Tallington 2005

Friday’s Child Is Loving And Giving…

Glad you could make it. Always a pleasure – but will you look at the size of that guy’s nose! Yes folks, it was Tallington time again. This year, with an earlier July kick off, we’d been Kissingered into pandering to the football fans who wanted a pre-season festival. This year they can swivel, as we’re going for the child-friendly-parental-consenting-park-your-4x4-in-the-middle-of-the-road-to-pick-up-the-kids option and sticking it back into August when the little brutes are off school.
Thus we arrived on the afternoon of Friday 15th to find that an urban sprawl was already well on its way to engulfing the campsite. By the time the music kicked off at 7.30(ish), it was already apparent that there would be little room for cricket on the Saturday afternoon.

Oh by the way, there was a burger van in residence too, flogging greasy stuff over the fence to those with strong digestions.
But it’s the music we’re here for. The weather held off in splendid fashion as the first twangers took the stage for the annual Friday night of acoustic plonking.

First up, and a great lure to the pop-hungry hordes on the campsite, was the delightful Mr Jessi Adams, at whom buns were hurled as he performed a number of concert pieces on his Spanish guitar. Tallington newcomer Rosie Wilby, who did a super set, followed him and jolly well ought to come back next year and stay for the bunfight. Mr Mark Hibbert from Northern seaside resort Hull played next, and was followed at half past eight by the incomparable Chris Butler, the Talisman of Tallington, without whom – not unlike the Ravens on Tower Hill – the whole shaky edifice will no doubt implode.

Your correspondent missed most of this, of course, as he was in a huge tent putting a confused child to bed. Thus, the distant crooning of Wob and Pog served only as a faint balm to counterbalance the outraged howling of his affronted daughter, while the timeless Mark Astronaut’s performance was but an echo of a dream…

Pull yourself together man. Red Wedding rounded things off to a Friday night crowd bigger than most previous Saturdays’. It was a great opening to the biggest and best Tallington yet.

Saturday’s Child No Longer Works Hard For A Living But Is A Sullen Workshy Chav

Surely not? ‘Good morning to the sun, but first my gold. Open the shrine that I may see my saint!’ Thus spake Mr Porter on the Saturday morn, climbing over the recumbent figure of the tentless Ben in the porch and sweeping aside the vinyl entrance curtain, only to behold the broad back of a young man passing water into a distant hedge. ‘Ugh!’
If Friday night was busy, then Saturday was frenetic, with the campsite wedged to the gunnels with would be campers and their vehicles. Next year we’ll be there on Thursday to sort it out, so if you see a two-year old girl in an orange tabard with a radio waving her arms about, then please do as she tells you.
Thanks to those who helped with the clean up of the beer garden on the Saturday morning. With everyone’s help the place was up and running in time for Verbal Warning, who kicked off the day’s entertainment at 11.00pm with a very nifty set of horrid punk rock. Actually, despite their protestations to the contrary it wasn’t horrid at all. In fact it was jolly good, so look out for them in future – Tallington next year if not somewhere in the Midlands with Blyth or Eastfield before.

Aha! Eastfield. Up with the lark kids. Everyone’s favourite trunk was on display next, and ‘The Field’ performed a gentle lilting set to a post-breakfast crowd of many, who had hauled themselves out of bed to come and see them. No one threw bacon, which was a jolly good job as they are veggi-vegan-guinea pig lovers, and bacon is too yummy to waste.

Next year bring guinea pigs to throw. See how they like the little bastards after they’ve had them in the face at 200mph!Henry and the Highbrows, fronted by Mr

Henry Lawrence, then provided some genuine festival ambience for a while, after which (roll on the drums and ready for a fanfare) the incomparably lovely MISS RACHEL PANTECHNICON wowed the audience with a very nice new frock.

Next up was the cricket. By now the sun was beating down relentlessly on a fully packed campsite, with not a chance in Hell of a cricket match, so we had to roll back the tables in front of the stage and play on the hard cobblestones of the beer garden, using a stinky dustbin of old chips as a wicket. Thus, Blyth lost and all went to pot.

Amateur Ninja Club loudly reopened the proceedings after the cricket, followed by the welcome return of General Winter, although we believe for the last time. The chaps got old man Porter up to sing Me And Mr Absolutely – the words to which he completely forgot, but fortunately Elaine knew them. What was that succubus on his head while he sang though? Was it a brain slug…?

Daddy Those Men Scare Me are still tall, and played next, which was super, and they were followed by the New York Scum Haters who played a set of Ramones songs.

Fans familiar with their paraphrasing of the classic ‘Beat On The Brat’ will not begrudge its reproduction here:

Chastise the youth
Chastise the youth
Chastise the youth with a cricket bat What! What!
What can one do?
What can one do?
With such an impertinent youth constantly inconveniencing one, what can one do?
Concede defeat.
Chastise the youth
Chastise the youth
Chastise the youth with a cricket bat What! What!

As darkness fell and the lights came on – thanks as ever to Curly and Charlie - Anal Beard came forth to do their thing, and jolly fine it was too. A number of Beard virgins were unable to believe their ears, and many laughed until the tears rolled down their legs.

We are informed that Beard have now decided not to split up, and we hope to see them again next year.


Finally, the tattooed love gods of Blyth took the stage. It was a storming good night. The buns flew, and all repaired tentwards after the show to sleep the sleep of the righteous.

The Child Born On The Sabbath Day Is Clearly a Smarmy Tosser

The Sunday morning nightmare was writ large across the beer garden in piles and piles of rubbish and empty glasses.

Thanks again to all those assisting in the clean up, especially those Highbrows who were more than dextrous. This is an important and necessary function, as we can’t start the music until the pigsty is cleared out.

Fortunately the deed was done in time for Pog to waken the dead and get the ball rolling with some silly and disrespectful songs.

Next came Jack, who had managed to teach a set of songs to Tentless Ben that morning, and who have definitely come of age in the last 12 months – although we’re not sure about the rude one about the dog yet.

Mr Wob Williams and his band followed, and brought the Sunday session to a thundering sunny climax.

Then it was Blyth again, for a final bunfight, the usual speeches and it was all over until next year.

All over? Not nearly. See you next August.