A long, long time ago, in a pub far away, a group of young lads met up one Friday for a beer after work and always went back, but never looked back.
Fame and fortune came calling and they soon formed a wholesome boy band - The Backstop Boys - and toured much of Inverness, the Highlands (and the rest of the world) for the next 40 years. They coped well with the adulation and fame. They remained grounded and had not allowed themselves to be seduced by the trappings of wealth. They were the sorts of guys you could expect to find down the pub of a Friday evening. In fact, that's exactly where you would always find them.
That was then and this is now.
There is only so long that you can put up with the screaming of teenage girls.
Touring became a chore. The Columba, Nicky Tam's, The Phoenix, The Gellions, The Heathmount, The Corrie, The Haugh Bar, The Islands.
It all became too much. It was a blur of beer and sausage rolls. They had to settle down and they thought they had found sanctuary at the Castle Tavern. However, nothing lasts forever and things became difficult and they felt unloved and outcast, so they moved again. And again. They ended up at the Phoenix which was a bit of a spiritual home for most of them.
All that movement had a cost and a benefit. They had built up some goodwill and credit, most particularly, at the Corrie. It was here that they decided to have a final meeting to decide whether they still had what it takes to get back out on the road and set young girls' hearts aflutter again. Their wives already knew the answer to that, so they weren't invited.
No sooner was the decision made than Wild Bill Heppy had organised the whole evening. Soon we were all gathered at the Corrie, but not so late that it was dark outside. Pensioners do worry about walking the streets after the sun has gone down.
There were one or two missing. Harry was getting his hair curled, or something like that. John was waiting for a delivery and Bruce had someone to say farewell to.
Here is the assembled company. They still have that rock and roll look and it is not just down to the walking frames.
No sooner was the decision made than Wild Bill Heppy had organised the whole evening. Soon we were all gathered at the Corrie, but not so late that it was dark outside. Pensioners do worry about walking the streets after the sun has gone down.
There were one or two missing. Harry was getting his hair curled, or something like that. John was waiting for a delivery and Bruce had someone to say farewell to.
Here is the assembled company. They still have that rock and roll look and it is not just down to the walking frames.
Even from the other side, they still look the same. There is an astonishing mix of shiny heads and grey hair. That would explain why the lighting was subdued and candlelight was preferred to the glare of the spotlights that had followed them throughout most of their careers.
Of course, there were weighty matters to be decided. Could they get by on their pensions, or did they need to go back on the road one more time. Not for the adulation, but purely for the money. All that beer doesn't buy itself, you know.
First to make his views known was Les. He had previously been one of the Bay City Rollers, so he knew a thing or two about comeback tours.
No chance, he felt. We are already the forgotten men. We would just be making fools of ourselves. What was that Government advice about touching your face with your hands, again? Why do I keep forgetting stuff?
If there's no Real Ale, I won't be going, thought Mac the Knife. I'm certainly not going anywhere near Easter Road, Easter Island orEaster Ross was John's response.
Ian thought there was something fishy going on. In fact, that was just the smell of Alan's ear burning.
Bob was his usual happy self and Neil had given in to the slow rising feeling of ennui with all the meaningless to-ing and fro-ing about these past exploits. He new that the only true greatness had been found in Gothenburg.
Bruce was absolutely amazed that they could possibly contemplate going back on the road again ( Canned Heat 1967). My name's not Springsteen you know, he thought.
On the other hand, Bill was thinking that there might be something in this touring lark. I would have to get permission first, though he realised.
Richard can only go if they make sure that any photos are on his best side. Nobody knows which side that is.
There really were too many complicated factors to take into account, so they decided that what they really needed was some stability in their lives. No more aimless wandering, looking for the perfect pub. No more harking back to past glories. All this talk of being famous and adored was just nonsense. They were just a load of old buffers looking for a bar to prop up and some free chicken dippers and onion bhajis. It wasn't too much to ask for.
No need to stay out any later agonising about things, it was nearly nine o'clock and well past bedtime. The streets were dark and menacing.
So, decision made - it was back to the Phoenix! Only, not tomorrow night. They were far too old and weary to go to the pub for two days in a row.
They were so anxious to get home to bed and an electric blanket, that there wasn't time to deliver my speech thanking Wild Bill for his organisation.
Thanks are also due to Dave and Alan for the photos. I'm still in awe of the fact that they managed the technology without anyone under the age of 10 being involved.
