Archive for May, 2010
Radio 1′s Big Weekend in Bangor

It was an absolute pleasure and honor to play the Introducing stage at this years Radio 1 Big Weekend in Bangor, It was a scorching hot day and such a beautiful place to rock out…

Here is some proof…..

Frankie xxx

ITS MAY !!!! Futureheads Tour and The Great Escape so far…….

Hey Guys, so weve literally just stepped of the bus from being away for our longest time YET as a band, and you know what, we loved every second and we would love to be on the road again right now!!!

It was a pleasure to meet lots of new people so if you did say hello it was great to meet you, and if you didnt say hello, then do it next time !!!!!

The highlights for me being away was spending time with our good friends and mentors THE FUTUREHEADS !!!! also meeting the DUTCH UNCLES what a great tour to be involved with, heres all of us outside the last venue we did in Northampton…..


We had a great night and we all got onstage for THE FUTUREHEADS last song, hound of love, we were on one side of the stage and the DUTCH UNCLES on the other…..what a moment ……


during the tour we made this video podcast, have a watch. It was recorded after our set in Bristol. The venue was called The Thekla and it was a converted boat, made in Sunderland !!!!!

At the end of THE FUTUREHEADS tour we hit the road and headed to Brighton for THE GREAT ESCAPE, and what fun we had, our first gig was for NME at the end of the pier in a pub called Haratio’s heres Dennis and Pete dicking around….


The next day we did a gig for Levis at a bar called Audio, it was a great gig and we got to meet loads of amazing people, we loved Brighton and cant wait to play there again sometime.

To some May up so far its been amazing and still Stag and Dagger, One Big Weekend and Evolution to go……


speak soon

Frankie xxx

Holmeside. Sunderlands left bank

There was a time when hooligans garnered approval from engraining the tread of their DM’s upon the cheek of their fellow pugilists. But thanks to something called culture, every anoraked sniff hack is a pseudo academic. Like menopausal mothers who have read Harry Potter and try writing there own; these ball warts are in danger of trying to become something other than the single celled flob they were earmarked for.
Of course since I was fitted with my limited edition twat magnet these almost human creatures have become something of a plaything. Akin to charming snakes with potentially worse consequences. I appreciate that these encounters are often my fault. I chose this line of work. I fell in love with Frankie & The Heartstrings and I intend to fight for them. I will not have their name taken in vein. Having said that, I’m a complete coward and often confuse these moments of bamboozling pride with dumb romance. This is beautifully illustrated………….

In the early days, around 2009 BG (before Gofton) I would frequent the local hooligan menagerie. I like it here because it allows you to become a complete neutral commodity. What I mean is that as much as id like to vent my spleen every time I set my pocket watch to twelve bells (I know this because this is when the shit mod plays Curtis Mayfield) I cant because they keep letting you drink beer. And as we all know, anyone with a head full of fizzy amber lager lacks the delivery of say Olivier and Coward. If my memory serves me correctly, an I’ll bet you my knees it probably fucking doesn’t, my delivery was more akin to a paraplegic Jimmy nail having been soaked in Rohypnol. On a bank holiday. In Ipswich. With Joe fucking Swash. So I was liberal of body of mind. Drunk on man madness in that 15 minute motivational lull before you are forced to give in to whatever deep fried or baked treat that is willing to take you home.
I’m sure I wouldn’t have been alone, but for the purpose of the anecdote please allow me to reinvent myself as some kind of spastic Clint Eastwood.

I see the gentleman’s approach.

I see him.

Now, a young chap with malice in his eyes and a devilish gate is nothing but the status quo at this fucking awful awful hour of the morning. At best I could avert my eyes and hope he knows a complete coward when he sees one. At worst, my brain may become inexplicably lit up and puke a sarcastic rebuke to whatever gargled diatribe this cat intends to lay at my admittedly blunted doors.

He arrives full of vim (at least I presume that’s what his had been cut with).

I’m almost positive he pushed his little grouse like chest out. Like a runt Gorilla or Mark Anthony if the Romans had managed to fully cultivate a crack culture. I notice that he seems to be going to some pains to conceal everything about his body, face and arse. You got the impression that he thought he could deliver Milk Tray with some aplomb although it would be clear to any reasonable human being that he couldn’t deliver his signing on book to whichever malignant limp cock is their to insult him.

Allow me for those of you south of Peterlee to translate this pointless dead inside cretins loosely executed cockfartery.

Cretin “Ere mate” (Good evening sir, may I have your attention a moment?)

Me “Yeah, can I help” (Would you please fuck off and get beaten up early this week)

Cretin “Ere, what’s your crack, how are your lot getting away with this. Am’not bein a funny cunt or’nowt but am the best lyricist in Sunderland. Its arnly coz y’knaa people man!” (May I ask what is happening with your good yourself? I’m slightly befuddled by your recent output and its subsequent popularity amongst people who are quite frankly none of my business. I regard myself as the premier scribe in this settlement. And what’s more, I put it to you that this is nothing shy of nepotism)

Me “I’m not really sure what you’re talking about”

At this point I felt like a balloon that had maybe one more rasp of air before complete deflation would mean I had to revert to extreme tactics. I wearily ask him to step outside. You may have already noticed my callous error.

Me “Sorry I couldn’t hear a thing, what was your name again?” (Is he about to break my nose again? Should I punch this bastard in the fucking head?)

Cretin “Ere man, am’ easily the best lyricist in Sunderland” (I own some crayons)

It is of course at this point that a menacing sobriety delivers a metallic whallop of reality. The threatening proximity of this twat of a silhouette combined with an increasing inner niggle to unleash a tirade on this ballbag.

Me “Sorry, but I disagree” (You are completely wrong!!!! Wearside jack had more to say than you . If you were to die now, that would completely fine with me. So do it!)

This appears to have rattled the Mackem ninja somewhat. His mind unfurls. It’s like he is beginning to use his brain to unravel what the strange man puff has just said to him.

Cretin “Listen man, am’not being arrogant nor’nowt but I know that I’m special. Youse are just fucking trendy shit man” (My friend who has taken steroids for 3 months has sold me some powder which is roughly 5% cocaine and it is having the desired if somewhat disappointing affect. Unfortunately for you, assumed homosexual gentleman, I prefer my own brand of rehashed testosterone music for men. Your flavours are tarnished with camp connotations and I do not care for that one iota!)

Me “Well, I like it and we have worked hard. If you don’t like it then I’m sorry. Maybe try coming to see us live?” (Fucking kill yourself you dead inside vat of complete dog cunt!)

Cretin “ere’man, av’fucking seen yers and y’dinnit say nowt to real people like me . Yeh deeing nowt for roond’ere man. Yehs just dinnat deserve it” (I have actually seen your band and I im afraid my brain won’t allow me to be excited by your performance at all. At least not until my blatant love of men is allowed throb as it does in my mind when im alone on an evening. I am in fact a gay man)

Me “’I’m going to go home now” (I’m going to go home now)

Cretin “yeh’just a lucky cunt man y’cunt!” (Can I be you or alternatively make love to your man parts?)

There was more but its basically just running thrugh the same scene time and time again. A little like Phil Mitchells on screen persona.
All I remember was the colours of that evening as everyone wore black. I remember thinking that although apparently black takes a few pounds off you, surely that is not necessary on the 1 Gram a day weight loss programme.
The heartbreaking bottom line is that this was supposed to be a fable of sorts. A moralistic blow to my own little community. I would emerge triumphant, flicking away a cigarette as I deftly slay this bastard of a human with a sythe like aside. Cutting him down like the sapling he is/was and always will be. But I dint because the beer told me I couldn’t/ I could of done it if my cranium had not of been frosted with chemical water. The cretin took what he needed. The local vampire hooligans looked on and ganged their eyes up on me as if letting me know that any thoughts lending itself to heroism were at best unlikely. The cretin may get another line of cocaine ahead of another. He may be able to tell his presumed future crack babies about the night he made Dave look like a twat.
But I never told any lies and I was incapable of inflicting pain upon this flaccid brained moron. But I did get to go home. And for the 15 minutes it took me to walk there I felt like I was going somewhere. I knew he was staying there.