I’ve decided to revisit some of my gig diaries. You may have heard or read this story before on podcast or something, but this is the first time it has been on this blog.

Preston Biker Festival

In August 2017 Gareth and I played a gig at a biker festival in the North west. 

I didn’t know what to expect from a biker rally. My entire knowledge of biker culture comes from the TV show Sons of Anarchy, so I assumed there was a real danger of being killed by people with unconvincing Irish accents.

More to the point, are silly songs about aliens, tentacles and steampunk shenanigans really the sort of thing to play at a biker rally, even if it is the chill-out Sunday afternoon acoustic session? Might we get booed off, or worse?

It was with a slight sense of trepidation that Gareth and I headed into the gig at the Underworld Rally 2017.

I headed up to Nottingham, where Gareth lives and from there we headed off for a very pleasant drive up to the rally which was taking place in Preston. We drove through some lovely parts of the peak district park, including driving past what I think is my favourite place name I have ever seen – Gnat Hole Farm. Isn’t that a great name for a place? Gnat hole farm. 

We finally got to the venue, a farm quite a long way from from civilisation (being a lousy Southerner, I of course regard the interior of the M25 as civilisation and everything outside it as a bleak, desolate wasteland). A lovely chap greeted us and gave us wristbands. There was a woman with a baby at the welcome table with him. We drove in, still nervous, only to find a nice little group of people listening to the opening acoustic act, who was performing under a tree.

It turns out bikers like their rock music and a great many of them were wearing Iron Maiden t-shirts. I was obviously going to like them, wasn’t I? The event even had its own beer, a pleasant, rather wheaty affair. Apart from the bikes, which I have no interest in, this was the perfect event for me.

We were performing outside in the shade of a tree and an old carved statue of what I think was supposed to be a native American. It was the afternoon of the third day of the rally and the acoustic acts were the chill-out section before the final evening. We set up and started performing. All and all it was a nice gig, and wouldn’t have been worth remarking on in this gig diary if it had not been for the incident involving an insect.

It was during Self Made Man that I noticed a tiny green insect on my guitar neck, just by the second fret. That song involves a load of arpeggios on the bass strings and it was hard not to squash the thing. I did my best, but at one point I had to shift down to an F# chord and I accidentally crushed the little guy with my thumb. I thought I heard a little squeak as I did so, but I am sure that was just my imagination.  

I didn’t really think much about it at the time. We finished the set to friendly indifference and headed off for the long drive home. We said goodbye to our host Cosmo – all these bikers seem to have nicknames – I mentioned to him that it was fun playing outside, though I had squashed a bug accidentally –  and then we drove out of the site. 

As we headed out I heard the guy at the entrance – the one who had given us the wristbands – shouting something about Praying Mantis Dave – which I thought was an odd nickname. ‘Praying Mantis Dave has lost his boy’ he was saying. Or something like that. 

The drive back was very pleasant, although there were quite a lot of bikers leaving the festival too, so the roads were a bit clogged. Finally, we got onto the motorway and things thinned out a bit. Gareth pointed out one biker who was still behind us – he was on a big harley, had the leather jacket and black helmet you’d expect, but also looked to be wearing a sort of green jumpsuit. Not a very biker club look at all.

As we drove it became clear that green clad biker wasn’t going away. He kept trailing us, getting closer and closer. Gareth was a little freaked out, so he decided to get off the motorway. We ended up on some twisty little b roads, back in the vicinity of the wonderfully named Gnat Hole Farm. It looked like we had lost of the green clad biker, but then, just as we were about to make a turn, he appeared in front of us, roaring out of a turning and forcing us off the road, onto the little lane that served as an entrance to Gnat Hole farm.

Gareth gave a little girly shriek and slammed on the breaks. We both watched in trepidation, the car’s engine still turning over,  as the biker got off his bike and walked towards us. 

He wasn’t wearing green clothes. He was green. A bright green exoskeleton under a leather jacket. He took off his helmet, revealing black multi-faceted eyes and clicking mandibles. He was somewhere between insect and biker, with the leather and beer-belly of a motorcycle enthusiast twisted into the form of a gross, seven foot tall insect. 

Praying Mantis Dave. 

And as soon as I saw him, I knew what had happened. I had crushed his child against the neck of my guitar. I had killed Praying Mantis Dave’s son and he wanted revenge. 

The insectoid biker pulled something out of his pocket. It was a pistol. 

‘What do we do?’ shrieked Gareth. 

‘This’, I said. I reached over with my foot and slammed down onto the accelerator. We lurched forward, narrowly missing Praying Mantis Dave who dived out of the way, but crashing into his bike. I saw bits of motorcycle go flying. 

‘Get us out of here, Gareth,’ I shouted. 

‘Okay, boss,’ he said. We sped away from Gnat’s hole farm, with Praying Mantis Dave shaking his claw in the rear-view mirror. 

Hopefully, Praying Mantis Dave never speaks to Cosmo and doesn’t discovers who I am and where I live. Cos I’d rather not have a blood-feud with a seven foot tall hell’s angel insect.