UKE HUNTS: Skip-see No Evil, Skip-hear No Evil

A year finally passed and at last it was time for the Skipsea Ukulele Festival once again. Strange, it only seems like a week since I was telling you about the last one.

I met my partner in crime, Ted “Theodore” Zeppelin, at his place before transporting an amp and a rucksack which was “heavier than God’s bollocks” to the bus station.

Skipsea is quite difficult to get to considering how close it is to where I live, but it’s a tiny hamlet where three people and 2,000 sheep live, so it doesn’t exactly have a regular bus service. So irregular in fact that there are just two a day (in the summer holiday season this rises to a mammoth three a day) and we took one of them along with three other people.

45 minutes from Bridlington and having stopped at every blade of grass along the way we spilled out of the vehicle by Skipsea Village Hall.

We were ready to rock.

Oh, and we swore we weren’t going to drink before we played.

We checked in and were shocked to find that a) we weren’t on the VIP list, b) there was no VIP list, and c) the people of Skipsea don’t appreciate jokes about VIP lists. The first band were on, some red shirt and waistcoat-wearers from just up the road in Hornsea. They opened with the anthem of denim enthusiasts, Rockin’ All Over the Word. Ted and I looked at each other in despair. We were also going to open with that. No bother, we’d be miles better. We hoped.

“Look at those fuckers, on the beer already,” Ted remarked as we went outside to Stage 2 (a tent) and saw some fuckers who were indeed on the beer already.

“The fuckers,” I replied.

We both knew we’d give anything to trade places with them and embark on an all day sesh, but we swore we weren’t going to drink.

I performed a solo spot on Stage 2 (still a tent) to about two people, one of whom used crutches and so couldn’t escape easily. It was a functional performance to blow off the cobwebs and relax the nerves a bit. Beer would have done the same job, but, you know, we’d promised.

Ted played some stuff, then we both played some stuff. It was just a bonus last minute rehearsal really.

We checked out a few groups, most of whom were a safety-in-numbers affair where every player played and sang the same stuff. We were confident we would be better than most of them.

And then came the Frogg Brothers. They had a ukulele, but they also had a banjo-player, a guitarist and a bassist. And a drummer who just sat on a box like a big speaker and played that. Technically they were cheating, but they were local and they were filling in at the last minute. More importantly they were bloody good. Imagine Hayseed Dixie, but better. Now imagine them doing Ace of Spades, Sweet Child o’ Mine and, bizarrely, Jay Z’s 99 Problems. The collective arses of everyone in the building were well and truly kicked.

I was glad we weren’t on right after them.

I was glad alsowe weren’t on right after another group whose name I forgot to note down that sneaked a bassist onstage with them who played mostly instrumental stuff and nailed it.

Meanwhile at Stage 2 (definitely a tent) the besuited Iain who sported an impressive Wild West baddie moustache and who apparently is a doctor in real life had the audience eating out of his hand with singalongs and self-penned songs about seagulls stealing your ice cream that had a liberal amount of sexual innuendo thrust into them.

Our time was nearing and we still weren’t drinking. We did in the ham sandwiches that Mrs Ted had given us and then went indoors to a practice room where we ran through our full set one last time and I farted a lot.

Mrs Hunts arrived just before our spot and nearly passed out when we told her we hadn’t been drinking. We’d done it, but bloody hell I was thirsty.

Onstage the nerves were only a fraction of what they’d been the previous year. We started Rockin’ All Over the World at a sensible pace and finished it playing at almost double the speed. We started playing Willin’ at a sensible speed and finished it playing at almost double tempo. Hang on, there’s a theme developing here. Maybe we were nervous?

No matter. The audience were loving it. We were enjoying ourselves too. Ted played impressive slide on Freebird, I sang Stairway to Heaven in Norwegian and we banged out a bit of Chas and Dave and Rolling Stones too. Before we knew it we were playing the last chord of 99 Red Balloons and taking a rockstar selfie of ourselves on stage.

Then the fun could start. Four and a half pints in 45 minutes to play catch up with those who’d been on the sauce for 10 hours and a relaxing listen and singalong with the final group of the day who fittingly took the whole event full circle and ended with Rockin’ All Over the World.

We had a blast and not just playing. There were some genuinely really good acts and some of the others that perhaps lacked ability certainly made up for it with their enthusiasm. I talked to a lot of quite interesting people and was humbled by the reception we got and some of the comments people made afterwards.
And a huge thanks to Malcolm for having the patience to organise the whole damn thing too.

It was a great day and we’ll see you there again next year. If we can be arsed to get off our luxury yachts now that we’re famous, that is.