Once described by Andy Kershaw as 'the most complete and authentic British folk group since The Clash', I reckon Half Man Half Biscuit occupy a completely unique place in music. They defy definition. They're certainly not a 'folk' group in the traditional sense. It’s too simplistic to bundle them under ‘indie’. They’re a one-off in my humble opinion. Comedic bands have always been more hit than miss for most, but Half Man Half Biscuit have managed to walk that taste tightrope for decades now without ever falling off into cringe and parody.
The reality is that they’re not really a comedy band. They represent a lot more than that. They’re dark, angry, thoughtful and poetic. They’re also hilariously funny at times too.
I've loved them deeply since 1985's ‘Back In the DHSS’ and have seen them countless times since. That album often sees them easily dismissed as student union favourites. The irony is that the real ale and Radio 4 crowd they’re mistakenly associated with are often the very people that find themselves in the band’s crosshairs. There’s a lot that now seems ‘novelty’ about those early years, I suppose a song called ‘The Trumpton Riots’ doesn’t help dispel that view, but their catalogue is too rich and broad to allow that label to stick.
Nigel Blackwell is probably the most astute and humorous commentator upon the absurdity and beauty of this incredible country of ours I've ever come across. From obscure sporting and cultural references to little-known and absurdly named corners of the British Isles, their lyrics are a journey into the banal and ridiculous. He has an eye for what makes us what we are.
Hailing as they do from Birkenhead, Half Man Half Biscuit are Tranmere Rovers fans. The band famously turned down a chance to appear on The Tube on Channel 4 in the 1980s in favour of watching their team.
Back before football became 'cool', Tranmere played their games on Friday nights to avoid clashes with their more famous Liverpool neighbours. So the legend goes, despite the offer of a helicopter to ensure their return, they never made the show. I don’t know whether it’s true, but it was a tale that didn’t hurt them in their early years.
Hannah's first away match watching FC Halifax Town was at Tranmere. You can imagine my delight, and her intense embarrassment, when I looked up and saw Nigel Blackwell approaching us behind the main stand before kick-off. I was too shocked to speak to him. I’m glad in many ways as I reckon I’d have said something achingly stupid and instantly regretted doing so.
I knew I’d have to pick something from Half Man Half Biscuit at some point in this exercise of ours. I struggled with which song to choose. Rather than try and pick a ‘best’, I went with a favourite. And one that I think sums up their genius. Every album has a standout. This was the one from 2002’s ‘Cammell Laird Social Club’.
If you consider that this song alone references, amongst other things, Howard Marks, Comic Relief, Ken Livingstone, Farmfoods, agnosticism, Britpop, the publishers Chatto & Windus, Ian Broudie and Ketih Allen and borrows from Thomas Hardy's 'Tess of the d'Urbervilles', Wagner's 'Art and Revolution' and various obscure English folk songs, then you're some way to seeing what this band are about. The music’s great too. Stick with it. The real joy of this track for me is how it builds to the end.
There's often real insight in the midst of the humour. Blackwell is as good an observer of people as you'll find. It speaks volumes that whilst he ought to be lauded as a true genius, he'd hate it if he was.
Lacking in career ambition, quietly self-effacing and utterly unconcerned with trends and fashions. What is not to like?
John Peel said about them, ‘In a decently ordered society, members of Half Man Half Biscuit would be routinely carried shoulder high through the streets of every city they visited’. Wise words.
I know they sail completely over the heads of so many people but the best things in life are often an acquired taste. And this lot are mine.
Uniquely British. Unquestionably essential.

"I’m gonna grab myself an industry insider mask and blag my way
Into the after show
I wanna get in amongst the baying hordes of resting actors
Who’ve just got back from visiting Nairobi slums for Comic Relief
And now they’re going to spend the next six weeks sitting in the vestibule
Waiting for the Farmfoods phone call
The Farmfoods phone call

I’m going to be apprehended by some mandatory galoot with a handheld camera
Who will point it in my face and say: “Who are you, and what do you do?”
And I’ll say “I’m a counterblast to Agnosticism, how do you do”
And he’ll go away immediately

I wanna meet Howard Marks if I can but they say that I can’t
I need four different wrist bands

Follow me oh follow
Down to the hollow
And there we will wallow

There’s a Britpop refugee
Walking up to me
And his face is hollow from seasons of disappointment
And he starts blathering on about his latest project
Already being dismissed by the most unlikeliest of cable stations
It’s a dot com sitcom
About a hip hop chip shop

Chatto and Windus sitting in a tree
D-I-S-S-I-N-G
Keith Allen’s autobiography

I’m just trying to break the drudgery of the downstairs maid
I’m just trying to write the sort of tune you can maybe hum while waiting for your lover on a railway platform

I wanna meet Howard Marks if I can but they say that I can’t

Follow me oh follow
Down to the hollow
And there we will wallow

I want to perch myself halfway up a metal staircase with the Polydor girls
And talk about meerkats
And come out with statements like:
“Well of course music these days is the slave of mammon and as a result
It has become corrupt and shallow
Its real essence is industry
Its moral purpose is the acquisition of money
Its aesthetic pretext is the entertainment of those who are bored
And yes we’re really excited about going back in to the studio
Hotly tipped, highly anticipated and slated for release”

I wanna meet Howard Marks if I can but they say that I can’t
He’s talking to Ian Broudie

And come four o’clock
If I’m still on my feet
There’s a bloke over there
Who said I could meet…

Ken Livingstone

Well I’m just a primitive creature of the heath so excuse my savage ignorance
But if I’m still on my feet at four o’clock
I’ll be stealing the lead off the roof

Follow me oh follow
Down to the hollow
And there we will wallow

Stealing the lead off the roof
Stealing the lead off the roof
Stealing the lead off the roof
Stealing the lead off the roof

Come saddle my milk white steed
I’ve seen much more than I need
And I know that you won’t heed the call
So I sprayed it on to the wall

Thy, damnation, slumbereth, not
Thy, damnation, slumbereth, not
Thy, damnation, slumbereth, not
Thy, damnation, slumbereth, not"