the high barnets

Mark O’Hare - The Voice of The Barnets

Mark O’Hare is impossible to track down. Some wonder if he really exists at all. Others speculate that he may be some sort of hologram or other optical illusion that is projected onto the stage amid the other four Barnets.
Those of us who have tried to gain an interview with him are left chasing our tails as one false lead leads to another, to another and so on.

Plough. Magpie. Wellington. Vine. Swan. Regent. This is not a random list of objects and animal names, but watering houses near his home in Walton On Thames, where he is rumoured to have visited at some point over the last week.

Drinkers who frequent these alehouses talk in hushed tones of seeing a tall, mysterious, tousle-haired Lawrence Llewelyn-Bowen lookalike silently glide into the establishment, order a Guinness and a brandy and almost disappear into the formica surroundings leaving a pall of roll-up smoke in his wake.
Equally odd is the fact that the locals are reluctant to talk at length about him. One regular who wanted to be known only as ‘Kinky Chris’ told us that he has had a drink with Mark on more than one occasion. When pressed about the man himself, Kinky Chris clammed up before trying to sell me some cheap tickets to the Postman Pat show at The Peacocks Theatre, Woking.
It would appear that Mark O’Hare is every bit as shy and retiring as his stage persona.

However, one fellow was able to provide us with a rare insight into the unique and enigmatic singer.
The landlord of one of the above establishments who refused to be named, said he had once served Mark and sat with him, chatting at the bar for some length about his fame and wealth. “It was one of the most memorable nights of me life.” Said the landlord.
“Geezer was a diamond. A proper geez. We chatted all night long about anything and everything.” He recalled, wiping a tear from his good eye. “Geezer can talk an’ all! Bloody ‘ell! ‘E is so worldly-wise too. Do you know ‘e used to be a pilot for the CIA? Yep. As sure as you is sittin’ there. Swear to God. He told me.” He went on, “Turns out ‘e was rescuing American Special Forces from prisons in Iraq single-handed like and flying them back to The States in a Chinook helicopter.” I raise an eyebrow at this tale but he just fixes me with a yellowy eye and says “He told me.” He went on, “Anyway, before I knew it, the kebab shop down the high street was washing the sick off the pavement and closing its shutters for the night, I was skint and had no baccy left. He had cleaned me out but it was worth it. How many fellas can say they spent the night drinkin’ with Mark O’Hare?”

So there you have it. After literally months of searching, the closest I got to the world’s most elusive and mysterious pub band singer was a 10 minute chat with a pissed up, one-eyed landlord. Or was it?

Shortly after my chat with the landlord, I made my excuses and left. On the way home I felt a little thirsty and decided to stop off in a pub called The Magpie. A lovely little alehouse on the outskirts of Walton On Thames. I took my pint and went and sat in a cosy, smoky corner where I pondered over my notes of the landlord interview before drifting off in a daydream. Before long a voice snapped me from my thoughts; “Gis a fag, mate” I looked down at the table to see a large lady-like hand help itself to one of my cigarettes. I spun round only to see the back of a tall, long-haired gent in a Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen type shirt disappear in a cloud of smoke.

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