The West Country, and England In General

(photo: Adam PW Smith)

We went to the West Country of England with several high expectations. We expected to find a folk-punk scene obsessed with Cider... Cider-Punk. We expected to find a folklore tradition centred on Cider, represented by a bunch of stout, broad-shouldered, bald guys who say things like "Oi therr lads, how's about wee go out tae the zoider bars an' get roight sottered, wha'?" We expected to be treated to a full tour of the West Country's finest Cider farm, the Wilkins' Farm, a place Johnny Rotten and Joe Strummer have both described as the "best place in England". We expected, in a word, to be drowning in the right old fermented apple in all possible ways.

Sometimes, you set your expectations too high, and it turns out that reality cannot possibly match them. You are inevitably disappointed, because you've been imagining something to be much more than it actually is.

This was not one of those times.

Jaymer from the Surfin' Turnips is the greatest man alive. Every song they sing is actually about Cider. For example, here is a verse from "It's Cider Swillin' Time Again":

It's Cider swillin' time again,
Oh aaa! Oh aaa!
It's Cider swillin' time again,
Oh aaa! Oh aaa!
It's Cider swillin' time again,
I might has one, I might has ten
And we'll all go rollin'
Back to the pub again!

OHHH ARRR AYE. Here's another gem, from "Drink Myself to Sleep":

Drink, drink, myself to sleep,
every night a cider by my side
auuuRAAAAA laa laa AAA rauuu RAAAA

Kev, the Turnips fan we stayed with, is also the greatest man alive. Zoe, his girlfriend, is the greatest woman alive. Bristol rules. Cider is everywhere. We drank on a BOAT WHERE THEY ONLY SERVE CIDER. THEY SPELL IT "ZYDER". THEY SING SONGS CALLED "DRINK UP THEE ZYDER" UNTIL FIVE IN THE MORNING. WEST. COUNTRY. FOR. THE WIN.

We staggered away from the Wilkins' Cyder farm loaded with ten gallons of the stuff, bought at something like twelve cents a pint. We are still in the process of consuming the rest of it all over England.

(photo: Adam PW Smith)

Speaking of England: we do not want to leave. The European continent is OK and everything, but England is simply one of the best places on earth. The cuisine is awesome. Beans on everything. Yorkshire pudding. It is all incredibly cheap. Pints are three dollars. People speak proper English. Simple, basic features of civilization (phone booths, post offices, phone cards for sale, grocery marts, public washrooms) are all over the place, unlike the rest of Western Europe. People are totally polite by default, which is very Canadian.

Essentially, what I am saying is: Rule Brittania.

Cider Bear

We sped away from the Mighty Town of Kamloops yesterday morning, and Seamus drearily gazed of his side window, looking wistfully into the distance, asking himself why he could never seem to find true happiness. Just as he was about to ask us to put Sarah McLaughlan's "Fumbling Towards Ecstacy" on the stereo, something caught his eye: an old woman minding a garage sale outside of her house. This no doubt piqued his interest, but what made him scream at us to pull over and stop the van was the fleeting glimpse he'd caught of a brown-furred little bear sitting beside the old woman.




And so, we'd like to introduce you all to the newest member of The Dreadnoughts' Family: Cider Bear.




Ten minutes later, we were back in the van, gleefully providing Cider Bear with cans of the finest Blackthorn Cider.

"Cida Bear was getting mighty sick a dat ol' granny," he said. "One more story about embroidin' and I'da smacked a bitch."

We joyously poured more cider in/on him. He became rather drunk and started telling us about the time that he'd barfed on the neighbours' dog and watched as it had been blamed on a small child. Then he told us about the time he was in the navy and had been used to "bung up a hole in da septic tank". Then he told us about how a 12 year-old boy had used him to masturbate for the first time¹.

There was a highly uncomfortable pause.

"I don't like Cider Bear," said Squidney. "Let's put him in a merch bin." We all agreed, and have since only let him out of his bin to sell our merchandise at shows. Even this may have to stop, as he spent most of last night at the bar trying to get some chick named Megan to, I quote, "show Cida Bear dem mighty brusums".

Bad Cider Bear! Bad!





Tonight we play Kelowna, and tomorrow our truly epic journey begins. 8 hours to Jasper, Calgary, Edmonton, Saskatoon, Regina, Winnipeg... you know the old saying: sometimes you want to go where absolutely fucking nobody knows your name.

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¹ Philosophical question: is humping a stuffed bear masturbation? We're stumped. Please leave a comment if you think you know the answer.