the sicknote diaries

THE BEER TRIP AND THE COCKNEY TWAT!

so friday came and i hired a car. haven’t driven for a long time so i took is for a spin on my own, and visited my ma. she was happy to see me, chilled there with her for an hour and got back to cardiff… pumping sicknote on my journey home, and fuck it sounded good.

i parked up at paul’s and had a guiness with him and laure, they seemed really happy, she looked amazing with her shades on and her big wet smile glistening in the sun.
coupla guinesses and one of pauls pork pies later he dropped me back at mine in time for the Sicknote meeting(!) our first ever meeting…

we met at mine, Sian invited herself along and turned up with a jumbo sausage in batter pissed out of her mind. The good doctor threw a fat line of ket up each nostril and double dropped before rolling a big spliff and announcing that he was ‘ready’

we headed to a local pub and talked about stuff, money we owe, plans to move forward, everyone was present except knuckles.

p&o aired the footage of sicknote on the news and the george galloway interview on his laptop.

we moved to another pub, and i was starting to get a bit irritated.

sian was blabbing on about a photo shoot in buffalo fucking bar for us with dry ice likie some fucking dodgy wham bad boys thing! and saying that me and jonny should have a stand for our laptops with bulbs in it that dance along to the music. i can really see us dragging a load of fucking bulbs around the country with us. What The FUCK? clueless.

the discussions turned to my image. which i admit isnt that exciting. but who really gives a fuck. i was told i need a image consultant. and i said that people have told me that because i look quite normal on stage that it looks good and kind of contrasts things and it works. Everybody just laughed in my face. i felt a bit fucked off. and said that i don’t need to flop my cock out or wear a silly hat just to get noticed, and i’m fine in the background as i am.

i felt sick of everyone and how stupid they all sounded, the only person talking any sense was The Filth, and he was being completely ignored. I made my exccuses and pegged it.

Back at mine, i felt completely tripped out in a bad way, FUCK KNOWS why. a combination of working like a dog for fuck all, stress from the debts,driving, guiness, lager, rollies and 3 hours of sicknote talking absolute shit in my lughole. I just wanted to go away on my own for a week or 5.

I felt for a while that there was no way i could do this weekend, and i seriously felt like calling it all off.

Luckily, i fell asleep.

I woke up at 4am sharp and met tommy tank in the kitchen for a cuppa tea.
I stayed up til about 9 then nodded off for a coupla more hours.

we fucked off to blaen garw in the evening.

the place was full of 15 year old girls showing their bits off and necking pints of cider.
the men looked like oversized biceps in pastel shirts with highlighted beckham hairdos and gay as fuck slip ons.

they didnt know what to make of us,.

although another party of people arrived from the midlands to come and see us the venue was still pretty empty.

the first set we played we were looked upon like a bunch of freaks, and i thought for a mo, the doctor, with his saggy tits hanging out and kilt swatying round his knees, might attract a beating from these valley boys.

we took a break with tommy tank filling in and finding it completely impossible to make any connection with the crowd. poor fucker. a Fight broke out which Knuckles nearly got caught up in but it dirpersed quickly when all the orange biceps pulled each other apart from each other.

this was a tuffie, but i was determined to get the fuckers dancing.

Doghouse started the second half with his fortune telling sequence that went down like a pork pie at a jewish wedding, and we kicked in with Gimme Dat Harp, which it suddenly dawned on me that this song was written for exactly this town!

People staring to move towards the dancefloor, and i kept getting it harder and harder until we had the fuckers bouncing soon enuff.

RESULT!!!

P&O was completely off his tits, eyes bulging out of his head and a seriously depressing gurn that made him look completely gutted. He cam up to me and started throthing in my ear as usual. Not a word. WHAT? i kept repeating but he just kept throthing, and i eventually made out he was asking for money off me. he then reached out and prodded his greasy finger into my left bollock, with out thinking at all i had lauched him right across the dancfloor and very nearly decked him. i thought for a minute he was gonna whack his head and pass out, but he managed to keep his balance.

the first sickntoe gig without drink was a strange experience.

we got plenty of pats on the back, and off we went back to Cardiff, to get our heads down to prepare for the nightmarish journey ahead of us in the morning.

8am up and out!!!!

gathered the very ugly looking troops, and off we went to The Seceret Garden Party in Huntingdon.

4 hours later we arrived and met up with our new friends Elephant Foot. What a buch of amazing people, friendly as fuck, mad as fuck and completely up for it. we arranged to meet back at the looniverse at 2.30 and headed off for a wander round the festy.

after a stroll around i had come to the conclusion that this was possibly the lamest festival crowd i had ever seen (or was it coz i was sober and everyone was fucked from the weekend?)

There was no vibe at all.,

There were lots of posh people dressed up WHACKY! and lots of shit music dribbling out of tents with the force of a wet fart.

we parked up on a bank and bumped into Cosmo, who had recently been dumped by misses half way through their Festival season, after she ran off with another bloke. RUDENESS!

Matt the Hatt strolled by, dressed as, well, im not sure, like an arabian king or that shamen bloke off mighty boosh? with big paisley robe, pyjamas and a like a huge silk turban. i dont understand. he strolled past another guy who looked just as ridiculous and they high-fived each other and carried on walking. i almost tossed my self in the nearby pond.

then, on a small stage down the bank from us, appeared a pirate. he said, “i’m a cockney geezer an we all gonna av a cockney singalong! gather round, gather round!”

sure enough he burst into song and i nearly burst with anger,
this festival seemed like a load of posh people venturing out of their posh villages and gathering in a field and dressing up like a bunch of wacky twats, it had fuck all to do with music.

with a sequinned mullet burping out an emotional drone from the mainstage, and the staedler & waldorf hit ‘china in your hands’ squawking out of another, and the cockney twat having a ri’ ole knees up on his own i began to think that somewhere there must be a stinking gabba tent full of ket-heads.

no.

so we got on stage and started to build up the crowd, they looked completely bemused as elephant foot entered the tent and started fighting, dancing, and pulling each other- it looked completely fucking demented and i loved it. the doctor was turning a few heads too as he started his ‘hump the leadsinger’ routine to ‘Fuck The Pain Away’ much to doghouse’s disappointment.

Headshot got the tent bouncing to fuck, and dr.conker handed out a load of cds, before we finished off with ‘Taxi For Mr Blair’.

Chilled with Elephant Foot for a while and then checked out Sian’s suggested booking for the boat party, Anarchist Wood. Pants.

Drove home.

bed.

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the sicknote diaries

Big Toe’s Leaving Party – THE FULL REPORT


hello!


here is a fantastic article written by the soon to be legendary Manky Pasty that neatly sums up the madness of Big Toe’s Leaving Party!!!


On the day Tony Blair left office I had the honour of accompanying Cardiff’s Sicknote on their trip to London to bid the PM a very special farewell. Here’s what happened…

The crack of dawn on Wednesday 27th June 2007 saw us on our way to wreak havoc on the Streets of London in celebration of Tony Blair’s departure from British Politics. Only minutes after arrival we must have been immortalised in several thousand Japanese holiday snaps and passers-by could not help but marvel at our impressive hooters that we had sprouted especially for the occasion. Children ran screaming into the arms of their mothers as multiple images of a nightmarish Blair/Pinocchio hybrid advanced towards them.

The BBC was quick to snap up the opportunity of featuring this extravaganza on the News at 6, though even these hardened professionals struggled to hide their utter bemusement at what was unfolding in front of their eyes. As the camera crew feverishly set up their equipment and we got ready for battle armed only with a ghetto blaster and a couple of banners, people were already gathering and jaws dropping. Onlookers struggled to catch a glimpse of the action, whipping out cameras and mobiles in a bid to capture a memento of the surreal performance. The situation was somewhat unexpected and feeble attempts were made to disperse the crowd as the band was ironically forced to make a dash for the nearest taxi, with the camera crew following close behind.

Having made our lucky escape, and with a taxi conveniently at our disposal, we decided that now was the time to call at 10 Downing Street to pick up the Guest of Honour himself. He had already caused a certain amount of offence by very rudely failing to reply to our invite; not what you would expect from such a diplomatic man. But that did not discourage us. However, it was at this precise moment that Flapsandwich received a call from one of his reliable sources to inform us that Tony had chickened out and had made a desperate escape by plane to the north of the country… What can I say? The man missed out on his own leaving party after ten years of hard labour: that is in no way Rock ‘n’ Roll.

Unfazed by this minor issue, our next stop was an audience with the legendary George Galloway of Big Brother fame, who had already interviewed Doghouse on his TV show. We made him an offering of an original Sicknote quality rubber nose, but he demanded we throw in one of our t-shirts as well before we did any further business. As soon as we had complied with his demands, he did a runner under the pretence that he had to attend another interview, cheekily winking at one of our female companions as he sprinted into the distance, t-shirt and nose billowing out behind him. A furious Dr Conker expressed his disapproval by urinating on College Green in full view of all the cameras whilst the rest of us gathered our belongings and started to make our way to the now already legendary Sicknote party boat “The Golden Flame”.

Easier said than done. The short walk from The Houses of Parliament to Temple Pier was complicated by further wanted and unwanted attention from members of the public and hysterical tourists who probably saw this as a typical display of British eccentricity and mobbed us with an array of cameras and camcorders. An elderly couple voiced disapproval when Doghouse lovingly decorated the Battle of Britain monument with one of our noses while Dr Conker performed a very special ritual dance to mark the occasion. There’s just no way of pleasing some people…

Having cast our eyes upon the stunning boat floating gracefully upon the Thames and fallen instantly in love with it, we decided to take a little break before the true madness and debauchery ensued. A small friendly tavern just across the road from the pier granted us food and shelter and we managed to gather our strengths for the night ahead.

Watching the people queuing to get on board the boat was highly entertaining, many of them having turned up in fancy dress. Particularly memorable where two girls with homemade fake furry muffs stitched to their knickers wearing life-sized pigs heads for tits… You get the idea. We also seem to have let a real life witch on board. Of course every lucky ticket holder got his or her very own rubber nose, and to see a massive crowd of people all wearing them at the same time was spectacular. Kilnaboy had us all on tenterhooks by not showing up until the very moment the captain decided enough was enough and the boat would have to embark on it’s treacherous journey. And so the celebrations commenced.

There was a brief moment of panic when the boat nearly capsized as the crowd immediately stormed the bar upon getting onto the upper deck, but that was quickly sorted and soon everyone was happily drinking and making merry. Only minutes into the cruise Grooveslave and Tommy Tank already had people up and dancing, and after a quick sound check the first band of the evening, the aforementioned Kilnaboy took the stage. As the sun set dramatically on the river Thames, they had us pogo-ing away manically to their ingenious folk-punk, a very apt choice for this occasion, and it was already clear that Big Toe was missing the party of a lifetime.

By the time Sicknote hit the stage the hedonism and debauchery was in full swing and we were having difficulty keeping our balance what with the wobbliness of the boat and copious amounts of alcohol and drugs consumed. The downstairs room was packed to bursting point, everyone eager not to miss one second of the night’s headline performance as sweat started dripping from the ceiling. As the band launched into “Gimme Dat Harp” the place erupted and the entire boat was literally bouncing down the river. There was a lot of falling over each other and apologising for sitting on strangers laps as we lost all sense of gravity and bopped crazily along to Sicknote’s pounding rhythms. By the end of the set the crowd was screaming for more, and Flapsandwich’s desperate attempt to escape unrecognised was overthrown as he was removed kicking and screaming from the toilets and hurled back onto the stage.

The band finally managed to drag themselves away from the manic crowd and escape to the upper deck for a beer and a fag and the pleasure of being entertained by Cosmo and Felix’s amazing acoustic guitar and double bass performance. Meanwhile Alabama 3 DJs were keeping things lively downstairs. Hardly anyone noticed when the “Golden Flame” arrived back at Temple Pier, and the crew had one hell of a job getting everyone to vacate the premises as the Sex Pistols “God Save The Queen” blasted from the speakers. There was one last manic flurry of pogo-ing, before people moved on to Brixton Jamm to continue partying – for the next 24 hours. Tony, do you realise what you have missed!!!

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