My mum had this uncle who was a real Jack the Lad, a real cad, he was Tony Soprano before there was ever any Sopranos, we are talking 60s, 70s, early 80s. A nightclub owner in Hastings who was more than that and up for it all. But I only really have one memory of him.

He had cancer, he’d been on the treatment and was out of hospital and had lost weight and most of his voice too and really he had lost his presence – since he had been larger than life. Now he was just barely hanging on. In this weird, high rasp he winced to his wife, “Get the tapes!” And she knew what that meant. We were all sat around – the extended family. And he had the throne and we were just there in service.

I thought the tapes must have been some thoughts he’d recorded.

But no, these precious tapes were in fact the songs of Kevin “Bloody” Wilson and the comedic stylings of one Rodney Rude. Blue-collar comics that worked blue, true blue ockers too.

As kids, we nervously giggled at the inappropriate bits, then got a bit embarrassed as it got ruder, then pretty much asked if we could move into another room – the adults all leaving us to chance, since this was some sort of resting wake.

It’s generous to even call this ‘music’ – but boy and holy shit did it make an impression on me.I never found a stack of dirty magazines in my house or in fact under anyone’s bed. (Perhaps largely because I was never looking). I neversly-grogged the booze nor tried to smoke or in fact did anything like that when I was a kid.

But my mum’s uncle made her a tape of these filthy, silly songs. And though I don’t think she really wanted it she was given it. And it was left un-labelled, buried in under where the records were kept. In fact it had written on it ‘RUDE’ – because it was.

I knew where to find it and, on the days, when I’d get home from school and let myself in, my mum just back at work, I’d have half an hour or sometimes a tiny bit longer before my brother got home. I was charged with letting myself in and then putting the key back out. I’d make a sandwich, get a glass of milk, and I’d put the headphones on, and listen – wide-eyed and with glee as Kevin sang tuneless country songs about fucking and filthiness and most of it flew over my head – but not after third, and fourth and fifth
and sixth listens…

And there were more. Many more after that. And I don’t even know why I wanted to listen to it – but I guess I was trying to understand it. It was stupid and naughty and dirty and silly and I loved it. I fucking loved it. t had a huge impact on me. It was profound – when it really shouldn’t have been. I was also listening to it – trying to ascertain what my mum’s uncle saw in it. And wondering why we had copies of these stupid, rude songs.  But within the year – and maybe it was within months or weeks even, this living legend, this man about town, this owner of these special tapes,  was dead. The cancer completing its journey. The laughs silenced.

In fact, his baby son, less than a year old, burst into tears right as the coffin was lowered to the car. There are no words for this.

My first funeral. In many ways, my worst funeral. Not that you rank them.  And, anyway, I just said there aren’t words for this. At least none written by fucking Rodney Rude or that
cunt Kevin Bloody Wilson.

To follow me in all the right places check out the Linktree right here.

And to subscribe to my Substack newsletter “Sounds Good” click here