A Pictorial Report On The Folk Cottage at Mitchell Reunion Event

It’s funny how sometimes one thing just leads to another thing and then before you know it they’ve all sort of connected and taken on a life of their own, even from the smallest of events. For instance, I was running a series of acoustic music sessions in a local pub during the winter months from 2000 until 2004 and some of these were attended by a chap called Alden Evans. He’s a superb musician and was a member of The Wire Daisies in those days. We sort of clicked and I began to see him from time to time. Fast forward now to a few years later, Alden is now free lance and looking to form a group so he and his mate Joe Francis came along to one of my pub gigs and we all sat chatting after this. Alden suggested we form a band but with my previous experiences in groups, the tensions and such that are produced therein, I was wary so I agreed in the first place to just come to his local pub and sit in session with him to see what might emerge. Still with me? OK.

It was at one of these sessions that I first met Mark Burke, another fine musician and friend of Alden’s. These sessions grew into a wonderful series of nights of just playing great music with skilled musicians and everyone enjoyed them until they petered out due to things moving on for the players. Alden and Mark were now in a band called The Flamin’ Infidels, with Matt Exelby, Stephen Jackson and Joe Francis and they were a brilliantly exciting and talented group which I went to see and enjoy as often as my work would allow me. So over time I became friends with Mark and his lovely partner Mandy. Mark and Mandy had frequented the Swan Folk Club in Truro where I’d been a resident performer along with John The Fish and others, and now, through their son’s schooling, they’d become friends with Lucy & Bob Brightley who as luck would have it were now living in what had once been the Folk Cottage at Mitchell. This venue, just a big old barn at the time, had been one of the first folk clubs in Cornwall and it was here that a young Ralph McTell, Wizz Jones, Pete Stanley, Clive Palmer, Pete Berryman, all gathered at one time or another to play their music. Mark knew that I was a friend of John The Fish and after he and Lucy & Robert had been chatting about the history of the cottage Lucy wondered if we might like to come and revisit the old place. This was now a beautifully converted cottage with fairly extensive grounds. Mark duly got in touch with me and I mentioned it to Fish who said he’d be delighted to go back and reminisce for a while. So this is how my wife Chrissie and I, Mark and Mandy, John The Fish and his wife Carrie all ended up sitting on a comfy sofa in the Brightley’s front room eating cake and sipping coffee and chatting about the old days at the Folk Cottage, Mitchell.

Cake, as you will discover in this missive, came to be a major consideration and featured ubiquitously in all of our future discussions.

I took a camcorder with me to record events and it was such a pleasure to witness the joy and wonderment on dear John’s face as he wandered the grounds recalling all sorts of great memories. He explained to us where the original door had been, where the coffee bar, run initially by ‘Whispering’ Mick Bennett – more of whom later – had been situated, the outside wooden, that’s right wooden, fire escape had been. He showed us the rear stage wall, now in a bedroom, where a large painting in silhouette of a bare breasted woman, the so-called  ‘Naked Lady’ had been. The painting was now regretfully covered over with layers of emulsion. John pointed out the well near the front gate, now safely covered in, that had once been a repository for all manner of unwanted and possibly undesirable things not least the huge number of empty liquor bottles brought in by the audience as the club was ‘dry’. It was a lovely day and the Brightleys were so welcoming and generous it felt like we’d all been friends for ever!

This genuine kindness and friendliness was what led me to request that Robert and Lucy consider allowing me to bring Ralph McTell to their home in order to film and interview him for my film project to document the history of the Folk Cottage at Mitchell and the famed Pipers Folk Club at Bottallack from their beginnings.

They agreed to this without a moment’s hesitation and that was how Ralph McTell, Robert and Lucy, Chrissie and I came to be sitting on a comfy sofa in the Brightley’s front room eating cake and sipping coffee while I was filming my interview with Ralph!

Meanwhile the ever effervescent Lucy had begun to have imaginative and creative thoughts and that was how some time later over a beautiful Sunday lunch Lucy asked me if I thought it might be a good idea to try to organise a Folk Cottage at Mitchell Reunion. We could invite all the people who’d been a part of the whole whether as performers or audience. Some of the early musicians of course had gone on to achieve International fame. I thought it was grand idea so we put our heads together and that was how Chrissie and I came to be sitting on a comfy sofa in the Brightley’s front room eating cake and sipping coffee while we discussed how to go about making this idea into a reality. Initially we thought we’d have to limit the guest list to only those who’d been involved at Mitchell but this, by necessity, changed as you’ll see further down this article. Over the course of several months, emails were sent out, ‘phone calls were made, and furtive canvassing was done to test the waters; it all had to be shrouded in secrecy for fear of the Garden Party Event being overrun by avid fans etc. Further, cake related (with cheese on one occasion!) meetings took place and at one of these Robert and Lucy had exciting news regarding the loan of a huge marquee to house the Sound Stage and be a shelter from inclement weather for the audience too. This would be invaluable of course in what seemed to be the wettest ever summer in memory. The work went on apace though during a visit to John The Fish and his dear wife, the ever lovely Carrie it began to become evident that I could do with some help so both John & Carrie volunteered to assist and were eagerly recruited to the Folk Cottage at Mitchell Reunion Team. This was a very good move because I hadn’t as complete a list of qualifying invitees as John & Carrie did and so with their help the guest list was broadened to include people who’d been a part of the Club when it was held at other venues such as Rose, near Perranporth and Truro where the club had moved to as time progressed.

SoundcheckingIt all came to fruition on the afternoon of Monday 31st August 2015. Around mid morning, inside  a huge marquee erected in the garden, I brought in my Stage Gear and with help from my good friend Adrian O’Reilly we set up a comprehensive Sound Stage, with a live recording facility. I also brought in my trusty Film Camera Manager, Marty Fitzpatrick, who’d filmed some other events with me, and he set up for a multi camera shoot. The earlier rain had stopped, then, as though bestowing goodwill on the venture, the sky cleared and the sun came out to shine down upon the beautiful surroundings and things slowly gathered pace.

The Stewards and Car Parking Teams, Keith Gauntlett, Emma McCreadie-Thompson and her husband Wayne, arrived to bring order to the vehicular proceedings. Invited guests began arriving, some of whom had travelled great distances just to be there to witness this historical musical event and what a delight the whole thing was!

Robert & Lucy had set up a huge refectory table absolutely crammed with home baked cakes and assorted goodies with an unambiguous sign reading: ‘Help Yourself!’ Two large bowls of apples hand picked from their orchard flanked the entry to the massive marquee. John the Fish and Carrie also brought their cake with the top bearing a copy in icing of the famous ‘Naked Lady’ a painting in silhouette which had adorned the rear of the Stage back when the Club first started. Sadly, as John tried to lay his iconic creation upon the cake the icing stretched, so the Naked Lady got a little taller and a little thinner and looked somewhat misshapen but that, on a day like this, was a minor detail.

We had music from a huge array of past performers who’d all played at the club at one time or another and also from those who’d been in right from the start. Musicians like John Sleep, John The Fish, Ralph McTell, Wizz Jones, Pete Berryman, Mick Bennett, Jonathon Xavier Coudrille, John Wood, Dave Deighton, The Four Fifths Jug Band (especially reformed for the occasion), Jake Walton, Joe and Diane Partridge, and others who had come along after the club had moved from Mitchell, like Thorn & Roses, myself, Adrian O’Reilly and Dick Reynolds (as BisquitrJohn Sleep & John the Fishy), and Stephen Hunt.

Co-hosted by John Sleep and John The Fish, it was off to a flying start with an introduction and a poem from John The Fish, who’d interrupted his lunch to get things moving on time. This was followed by a simply wonderful set, crammed with superb musicianship and deft humour, from Jonathon Xavier Coudrille who also had been wrenched from his no doubt tasty and healthy lunch due to an unforeseen stage equipment glitch. Jonathon’s amazing impromptu performance set the bar high and created a standard the others all bravely played up to. As the equipment glitch was still ongoing Sylvia Fletcher, Rowena Metters and Jinks Jenkins a.k.a. Thorn & Roses stepped in at short notice and gave us a beautifully harmonic set, as they invariably do, including a funny song about somebody called Willie! John The Fish then introduced John Sleep one of the Folk Cottage’s founder members and he gave a short history of its inception. With the equipment glitch finally cured, we had a set from Dave Deighton accompanied by his wife Josie, playing some fancy blues and ending with a rendition of Bob Dylan’s ‘Girl From The North Country’.

Next we heard from John Woods who’d cut his teeth in the original cottage. Now living in Oslo it was sheer chance that he was in the country just as the event was happening. John entertained us with a couple of songs and also brought some very old photos of the folk cottage and its people from the early days. I hope to have a few of thAlan 'Jug' Jewellese in the film that is planned of tJohn Woodhis day’s doings.

Then it was a turn from Terry Broad, Alan Jewell and Kippy, a.k.a. The Four Fifths Jug Band and they soon had feet tapping as they filled the tent with their infectious music.

One of the regulars from the early Folk Cottage days was Jake Walton and he, with Joe Partridge playing guitar accompaniment, brought  us back to earth with some songs of aJakeWalton sweet and sensitive nature and this was very well received by all. Joe stayed on stage to
accompany his sister Diane and when they had played Joe Partridge & Jake Waltontheir set there was a ten minute interval so folk could mingle and have a good old chinwag and chat without affecting any musical performances.

During this short break I was approached by John Sleep who told me he’d been wondering who was paying for all the equipment etc., and I was able to tell him it was mostly free; we’d all made our contributions in terms of equipment and time etc., for the good of the Reunion. However John, clearly impressed with what had been achieved, insisted on making a donation. I wasn’t sure how to handle this and tried to dissuade him but John would not hear of a refusal so I sought advice from John & Carrie who suggested I ask Robert and Lucy and when I did they were of one mind; ‘Put it towards next year’s Reunion!’ they said. I must admit, given the huge success we were witnessing, I’d had a sneaking suspicion this might well be their reaction.

It was suggested then that an announcement could be made from the stage inviting those who wished it, to make a donation but to stress that this was entirely voluntary. I duly made the announcement and a bucket was produced to contain the monies received. It did very well and we now had the beginnings of next year’s event!

Mic McCreadie

Then the breakBisquitry was over and the stage was given over to Mic McCreadie, Adrian O’Reilly, and Dick Reynolds a.k.a. ‘Bisquitry’ who started off the second half of the concert, for that’s what it had become, with an eclectic set of songs.

Folk Festival Fan and aficionado, Stephen Hunt Stephen Huntwas on next and sang some Gospel flavoured songs encouraging the audience to join in with him in rousing choruses which they did with relish!Mick Bennett

A true legend Pete Berryman & Mick Bennett of British folk history then took to the stage in the form of Pete Berryman who played two of his own compositions before inviting yet another legend of the Folk Cottage, Mick Bennett, to come and join him. The next two songs were superlative and though I suppose the last one might be described as slightly scurrilous, it was nevertheless immensely funny and had the listeners Pete Berrymanlaughing with its lyrical content and curiously creative rhymes!

This brought us neatly to the highlight of the event; an appearance by Ralph McTell who gave us two wonderful songs: ‘Hesitation Blues’ and ‘The Girl From The Hiring Fair’ then he left the stage after inviting Wizz Jones to come up and take his rightfuRalph McTelll place before the by now ecstatic crowd. Wizz also did two songs in his highly inimitable style then brought Ralph back on to join him in finishing the proceedings with two more brilliant songsRalph & Wizz: Woody Guthrie’s ‘Deportees’ and the foot-stomping ‘ I Ain’t Got No Honey Baby Now’.

It was a stunning musical climax to such a wonderful and beautiful afternoon. Robert & Lucy Brightley were presented with a bunch of flowers very soon after Lucy had been serenaded by Jonathon Xavier Coudrille, he on one knee Ralph & Wizz 2earnestly and passionately playing up into her stunned but delighted face!

So, all in all, it was an amazing afternoon and it’s really pleasing to think that it’ll all happen again next year too!

All things being equal etc.
Mic McCreadie.


A Reply to Geoff’s Question Regarding Events On My Birthday.

Hi Geoff,

Who cares, really, about birthdays in the grand scheme of things and especially when one is moving along on the relentless conveyor belt walkway, (shuffle way?), to older age? Not me for sure.

I was 68 this time which of course means I’m in my 69th year and it’s OK but that’s mostly because there’s nothing at all I can do about it; it’s gonna happen whatever.

You asked me: ‘How did your big day go? Mine was dreary.’

Well, my day was certainly less dreary than yours due to the excitement that inevitably, though accidentally, followed a mishap during my routine of domestic cleaning on Saturdays.

Let me explain.

I was in the shower some day in the week before my birthday and had noticed that the bath was not draining as it ought to; there was a growing delay with the water’s egress and therefore a puddling pool at the plughole. (Good title for an album dear?) I suspected hair balls at a flexure and used my rubber plunger (steady now!) to force the water under pressure down the outlet pipe so to dislodge whatever was obstructing the flow. I later saw that this had made little difference to matters and was beginning to consider getting some branded drain cleaner solution.

Then, out of the blue, the shower gave up the ghost so, as the house maintenance man, I was employed in finding a suitable replacement at a reasonable cost. I made enquiries of mates, friendly plumbers and electricians, one of whom got me a trade price quote for a shower unit. This was approximately £120.00 and he wanted nothing for getting me one at that price. My mate Alan the plumber said he’d gladly fit any replacement I bought for £150.00 – £180 (this variable figure to accommodate any problems he might encounter in the way of piping etc. so the guts of £300.00 for a new shower up and running.

You know me. I abhor wasting money, it’s in my blood and bones I believe.

I surfed the net and found a very similar, if a little bulkier, unit at £52.50, free delivery etc. it did seem to tick all the boxes regarding no disruption to my beautifully self tiled bathroom wall in fact it would probably cover the site of the previous one with a little extra to take out blemishes and previous ‘repairs and touch ups’ from previous replacement units. All good.

I therefore ordered a new shower unit at £52.50 and in the waiting time we made do with a bath taps hose attachment which, in my case, was a fecken nuisance but needs must etc.

The unit duly arrived and I ran around getting the bits that I needed and that were not a part of the delivered package, i.e. 15mm compression fittings and large plumber’s spanners. I also felt some deep dismay when I saw the electrical cable entry was on the opposite side to the old one. Never mind: I persevered and in true R.A.F. trained engineer tradition I soon (after some serious struggles mind) had the bastard on the wall with suitably heated water coming through on demand.

When the dear wife used it first she mentioned, not having experience of manly fixing of things, that the bath was not draining as it ought to; there was a growing delay with the water’s egress and therefore a puddling pool at the plughole. Had this anything to do with me and my recent plumbing related engineering? No, I told her, it’s probably obstructed by hair which gathers and adheres to itself and other greases and gunk then gets stuck at a bend or somesuch. My wife has beautifully kept, long blonde hair, which I find in all areas when on my cleaning rounds. I will admit that I also find some of my silvered patrician type hairs along with hers but mine is shorter so it’s helplessly and innocently trapped by the longer, fairer, strands. Not my fault!

On the Saturday of my birthday Chrissie went to shop in town and I began a round of my cleaning chores and had just cleaned the bathroom sink, bowl, tiles and the bath shower facility when I saw, on the rinsing element of my chore, that the bath was not draining as it ought to; there was a growing delay with the water’s egress and therefore a puddling pool at the plughole. Ah! I’d forgotten about this, distracted by some important man work stuff no doubt. I also then remembered I could take out the screw bolt in the centre of the chrome drain fitting and this would give me access to the outlet pipe in a much better way. I’d be able to look into the S-bend and push a bottle brush in to dislodge debris and maybe even pull some back out. I had a suitable screwdriver in my fist and before you could say, ‘Mic, don’t do this. Get a plumber and pay him the call out charge instead’ I undid the bolt and removed the drain cover. It was then that I saw the remnants of some plastic or polythene but certainly perished seal had torn away too. Worse was to come. I then was extremely dismayed to see that the action of removing the drain cover had caused the outlet pipe to fall back and down and come to rest on the floor under the boxed in bath. I considered my options and very quickly realised that the bath and its showering facilities would be of no use to us unless it drained in a proper way i.e. to the outside network. We stood to lose a lot of the kitchen ceiling below if I didn’t somehow get the two items re-connected. I knew instinctively that I needed access to the S-bend if I was ever going to marry the two parts back together.

I wrestled with the bath panel and after a while it was out and on the landing as was the long piece of wood it was fixed to. Now I had much better access to the S-bend and was able, after a struggle, to reconnect them. This I accomplished with a happy heart.

I tested the joint and it leaked. It leaked very well I must say. It was as though it had been waiting to show me how well it could leak. I had the presence of mind, and a mild though growing sense of rising panic, to put the bath plug back into the plug hole and this of course stopped the flow. I mopped up under the bath with a fat copy of the weekly local newspaper, The West Briton, and spread the Leisure Section on the floor under the bath drain as a precautionary measure against future bad luck in this now clearly ill-fated venture.

I now stood back and on shaking legs took stock. I saw I’d need to get a replacement seal if I was ever to recover the natural equilibrium and balance of drains and dry floors in our bathroom. Chrissie had returned by now and greeted me in her usual friendly way. I told her about the situation upstairs and she smiled enigmatically, recalling I’ve no doubt the time when I’d ‘fixed’ the leaking tap on the washbasin and ended up with a flood across the bathroom, which made its way very easily down through the floor via the kitchen walls, and a smashed basin (when tools fell on it) which resulted in a, successful, insurance claim that ran into the mid hundreds and brought us a brand new sink complete with taps which I fitted myself! Or perhaps the other time when I’d replaced the shower unit and had, just as I was finishing off, dropped a spanner and caused a crack in the bath of the colour coordinated suite just big enough to cause a leak. This bath was boxed in too but this was easily removed for access and I very soon fashioned a repair with the broken piece and some trusty Araldite Epoxy resin which, after some time curing, worked fine on testing but then leaked when weight, in the form of a person, or a weight of water, was added to the bath and the whole thing flexed. This bit of bad luck was what had caused us to replace the entire colour coordinated bathroom suite last time.

We had lunch and decided that, as nothing could be gained in the bathroom fiasco until I’d found new seals, we should make the best of the rest of my birthday by going to sit by the sea, visit friends and perhaps even have an ice cream to eat in the rare sunshine of this summer. Chrissie drove us to Penzance where I knew there was a branch of B&Q and there, after some browsing I found, bagged and priced at £4.97, a complete S-bend with all the relevant seals I’d need and I bought this. Chrissie was also delighted to find a new lampshade to fit in with her plans and designs on our newly refurbished front room. We set off to sit on the beach at Marazion where we each had an ice cream and relaxed with the cares of the world far behind us. We then did our visiting and eventually made our way home again. It was much too late now to begin wrestling with the bathroom bath and drains so we spent the night in happy harmony watching a film and relaxing, I may have had some wine, it was my birthday after all.

Next day dawned as next days will and after the usual coffee and chatting in bed I got up to do battle with the bath drain. I opened the bagged package and removed the seals I thought I’d need and fitted these onto the new outlet assembly. Might as well get all new bits in there, I thought to myself. However, it was immediately, though very disappointingly, clear that this assembly was bit smaller than the one I’d removed. It was for a sink! Not a bath! I had a brief moment of ferociousness in which I considered taking a sledge hammer to the bath and all the fixtures and fittings just to show them who was in charge but I realised, with the mellow maturity of my advanced years I like to think, that this would be a lot worse then just having to drive to our local branch of B&Q, return the incorrectly purchased items from yesterday, and get one that fitted a bath.

This is what I did and had the good fortune to be directed to Eddie who was a retired plumber now working part time at B&Q. Eddie deftly showed me the items I required, in a see through polythene bag and priced at £8.97. Due to my experiences the previous day I was uncertain if I had the kind and size of seals so asked the kindly, and patient, Eddie if I needed any other seals. He said I had everything I  needed in the bag but then his years of experience must have led him to see the uncertainty in my eyes and he asked me what it was I wanted to do. I explained, in a much shortened version, what had occurred. Eddie told me there was no seal where I’d found, and torn out, the perished one. I insisted there had been and after a few minutes of polite (I knew I desperately wanted his help) debate Eddie decided that the installing plumber, my mate Alan, had most likely put in everything that came with a new bath just as a sort of belt and braces affair.

All I needed, he gently informed me, was a tub of jointing compound, Plumber’s Mait, at (£3.97). IMG_2249This is a sort of flexible non setting putty that I should generously smear round all mating surfaces then refit the pipes and couplings etc., and I’d be fine. Even as I drove home with the tub of jointing compound on the passenger seat, I wasn’t convinced, but I knew the store would be open until 16.00 so I went with it. Once home I did as Eddie had told me and when I tested, tentatively at first, there were no leaks. I tested twice, once with a little water and once again with a lot more.

I noticed on this second test that the bath wasn’t draining as it ought to; there was a growing delay with the water’s egress and therefore a puddling pool at the plughole. Once again I brought my trusty plunger (steady, I told you, steady!) back into play and after a bit of grunting, as workmen and amateur plumbers are apt to do, as if by magic the water disappeared down the recently and most efficiently resealed plug hole – like it should. Further workmanlike and determinedly thrusting plunging (I won’t tell you again!) saw me bring the state of drainage from the bath shower back to their previous levels of efficiency. The furniture and fittings were all replaced and we once again had a properly functioning bathroom.

Plus, I’d saved the cost of a plumber’s call out charge and/or the cost of the drain cleaning solution!

So, yes Geoff, my birthday was a tad less dreary than yours!



Solo Pub Entertainer – First Gig.

Alexandra Inn

Solo Pub Entertainer.


My very first gig as a solo pub entertainer was at The Alexandra Inn at the bottom of Alexandra Road in Penzance. This was probably about 1973/4 or so. I may have been sent there by an agency but I have no real recollection of how the gig came about in the first place. It was a pretty frightening and traumatic affair; I had no P.A. equipment whatsoever, no amplifier or microphone, and on arrival had been directed to a spot in a corner very close to the dartboard where I stood, utilising the dartboard light, with my sturdy if rather quietly toned Eko Ranger 6 acoustic guitar and began to sing my rehearsed repertoire to the noisy drinkers who, since they could probably barely hear me, paid scant attention to my musical offerings. Like a seasoned performer I soldiered on; I was used to some noise from my folk club gigs but as the time wore on and the noise increased exponentially even I was having trouble hearing what I was doing! After around a hour of this I stopped playing. Right in the middle of a song. I pulled my guitar off over my head. No one noticed or, if they did, they didn’t care. I felt my temper rising, it was always just floating beneath the surface calm I displayed to the world at large in those days and never an easy thing to control given my youthful angst and insecurity. Now it was rising and rising fast at this plainly rude behaviour to a struggling and relatively inexperienced performer and I just let go and roared out angrily. ‘Give us a bloody chance here, will you?’


I have been blessed with rather a loud voice and at times of stress there’s an unmistakeable Irish, but sometimes Scottish, accent colouring it. It can sound quite intimidating. The silence following this outburst was almost absolute and now, as I very quickly realised, I was faced with several hard drinking, pretty rugged, fit looking, working men all curious to know who was shouting and making such a noise in their regular drinking hole! Gazing at this by now mean looking and truculent crowd with my heart now in my mouth I realised I might have to change tack a bit if I wanted to get home in one piece so I modified my belligerent tone and continued in a more plaintive reasoning voice.

‘Em … Look lads … I’m doing my best here, will you just have a listen and then if I’m no good you can tell me and I’ll pack it in and just go home. OK?’

Looks were exchanged, heads were nodded; they were decent folk after all, and a silent agreement was reached between us all. To a man they all shut up, well nearly all, some still hadn’t noticed what was going on but they’d been there when I arrived and looked as though they’d been there for all of their adult lives.

The rest faced me expectantly so, now challenged, I strapped my trusty guitar back on and sang my arrangement of Gordon Lightfoot’s song: ‘In The Early Morning Rain’. I gave it all I had, running the riffs up and down where they interacted with the lyric of the song, flat-picking the chords with fine style, and I ‘sang the story’ to them. And they listened. They didn’t make a sound. When I finished there was a heart stopping silence before a single pair of hands began to clap and then some others joined in and then some more and some of them were calling over to me that I was ‘quite good’. I’d like to write that the whole pub was up and standing on their feet cheering and whistling, swamping the room with their loud applause but that would be a fiction, that didn’t happen. There was a fair amount of what I believed was genuine applause and, smiling at them, accepting their genuine plaudits, I thanked those who were applauding, thinking I’d won through when a solitary voice, clear as a bell and easily carried above the now diminishing noise spoke out.

‘Right,’ it said, ‘we’ve given you a go, now you can f*ck off home!’ My heart fell into my boots as I heard this but then that bald unwelcome and negative statement was immediately followed by the room erupting with loud and sustained merriment as the wag was back slapped and congratulated on his scintillating wit. I couldn’t help myself, I laughed along with them and I think it was this that finally won them over to me.

Well that and the landlord shouting above the laughter.

‘Oi, you b*ggers! I’m paying this lad good money to sing here so shut up and let him do his job!’

Everything improved from that point on, I got back on with my show, they did listen and some applauded after every song and I found the courage to tell a joke or two in between songs. When I’d finished and was having a pint with the landlord and the remaining punters we ended up chatting and laughing away like old pals. I got paid the agreed fee, probably around a tenner back then, and the landlord told me he’d have me back but only if I brought a P.A. system next time.

As first gigs go it was a real eye opener into the difference between folk clubs, where audiences arrived with expectations, wanting to hear you sing your songs, and pubs where you were just an added attraction, a commodity, designed to please the drinkers and keep them in your pub a bit longer than they might have planned to stay.

Happily, as my reputation grew and I learned how to work in pubs, the gigs got a lot easier and more well paid too. Incidentally, I’ve just been reminded by Martin Val Baker the famed South West Music Promoter who did so much for the arts in Penzance and St Ives, to mention just two towns, that The Winter Gardens, scene of many a Folk Concert staged by Martin, was just around the corner from the Alexandra Inn. I would become quite familiar with the Winter Gardens some years later when Martin began to use me and some others as support acts for some fairly well known ‘names’  in the Folk Scene who performed in concerts there.

A Nonsensical Exchange With My Facebook Friend Mark On The Surprising Effects of Flatulence

The following exchanges took place because I’d mentioned on Facebook I’d had Jerked Chicken for the first time. This prompted my friend Mark to comment on how the chicken got jerked in the first place and things just developed from there.


Hiya Mark, re your question on the Jerked chicken. I asked them if they’d been tugging at it before they smothered it in spices and cheese but they averted their eyes and looked a bit abashed then they asked me to leave – immediately. I suspect there’s something dark and sinister happening to Jamaican chickens in the deli Mark. You know me . . .


Thanks for that Mic, my mind is now at rest. I thought it was maybe some obscure American 60’s type go-go dance that they made it do before cooking it. Well done for making an issue of it and I’m sorry you were asked to leave. I suspect you hit a nerve there. A visit with an axe may be on the cards, we hope the air is good where you are.


My goodness gracious me! It’s like you can see right into my situation Mark! i.e. ‘you hope the air is good where I am’. I made us a McPhartie curry last night – a fiery chicken madras with ample garlic and chillies and now that along with the jerked poultry item has produced a fowl smelling, possibly noxious, gas which is being unwillingly and forcefully ejected from my toilet exit way. As I’m working upstairs in my home studio I’m afraid I may be slowly suffocating and in extreme danger of spontaneous combustion. I have opened a window but this has served only to swish the gases around a lot more. I can’t get up to close the window again because the fumes have made my legs wobbly. When I finish this note I’m going to try and crawl out onto the landing using the cat as a form of traction. I hope I make it because I want to continue being among the audiences The Flaming Infidels attract. Oh. oh, it’s getting hard to breathe and uh, oh there goes another pherocious phart!


Phrrrrrrrrrta !!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Ferocious eh? Noxious you say. Fumes and other words. This may be a case for the environmental dept. Not only could it peel the paper off your walls (causing damp and stuff not to mention the dermatological aspects of this outburst) but it could have repercussions that go beyond your four walls and affect your neighbour’s ability to live a normal life. I really hope this settles down Mic, I’m a bit worried now. Regards to the traction cat.


Dear Mark, I wonder if you could come over to assist me? At present I am on the roof sitting in a shambles of tile and plaster. How, I know you’ll be wondering, did that happen? Well Mark it was an accident. As I lifted the rear end of my bottom off the cushioned office chair where I sit whilst working on audio/video projects, a particularly phorceful phart escaped me and, like a jet pack thrusting thruster thing, it propelled me through the ceiling and loft right out onto the roof. There are sea gulls near me and they’re looking a me in odd way and making sidling advances towards me. I couldn’t eat any more fowl meat at present so I may have to kill them using my bear hands – if they attack – which they may not. Anyway Mark, I need some help as I’m worried I may phart myself right off this roof onto another! Currently my phart valve seems quiescent but it’s puttering like a fuel-starved moped engine and I fear it may be building up to something spectacular. I await your arrival with anxiety.

p.s. could you bring a poncho? – my clothes are in shreds.


Dear Mic, my nerves have been shredded by this situation and as a result am writing this from my decompression tank. Panic is not the word. Why? because I DON’T own a poncho or any other type of Mexican apparel that would be of use in this grave situation. This hurts me deeply because I’m well known round here for helping anyone that needs it. I had a friend once who went through this and I got there too late only to find him completely turned inside out. You can imagine my horror at my failure and its haunted me ever since. I will be dispatching my 108 yr old neighbour to do what she can…she should be with you at some point this week (she’s on foot…not feet cos she’s only got one). Its the best I can do. Regards….me

P.S I’m guessing Chris has left you to it which is not nice (but understandable from a health perspective) Winds here light to variable.


Oh yeh forgot to say, when she gets there be aware: she only eats lettuce.


Chris is not allowed near me on Thursdays – not since the Court Order. I’m so sorry to have caused you such trouble and indeed I was about to write to you: ‘Don’t come!’ This is not because I don’t want your help or indeed even your company but is because I’m no longer at my previous position, nor the one previous to that. There have been a succession of violent take-offs since we last exchanged information, I’m afraid that while I have fuel to use up, energy to burn if you like, it will continue to throw me around the sky so I’m beyond help in the geographical sense at least. The sea gulls scattered soon after I wrote you of them, an extremely strong blast from Arse Station Mickey frightened the living shit out of them and they vacated the roof pretty pronto, leaving smears of fish based shite in their wake. I’m having mixed feelings on this situation and my ever changing location; on one hand it’s nice to fly up into the air on a sudden chance but the landings can be harsh. To be fair though I must confess I’ve had some soft landings due to a release coinciding with a come down which as you’ll easily understand, has acted a little like a reverse thrust, and though it has left my arsehole like the fat end of a trumpet, it has provided some relief. Some other touch downs were all too brief however as I let off just as I touched down and was instantly launched back up into the air again! I’m currently in a tree near Portreath and, as I came in to land – just by Hardacre near Portreath actually – I had thought to shout out to ask Alden or Kath if they can help but now I may not need to – I’ve had a stroke of luck which has buoyed my spirits a bit; I was thrown through some washing drying on a line and managed to grab a king size duvet cover in a floral pattern and with a button down closure, I plan to keep this close because I’ve realised it will serve to cover my nakedness while I’m airborne and I’m reasonably sure I can utilise it as a form of parachute once the wind has died down a bit. I saw the old lady you mentioned and I thank you for your efforts but I’m afraid she’ll be of no use to me as she’s heading for Bodmin steadfastly chewing on iceberg leaves and hopping neatly to a lively tune of her making, wait a minute . . . uh-oh . . things appear to be building up again so I may not be able to finis…..


I’m beginning to understand this now Mic you old fox. Its all a ruse so you can carry on stealing peoples personal effects from their washing lines and keep yourself with a ready supply of floral shirts for your forays into showbiz. Oh no ..you cant fool me with your tales of flatulence. I have friends in Culdrose that have been watching the radar for any disturbances in the area and apart from some freaked out seagulls ( I’ll give you that one) there has been nothing to report. Putting 2 and 2 together is one of my fortes and I can tell you its 4. And to think I’ve spent all this time in my decompression tank for this. I dread to think of my electricity bill. However being partial to the odd bit of thieving myself, rest assured this information will stay with me and me only, providing you agree to a course of cognitive behavioural therapy to help you understand the complexities of various shirts and their intended uses. I trust you’ll comply, it’s for your own good. I’ve been through it myself for string vests and found it liberating. I hope this finds you well and please don’t feel any embarrassment. I know I don’t.

P.S if I’m wrong about this I can only offer my apologies and a further offer to help with any medical bills.


You, have broken my heart! I thought you were my friend but now I find your scurrilous accusations in this reply I think perhaps you’re not. How very sad you’ve made me as if I’m not in enough trouble already with the anal explosions and so forth. For the records; I have no need to purloin items from washing lines for the creation of my show biz shirts. The local Salivating Army are positively drooling as they fall over themselves to provide me with suitable material for my creations. Not only that thy also keep me well supplied with other commodities for my unusual appetites. They, as you’ll know, save fallen women and indeed have just offered me an aged one-legged lady they found munching Lolla Rossa near the chip shop in Lanivet just a few minutes ago. Though she stinks of Baby Bio I know this can be quickly remedied with a good hose down from an industrial model Karcher Pressure Washer and there’s room in the cellar now the other item has departed. My difficulties with the sudden bouts of high energy propulsion have been reduced quite markedly due to a lessening of the pressure which has meant fewer take offs and indeed landings. I’m dejected knowing you doubt the veracity of my reports, indeed if you run out now, go on, run out now, into your garden and look up, go on, look up, (you may need binoculars) if you get this in time and indeed get a view you will see me parasailing over the East End of Truro that I’ve been able to modify the king sized duvet into a parasail and indeed I am now sailing over St Just-in-Roseland which is indeed just-in-Roseland though there a those who will argue it’s a little outside of Roseland they are known to be Luddite in their behaviours. I’m happier to be able to report that my situation is slowly resolving and as I sail up towards Veryan I am confident I’ll soon be back on home turf. Due to me comprehensive local knowledge I am fully aware that the wind from up that way blows downhill only so I expect to be home or at least hovering above home by two of the clock this very day! My only regret in this matter is that I hadn’t the presence of mind to pick up a camera as I was hurtled through my roof, there have been myriad opportunities for aerial photography this fine day. Actually I have another regret which is that with the lessening of the gaseous expulsions there came an extremely smelly and loose diarrhoea which I was unable to contain and so I’m afraid I spoiled some lunch dishes and indeed clothing with my uncontrollable purgings, although it may not have looked like it I was definitely not aiming at the policeman exiting his car at Trafalgar Police Station car park just after lunch. Truly I was not. This last report ought, I think, bring an end to these missives but I will end on one more serious and indeed you may think sombre note. It is this: I hereby officially give you warning that I have in my possession a 15 foot bullwhip, fashioned from the pizzle of a three ton bull who once roamed the plains of the Russian Steppes in former times. I am not afraid to use this lethal weapon on those who secretively, slyly, scurry snidely in sewers seeking to sleight me. I am a dab hand with this device so be aware. I’m just saying, not stating, not making a mission statement just letting you know, putting it out there so you know . . . that’s all.


Please bear in mind that the following has nothing at all to do with bullwhips of any description nor any veiled threats pertaining to the bullwhip (hereafter called “bullwhip”) real or imagined. Any resemblance to anyone represented in this article or said bullwhip is pure coincidence and should be treated as such. Ok, I gave you the benefit of the doubt and took you up on your offer to go outside and have a look in the sky. To my utter shock (bear in mind I have spent a great proportion of my day in a decompression tank and as a result I am now completely decompressed and 4.5 inches bigger than I was aiding my view considerably) there in the sky travelling at great speed heading over to the Roseland was your (dare I say) ample frame just as you said. My timing was impeccable. You were there and then you weren’t. Had it not been for my fast shuttered son I could have missed the moment and continued with my predilection with missing washing items/shirts etc. I’m just glad that you had retained enough strength to prevent an outpouring (euphemism) whilst passing over our home. Should there have been anything of this sort it would surely have caused serious grief to our washing and incurred the wrath of my missus. No doubt I would have born the brunt of any punishment for this …not you. Anyway to mark this event I enclose a small picture for your perusal a copy of which is going viral on the inter-web as we speak. Your friend and mine…. Me.

P.S copies are available in all good police stations around the country.


Ah! See??? The truth will out! I am vindicated! Thank you so much.

p.s. any threats you may have perceived, real or imagined are the sole responsibility of your drug addled brain and fevered not to say decompressed mind. A bird in the hand is usually because you’re taking a leak but it can be there for other reasons/functions/obsessions. Nothing wrong with that. . .


Seriously, I have to say: that photo is an excellent finale to this nonsense!



Jerked Chicken Finale

A Close Run Thing – Another Cycling Mishap.

Another chance encounter and another innocent remark which might have caused a minor ‘incident’ so yet one more tale to add to my catalogue of true cycling stories…

 I was riding my bike the other day on my daily fat burning exercise route while the sun was making a rare appearance and I was in the narrow country lanes behind where I live. My bike is fitted with a hand operated, old fashioned, car type, bulb squeeze, honking horn of the ‘Hoo-Hah’! variety. I use this device carefully, I don’t want to upset or frighten people who are enjoying the peace and quiet of the countryside. I’ll often sound a gentle Hoo-Haw from a distance making a sound not too dissimilar to an InterCity diesel train coming from far off. I like to give people time to get used to my approaches though I will admit I do give a properly strong squeeze on the rubber bulb and emit a loud warning and state my presence to oncoming, vehicular traffic especially, on blind bends. Thankfully these are relatively few and far between on this particular route so disruption and noise pollution can be kept to a minimum.

 As I do this ride almost every day, and at least as often as I’m able to, I’m known to others who also use the lanes to walk dogs and exercise etc. However, on this particular morning as I came around a tight left hand bend and knowing there was a huge puddle ahead by the nearside hedgerow I knew I’d need to swing out wide to avoid wet legs and feet. As I skirted round the far right hand side of the puddle I was therefore placed on the wrong side of the road where, unfortunately, I also came into the full glare of the sun reflected off the still wet tarmac. Temporarily blinded I suddenly saw I was bearing down on a silhouetted female figure walking a dog. I instinctively knew that if I sounded my hooter I’d frighten the life out of her and that she might just jump into my path, I was also aware that I might perhaps also frighten her dog enough to get bitten in a defensive pre-emptive strike, so I decided to concentrate instead on not running her over.

It was a near thing; I passed so close to her I could have reached out and touched her. I knew the proximity of my bike and I had probably given her quite a shock so, as I sailed past I called out an apology, ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t want to startle you with my horn this morning!’

 There! The words were out of my mouth and into the public domain, eternally irretrievable, just like that! She may not have recognised the potential double entendre – I don’t know, but when she replied sweetly, ‘That’s nice.’ I did have cause to wonder. I also fancied I recognised her voice as belonging to someone who lives quite close to me. Discretion, I felt, was required so I never looked back, I began to whistle a lively air quite loudly and sped off as fast as I could. The rest of the ride continued without further encounters or mishap.


Mic McCreadie


Lyrics For A Song Written In February 2012

Old Love

Mic McCreadie

In the silence of my midnight room

I’m picking through the past

The photographs and memories

The things I thought would last.

The picture shows a happy scene, our faces lit by laughter

It fills my heart but then it fades

And I go chasing after:

Who were we? Who were we?

Maybe I’ll never know

Who whispered all those words of love

So very long ago?

The sighing sea lulls on the land

Lays kisses on the shore

I sit alone on sea smoothed stone

Can’t bear it any more

Who were we? Who were we?

Who walked this empty strand?

Who laughed and cried

Who kissed and sighed

In Love’s bright happy land?

-Suggested Oboe Solo-

Who was I? Who were you?

What did we ever know?

Why am I alone tonight?

Where did you ever go?

I smell the rain come creeping in

I feel it on the breeze

I pray it brings salvation

On desperate days like these

Let it wash my cares away

Let it ease my soul

Let it free my heart today

Let it make me whole.

Who were we? Who were we?

Perhaps I’ll never know

Who whispered all those words of love

So very long ago? …Oh, so very long ago…

© MicSongs 19.02.2012

Further Nonsense With My Facebook Friend Mark On The Genealogy of Bob Dylan

Mic: There was a question on the BBC1quiz show Pointless tonight: Question: Which Scottish singer performed, ‘My Old Man’s A Dustman’? Answer: Bob Dylan!

Mark: Excuse me Mic but I think you’ll find Bob’s (Abe) was a dustman and that he recorded it as a tribute to him and changed his name to Lenny Goonigan so that no one knew it was him, just saying…

Mic: Abe Zimmerman was, as you rightly point out Mark, a dustman who operated mostly in the area known as Scotch Corner. I just happen to have a short potted history at hand and, if you’ll graciously indulge me, I’ll set it out below for the edification and education of others who may find some interest in the matter. Able, was quite a remarkable character, celebrated by his peers for his uncanny ability to pick up two (sometimes more – depending on the weight and the fluidity of the contents) bins simultaneously then execute an amazing back flip, done so quickly that centrifugal force was produced allowing the contents (save for the exceptions noted above) to remain in the bin before he deftly landed them onto the rubber topped guardrail of the bin lorry. Over time, because of his tricks, Abe became more well known and was eventually invited to perform his specialised ‘lifts’ first at Kensington Palace where he delighted the Royals ensconced therein by producing some inadvertent though happily subtle anal expulsions whilst ‘straining’ in the Pre-Lift Position (PLP). What was not so delightful however was the accidental but coincidental release of a noxious (thought not to be deadly at that time) arse gas as he sprung from the aforementioned Pre-Lift Position, sometimes also known as the Pre-Flip Stance (PLS). These demonstrations and performances, with their concomitant ‘extras’ very soon led to an invite to Buckingham Palace to perform his constantly developing feats for the then reigning monarch King George. This patronage led to fame, sadly fame led to pressure and sadder yet pressure led to drink. Abe became an alcoholic and tragedy struck when, in a fit of drunken anguish and artistic frustration, Abe tried to develop and enhance his waning, and by now commonplace, and it must be admitted, now somewhat unremarkable feats for a fickle public who had begun to drift away from his performances. There were reposts of disenchanted audiences booing and hissing, stones and stained undergarments were thrown. There were also some who took things a little further and other matter was hurled to the sound of cat calls and loud, unpleasant rasping phaa-aartt like noises. Strangely a lot of cats were reported mysteriously missing in the various in which and around the time Abe was performing. Therefore, unsurprisingly perhaps, rumours began to circulate. No charges were ever laid but sly accusations were made and it was noted in the local Press that Abe never seemed short of food or meat in his sandwiches which oddly were kept in a fur swaddled lunch box made of the new lightweight material Felinite, produced, I’m told by those who know of these things, by boiling cat gut with other suitable materials! He was also known to possess and indeed was seen wearing fur-lined jodhpurs, hats, large overcoats and other clothing in Winter weathers). However he pressed on and began a comeback performance to regain his previous fame and status. In making his comeback attempt (the first of many it’s claimed though this is at present still uncorroborated) Abe began by introducing a tap dancing routine (beginning with just a few steps initially which blossomed into a full ‘Putting On The Style’ foot routine) into the so-called ‘double bin swing lift’ This might have restored him to full fame and glory had it succeeded but Fate had a nasty surprise in store for our dear Abe. In a desperate attempt to regain his crown and in front of all his workmates and peers, and a selection of society’s elite Abe bent to hoist not just two but three bins! It was with these two thirds full cylindrical metal tubes that Abe intended to perform a newly perfected and stunningly amazing feat. He bent, and then from the well known and regularly practised Pre-Flip Stance, he strained, he surged upwards and – at that precise moment – his braces burst! With three well loaded bins in his meaty fists all heading unerringly for his muscular shoulders he faced a stark choice: drop the bins and lose all prestige or carry on knowing he might well expose himself and his heretofore hidden nether regions. What, I hear you gasp, happened? Well, I’ll tell you! Pride won and it was pride that brought him down. As he rose, attempting a simultaneous graceful pirouette, his foot slipped on some cat shyt, he veered off to one side, the bins in their forceful velocity and now wildly out of control, forced him into a painful arabesque, his trousers fell swiftly to his feet and everything was then revealed. As the bins sailed off over the heads of the assembled throng dropping their foul contents hither and thither (Abe insisted on full reality in his performances) and as folk scattered for safety Abe’s under garments were then revealed. At first there was hushed gasp of awe which then suddenly turned to horror as the gathered crowd saw Abe’s customised under pants! Made from the back half of a large tabby they covered his genitalia in luxurious fur and it was with some slight admiration though tinged with deep revulsion that onlookers noted the cat’s tail had been hollowed out to provide a snug home for Abe’s long thread-like member. Thus it was that Abe was brought to shame, dragged down to the gutter by cats and their shytz, the very animals he’d abused for his own ends. He became a laughing stock and folk would jeer him cruelly as he shambled along the dirty streets. He eventually moved to Scotland and opened a soup kitchen with his pregnant wife known locally as Fat Mary even before she met with Abe. Some say a child was born, some say it was a boy, some a girl, some say it was an awful apparition, resembling a human but only a little and some say all was as it should have been but was not. All I can report is that around this time I began to take an interest in local culture and the Arts. I heard stories of a thin yet somehow not thin youth. I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style, and so I went see him and listened for a while. and there he stood this young boy, a stranger to my eyes, strumming it plain with his fingers, singing ‘My wife is a prawn’. Is it true? I think we’ll never know unless – we find out! Join me next week for more truthful revelations of the music biz. and the making of our so-called legends!

Mark: Indeed Mic, and did you know that god said to Abraham, ‘Gimme a son.’ And Abe said, ‘Man, you must be putting me on!” God said, ‘No!’ Abe said ‘What!!?’ God said, ‘Well you can do what you want, but the next time you see me coming you better run!’ I think Abe did hand him over in the end and he was next seen on TV singing about digging his potatoes and stuff like that.

Mic: That’s absolutely correct Mark, you have it almost verbatim! At the time this was going on I was employed on Maggie’s Farm but I ain’t gonna work on that no more – no suh! As you know I studied Abe’s career very diligently and indeed wrote the only published reference work on his long and eventful life: ‘Maybe Abie’s Baby’ but it may be that in spite of your digesting that weighty tome, you too are not aware of other developments that occurred as time progressed. Let me update you, if you will.

Fat Mary and Abe did find a true love and they both flourished in that warm comforting embrace, so much so that a child, a male boy if you will, was born. Abe took to singing lullabies for their baby son and one of his favourites was ‘Coulter’s Candy’ a well known Scottish lilting tune which could soothe even the most drunken and aggressive of children. It was then perhaps from this lyric that our present day Bob Dylan, for it was of him we first broached these exchanges, emerged as it contains the immortal poetry of such lyrical wonder. Listen without prejudice if you will to the softly sung words: ‘Ally Bally, ally, bally, bee, sitting on yer Faither’s knee, greeting for a wee bawbee, to buy some Coulter’s Candy’. There! There it is! Hidden! Well, almost, in that fabulous lyric is the genesis of how Robert (Bob) Zimmerman came to be known to the world as Bob Dylan. It began slowly; first it was as Wee Bawbee, in reference to his Scottish beginnings and ancestry (later Wee Boabie) though in truth the young Zimmerman suffered cruel taunting and bullying from his scruffily dressed, under fed, undernourished, under the mattress, under the weather, under the spreading chestnut tree, and uneducated peers who would call him ‘Jobbie’ a colloquial term used to describe the turds the boys used to hurl at him when he was in the vicinity of the communal shyt house (itself being no more than a discarded torn and ragged tarpaulin hastily draped over a bomb crater in a tenement back yard where the customised toilet paper was the fur of the multitude of rats that infested the area). This though was then softened over time to Bobby (as in Dylan). It is a well known and documented fact, in fact, that Zimmerman adopted the surname Dylan after watching several episodes of The Magic Roundabout whilst off his trolley and high on pharmaceutical products usually only found on illicit prescriptions. If I can render any more assistance with this subject please place a perfectly clean £20.00 note in a recently washed and rinsed milk bottle, wrap in a back number of the Radio Times then wet it with pure spring water and bring it around to my wee shack. Yours in the first instance but never the twain shall meet me in St Louis Armstrong was a trumpet player of great Scott and skill but – nevertheless – was oft-times called a bug eyed buglist by cruel men who wished him harm. There’s no justice – is there?