The Rose of The Ribble Valley Copyright Graham Dixon 2002 Second Edition 2012 To Bernadette. *** The finest singer I know: *** And the best wife in the world. Foreword. The Rose of the Ribble Valley is set in the area south of the River Ribble - between Preston and Clitheroe. There are several popular Folk Music Venues in the Area; Gregson Lane Folk Club at Hoghton and Longridge Folk Club plus ‘singers nights that take place regularly in Samlesbury, Osbaldeston, Clitheroe, Garstang and Higher Walton All the venues are frequented by bands like ‘Elderflower Punch’, Duos similar to Pushing Forté, Guitarists like ‘Woody’ and Folksingers not unlike Brian Clayton and Mary Jones. However the artistes in the story are all fictional characters and any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental (though often unavoidable). The pubs and clubs herein are all fictional too although similarities to actual venues may be evident. If you are in this part of the country and would like to sample some Folk Music in Lancashire then log on to the Internet at www.troubleatmill.com and find details therein. Finally possession and consumption of psilocybin for ‘Recreational purposes’ are offences under the Misuse of Drugs Act. 1970. THE ROSE OF THE RIBBLE VALLEY. Prologue Geoff. "Mush a ring a ma doo a ma day - whack fol my daddio whack fol my daddio there's whiskey in the jar - HEY." Geoff always finished off with Kilgarry Mountain. The loud shout of "HEY," at the end of the song, which was enhanced by the sudden addition of a pulsating 'foot-switched' echo, was like drawing a final line under the evening’s performance. Although not exactly rapturous, the applause was, in the main, warm and well meant. It was punctuated with whistles and shouts of “MORE." However, Geoff had been in the business long enough to know that these insincere calls for an encore were not from his regular followers but from the 'noisy drunken bastards' at the bar, who had not listened to one song all night and were now shouting in the forlorn hope that maybe another chorus would encourage Brian, the landlord, to take the towels off the beer pumps and continue to serve after hours. No chance! Geoff stepped back from the microphone and unplugged the fluorescent pink lead from his Martin Dreadnought guitar, unhitched the strap and placed the instrument safely into its fur-lined flight case. Protect the guitar, that's the most important bit of kit, everything else was replaceable and could be packed away later after a well-deserved wind down over a couple of pints of Brian's award winning 'real ale'. Out from behind the bar, Brian stepped over to microphone and beckoned to Geoff as if to say, "Is it still switched on?" Geoff nodded. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, CAN WE HAVE YOUR GLASSES EMPTIED PLEASE!" boomed the landlord’s voice, with an air of confidence that demonstrated his well-practised microphone technique. Geoff looked across at Wayne, the bass player, and shrugged his shoulders, knowing that his fellow musician was also thinking that it would make a pleasant change if the landlord, while he had the microphone, would take the opportunity to actually thank the band for their efforts. Not Brian! After playing the folk clubs and pubs himself, for more years than he cared to remember, Brian had little time for the niceties of the 'local' live music scene. He had now discovered that the only way to make any money out of it was to get on the business side of the bar and rake in the profits from the drinks. Now that the towels were up, Brian’s sole purpose in life was to get the place empty. He could then count, not only the money in the till but also the money in the drawer under the bar, which any sober, observant customer would have noticed was used for Brian's 'Special Offers' such as: cling film wrapped sandwiches and baguettes; cigarettes brought in on the back of lorries from the continent and the proceeds of 'The Doubles Bar', which offered large measures of spirits, all of which where supermarkets’ 'own' brands, at a discount price. Wayne made an obscene gesture with his right hand behind Brian's back. Grinning as he coiled the guitar lead around his arm, Geoff stepped across and quietly commented as he looked up at Wayne's smiling face. "He may be a wanker but he pays the money." "Bastard must have taken well over five hundred quid the place was bloody well heaving," said Wayne as he lifted one of the heavy cabinets containing a 15-inch loudspeaker from the top of the speaker stand. "And I'm getting too bloody old for all this humping and bloody carting." Geoff sniggered. He liked Wayne; he had played with him for over twenty years. The gentle giant was a musical genius and a boon to any band, whatever their style. After many years experience playing in jazz bands and in the orchestra pits of northern theatres, Wayne could not only play along with any group of musicians, he could actually embellish their sound with his exciting bass lines. Geoff was perfectly capable of performing solo, as was often the case, if he played folk clubs or village halls, but he liked having Wayne along on 'pub gigs' for three reasons. Mainly because Wayne's bass guitar style gave the sometimes-sombre folk songs an up beat almost 'rock and roll feel' that would appeal to the 'non folkies' in the audience. Secondly, he was very good with the PA system, both carrying it in and out and setting up the sound to get the best effect in any particular venue. Last, but not least, Wayne was handy to have around if ever any over enthusiastic 'hecklers' in the audience turned nasty and looked like becoming violent. Only last week a drunken Irishman, in a pub audience, had taken exception to a 'couple of English bastards' singing Danny Boy . One snarl from Wayne; directed straight at the offender, had the desired effect. Not surprising really, considering the bearded bass player’s six foot four inch frame with shoulders and arms that bore testament to the years that Wayne had spent working hard as a labourer with the local council's road-works department. Abigail sat on a stool at the corner of the bar caressing a large Jack Daniels. Although Brian had been very quick and efficient when ushering out the remaining punters, he knew the reason for Abigail being there and was prepared to allow her 'an after hours tipple' along with the two musicians. After all they were paying for the drinks and were daft enough to buy one for him, his first and only one of the night, he didn't see any point in making a habit of drinking away the profits. Geoff had been talking to Abigail earlier in the evening and arranged to take her home. Many times, in the past, he had found comfort and affection between Abigail's sheets. The trouble with Abigail was that lots of other 'musos' found comfort between those sheets too, she was a 'text book groupie' and would never dream of going on a night out that didn't involve listening to some sort of 'live music' and going home with a real live musician. She wore a dark blue T-shirt and emblazoned, in gold, on the front, right across her buxom chest against the background of a musical stave, complete with treble clef, were the words: - *** DO YOU WANT TO PLAY WITH ME? *** She had shoulder length red hair and around her neck she wore a gold chain on which hung a chunky solid gold Fender Stratocaster electric guitar pendant. The 'western-cut’ denim jeans and ‘cow-girl’ boots, indicated that maybe her first love was country music. "Cracking night tonight lads,” said Brian, as he opened the drawer under the bar and took out a few notes. "I think I can safely say that you earned it tonight," as he handed eighty pounds over to Geoff. "Cheers" said the singer quietly thinking to himself, that he could make sixty quid singing on his own for an hour and a half in an old folks’ home, on a weekday afternoon and not even have the bother of having to take the sound system with him. "Nearly forgot," said Brian "My accountant says I've got to start keeping records of my entertainment costs, so from now on I'll be needing a receipt." "We’ll be wanting more than eighty if were signing for it," retorted Geoff "You know eighty is the limit Geoff. What do you think this is a charity for washed up folk singers?" "Bollocks," said Wayne "Eighty's the deal when it's cash in hand. You know, 'the black economy' and all that? You save and we save." Brian grunted and turned to Geoff “You can always fuck off to the Shovel and play there instead and take Grizzly Adams here with you!" Brian knew he was on a winner. The Malt Shovel was the only other pub in the area to put on live entertainment but it was a pub full of pratts and smooth-flow beer and the entertainment usually consisted of some short skirted tart showing her arse and wailing away to poor quality backing tapes. No self-respecting muso would play there. Brian's pub however, The Grey Mare, was regarded as the best music venue in this part of Lancashire.