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Francis Sidebottom, performing a puppet show on the stage at the heart of London’s glittering theatre land? Blimey.

Not quite. A Camden toilet venue may not have the same glamour of Shaftsbury Avenue, but the boy with the paper mache head was never Grade A celeb status anyway.

I last saw Frank at Glasto ‘91. Adored by the inkies, our Francis had successfully cornered the market in Northern style cabaret, all performed on a bon tempi organ by a man with a pumpkin style head. It wasn’t a burgeoning scene, but it was highly original, all the same.

Frank seemed to have peaked around this period. The music world was changing. Old style DIY indie status was on the decline; the majors were muscling in on the cash.

How refreshing then to find in these days of manufactured chart wars, a sold out Monarch crowd turning out on a bitterly cold midwinter evening, to see a cardboard cut out puppet theatre.

Fantastic!

Any doubt over Frank’s showbiz status soon disappeared, once the sight of Pumpkin Boy descending from the top of the stairs at The Monarch became visible. Guided by a minder (not so much for security, more to do with the problems of being able to find the stage with a paper mache mask on,) Frank made a triumphant NW1 entrance.

The cult of Frank is built around comedy genius with a Northern ’80’s indie twist. Hit the North opened the show, with backing from Scritti Politti minus Green Frank’s Oh Blimey Big Band. The real identity of Mr Sidebottom remains a closely guided secret (sort of) but as keyboard player @rhodri confirmed to @funkturm and I during the interval, Pumpkin Boy may, or may not, be Green Gartside.

Blimey.

The run of mis-hits continued – Panic, Hey You Riot Policewoman and Zoo Scrapbook.

A brief break, and then it was time for the bizarre puppet pantomime. Predictably, anything involving Little Frank and his cardboard cut out girlfriend, Little Denise, was utter bobbins. But that’s kind of the appeal.

The bon tempi and banter continued, climaxing with Guess Who’s Been on Match of the Day?

And so some eighteen years since I last saw Francis Sidebottom, I departed into the bitter North London nigh time air, grinning with a smile that was almost perfect to be captured in paper mache form. Frank hasn’t aged over the years, and hopefully neither has the market for Northern style cabaret, all performed on a bon tempi organ by a man with a pumpkin style head.

You know it hasn’t, it really hasn’t.

Fantastic!

I really do despair over recent events down at Meadow Lane. A provincial Fourth Division team getting into bed with the mysterious Middle East millions, a seedy Swede happy to pimp out his services to the highest bidder, plus an ageing pro looking for one final pay check – you have the perfect plotline that encapsulates football losing its soul.

It was no great surprise to wake up on Wednesday morning to find that Super Sol had gone AWOL. Again. Campbell’s appearance down at County was a marketing exercise; he was the marquee player (urgh!) bought in to tempt the other big names down to The Lane for a final fling.

Fourth Division football is a world away from the Champions’ League. It’s a lesson that the mysterious Munto Finance has learnt overnight, and one which will make its famous five year plan to return to the Premiership appear as unrealistic to the plotters, as it did to the real football world when it was first revealed over the summer.

But first a disclaimer:

(Lapsed) Forest fan having a knock at Notts? Not really. You need to understand the hierarchy of East Midlands football to recognise that County are a family club. There’s no worse sight than a bitter football fan, spewing out bile and hatred over a regional rival. But if pressed, I reserve the right to spew out my bile and hatred over the regional rivals of D***y and L*******r.

Pity the poor Notts old boys, who get genuinely angry that Forest fans don’t hate them with the same feeling they hold for their foes across the river. I grew up watching Notts County. Whilst Forest were winning European Cups, County gave my primary school free family tickets, in an attempt to snare a lifetime of misery upon the impressionable young Nottingham football fan.

Thankfully I followed the glamour, and went down the balmy European nights route at the City Ground. But yeah, Notts and I have history. I have happy memories of watching Neil Warnock’s side (really) in the late ’80s, taking the Pies all the way up into the old First Division.

“We’ve got Charlie Palmer, he smokes marijuana.”

Yeah, it was a crazy time, and one which treated any UB40 carrying young man around time rather well, with very generous discounts for the unemployed. It was almost worth not getting a job, just to watch the Pies on the cheap every other week.

The small fan base was one of the genuine innovators of the burgeoning fanzine scene of the time, with the wonderful Pie serving as a template for what football fandom could achieve on a local level. Cult heroes were born on the wrong side of the river, with Don O’Riordan, Mark Draper and Tommy Banana Boy Johnson. I once saw Big T doing the shimmy shammy.

Glorious Wembley days followed. Watching Notts beat Brighton in an old First Division play-off final is one of my highlights in thirty years of watching football. We didn’t like the view from the cheap seats, and couldn’t but help notice that the outer edges of the Royal Box were free. A quick trip around the old stadium, and one almightily blag later, we were sitting within touching distance of minor royalty.

Not many Arabs around, mind.

Ah, and so what attracted you to the multi-millionaire football investors, Mr Sven? It certainly wasn’t the female fan base down at The Lane.

And then along comes Mr Campbell. If paying the thirty five year-old £40k a week for sitting around and being ‘unfit’ wasn’t bad enough, allowing to release him from his footballing reality check just smacks of a short term hit and run investment in the club. Munto Finance has already lost the family ethos of the club, trying unsuccessfully to eject Meadow Lane tenants Nottingham Rugby.

The club has sold its soul, playing around with the infrastructure as though it were a Subutteo game, reducing the few loyal Notts old boys to something of a laughing stock. If it wasn’t for the Forest love / hate thing, then yeah, I would find it more amusing than alarming.

And so as the song said: Notts County had a wheelbarrow, and it looks like the wheel has finally fallen off. They’ll be bringing Gary Birtles out of retirement next.

Fools.

*ah, and we appear to have come full circle, with the very first onionbagblog post addressing… Sol Campbell, almost six years ago – blimey*

In true rock ‘n roll tradition, it was twenty years ago today… I went to my first music festival. Blimey. Reading ‘89 was where I found free love in a field in the middle of Berkshire. Actually it was a car park just outside of Reading town centre, and there wasn’t a great deal of free love going around either to be honest. But still…

Reading ‘89 was a tipping point in the history of UK rock festivals. Donnington was still the domain of good old-fashioned British metal – Live to Ride, Ride to Live; Glasto catered for the tree huggers, long before it became part of the Establishment’s Summer Season. Reading meanwhile was the home of the Quo, Meat Loaf and Bonnie Tyler.

Something had to give.

Ever keen to cash in on the chaos, the Mean Fiddler organisation took control of Reading in ‘89 and decided to re-brand it as a festival for the indie kid. With a Stone Roses T-shirt (first batch, natch!) a Crazyhead baseball cap and a pale indie kid complexion, Reading ‘89 was on my radar.

I wasn’t alone, with the bill featuring The Wonderstuff, PWEI and Crazyhead being something of a call to arms for the kids I use to hang around with in South Nottinghamshire every weekend. Tickets were bought, bags were packed, and time WASN’T booked off work. Whoops.

There was a slight oversight in that the Rock Trip fun bus (oh yes!) was scheduled to depart the Fair City right outside my place of work early on the Friday morning. Never underestimate the camouflage capabilities of a Crazyhead baseball cap.

And so there we were, Reading bound and all ready to ROCK. I wasn’t really sure what to expect to be honest. This was my summer holiday for the year, and my first time away from home for the weekend without any proper adult supervision. I had noted that Forest were away at QPR on the Saturday afternoon, and this would be my escape route, should the indie kids of Reading prove not to be to my liking.

I needn’t have worried. We arrived in a festival come car park shortly after lunch, just in time to be greeted by an hour long feedback set from Spacemen 3. It was truly like entering into anther dimension. I thought crossing over into the Leicestershire border was living life in the fast lane at the time. The space cadets were already out of it, long before I even had the chance to find out what skinning up actually meant.

Stone Roses T-shirts were everywhere, less than six months since the debut release. A heavy cloud hung over the festival site, an aroma of which I hadn’t experienced before. My world was about to change, but not before I had to suffer a self-indulgent, and totally inappropriate scheduling, of a set by Swans.

I can’t remember much about that first Friday. Like I said, my world was about to change. The House of Love jangled their way through the early evening, and I think I had something of a strategic lie down when Bjork and The Sugarcubes came on stage.

New Order were poised perfectly for the Reading rock of old meets the leaner, meaner indie kid. Their set was a mixture of electronic bleeps, forged together with chunky bass riffs. I started to dance in a highly excitable way, something of a pale skin indie kid faux pas.

On site camping was what you would expect for five hormonal male teenagers. Sexual fantasies, pot noodles and farts – for three days, solid. Forest away at QPR came very close to becoming an option early Saturday morning.

I soon realised that Reading isn’t exactly a festival. There was no community spirit and little artistic endeavor to be experienced, except for bottles of p*** being catapulted towards the front of the crowd for the entire weekend.

Away from the Melody Maker Main Stage and the only other option was the Mean Fiddler tent towards the back of the arena. An alternative bill of The Cropdusters, Clive Gregson & Christine Collister and Francis Sidebottom offered a break from the tedium of The Mightly Lemon drops and Voice of the Beehive (another mistake booking?)

The afternoon lull passed away when The Scottish Friend became rather drunk, and managed to put his size 10 DM’s right into the resting head of an anarcho hippy type who had collapsed from cider, and was trying to sleep it off by an ice cream van. A chase of sorts followed, but it’s remarkable how even a Crazyhead baseball cap can keep you hidden away within the Reading crowd.

Billy Bragg was a highlight for me on the Saturday evening. I remember an early outing for Sexuality and a blown up condom floating around the front of the stage. These small details maketh a festival for a young man.

New Model Army somehow found themselves in the lofty position of second only to The Pogues on the Saturday night. I remember a very angry Slade the Leveller coming on stage, fully clogged up and kicking over an amp. Phew, rock ‘n roll.

And then it was time for The Pogues comedy road show. This was the balmy days when yer man Shane was still tolerated as a ‘lively’ stage presence, rather than a bloated pub bore. It was fine for the first half hour; the second half hour seemed slightly tedious. By the third, fourth and fifth half-hour, I was back at base and tucked up nicely in the tent. Memories are slightly hazy, but I’m still convinced that I awoke in the early hours with the sound of Shane still mumbling out some nonsense from the Main Stage.

A brief trip to the town centre on Sunday morning (booze and bog) and we were all set for Super Grebo Sunday – that’s something you don’t see on Sky Sports HD. Crazyhead, PWEI and the Wonderstuff – this was the soundtrack that has carried us around the rolling wolds of South Nottinghamshire all summer, and to have the Midlands grebos transported to Berkshire felt like a homecoming of sorts.

Crazyhead were crap, the Poppies were more interested in drum loops and the Stuffies introduced the dreaded fiddle into their set for the first time. The scene was over, and so was our weekend. No one wants to hang around for a Sunday evening headline set from The Mission, especially so with work on Monday morning crashing in and a sickie to try and explain away.

We didn’t return to Reading again. I’m not sure why as a bill the following year of The Cramps, Pixies and, um, Inspiral Carpets seems rather appealing. I was done with the pale indie kid thing and had Glasto and a sun-tan was within my sights for the next decade.

I made a return of sorts to Reading in 2002 for work purposes. I was dispatched back to Berkshire with a B ‘n B booking, a laptop and instructions to file copy on the hour, every hour. I was like a school leaver returning to his old playground. Too cool for school and far too old for the exploding NY chic indie scene (yeah, right) of the time. I took up residence in a local boozer and filed copy wire for three days whilst drinking myself stupid offsite.

And so Reading remains unique amongst UK festivals as a sixth form rites of passage. It is pitched perfectly in the calendar as one last jolly with the old crowd before University beckons.

Twenty years later and you can’t walk around King’s X on a Friday morning without some sixth form oiks trekking off to a random field outside of the Home Counties to watch some sub-standard indie landfill band. Festivals are the new shopping malls, something that you do as a lifestyle choice, and not as part of a tribal musical experience.

I’m still watching Billy Bragg and the Wonderstuff. Crazyhead – come on home. We need you now more than ever.

West Ham Vs Millwall and the boys up for a ruck: C’mon – even Stevie Wonder could have seen this one coming. But in the land of the media blind, the one eyed knobber is King. Which is why we have on Wednesday morning, much hand wringing from BIG media as it tries to get to grips with the return of the English Disease.

Hey fellas, listen carefully: Football working class hooliganism *shhh* – it never went away.

What has changed in the past two decades is the embourgeoisement of football (yeah, I’ve got a degree in sociology, and I’m going to bloody use it.) Sanitise the beautiful / ugly game with TV matches re-branded as events, players as pop stars and supporters as the… supporting cast, and football loses its appeal. It did for me, anyway.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, oh woe and a return for the good old-fashioned days of running from The Millwall after Neil Warnock’s Notts County had an unlikely 5-0 away win down at the old Lane. But it was, y’know, rather exciting at the time.

I was also rather young at the time, and being caught up in a ruck with other lads from a different part of the country, trying to pull one over the police, is exactly the kind of thing that gets a young man about town rather excited. Nowadays and an evening in with a bottle of bolly and a flick through of the New Statesman seems to help me sleep at night.

I can plot the downward trajectory and isolate exactly where I lost all interest in football – August 1992 and the first live Sky match as Liverpool came down to the City Ground. This is the exact moment when football went from being a passion to becoming part of the showbiz catwalk.

Across the river in the Fair City and the peak appears to have been reached this week with The Pies agreeing to pay the thirty four year-old Sol Campbell £10m over the next five years. Dear old Jimmy Sirrel wouldn’t have even given the big man a free bus pass, so that he could travel along to the game with his gaffer.

A return to city centre run-ins every Saturday afternoon isn’t the answer. But boys will be boys, and a bit of a Mexican stand off instead of a crappy Mexican wave might actually liven up some of the s**** Sky serve up on a Sunday afternoon.

The Nu Football Hooliganism (ha!) just might end up saving the game. Carling can’t be too happy being associated with the Hoolie Cup; I can’t see the Sky execs enjoying the gritty side of the game either. The only downside is that it can’t be too long before some knobber Tory politician fancies making a name for himself with a call for ID cards.

I’m personally hoping for a re-match, with West Ham drawn away at the New Den in the FA Cup come the start of the New Year. Now that’s a fixture I would happily pay to watch on TV.

Early morning work complete – rewarding myself with lido swim, and possibly a trip to #treehousegallery #

A madcap Friday afternoon spent falling asleep up a tree Regent’s Park, as the bonkers bongo boys played out a tribal march on their drums below me. Blimey – not your everyday start to the weekend then.

Intrigued by the growing number of tweets documenting the summer project of #treehousegallery, I cleared an afternoon of work and cycled up to NW1 to see if the online expectation matched the reality of the event.

The premise behind the project is to celebrate the summer in the natural environment, sharing ideas and debating opportunities for sustainable living within the city. Sounds a little too ethical and worthy? No worries – there’s plenty of childhood fun to retreat back into with music workshops, big swings and hammocks.

The Treehouse Gallery is essentially a living art project right in the centre of Regent’s Park by the boating lake. It has become something of a #Tuttle retreat in recent weeks, with ICA sessions often carrying on al fresco up a tree.

Two large structures have been converted into living areas. Around the periphery and you’ll find a number of other structures that facilitate learning and discussion. Overlooking the lake is a series of swings and hammocks.

It’s the treehouse garden you never had as a child, and sadly one that won’t last longer than the end of September.

Lying in a hammock at #treehouseproject. Public art as procrastinating – perfect #

I started off my afternoon becoming entangled in a giant hammock. I managed to escape the clutches of the rope, listened to the drumming workshop (yeah, I know…) and then went for a read up a tree.

Oh dear. Grown man trapped in hammock at #treehouseproject #

Two hours passed by in no time, and soon it was time to return back to base for the evening shift. Regent’s Park was particularly beautiful in the late afternoon sun, providing an escapism that I’ve yet to experience up in North London.

I imagine the setting becomes more magical in the evening, with candlelit illuminations leading the way for the music that follows. Of course it would be folly to suggest that this is a long-term solution for city living. But then given the alternative of crappy inner city estates, then I’m ready to listen to the debate.

Leaving #treehouseproject at Regent’s Park. A bonkers event, but one of the highlights of the London summer. Do come, open until end Sept #

Full flickr set over here.

And so as the silly season is upon us and a young politico’s thoughts turn towards the party conference season in a coupe of month’s time. Can’t you just see what a fun kind of guy I am?

I’ve been flirting with the online politico’s for some time now, via the weekly @PMQ_s twitter feed. It’s an incestuous existence, and one that I’m keen to keep my offline distance from.

But then I hit upon the idea of taking @PMQ_s on the road for the conference season. Sounds perfect – live tweets from Bournemouth, Manchester and Brighton as the Boy Clegg, Dave and Gordo get in a fluster reading out a speech that wasn’t written by them, and one which contains political ideas and vision that they have no intention of carrying out, if elected.

Of course the @PMQ_s name wouldn’t quite fit, but @Davemakingaknobofhimself is slightly too elongated for the concise world of the twitterati. I’ve somehow picked up over 1,600 followers for the feed, which isn’t bad going, seeing as though I only tweet for half an hour each week, and even then, only when the House is sitting.

It’s proven to be quite a loyal crowd, attracting followers from the nasty far right, through to, well, left of David Blunkett. There’s plenty of engagement and interaction as well. I try and place the tweets as apolitical as possible, which is proving to be rather easy when you hear three contrasting views (yeah, right,) slugging it out each week.

But where to start with the @PMQ_s happy happy autumn road show? Marketing turns everything into s****, but I need to pay my way. The @PMQ_s brand (ha!) holds some sway, judging by the growing number of tweeting MP’s that are following me.

I need to *shhh* moneterize (urgh!) the brand. By which I mean I need a way to pay my way around some of the country’s finest B&B’s for three weeks in early autumn. @PMQ_s has attracted interest from some national newspapers and other mainstream politico sites taking the feed each week. Once money was mentioned however and the grand plans baulked. Strange, that.

And then there’s the whole accreditation system. The thee main parties give the impression of wanting to hold a big online conversation, but when it comes down to access, then BIG media still get the gig.

The content is out there – I’d have no problems filling three weeks of tweeting and podcasting from around the conference arenas. But are mainstream politics really ready to embrace this form of open dialogue?