My first story, surprisingly, was not alcohol induced.Some years ago, when I was a young sop player for Kirkbymoorside band, we received a request from the nearby Lingdale band. Could we help them out at a working men's club job up in Teeside. They were short of a sop player and a couple of solo cornets. In the true spirit of brass banding, and with the promise of a couple of drinks afterwards, John Sails ( Kirkbymoorside's superb principal cornet ), Phil Carter, and myself took the trek over the moors to help out.
This particular WMC was in one of the less salubrious areas of industrial Teeside, the view from the fire escape where Phil and I had gone for a breath of fresh air presented row upon row of rather dismal terraced houses, the back yards of which all had either barbed wire or broken glass adorning their rear walls. During the interval and another breath of fresh air, Phil suggested swapping instruments for the second half,him being a former sop player. We swapped over, Phil blowing a few notes on the sop to reattune his lip. Instantly we were assailed by a barrage of abuse from one of the backyards below, some harridan with the charm and vocabulary of a psychotic fish-wife was informing us that her children ( God help them ) were trying to get to sleep and we weren't helping with our f******g noise. Witness two bandsmen making a hurried exit to the relative safety of the club.
Upon our return we meet John Sails carrying a welcome round of drinks. He was keen to help when we told him of the nice lady outside who had requested the performance of a lullaby to usher her beautiful children into the Land of Nod.
Minutes later we see the rapid return of a red-faced John Sails who had only managed a few bars of Brahms' Lullaby before receiving the verbal abuse of his life and a suggestion of a new position to place his instrument.
We never played there again.
A while later, actually a few hours later, ( Lingdale being quite generous with there "quick drink" time ) the bus heads home. By now the lurching around in the aisle has very little to do with the road surface, but, can be attributed to the cumulative effects of Newcastle Brown Ale.
The point arrives when stretched bladders can no longer be ignored, so a chorus of "Stop the bus we want a wee wee" resounds from the back of the bus. A suitable lay-by has been spotted and the more desperate sprint off the bus and take up position in a row along the edge of the lay-by, "pointing percy" down the steep embankment. Sighs all along the row and then a shout. Heads turn to see a particularly drunken cornet player swaying in the doorway of the bus. His grip on reality and his sense of balance seem to all relax at once and he tumbles from the step. Momentum and a belly full of beer take him clear of the bus and deposit him on the back of one of the already peeing bandsmen. Another shout, this time a cry of annoyance and fear is followed by a blur of arms and legs as the two, entwined, bounce and tumble the thirty feet or so to the bottom of the embankment. Through the gloom it can be discerned that this debacle has not staunched our peeing members flow even with the inebriate cornetist still clinging to his back.
It was Summer 1996. We had just completed a job for Easingwold Town Band at Kirby Malzeard. After a successful concert we had spent a couple of happy hours on the Black Sheep Bitter.
It was a rather syncopated journey home with the inevitable
toilet stops every two or three miles.
As we got closer to York we began to
face a problem. We were unable to find a suitable place to stop so Gary had the
bright idea of going down a small country lane near the outer ring road.
It should be noted that cars passing on the main road are
visible to us due to their lights, but, they cannot see us.
Bailing from the
car, Gary starts to do what a man has to do and starts peeing on a nearby gravel
heap. Peter, who is still showing no signs of sobriety, is shouting at Gary to
tell him that there is a car there. Gary, much relieved, says he knows there are
cars there, he can see the lights on the by-pass.
Having finished, shaken and tucked away, he turns to see a couple sat in a parked car not ten feet away. Having just witnessed everything, they flash there lights in acknowledgement of the "full monty"!!
The moral to this tale being:-
Listen to your mates, no
matter how p****d they are.
stapesilverband@btinternet.com
