scans.
I BELIEVE IN FODDER CHRISTMAS
• God rest ye Merryhill gentlemen! Never shit on your own doorstep, advises the old showbiz maxim, but after this Christmas perhaps it should be never sing on your own doorstep. Not that there's much difference when NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN are providing the carols! TERRY STAUNTON looks out on the feast of Stephen, as Stourbridge receives tidings of discomfort and joy. Xmas-posures: AJ BARRATT
"I left college for this!" Ratt is being draped in tinsel,
a top hat sits precariously on his head. He resembles a festive Artful
Dodger with attitude - and he's not happy.
Along with his chums in Ned's Atomic Dustbin, he is freezing his baubles
off in the bandstand of Stourbridge's main public park, shivering through
a photo shoot before a carousing bout of carol singing.
Having had a fantastic year (two Top 20 singles, a Top Three album and
sell-out gigs aplenty), the Neds are giving something back to the kids.
At the suggestion of the NME, Ratt, Matt, Dan, Jonn and Alex are about
to "surprise" members of their fan club by serenading them
on their doorsteps.
But they're not exactly the ideal candidates for Chrimbo fun, as all
five of them appear to hate all things Yuletide. Matt appears to hate
everything.
"He's dead miserable," explains Alex "I used to feel
sorry for him because he said he didn't have any friends. Then he said
he liked it that way, so I stopped. I suppose it's easier to dislike
people than to like people."
"That's it, I'm lucky," says Matt. "My hobby is really
easy."
The lights of the Merryhill Centre cut through the cold night air of
the Black Country as we drive to our first port of call. This American-style
mall is a shrine to commercialism and a profound symbol of how we've
forgotten the true meaning of Christmas.
"It's really good," enthuses Ratt "It's got two McDonald's!"
The convoy of cars (no traipsing around on foot for these boys now they're
pop stars!) comes to a halt in a darkened Halesowen Street. Having warded
off the winter chills with innumerable pints of
Guinness, the Neds seize the opportunity to relieve themselves against
the wall, while Tank the manager knocks on the door of the first "victim".
After a few minutes there's no reply, but the Neds aren't about to take
no reply for an answer. BANGBANGBANGBANG-BANGBANGBANG!!!
"Hang on," whimpers a voice of reason from behind his sheet
music, "that's the wrong house. We should be next door."
Squeals of delight greet the group when numero uno fan Sandy opens the
(correct) door. She leaps into the street and throws her arms around
Jonn, almost knocking his hat off.
It is at this point that we realise the Neds haven't undergone intense
rehearsals for this evening, as the opening lines of their first carol
appear to be "Silent night, holy night/Uuuurrrgggh urrrggggh,
Ummmm uummmm uuuuurrgggh".
Sandy and her boyfriend Chris invite us in for coffee to a front room
which is a veritable shrine to all that is wonderful in West Midlands
pop; Stuffies posters adorn the walls and the Neds' back catalogue is
strewn across the table for a quick signing session.
After a few minutes we're on our way, highly chuffed that the first
visit was such a success.
"It'll probably be downhill from now on," suggests jonn. "The
next people will probably tell us to f——off."
NOT QUITE. However, Paul and his mates Adrian, Kate and Andy don't
seem particularly pleased to have their evening's TV viewing disturbed
by our neighbourhood heroes.
"Hello! We're Manfred Mann!" Alex's little quip hardly raises
a smile. The highly individual Ned's reading of 'Silent Night' puts
a permanent frown on their faces.
Mince pies and warm welcomes are thin on the ground, so it's back to
Stourbridge to the next house. Paul lives here, he's supposed to be
the most massive of Ned's fans, although he doesn't seem to
recognise the band underneath the hats and tinsel.
As he opens the door a little wider, a wild-eyed dog leaps across the
porch making a bee-line for Alex's ankles. "Oh my God!" yells
the frightened bass player as he races down the street. Meanwhile, Paul,
his sister Anne, and parents Barbara and Michael line up to have their
picture taken.
"Can you make this quick?" asks Michael. "I haven't got
my slippers on." Alex and the dog (also called Alex, would you
believe?) are rounded up and it's back into the cars.
"Have you noticed that the last two people we've called on don't
know who the f—— we are?" observes Jonn.
"That's because we're about as recognisable as an extra on Albion
Market," deadpans Alex.
Well, there should be no such problems at the next house - we're off
to see Clint Poppie and his mum!
Clint has been tipped the wink in advance and is expecting us as we
meander to the sleepy cul-de-sac, so a hearty yo-ho-ho is almost guaranteed.
"Bugger off!"
Ooh, that Clint, he's a right little joker! You are
joking, aren't you, Clint?
After a few minutes, having extracted a promise from the Neds that they
are not under any circumstances going to sing to him, Clint gets more
friendly.
"So where've you been so far, lads?" he asks.
Matt: "Well, we've been to Elton's..."
As the temperature plummets and last orders beckon, Clint and the Neds
repair to their favourite hostelry, The Mitre.
Beers are drunk and festive banter abounds, until Paul and his mates,
earlier recipients of the singalongaxmas Neds, walk into the pub - and
pretend not to have seen us!
Ratt scowls into his beer. "And a merry bloody Christmas to you,
pal."