A SMALL MAN WITH A FAT BOTTOM END.

The sky is bruised and baggy with the threat of another heavy downpour as I step off the train at Hersham station and make my way to The Archway Cafe where I have managed to secure this year's only interview with The High Barnets' diminutive bass player, Arron O'Hare.

Always an elusive bunch, it is something of a coup these days to be granted an audience with a High Barnet. I enter the Cafe and scour the packed tables, creaking with builders hunched over plates of fried breakfasts and spot Arron desperately trying to pull himself onto a stool without me seeing.
An awkward moment ensues, until he reluctantly accepts my offer to lift him onto the seat.

"Everyone wants a piece of Barnet at the moment." sighs the bass player.
"Week in, week out, The big music papers are constantly on my case. Only last Tuesday I had the Elmbridge Guardian and Walton and Weybridge Informer pestering me for interviews, requests for social comment, and supermarket openings." He shoots a sideways glance at his reflection in the window and adjusts his hair. "It can be a drag but it's what sells the papers." He concedes.

Arron cuts an unusual figure. Barely five foot in his shoes, (it is rumoured he wears built-up insoles) and with his strange, elfin like hairdo he looks remarkably similar to The Hobbit.

He knew he was destined to play bass when, aged 13 he first heard the magnificent farty bass slide on the intro of Madness' 'Our House'
"It was like a kick in the clockweights" He wistfully recalls. “And from then on, I was hooked.”

Around about age 17, he hooked up with local drum star and professional loon, Paul ‘Stormy Tempest’ Brewer and started bashing about in the garage behind the service station where Paul worked. “It was very raw and out of tune but we locked in immediately.” remembers Arron.

“Stormy was a revelation to me, he played like the drummers I loved such as Bonham, Clyde Stubblefield (look him up), and Dave Clark.”
“Also, I had heard that as a child, he could often be seen playing footy with the other local rascals on the green in a pyjama top which had an illustrated football scene on the chest.” “I knew we were destined for great things.”

To cut a long and rather tedious story short, the pair became inseparable as a rhythm section and over the following 17 years have been ebbing and flowing with various bands before finally settling aboard the good ship Barnet.

“I even bought a place opposite Stormy’s!” laughs Arron before his eyes narrow and take on a nervous look as they dart around the café. “He watches me you know.” He leans in toward my tape recorder. “Seriously, he doesn’t think I know, but I seen him at his window, the cigarette burns in the net curtains give him away.”

He orders a Vimto and chips as I ask him what makes The High Barnets such an outstanding combo. “It’s many things and nothing.” He answers cryptically. Twat.
“We have the obvious sex appeal, I mean with Toni and his new ‘minge’ hairdo, Mark with his plastic nose, (he had his real one beaten off his face during a fight in Spain), Kenny and his spud like features and of course Stormy, always clouded in a mysterious fug of cigarette smoke, we are a good looking collective.” He explains as he holds his nose out of the way to take a swig of Vimto.
“Of course, it helps that we can all play really, really, really well.” He adds with just a hint of arrogance. Knobhead.

“And what does the future hold for the Barnets?” I ask him, barely able to contain my growing hatred for this arrogant little… “Let me put it like this, “ he starts. “If we knew what the future held, it would be no fun, would it?” “So you have nothing booked for the future then?” “No.”

It turns out that this is not entirely true as there are some more gigs in the pipeline.

I look at my watch and mutter something about a train I have to catch as he drains his can of pop. “Thanks for your time and all the best for the future.” I speedily drag my coat off the back of the chair and make for the door.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He barks after me. I freeze, slowly turn and walk back towards his outstretched hand. I offer mine for him to shake but instead, he slaps his sweaty paw into mine and uses me to help him off the stool, safely to the floor. Bloody Hobbit.

 

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