Legends of the Fall

Been poked in the back, it’ll never solve the lack… Move over!

Stretch lived in a hole, completely unlike a hobbit hole, more like A HOLE.

From this hole he did venture out one morning to experience the air and take in the daisies as it was their


bedtime. A horse flew by, all black and aggressive and neighed that it was only going to the Fall. The Fall, Stretch thought. A damned good idea that be and immediately sought transport to the station where the iron horse lived. This iron horse would provide safe passage, thought Stretch thoughtfully.

Stretch would need help though and through the power of the ecstacy of post, he found fellow companions for this long trip. One man funk-attack, Dr Ballantine Baines, left his latch-key children and replied “Sho will!” to Stretch’s message. A string of expletives later and Baines was out the door, backcombing as he went towards an inn near where the iron horse slept.

Baines met Stretch in the manner of old friends,


“Well you back!”

Baines was surprised by the other men at the table drinking ale. Responding to a poster saying “If you’re a

I like her books, but I hear she is a communist

fan of Jane Austen (and really who isn’t?)” confused strongman Steve Austin happened upon Stretch and said “fair enough” to the quest to see the Fall. Alongside him was a dwarf whom Baines did not know. When Baines introduced himself to the dwarf, named Gidget the Midget, the only response he got was an aggressive,

“What time’s the bus to Belfast at?”

They clim-bed aboard the iron horse and exhorted it to go to Dubalin. The master of the iron horse told them if they had look-ed at the front of said iron horse there was a sign saying Dubalin. They felt he was being overly sarcastic and trampled him underfoot. Stretch produced bottles of beer and they did guffaw like young childer while old Asian men frowned and sought to dominate them. By this stage, Gidget was wandering off and the rest unnerv-ed, relax-ed and enjoy-ed their supping, for they knew times would soon get tougher.

Gidget arrived back from the Iron Horse bar with a stranger whose eyes were so crossed that they had in fact swapped sides. Gidget said aggressively,

“What time is the bus to Belfast?”

The stranger who we shall call Drago replied,

“What time is the bus to Magherafelt?” he blinked and a white tear spat out of his eye.

“That’s fuckin rotten” said Steve Austin.

Magherafelt: God hates you

The merryish bunch could see the gigantic spike that had landed in Dubalin and knew that they were close to the next phase of their journey. It was time thought Stretch to bring this journey to the next level.

The pub. One pill made him larger and one pill made him small, but the one that mother gives him doesn’t do anything at all, so what’s the point scoring off her then, he thought? Good point said Steve Austin while bending tyre irons to make a nice necklace. Vegetable matter was now seeping into the conversation. At least, thought Stretch, the Fall will bring everything back to a moral and decent level.

Drago was staring at a girl with short black hair who was dressed unintentionally like a zebra crossing. This caused confusion to everyone outside when she was knocked down by a taxi driver. The anger rose from the yuppified when they realised the driver was one of those foreigners everyone had been talking about. Steve Austin got angry at the racist yuppified things and ran extremely slowly, sans soundtrack, at them. He took a good five minutes to beat the crap out of them. Baines was on drinks duty, but ignored my calls for rum and I realised it might be time for us to get to the gig, before Austin was drafted into some covert operation. The yuppified complained, y’know in that way, where they’re serious but NOT at the same time and kinda thinking they’re probably better than you, but not really trying to hurt your feelings, but all the same putting you on a mental list, blackballing you if you ever arrive at their child’s party. Your child, Squishy, will look at you as you leave the party and in solidarity whisper,

“Dad, I didn’t really like them anyway. But in future would’ye not go out so much!”

Right lads. To the gig. Steve Austin talked all the while to the land of the tripple pod, about Jaime Sommers and what kind of things he’d like to do to her. Drago went all weird. Nobody knew why. Baines resolved that if he ever got home, he would watch the entire oeuvre of Bionic Woman. We lost Drago at the door when he was spun around by a small girl, who accidentally caused his eyes to spin like a slot machine. He ran down the road screaming something about Magherafelt. Baines said,

“Y’know, I sho do admire that gimp. Okay ladies let’s with the cocktails get.”

I threw beer at my face until I was grounded and awaited the Fall. Their usual wailing Elvis and Michael Jackson striking fear into four young men who had just arrived. One of them nervously asked me,

“Has the second support act played yet?”

“What the hell can you mean?” I sputtered.

“I was only askin.” His rosy cheeks explained.

“What the what the what the hell can you mean?” I reiterated proudly.

He walked away as the Fall walked on and they launched into “O.F.Y.C. Showcase” and Stretch felt in his loins that

Ooooh! Stamp Stamp

this was gonna be a good Fall gig. I became transfixed with Peter Greenway’s guitar playing. Forget Hendrix, forget Page, the hardest job in music is to be the Fall guitarist. In front of me, there were three girls from the 1980s giving it what could only be described as a Molly Ringwald worth of energy. They danced, no I will use the word boogie as it fits into the slight rockabilly thing.  A lone man up front punched his fist repeatedly as if he was trying to court Andy Bell, it was fucking mesmerising. I couldn’t take my eyes off of that guitar.

The warped jangle of “Cowboy George” took this crowd to a good place. Everyone could feel it, this would be a good Fall gig. It’s hard to describe why, but seeing a bad Fall gig makes you realise how shit life can be. When they’re on form, you think differently. You begin to actually hope, despite the greasy leatherhead future that is David Cameron and his Igor, Clegg. You can see it in Smith’s eyes. He’s totally in control; he’s happy; he’s the showman. Nothing can stop him. He has complete faith as his band fly through “Chino,” the bizarrely tender “Weather Report” and  “Reformation,” which is a new Fall anthem which I’m not so sure about. The man punching his fist has RSI now and contorts his face in time with Smith. Magical.

The Fall come on for an encore and do “Theme from Sparta FC,” but it’s the only down point of the night. Greenway’s vocals just don’t do it justice. I don’t know what it was, but it didn’t sound right. The guitars and Smith were all there, but Greenway fucked it up. Anyway. Gripe over. They launch into “Blindness” and fucked off after a minute. A knowing collective shrug and the crowd just dissapated like sore ass muthafuckas.

Outside, our quest over, we ran into Drago with a very frightened looking French couple,

“What time is the bus to Magherafelt?” he screamed at them

I laughed, slapped my thigh and his back.

“Oh Drago, you are a freak.”

Gidget ran over to the couple.

“What time is the bus to Belfast?”

The blonde French girl seemed calm enough, but her boyfriend was having the fear on a supernatural level. This would not end well and as Baines and myself opened a bottle of celebratory Pimms, the dwarf and the fucking nutcase Drago grabbed the couple and scuttled off with them, much in the same way those cute dark things took away bad people in the popular movie Ghost.

“Haha” we sniggered and began to feel really uneasy.


Been poked in the back, it’ll never solve the lack… Move over!

Most of the vids on that tube thing from this show were high quality, but the leetul cameras couldn’t handle the sound. Anyway, this is more for the visual element.

It’s a long way home.

1 thought on “Legends of the Fall

  1. That fookin dwarf keeps popping up in my dreams. I think he’s some kind of dwarf wizzard.

    He was flying a Quantas Boeing 747 in low circles around my house the other night (pressumably propped up on a booster seat and with a helper dwarf working the pedals that make the plane go). I only had time to think “shit, I never considered the possibility that dwarves could be Australian . . . I’ve always assumed they were English because they speak with a West Country accent” before he barrel-rolled the jumbo into a hill and we all had to dive for cover as bits of engines slashed through the house.

    I always try hard not to dream, but sometimes dwarves get the better of me, the wee bastards.

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