Circulation: Round and round and up and down we go again…
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 firstname.lastname@example.org 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!
(Issue 3 /2005 – 21 March 2005)
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
(Issue 2/2005 – 15 March 2005)
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!
(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!
(Issue 7/2004 – 16th October 2004)
(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!
(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?"
Issue 4 /2004 – 8 May 2004)
Issue 3/2004 - 27 March 2004
(Issue 11/2003 – 6th September 2003)
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?
(More Wheatsheaf photos on Page 3 of Photo Gallery)
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!).
(Issue 8/2003 – 19th July 2003)
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!
(Issue 7/2003 – 5th July 2003)
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!
(Issue 6/2003 – 28th June 2003)
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?????????
(Issue 5/2003 – 7th June 2003)
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.
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!
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!)
(Issue 4/2003 – 31st May 2003)
Collin’s Dictionary Definitions:
A pear-shaped tropical fruit with a leathery green skin and greenish-yellow flesh.
(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
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.
(Issue 2/2003 – 10 MAY 2003)
“PUT THAT ELEPHANT DOWN!”
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?(Issue 1/2003 – 18TH JANUARY 2003)
"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.
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.
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.
(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!
– 3 August 2002)
THE PIGS’ WEB SITE IS NOW DEFINITELY UP AND RUNNING!
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 –
Super Fighting Pig
Black Rock Roosterskin Ramblers
(of the "Ballad of the Hill Cove Jetty" fame)
Wicked Old Witch
a host of others……some yet to be invented!