Saturday, 28 December 2013

Robbie and the Language Barrier

I think he was secretly a lot better at French than he'd have us believe but it was more fun to be stupid.  He had plenty of other things to be a smug, over-confident, irritating smart-arse about.  Charlie's Mushrooms went to France many times to play.  The coastal bars of Le Havre, St Valery en Caux and Biarritz, the in-land towns of Lilles, Lery-Poses and probably some others I've forgotten all got a taste of our chaotic, funky jazz and at each one, Christophe negotiated free food and beer for the band.

Whatever Robbie's shortcomings with the French language, his mastery of the phrase "Encore bieres pour le group" (tr: more beer for the band) was undisputed.  We drank so much at gigs that whoever was road manager for us would have to spend the gig monitoring our beers and making sure that more were brought to us while we played.  If you're reminded of that scene in the Blues Brothers where they drank twice their fee in beer then you should consider that we made those guys look like lightweights.

If you've ever driven in France you'll be aware that the motorways there have toll booths every so often called "PĂ©age".  One of the first times we were approaching one of these, only one of us spoke French well enough to communicate with the attendant.  Jizfanny - yes, that was his nickname.  Also Jizza.  His real name was Graham Baines but if you know Robbie at all, you'll know his nicknaming convention was to choose something the person would hate and make it stick if he could.

Jizfanny was our drummer.  We'd had a lot of drummers but Jizza was the one we considered everybody else was depping for.  And he spoke French.  We join the story with Jizza in his usual pitch, lunched out in a sleeping bag in the footwell of the rear row of seats in the van cab.  Our tour bus, such as it was, was a 20 year old Ford Transit the previous owner had put a second row of seats in before I bought it from him.

Robbie was in the front passenger seat by the window, which meant that he would be the one who had to speak to the peage attendant.  We drew up level and this guy wasn't taking any prisoners.  He was not prepared to speak more slowly because you were a guest in his country.  For the previous five minutes we'd been kicking Jizfanny and shouting at him to wake up cuz we needed his language skills.  Jizfanny had a policy of doing things in his own time, which usually meant the very last minute.  He had the same approach to drumming.  But once he was on the stool, he was awesome.  You just had to make sure he stayed there.

The attendant started jabbering numbers at Robbie, who said "Woah! Woah!  Parlez avec il.  Il parle francais."  Robbie thought he was saying "Woah Woah!  Speak with him.  He speaks French."

Jizfanny by this point had surfaced and as he pushed his head past Robbie to be able to see the attendant, with the smooth, dry sarcasm of any traffic policeman he said 'Well done, Robbie, that's "he used to speak French"' and instantaneously switched languages to speak to the attendant.

Later on, Christophe - the French guy whose idea it was for us to gig around France in the first place - had told Robbie he had to say some things at the end of the gig just to obey a bit of protocol.  It didn't sit particularly well with any of us but free beer and more money next time are pretty fair persuaders.  So Robbie learnt his words, "Ladies and gentlemen, it's been a pleasure to play for you this evening.  If you'd like a buy a cassette, please speak to our manager."

This is what actually came out of his mouth 5 hours and 20 beers later.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is pleasure playing you.  If you want to buy cassettes, speak to the birdcage.  I eat the swimming pool!  Thank you!  Goodnight!"

Tuesday, 29 October 2013

Robbie and the Kebab - by Emily Blackledge

When we were on tour with Sativa we had a night out in Weymouth, which was a fairly drunken affair ending with a trip to a kebab house. On the way back to the tour bus with his kebab in one hand, Robbie picked a hyacinth flower that was growing in one of the flower beds. He regarded the flower for a while, then he studied his kebab. He then threw away what was left of his kebab and proceeded to eat the hyacinth as he decided that it looked much more appetising. It made him quite sick, I seem to remember.

Sunday, 27 October 2013

Anti-Tank - by Richie

This isn’t the most exciting anecdote in the world, nothing really happens, but it’s just so typical of the kind of conversations we used to have and that day was such a good laugh that it has just always stuck in my mind and I’d like to share it with you.
It was around 2006 and myself, Robbie, Neil Mac and Bongo Pete went out for the day to play golf somewhere near Farnborough. I had just got back from an operational tour of Afghanistan and Robbie was always inquisitive about my job - mostly because he wanted to know “What I’m getting for my tax money”
The conversation got on to mines (Afghanistan is a very heavily mined country) and as faithfully as I can reproduce it, it went like this:
Richie “Well, you get two different types of mines”
Robbie “What are they then?”
Richie “There’s anti-personnel mines and anti-tank mines”
Robbie “What exactly is the difference?”
Richie “Well, an anti-personnel mine is designed to injure you so all your mates are taken out of the battle to look after you and it only takes 3 Kg of direct pressure to set them off. An anti-tank mine is designed to rip through 6 inches of armour plate and destroy everything inside a tank and it takes 100 Kg of direct pressure to set them off. Just out of interest, how much do you weigh Robbie?”
Robbie (looking smug) ” I’ll be alright, I’m only 96 Kg”
Richie (looking even more smug) “In the Army your rifle weighs 4.5 Kg Robbie”
Robbie (looking pleased as punch) “So what you’re saying is, you’re too puny to set off anti-tank mines…”

It's not the winning or losing...

…but losing was never really an option for Robbie ;)
This was Paul’s Stag Do and about 15 of us went down to Camberly for Go-Karting. Out of those who went there were 3 guys who really fancied themselves to win, Paul, myself and, of course, Robbie.
We three had never raced against each other before, so the race was preceded by a good-humoured, very blokey discussion about who was going to win and why. Robbie had form in the kart having famously won from near the back the last time Basingstokians went karting, I had only ever lost in a kart before by disqualification, Paul was an unknown quantity who assured and reassured us all that his victory was in the bag. It was on.
The qualifying races showed that we three were indeed to top dogs on the track with Paul starting the final race in pole position, me second and Robbie third. Both Paul and I had outpaced Robbie so I wasn’t sure at this point why he was grinning at us so confidently on the start grid… The race began…
Paul made a good start, but it only took me a lap to catch him and ram him out of my way at a hairpin bend. I was in the lead, but the best thing was the carnage I had left behind me on the track! Both Paul and Robbie were a long way back and stuck behind other karts on a narrow track without any real overtaking opportunities. I *knew* I was the fastest guy there, all I had to do was sit back, set a few lap records and rehearse my victory speech. Then with a lap to go…
…I got a massive shunt in the back of my kart! It was Robbie! I can only imagine the chaos he must have caused and the speed he must have been going at to get past all those other karts. He smiled and waved at me, then it was really on. I held on to that lead for dear life, at times Robbie’s kart was pushing my kart around the track and he managed to get the nose of his kart inside mine on one of the corners, but I just held on for the line. Victory was mine!
or so I thought!
After we crossed the line Robbie rather unpolitely rammed me into the pits, carried on and did another lap in the knowledge that with the extra lap the print out at the end of the race would show his name, not mine, at the top of the leaderboard!
After the race Robbie produced the print out, claimed to have won the race, and said “Here’s my evidence, where’s yours?” To which of course I had no answer…

Floyd On The Jukebox - by Ginge

I went round Robbie’s house to discuss something or other.
I think it was around the time he was organising a Tubular Bells/Dark Side of the Moon/Rumours tribute tour. The whole thing kinda flopped after a few shows, but he’d organised a proper tour bus for the first weekend so we all felt like rock stars for a bit. Nice one fella.
Anyway, we said what we had to say and decided go for a pint at the New Inn. I’d left my sax at his, so I picked it up and off we went.
After several pints and a few games of pool we sat down for a chat, at which point something from the upcoming shows came on the jukebox – maybe a Pink Floyd tune with a sax solo. So, feeling suitably spurred on by lager, I decided to have a play along.
I put my sax case on the table in front of me and opened the lid.
The smell hit me like a ton of old prawns as I realised - I’d been fishpranked.
The stench of rotten fish came forth from my saxophone like the scene at the end of “Raiders of the Lost Ark”, except with twisted satanic scary kippers instead of ghosts.
You could actually see the foul emanation radiating outwards through the pub, as one by one, people’s expressions went from mild pub contentment to utter disgust.
Robbie was grinning.
Robbie was laughing.
Robbie was totally pissing himself, the bastard..
As I shut the fishy Ark of the Covenant, I realised I’d left my horn at his house for a whole week. It had been next to a radiator when I’d picked it up. He confirmed that yes, the offending mackerel had been on a slow warm rot setting for about six days.
I suppose you could call it revenge. As his best man (by short straw, not request or choice) I’d put a couple of herrings into the car in which he and Libby were driving to their honeymoon. He rang me before they’d even left town with the question “Ginge. Where’s the fish?”
You have to be of a certain mindset for this sort of thing. A sort of Robbie Fraser mindset. If he’d have placed those fish in my car, he’d have put them somewhere to lie undetected until the end of the honeymoon when they’d be really stinking.
So there it is – the harshest of lessons I learned from that beautiful, filthy, depraved individual known as Robbie “total bastard” Fraser is this.
Never blag a blagger. Never prank a prankster. And never EVER fish prank a fish pranker. Especially when that esteemed fish pranker is Robbie Fraser: Slayer of Saxophones, Prince of the Pollack, Soveriegn of the Sardine. Master of the Mackerel.

The Van (camper VW that is) - by Dark Menace

Fairly early on in “Mushroom History”, having recently met “Our Robbie” and all the boys and girls who are the faithful, and having been taken on as “manager” a title, which I never was comfortable with, so played my role as a “Butler”.
Robbie says “OK lets get over to my Mum & Dads and take a look at my van we’ll need to get it going” so off we go, we get pretty close and pull up the small hill and then right down what appears to me to be a fairly salubrious area; we park up and walk a little way down the lane and as we turn the corner a very lovely and beautiful home and well tended garden is revealed, clearly from Robbie’s familiarity, this is home.
As I fully turn the corner there parked tightly up against the significantly tall hedge row is the “The Van” a white and orange VW camper Van, well, it used to be white and orange.
One could not help but notice that green moss and lichen had taken up residence on much of it’s coach work, and what is more the hedge and “The Van” had become one, whether Robbie could discern some disbelief and doubt on my face I don’t know for sure, but turned and grinned that grin and said “Alright in it” in ever optimistic fashion, I believe what I said was “Rob it’s covered in moss and cobwebs, and it’s got a tree growing round it” again the grin and response “it’s ok we’ll tow it out and give it a wipe down”
I think it was at this point I noticed the tyres, on further inspection of the tyres you couldn’t help but notice they were very flat, and not in “road worthy” condition I voiced my concerns that towing may prove difficult, my doubt was brushed aside with “OK have you got a pump we’ll put some air in” I just had to tell him straight “Rob they’re not just flat, they’re square….what are going to do with it any way?”
“We are going to tour France in it!!” says Robbie, like if that was obvious, “but Robbie, I don’t think it’ll make it” “It’ll be fine, it managed “The Fat Ballerina tour” I tried various forms dissuasion and defence.
Before my sentence was finished Robbie was attaching a tow rope to “The Van” threw the other end to me, and I like a lamb I complied helplessly.
We towed it out, some fiddling about was done and we towed come bump started it, it got back to “The Stoke” I can’t recall if we took it then or it happened a bit later, the fact is that “The Van” was spruced up, it did get an MOT, it did go to France, and went on to a have a life of it’s own, and will appear in many stories to come I am sure; all because “Our Robbie” believed it could be done and made it happen.

Quotes and Catchphrases

“Can I have more than my fair share” (any time food was being dished out)
“It’s not the winning and losing, it’s the spoiling it for others that counts”
“Back of the fucking net” (at the top of his voice whenever his quiz team got one right)
“Get your poopoolalas out girls. This’ll make you damp.” (Charlies Mushrooms debut at Mean Fiddler Nov 94)
“You’ve got your health to consider” (when he wanted to finish the fag you were smoking)
“Can I tax your baccy?” (when your dog end was not enough)

Robbie's Cheesy Farewell - by Simon Parker

 I remember sitting in that van as we were leaving Coutance and Robbie poked his head through the door and said “it fookin stinks in here” and then preceded to smear Camembert all over the inside of the windscreen and then said ” now it’s gonna really stink” and then got into a different van to go home in, laughing with that infectious laugh that made it all fine. Great days x.

Shoulda gone to Robbiesavers

Once upon a time on a greyish summer’s afternoon, Robbie and the gang were sitting outside the Tart, drinking.  You can see a photo of this session on facebook.  It’s Robbie pulling a funny face while wearing someone’s glasses.  Someone’s broken glasses.  _My_ broken glasses.  The arm had been reattached by the hero of our tale some minutes before and that’s where my story…actually that’s the middle of the story.

See, if I had a quid for every time I’d been compared to Jack Duckworth in my life, I’d’ve amassed enough wealth to well, have my spectacles professionally repaired I suppose.  But we never had gaffer tape when I was little.  As a boy I was unaware of its magical properties so I’d used whatever was to hand: sellotape, lx tape, blu-tac.  Once I used gum.  Once.
Anyway, gaffer tape has been my bonding agent of choice for many years now.  Although I have only recently discovered that quotation attributed to Oprah Winfrey:  
"Gaffer tape is like the Force.  It has a light side, a dark side and it holds the Universe together."
My key rings have been fashioned from gaffer tape.  My trousers have been held up by it.  My car and countless other objects held together by it.  But today, we were stuck.  At least 2 musicians were present and not an inch of it did we have between us.  So Robbie took my glasses and said he’d fix them while I went to the bar.
When I returned, he placed the glasses on my face and they were straight and comfortable and sturdy.  I didn’t feel the need to check what had been done.  I was so comfortable that I forgot they had been broken when I went to bed and took them off.  The following morning I was on autopilot and continued that way for two months.  I went to work at my flashy job in the city.  I went to the pub with my flashy mates from my flashy job in the city.  I had a job review with my flashy boss at my flashy job in the city.
"Glasses are holding out well, Paul", I would say to myself.  "That Robbie Fraser seems to be able to turn his hand to anything", I introspectively remarked with warmth and admiration.
Then, one day, my glasses broke again.  I tried to put the arm back together the way Robbie had done it and that’s when I realised what he had used.
A fag end.
It may have been a new one.  Or lightly soiled.  But it was a fag end.  
All.  That.  Time.
The effectiveness of the fix is beyond reproach, lasting as long as it did but I know there was a part of him that was laughing his ass off every day he saw me that I still hadn’t realised.  
This is just an example of the light and dark sides of Robbie Fraser, the gaffer tape that held our Universe together.

Remembering Robbie Fraser Rip

Remembering Robbie Fraser Rip

here are some of my blogs about Robbie i made, you can reblog them if you want 

[.pd.: Tucker was this you?]

Deconstructing Paintball Fraserstyle

Deconstructing Paintball Fraserstyle

A few years ago while I was playing in a band with Robbie, our keyboard player Bill had his Stag Do and all of the rest of us bandmates were invited along.  Our pre-piss up activity that day was paintball, which for me at least was the first time i’d experienced it and I suspect there were quite a few others in the same position, including Robbie.
A few ‘games’ in and we were all starting to get the hang of it when the stewards announced that the next game would be bit of a ‘bloodbath’ so we would need to elect a ‘medic’ from our team.  The purpose of which was to ‘revive’ any player that was knocked out, by means of donning a white lab coat and wiping the paint covered player down with an old towel they’d be given, in order for the player to hastily return to the killing….
Or being killed was more likely, as it would appear that the next mission was to storm a very narrow bridge, behind which the other team was occupying very heavily protected firing positions, like an open air pill box!
No sooner had the briefing ended had Robbie leapt to his feet and started questioning the 2 stewards.  He returned to us a few minutes later with a broad gin on his face and a plan.  He was also wearing the white lab coat.
He had asked the stewards to elaborate on the mechanics of how the medic was supposed to work, the answer being given was that as soon as the medic had wiped off the paint and touched you on the arm you were ‘revived’ and could go back into the game again.  What Robbie had then posed to them was; IF you remained in constant physical contact with the medic and IF the medic wasn’t shot… would that make you invincible?
The bemused stewards could see no obvious flaws in his logic and had to agree that any player in contact with the (not dead) medic was afforded ‘invincibility’, by now they were curious enough about where this was all heading that they came over with Robbie to overhear the plan that he put to the rest of us.
Which was…. that he would crouch down and we would surround him as closely as possible whilst we approached the bridge, effectively creating a ‘Man-Tank’ round him which couldn’t be killed!  We would rotate slowly so that everyone took their turn at being pelted with paintballs and we’d just be able to walk straight across the bridge! 
I could see the stewards barely able to contain their excitement at the prospect of seeing this actually take place.  
A few minutes later as we were walking towards the bridge in tight formation and into the range of enemy fire I was still stunned by the fact that Robbie had actually managed to convince the group that this was going to be a good plan… AND that we’d had all actually gone for it!… Take what you will from that!
A few minutes further on after the whole team had dispersed and retreated, the plan having gone hideously wrong, I found I had learned a valuable lesson in life.  If you’re standing at the front of a Man Tank being twatted from all directions with hard little balls of luminous liquid and you’re expecting your fellow team mates to follow the fine details of an utterly lunatic plan, voluntarily rotate and take some of the heat off you… then you’re probably expecting too much!! 
Later that day Robbie’s interpretations of the rules scored us a win during a ‘Capture the Flag’ match… he’d asked whether the Blue armbands we were wearing to distinguish our team HAD to be worn on the arm… the stewards were clearly already aware of where Robbie was coming from after the events of the morning and told him that so long as they were ‘visible’ that we could wear them anywhere.
That game, on Robbie’s suggestion, we all wore our ‘Armbands’ around our ankles and successfully managed to walk directly into the enemy camp and nick their flag! If anyone there on the day can corroborate that it was actually Robbie himself that did the flag stealing i’d be grateful! (Even if not that’s the way i’ll always choose to remember it anyway!) 

Robbie vs Phones


I remember going to see Robbie at his home, as I arrived, he was angrily collecting bits of smashed plastic, circuit board, and keys from where they lay on the living room carpet. It was fairly obvious within seconds that he’d just finished a frustrating telephone call with somebody by smashing the handset into tiny pieces.


Feeling that there was still some tension in the air I tentatively asked if everything was alright? To which, in true Robbie fashion, he quickly dismissed it all as nothing really important and asked me to turn the kettle on. The familiar grin was already returning to his face as he reached into a drawer, where I could see a large plastic bag full of phones, selected a replacement and plugged it into the socket. 

He then went on to explain that he’d been going around charity shops recently buying up old telephone handsets and collecting them together for such times as this when he knew he’d be liable to take out his frustrations on another hapless phone. By now he was beaming at me and asking “Have you ever smashed a phone up? It’s the most bloody therapeutic thing you’ll ever know!”

[Posted by smurf?]