A Slug’s Life



Hi, I’m Slimey the slug. Wookalily first slithered into my life on a cold January night in a massive, little cottage nestled at the foot of Mount Errigle in Donegal. As a wise old slug with 360 degree vision I’ve seen many goings on in my long life. Irish grannies, scones without sultanas and spirited debate about putting the milk in before or after the teabag is removed to name a few. I took all these tribulations in my stride, excuse me, I mean slide of course, being bereft of legs and all that.

Things went horrifically awry that cold January night. There I was, working some slime into the walls when I was disturbed by the most obnoxious sound I’ve ever witnessed in my life. I’ve no ears of course but even that fact could not protect me from the sounds of Daft Arse (Sharon) practicing her square roll on the banjo. Suffering Snails, what a vibration! Thankfully Wrapper Upper (Adele) started moaning at her and the rest of those horrid humans began to coordinate to stop the din. They looked like they were leaving for something called a “jig” I think. I couldn’t wait. I don’t have much truck for humans but these guys were different. They were all up in your grill with their songs, and their ideas and their bickering about their songs and their ideas. Just fuck off already. I’d suffer a hundred thousand irish grannies high on crack before these lot.

Whilst I was slithering up a drumstick lamenting my lot I was suddenly hurdling down a black hole. I thought: this must be death. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. It was me getting bungled into the back of a £500 car to go play a £50 gig (play on famous meme joke and thankfully fictional on this occasion) with those other hapless loons otherwise known as Wookalily. FML as the cool kids say. After much dodgy driving round dimly lit country roads at terrifying speeds of 5kph we arrive at the venue and began loading in. I spotted a beautiful ornate piano to spread all my slime on. Always a silver lining . . . . of slug sludge.

I nearly lost my perch on the piano when I overheard Daft Arse (Sharon) remark to Moya Brennan that the bar owners must be batshit crazy Clannad super fans. Kinda made the kidnapped against my will thing worth it. The German (Lyndsay) began dictating in a no nonsense kinda way what the band were to play. The Cat Lady (Clair, not quite cat, not quite human) purred in agreement and the Enthusiast (Lou) jumped up and down and did a fit like body movement, must be why she hits things for a living.

After soundchecking 2454 instruments we were treated to a very high calibre of singing, musicianship and facial expressions by everybody in the bar. No kidding, everyone in that bar was a musical wizard, even the bar staff. No pressure Wookalily, one punter encouragingly advised “there’s nowhere for even the ghost of a bum note to hide in here”. A very frightened Wookalily took to the stage and lashed into two brutal fucking hours of songs about people getting murdered, people getting their heart broke into tiny little pieces, male prostitution and people kicking buckets. If there’s one thing they can do well, it’s singing songs about people getting bumped off. There may have been a few bum notes but they were on purpose. Bum notes are necessary when it comes to murder ballads.

Anyway I still hated the band and wanted back to my comfy cottage with my comfy irish grannies. It didn’t quite pan out that way. For whatever reason, I’m now stuck in a Wookalily rehearsal listening to the girls talking in excited high pitches about plans for an upcoming album with some hotshot producer who’s hot as shit btw. I’ve also been privy to some of the writing process. Expect 4 part harmonies, raunchy riffs, groovy rolls (not to be mistaken for gravy rolls although equally as delish apparently) and lyrics darker than Vantablack.
There’s also rumblings (I feel things rather than hear them) of an appearance at Southwell Festival in Nottingham.

It’s enough to make me stand on the porch and hope a shoe clad foot will end it all, yours slitherly,