 – 28th June 2003)

HENSRICKLE SCHMITT'S ESCAPE!

Those of you who were at the Trough on 7th June and actually read the Pig Vine will no doubt remember – if remembering is actually possible after a Trough night - that it ended with Hensrickle Schmitt finding himself in deep, deep, trouble. For those of you who don’t remember for any reason at all Hensrickle had got hisself fired up real good on Hot Plods and then changed to Whiskey, a cocktail which sent vast quantities of mischief coursing through his veins at very high speed. And then, during a momentary lapse of reason, he had whacked a fine set of bunz he believed were attached to Pothole Pete’s wife. But they weren’t. They was da wrong bunz! And Hensrickle had found himself staring into the wildest, wickedest, coldest, most bloodshot,  eyes he’d ever seen attached to a woman – if that’s what it was - at a Trough hoedown. He’d had close shaves before (funny ‘cause he’d always had a full beard?) but this one was the closest he’d ever had, and it brought panic into his mind in great quantities, and he was worried that it might fill his pants with fear.  Hensrickle, drunk as a fly in a beer bottle, was as scared as he’d ever been +200%.    

But in a brief moment Hensrickle entered what can only be described as “the calm before the storm”.  His mind temporarily transferred itself so far from here to his little house on the hill where life was quiet and peaceful…...he was just arriving home on old Nancy (the horse, stupid) and he could see his dogs’ faces  at the wire of their compound, he could hear their welcoming barks and whines, he could see old Syringebutt the tomcat waiting impatiently at the door, and he could see the peat smoke wisping from his chimney as only peat smoke can (funny ‘cause he put the fire out before he left). He called at the dogs, took a wide berth around Syringebutt and went into his little house.  Sure enough the fire was hot and there was a smell of fresh cooking in the air.  He was home; he relaxed.  But pleasant as it was, Hensrickle somehow sensed something was wrong.

Hensrickle sat down at the table and lifted the Teacloth off a tray of things he reckoned could only be fresh cooking…..and it was! There on the tray were two kinds of buns: one set contained raisins and currants and the other did not. And there was a sign on the tray telling him that he could chose one kind and he had to leave the other. There was no-one in sight, so who had cooked the buns? Hensrickle wondered (very briefly) which ones to choose, and then grabbed a couple of the ones with currants in.  That did it, the sky went dark, lighting flashed and thunder roared (and heaven and earth were shaken, and the little Pig curled up his tail, and ran to save his bacon!) (where the heck did the Pig come from?),  Syringebutt let forth a stream which put the fire out, and his dogs barked in the utmost of fear and then shot into their kennels.  Hensrickle had unfortunately chosen da wrong bunz for the second time. But it had been a sign indicating to him that he must escape without delay otherwise his very own bunz were gonna get a severe pounding. 

Hensrickle’s thoughts raced to his old nag, Nancy, who was waiting patiently outside in the cold  with the saddle still on.  How fortunate it was that Hensrickle didn’t take the saddle off because  Nancy was ready to rock and roll (and a bit of rock and roll would be better than what “The Peat Bog Bogies” were picking their way through thought Hensrickle).  But how could he get past this evil creature in front of him without falling into her grip? Surely such eyes cannot belong to one of God’s creatures thought Hensrickle in what was left of the microsecond it takes to have grabbed da wrong bunz and then taken the recent  quick tour of his house on the hill (where the darned fool even grabbed another set of wrong bunz).  But they did, the eyes belonged to a human being, even though she was a darned mean one! Yessirree, the eyes belonged to Betty Bouldercrutch who was once feared, famous, and nearly fried  for her part in the “Ballad of the Hill Cove Jetty” (anyone remember that little story involving Rag and his mate, an old black shag and a hessian bag?).

Betty Bouldercrutch was raising one of her massive fists towards Hensrickle’s skinny little throat, saliva was dripping from her mouth, and she was starting to growl like an old diesel. Hensrickle started to shiver and shake. Hensrickle smelt fear again (how much fear can the average set of Y-fronts take?) and decided that he had to get away……this was the very, very, very, last chance he had.  Notwithstanding that Betty Bouldercrutch was a hell of a fearsome woman at least three times the size of Hensrickle, he licked his lips, winked his left eye and said with as much feeling, dignity, care and attention to diction, Capstan tobacco smoke, whiskey fumes and feeling he could muster:

“BETTY BOULDERCRUTCH, I HENSRICKLE SCHMITT LOVES YA DEARLY”.

On hearing those words Betty became a completely different woman (if that’s what she was before?). She became a soft, cuddly, sort of person.  Her very ample bosom shook in her low cut dress and she closed her eyes and moved forward with pouted lips to embrace Hensrickle.  Hensrickle saw the Impassable Valley coming towards him, remembered his intense fear of the place and took off. Man, did he take off! Hensrickle shot out the door, leapt onto old Nancy and they galloped off into the night. Hensrickle had escaped, albeit narrowly. The cleaner reckons he left so fast that half his beard was found on the floor next morning. But Betty still remembers his words and can’t wait to meet him again. She’s in love. She’s besotted with Hensrickle.  Will he reciprocate?????????

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(Issue  5/2003 – 7th June 2003)

DA WRONG BUNZ!

Hensrickle Schmitt had lived most of his life in the Camp. He was a stockman of some repute and it was no coincidence that he had arrived at the Trough on his horse, a docile old nag by the name of  “Nancy”.  He and old Nancy went (almost) everywhere together. Hensrickle had ridden for several hours to get to the Trough, the purpose of his trek being to see his favourite band,  the  “Peat Bog Bogies” pick their way through a few tunes.  The band played mainly country, with a few rock numbers thrown in. They were no match for the Laughing Lafonias, but they were good.

Robert D’Friddle - Lead guitar/vocals/snipe-turning & sheriff’s duties

Dwight “Dowok” Dowokum - Guitar/vocals/goose waving/congas

Marge “Mullet” McTavish -  Bass/vocals/turkey reductions/duck dinners

Boulder “The Rock” Bergenstein - Drums/percussion/general nuisance

Hensrickle lived alone most of the time and spent his days reading books, listening to the radio, and filling his long dark beard with particles of stray soup, breadcrumbs, and Heineken (some say sparrows nested in it!). And he loved music. He had been boot-scooting, hell-raising and having a whale of a time (for the sake of clarity the whales  were only involved for approved scientific purposes and none were killed, injured or cuddled in the making of this Pig Vine).  

Hensrickle had also been massaging his ego and his brain cells with hot plods (hot, dark rum with sugar) all night, so was feeling as loose as a goose (ever seen a tight goose?)and not a little mischievous to boot (where did the boot come from?).  He had done a few rounds of the SirClashin’ Circle (so called ‘cause when Sir pinched the buns of another Sir’s wife, Sir glared at the offending Sir) and had also attempted a Slickstep (dance devised in old times when folks partied outside on the green and had to use deft footwork to avoid goose droppings).  Hensrickle had danced well, but he had made a serious error of judgement..….he had changed his tipple from hot plods to Whiskey.  Folks likened the effect of Whiskey on Hensrickle to adding a turbocharger to an old diesel; Hensrickle took off! He was really smokin’! (Capstan, fine cut, apparently).  He was wilder than his brothers Icer and Messer, who had been unable to attend the event.

He danced and he pranced and he did it all again and again, until finally he became so tired that he had to take a break on a stool by the bar.  Hensrickle entered a mood which can only be described as mellow, or something akin to the “daft floppy dog stage”.  He sat on his stool and thought of old times, old friends, old nags, and old booze ups. He chilled.  Then it all started to go wrong. What happened was (enter Jethro talk) this luscious lady with long dark hair nudged past him, and the soft fragrance of her perfume entered his nasal passages; and by God it moved him. 

Hensrickle saw the tight levis, the colourful shirt, the long, soft, hair, and for a crucial moment thought he recognised her as Pothole Pete’s wife (who shall remain nameless for the purpose of this Vine).  An overwhelming urge came over Hensrickle, and he shivered and shook at the sight of dem bunz in dem levis.  Hensrickle’s  brain (operating at reduced capacity, we admit) told him that he just had to give dem bunz a  whack as dey went past.  He tried to resist, but the plods, the Whiskey, the fragrance, the entire mood of the evening, were very, very, powerful motivators.  

And Hensrickle’s Whiskey and mischief levels had completely taken over. There was no going back.  There was no control. Hensrickle raised his left arm and then brought it down swiftly, his palm extended to provide maximum impact, onto de lucky lady’s left bun.  Hensrickle heard the “whack” as contact was made, and the lady sure felt the full impact of the whack. And as a direct and understandable consequence of it all, she turned around and glared straight into poor old Hensrickle’s eyes.  Hensrickle shivered and shook again, and he could smell his fear and feel the pain he was about to experience. Hensrickle had made a grave error of judgement. The lady certainly wasn’t Pothole Pete’s wife, and there was an overwhelming level of certainty that what he had whacked so playfully and mischievously were definitiely..............................................

DA WRONG BUNZ!

(UNFORTUNATELY YOU WILL HAVE TO WAIT TO FIND OUT WHO THE LADY WAS AND WHAT HAPPENED TO POOR HENSRICKLE SCHMITT IN A FUTURE EDITION OF THE PIG VINE. UNTIL THEN PLEASE USE YOUR IMAGINATION, OR RECALL WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME YOU MADE THAT KIND OF MISTAKE.  GO ON, THINK BACK A LITTLE!)
 

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(Issue  4/2003 – 31st May 2003)

"AVOCADO’S SWANSONG?"

Collin’s Dictionary Definitions:

Avocado

A pear-shaped tropical fruit with a leathery green skin and greenish-yellow flesh.

Monkey

(1)Any long-tailed primate that is not a lemur or tarsier; (2) (loosely) Any primate that is not a human; (3) A naughty or mischievous child; (4) (slang) £500 or $500; (5)vb – monkey around or about with; to meddle or tinker with

Monkey Business

n. Informal mischievous or dishonest behaviour or acts

So Who Are the Avocado Monkeys? They are (according to the illustrious Chris Didlick (who had a taxing time producing the following blurb!):

Jay Moffatt - Lead Guitar/Vocals (watch it Eric!)

Chris Didlick – Drums

Noel "the human feedback" Igao - Rhythm Guitar/Vocals

Mike Triggs (Trigger/Triggs/that crazy bugger with the hair who drives around in tractors all day) - Bass Guitar

The Avacados decided that they were better than the Laughing Lafonias so started practicing in earnest around the start of 2002. Their first gig was at the second night of the May Ball in, strangely enough, May 2002, where they went down a storm. They have performed once in the Trough previously. Chris reckons that he and Jay played one night sitting in with the Pigs and, fuelled as they were with liquids from the Globe Tavern and Deanos, produced something akin to a mouldy pizza with pepperoni on top. Or, perhaps it was Jackass squirt? Jay ended it all apparently by chewing through a string and claiming he’d broken one by accident. At least that’s what Chris has told us, but how would he know. We were there but weren’t paying attention.

John McLeod used to be the vocalist but couldn't handle the pressure of the crazy Falklands rock and roll lifestyle and gave up the women and the booze for a quieter time thinking about how good it used to be and what he could be doing if he hadn’t been part of it all at all…..…although, strangely enough, he has since been known to appear on stage for a couple of songs every now and then. Apparently he finds singing quite relaxing. Or is it just an excuse to wet his whistle and see the crowd from another side? You can never tell with singers. Just ask Sheepgut Suzie who rides the leading edge in the Black Rock Roosterskin Ramblers.

Various charity gigs have been performed by the Avocados over their short career, which might explain a number of things they’re short of which we won’t mention here. Like their short career and their shortage of a million dollars in hard cash they could have earned but didn’t! Shucks!

Jay and Chris actually learned to play as Piglets and eventually evolved into Monkeys, a feat of genetic engineering which can only happen to a certain kind of organism (musicaltalentalamodeandacupoftea). Noel and Mike are old band veterans, says Chris (who contributed most of this as a draft). Perhaps they’re just old buggers who play in a band.

Anyway, this is the band’s last gig before Chris flies off to UK on 7th June, followed by Jay in September. It’s all a bloody shame isn’t it. Just when they were starting to get good, life takes over and leaves us old and weathered Pigs to carry on and on and on and on and on and on and on! And we will, we promise. And we hope that those of the Avocados who remain will forge new alliances and continue to make music across the sands of time. And we hope that they will return in their current format at some future date. We wish them well, and thank them for their contribution to Falklands music.

The rest of this space has been left in case you want to get the Avocado’s autographs, or space in which to write a poem (Des Peck’s Dictionary of Modern English – "pome") when you wake up tomorrow, completely Avocadoed.

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(Issue 2/2003 – 10 MAY 2003)

PUT THAT ELEPHANT DOWN!”

PIGGY HEALTH WARNING  - YOU SHOULD NOT TAKE SERIOUSLY ANYTHING SAID OR DONE IN THIS "PIG VINE" BECAUSE IT’S PURPOSE IS TO HAVE  NO PURPOSE AND TO TAKE IT SERIOUSLY COULD ALTER THE VERY POSITIVE EFFECTS OF THE TRUTH WHOEVER OR WHATEVER THAT IS AND WHENEVER IT ARRIVES OR DOESN’T – THIS IS THE SMALL PRINT EVERYONE HAS BEEN WARNING YOU ABOUT !

People sometimes forget that it is very bad for their backs to carry an elephant with them all week.  Whilst there is no doubt the elephant enjoys the ride, the prognosis is that back trouble will return……commonly referred to by sufferers as “me back trouble’s back, and me back’s sore”.  So our best  advice is to put that elephant down without delay, or suffer severe consequences.  We will be putting our own elephants down well before we start the gig, and leaving them there.  

But thinking back a little in time, perhaps almost 20 years, some of us will remember that strong Carlsberg beer whot was guzzled by thirsty peat cutters as they  laboured under a hot Falklands sun. Yep, you guessed, it was “Elephant Beer”, and was so named because of it’s strength…..probably 8% proof for Pig’s sake!  Some folks affectionately called a  can of  Elephant beer “a Trunk”. On many a hot weekend afternoon at peat bogs on Stanley Common, and other locations where toil and sweat predominated, the Elephant was duly put down, and in some large quantities according to folklore!  Some folks could drink lots of the stuff. Apparently some folks had one or two before they started cutting peat, and regular top-ups as time went on! The Common was alive to the sound of Elephants being enjoyed regularly…… ….Pwwiisshhhttttt! Pull! Glug! Sluuurrrpppp! Buuurrrppp! These days Stanley Common is devoid of peat cutters and Trunk suckers. The species is extinct. Instead there is the sound of silence punctuated occasionally by the cry of a small bird, the emission of wind by joggers, hikers or tourists, or the squeak of a field mouse (a few of whom probably live in old Elephant cans).  

Anyone not used to drinking the Elephant beer who was “fortunate” enough to be invited to drink with the hardened “Elephant men” could usually grin their way manfully through four or five Trunks: then they were hit by the big bad Elephant itself and taken away with what legs they had left a-flapping in the breeze, serious drafts in their drawers, and their mind in Kathmandu! Have they Elephants in Kathmandu?  No, but a lot of minds went there, and some are probably still there. Some reckon, with the benefit of hindsight, that Joplin, Keith Moon and Hendrix were killed by Elephants. 

Elephant  was a very odd beer, and a very strong one.  A lot of people thought it was a particularly awful beer!  Perhaps it contained fermented Elephant dung instead of hops.  Those not used to drinking it suffered the hops, bops, pops, cops, ops, lops, plops, and, finally, stops. Elephant beer was once famous in these Islands as an important fuel and energy source for really hard-working men. It does not seem to be available these days, and one can only guess why not.  In some ways that’s good. But if peat was cut today, what hard, self-respecting cutter could survive on Alco pops?

BAD NEWZ!

Unfortunately Ray is still unable to play due to his badly injured (left hand) index finger. He says he is likely to be out of action for some time to come. You may already know that the injury, in Pig terms, is known as “Zetrotteritusdarnedsoreicus”. The hospital has another name for it which we still can’t spell.  This is BAD NEWZ.  The GOOD NEWZ is that the illustrious Tim Cotter is still standing in on the bass guitar which allows us to Pig On!    

AND WHILST ON THE SUBJECT OF ELEPHANTS……….

What’s the difference between eating elephants and peanut butter?Elephant doesn’t stick to the roof of your mouth.

What’s big and grey and can fly straight up?  An elecopter.

What do elephants take when they get hysterical?    Trunkquilizers.

Why are elephants wrinkled? Have you ever tried to iron one?

An elephant is a mouse with an operating system

There was an old man in France who used to get up every morning at five a.m. He would then go and sprinkle a white powder on the roads. When he was asked what he was sprinkling on the roads, he answered that it was elephant powder. The person then remarked "But everybody knows that there are no elephants in France!" to which he answered "I guess it must be working then!"

  (Issue 1/2003 – 18TH JANUARY 2003)

"ZEE PEEGS!"

"WELCOME TO 2003"

Yessirree, it’s 2003 and we’d like to start this Pig Vine by welcoming everyone to the Trough tonight for this first Trough gig of the New Year. WELCOME! And we’d also like to thank everyone who has supported us in so many ways over the past year without which it would have been a bit more of a pig’s ear to keep on piggin’! Obviously there a lot of people who support us directly, but without customers we’d never be able to afford to keep the Trough running. So, thanks for coming along and supporting The Trough and the Piggies!

"ZEE PEEGS! "

"ZEE PEEGS" is just another daft name for a gig. We’ve been doin’ this so long that we are starting to find it difficult to keep new, daft, Pig-related names going. But we will, we promise! And we hope to keep playing for a while yet, even though we have some bad news to report.

BAD NEWZ

Unfortunately Ray has badly injured his index finger on his left hand and will be out of action – on the bass guitar - for some time. The injury, in Pig terms, is known as "Trotteritusdarnedsoreicus", but apparently the hospital has another name for it which we can’t spell. This is BAD NEWZ.

GOOD NEWZ

The good newz is that the illustrious Tim Cotter is able to stand in for Ray on bass tonight, so we can still get on with a gig. Guess we might have to get Tim to come out a few more times over the coming weeks too, until Ray’s back on-line.

MORE GOOD NEWZ – "BLUES ETC" TO VISIT!

Yes we are both pleased and proud to announce the forthcoming tour by the Southampton-based blues trio "BLUES ETC" who will be visiting from 19th to 25th February for gigs with the Pigs. Actually they are very close friends of Bob Pearce and are indeed his backing band so they certainly know how to play great blues and rock and roll!

Thanks also to the Shackleton Fund for sponsoring two of the airfares for the band. The Pigs are paying for the third fare, hotel costs etc. Gigs will be confirmed shortly but the band will be here from 19th – 25th February and that’s for sure.

We hope to do the Trough, the Town Hall and Malvina so keep your eyes peeled for the gig list which will be in next week’s Penguin News.

HOT NEWZ!

(1) The Laughing Lafonias haven’t been seen since Christmas…problems with mullet we hear!

(2) The Black Rock Roosterskin Ramblers have stopped all fishing in their whiskey!

(3) Squirrels don’t like mushrooms, or being kept in the dark!

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(Issue 7/2002 –  3 August 2002)

PIGNITION!

What is “Pignition”? Well, according to a well-known dictionary, ignition is: 1(n) the system used to ignite the fuel in an internal-combustion engine; 2 an igniting or the process of igniting. And Pig for the purposes of this exercise relates to not just one little Piggy, but the pan full of Piggies more popularly known as “The Fighting Pig Band”, or “The Pigs”. So all we need now is a recipe for Pignition. It stands to reason that the Pigs are the “system” used to ignite the fuel in the internal combustion engine, so if we take it that the physical part of the internal combustion engine is The Trough, then all we need is for the fuel to be inserted into the engine ready for ignition by the Pigs, what we now of course call “Pignition”. The fuelling process is rather  random, but nonetheless successful. People are the containers for the fuel.   The containers travel in the early part of the evening, mainly under their own steam, to the several suppliers (pubs and clubs) in Stanley and take on fuel.  Then, at around 11pm, the containers, by then nearing a state of fullness with fuel, begin to make their way to the engine (the Trough). The engine then gradually takes on the fuel by admitting the containers, and once the engine itself is full of fuel all we need is something to ignite it.  That of course is where the Pigs come in.  And at around 11.45 tonight the Pigs will take to the stage and – unless they are overly full of fuel themselves – will commence the process of PIGNITION!  And once the engine is started it will of course need the occasional topping up with fuel in order to maintain the momentum for a couple of hours. So let’s PIGNITE!

Hot News!

Happy birthday to Fred Robson who was only 24.49 years old yesterday.  In the next Pig Vine we will be catching up with the Fag Ash Blondes (Fred and Ray) to see how their blues CD is coming along–hopefully out in the shops before Christmas. And we’re very sorry but this is the last Pigs Gig until mid September. Hey! That’s not “Hot News”, that’s stone-cold-frozen news!  No, but the hot news is that we'll be back piggin' it in September!

Pig Band T-Shirts and other Pigwear

We will shortly be getting some more of the above items. If you have a favourite colour or style in mind please let us know because we may be able to do a special order for you, at a special price!

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YES  THE PIGS’ WEB SITE IS NOW DEFINITELY UP AND RUNNING!

And at our site you will be able to follow the progress of not only the real-life Fighting Pigs and real-life friends, but also their fictitious friends –

·         The Super Fighting Pig

·         The Laughing Lafonias

·         The Black Rock Roosterskin Ramblers

·         Sheepgut Suzie

·         Betty (of the "Ballad of the Hill Cove Jetty" fame)

·         Bluebuns Bert

·         Whitegrass Wendy

·         Little Chay

·         De Wicked Old Witch  

.     De Shed de Kev

·         And a host of others……some yet to be invented!

 Just keep logging in regularly for up to date Pigznewz.