Half Man Half Biscuit – Tour Jacket With Detachable Sleeves (Guitar)

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  Her mother had never really wanted us to go in the first place, 

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But Helen convinced her that she was worrying needlessly. 

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After all, it’s not as if it was an actual nightclub we were going to, 

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Where the debauched minions of Baal and other basement idols would gyrate obscenely around us, 

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Apeing our innocence and howling their approval at our terrifying predicament. 

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On the contrary, we were going to the Stipe Records Showcase at the local polytechnic, 

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And we were going to have ourselves a beautiful evening.

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Everything was in order, we timed the last bus, and it 

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Coincided superbly with the last band finishing their set, 

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Allowing for an estimated three-song encore. 

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Although I turned Helen on to the alternative music scene some two years back, 

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She still insisted on wearing a black satin tour jacket with detachable sleeves 

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That she’d bought at a Dogs d’Amour concert, which she went to with her friend Jackie, 

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Who was unstable. I would rib her mercilessly about it. 

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But one night, after I’d possibly ridden my luck a little too far, she stamped down her foot, 

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Which I thought was brilliant, because it reminded me of Talulah Gosh, 

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And said: “Listen, if I’m going to be an indie kid, then I’ll be independent in my choice of clothes, 

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Thank you very much.” Wow, what a girl!

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  And so it was that we set off for the concert, both smelling of that 

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Short-lived yet much-maligned unisex perfume, Travis, by Cartel (“for those who like their trade rough”). 

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By the time we arrived, the hall was already quite full, 

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So I hurried to the bar while Helen went off to find a good vantage point. 

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Eight-fifteen, and with she drinking cider, and me there beside her, 

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The first band came on. “Oh no”, I shrieked, “real horrorshow”. 

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I was going through my Clockwork Orange phase. Surely not? 

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It seemed that every band that was performing were one of those tribute bands, 

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And first up was ELP. H-ELP more like. “Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends. 

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It goes on for at least two hours because we’ve got a brand new Moog.”

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I’ve died and gone to hell, and then I’ve fallen through a trapdoor and landed on the planet Progrock. 

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And then the applauding Ents Sec introduces the next act. 

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Jeez! (That’s journalese) …PFM! They didn’t really play many songs, 

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Just got unnecessarily passionate about the Azzurri and how Rossi was framed, 

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and how his subsequent hat-trick against the Brazilians was a big F-off to the authorities. 

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“Fair enough”, I thought, “but perhaps no need for the language.”

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After the Identical Cocteau Twins, came the final act, 

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I Can’t Believe It’s Not Focus. Following a commendable stab at Sylvia, 

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Helen shouted to the guitarist: “Are you knackered, man?” To which he replied: “No, I’m Jan Akkerman”.

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  And so the stark lights of the hall came on, and we filtered out into the night, 

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Saying our goodbyes to the gang, who in turn went their separate ways, 

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To waiting dads in brown Audis, or some to the college minibus, driven by Bob, 

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Who didn’t go our way. I then suddenly realised that because the Dutch clones only had two songs, 

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The concert had finished a little early, and so we could get the 71, 

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Which was a lot quicker and didn’t skirt the council estate. 

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It also gave us time to get some chips. 

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  The bus approached, and I noticed that it was a double-decker. 

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As we boarded, I immediately felt a little uneasy, as the driver didn’t seem to know the 

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Required fare for our intended destination. 

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As we made our way to the upper deck front seat, I felt the vehicle swing round to the left, 

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As if to go along Bridge Street. “He really doesn’t know the route”, I thought, with increasing alarm. 

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“Better go downstairs and help him out. 

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Wait a minute. Bridge Street? The overhead railway Bridge Street? 

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Oh my God – HELLENNNNNNNNNN…”

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  Ten years on, and here I am on the bus we should have got. 

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And yes, you guessed it, I’m the driver. Therapy, they call it. 

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  And every year, on the anniversary of that night, she floats on board, 

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Takes the seat behind me. She doesn’t pay of course, 

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But she is keen to make sure we don’t go down Bridge Street. 

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She finally alights at the cemetery, and every year I follow until I reach her grave, 

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Where as always, there’s no sign of Helen, but draped over the headstone…

F                Bb
 Is a black tour jacket

F                 Bb
 Satin black tour jacket

F                   Bb
 Helen’s black tour jacket

C                F
 With detachable sleeves

C                F
 With detachable sleeves

                  C                       F
(Satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves

                  C                       F
(Satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves

                  C                       F
(Satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves

                  C                       F
(Satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves

                  C                       F
(Satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves

                  C                       F
(Satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves

                  C                       F
(Satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves

                  C                       F
(Satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves

                  C       F
(Satin black tour jacket)