Sprouts

The Sprouts

The insane workings of the brain, one attached to an adult, male, overweight, lazy, forgetful and unfocused (that’d be me). Unexpected people and places, unpredictable directions of travel.

So. Half Man Half Biscuit, and the song ‘Joyce’ from the CSI: Ambleside album. Before hearing it, scanning the track listing, as you do, things flashed through the mind: Joyce? James Joyce? Coincidence: I just read an online Guardian article about a Bloomsday publication planned for this year.[1] MM is loving Dubliners, a work of true, diamond-sharp, unmistakeable genius. Actually the song just celebrates the name Joyce, one that has rather gone out of fashion.[2]

It’s important to realise that I knew these guys for at least ten years, without ever knowing their family name. Cast (in order of appearance):

Sprout. for some reason I think his given name was Craig, but I can’t be sure. Tall, an inch, maybe two taller than me, about 6’4”, long, curly hair, shirt always open almost to the navel, gold chain and chest fur. Frank Zappa ‘tache and nose, permanent fag in one hand, a big, tall, thin bundle of fun and laughter. He was always in the process of laughing, or any of the variations: sniggering, chortling, guffawing, or just about to. There were many theories about the Sprout name[3] none of which were definitive.

Paul Sprout. younger brother. Slightly shorter, quite small for a Sprout, about my height, 6’2”. Thicker set, not so good-natured or even-tempered, but a perfect gentleman until upset, when he was given to extreme and bloody violence. I think he worked in a butchers, but again memory isn’t perfect. He was the footballer of the family, a better than decent defensive centre half.[4]

Peter Sprout: older brother. Rumours of high intelligence, going off to university, some sort of breakdown. There’s a line in Apocalypse Now, “The machinist, the one they called Chef, was from New Orleans. He was wrapped too tight for Vietnam, probably wrapped too tight for New Orleans.”[5] Peter was wrapped way too tight for anything much, really. Painful to talk to. Many of the overly earnest guys I deal with today (including my doctor) might benefit from having to deal with Peter Sprout and revise their position.

Frank Sprout: where to start? Outward appearances: huge frame. Huge head. Definite and unchanging choice of clothes (work, weekend, weddings, funerals, whatever)[6] comprising suit jacket over t-shirt, suit trousers, and Dunlop Green Flash tennis shoes.[7] Frank Sprout spent his working life pushing a barrow, with shovel and broom attached, smoking a roll-up and chatting. However much the council paid him, he was worth a hundred times that in cheering up wherever he went. His view of the world was surreal, and should have been documented.[8]

Joyce: where the whole recollection started. Sprout. Frank Sprout, his Dad, Peter and Paul Sprout, his brothers, and…Joyce. Never qualified by the Sprout tag. No-one, but no-one, ever referred to her as Joyce Sprout, as we routinely did the rest of the family.

So there they are. One song. About ten seconds. A tangential, uncontrollable brain, and the Sprouts. Legends, one and all.

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[1] All the events in Joyce’s masterpiece Ulysses happen during one day, the 16^th of June, ‘Bloomsday’, named for Leopold Bloom. Affectionately known as ‘Poldy, Bloom, I think, is one of those characters we all, or we all should, recognise parts of ourselves represented within.

[2] If, like me, you tend to be wordy, initially, then trim things back to be more punchy, there’s a ‘nowadays’ here, redundant, but bunged in for comic effect. I thought about it, then left it out.

[3] My favourite was down to his height: the tallest of a tall family, all of them over six foot.

[4] See comments about the violence. There’s a huge correlation there, in the 1980’s, between the evil temper and success at centre half. I met these guys week in, week out playing centre forward. Nasty.

[5] See what I mean about the fat, lazy bloke’s brain and stuff? All this took seconds to think. Seconds.

[6] You just don’t get these characters these days.

[7] As favoured by Status Quo.

[8] It was Frank, managing our Sunday football team, who said, while I was looking at my foot after breaking an ankle, turned the wrong way (as in backwards from the shin) “can you run it off? Only our subs ‘aint up to much this week?” I swore at him, but what a man-manager he was. No knowledge of football, never played the game, no tactical sense, nothing, but he knew who to listen to, who to ignore, and how to make as club achieve more than the talent within entitled it to.