The Bebop Dustbins all have very unremarkable, normal-sized penises. This point needs to be stressed and made absolutely clear from the beginning, for I have heard many people say,"Crap band, crap music but they have got very large penises." This is a frighteningly misguided and distorted falsehood and this myth needs to be corrected right away before we begin our narrative into mediocrity.
Yes, they did everything in their power to make their genitalia look huge on stage. Yes, they boasted about how many girls they had "shagged". Yes, only one of them ever managed to get off with someone once and the seagull wasn't very interested anyway. But in fact none of it was true... except the seagull.
However, being the man-servant to the band, I was privy to their innermost secrets and habits off the stage and I know that the sexual organs of my employers were wholly, unequivocally and necessarily dull, uninteresting and very mediocre to a degree that
really did beggar belief. Perhaps that is why they spent so much money, energy and time in telling the world how big they were.
I start this boiographical piece with a tirade against this popular misconception because I feel it is important to get the record straight and that truth is crucial for Isle of Wight Rock history.
Oh yes, the Mechanix will continue to be playing after the nuclear holocaust. The Waltons were undoubtedly the best, most original band on the Island post 1955. John Lytle played in the Pumphouse Gang. Mumbo Jumbo played in the 1980's. And The Bebop Dustbins have normal-sized, dull penises. Rock facts known the whole Island over!
The Bebop Dustbins were not formed from the ashes of previous bands.
The Bebop Dustbins were not a bunch of jolly japester friends getting together to make an unholy din.
The Bebop Dustbins were not unemployed getting together to create meaning in their lives.
The Bebop Dustbins were in fact the prototype of the phenomenon known as Boy Bands. The Bebop Dustbins could not really play their instruments or sing But, boy, were they all good-looking, with gorgeous bodies and normal, dull penises. And they could all dance exceedingly well.
In June 1984, Mr. Eric Rabid held auditions and four people were chosen to become Eric Rabid's Shockaroonie Smash 16, on account of their superb physique, their drop-dead good looks, their death-defying, gaspworthy dance steps and their incredibly dull penises. The other twelve were to be picked at a later date due to the other applicants having penises that were much too interesting.
But before I start to explain how this promising boy band turned into the Bebop Dustbins, I feel it is important to provide a short biography of myself in order to put the Bebop Dustbins in context.
Both my parents were Italian and moved here in the Great Italian Immigration to the Island during the 1930's in company with the Valvonas, Minghellas, Niros, Caesars and others.
My father was incredibly well-hung and , funnily enough, so was my mother. I was born in Chale. I was a happy, stable, sane child and we had a pleasant family life, until the little known Ice Cream Wars of the 1950's.
I was father's factory supervisor at the time. A viscious price-cutting downward curve commenced. We were not too worried for we had our market area pretty much to ourselves. We looked good in our uniforms and felt confident.
However, Minghella, Niro and Caesar van-riding salesmen bit deep and hard into our territory. Our horse-drawn carts were unable to respond to this threat. It took our carts a good fifteen minutes from the Scramble Alert to be road-born. The rival firm's superior transport and ice cream technology left its toll. The final death blow came when food inspectors found a caterpillar in one of our caterpillar flavoured ice creams. We were done for! Our company melted like so many of our cheaper range of ice creams.
The Valvonas too were hit hard and decided to cut their losses and get out while the going was reasonable. They promptly went into the scrap business. The Niros left for the U.S.A. where the middle son, Robert, did quite well as a film star, adding the medial 'de' to his name to avoid detection by Caesar henchmen, sent over to the U.S.A. from the Island to track down members of the Niro family, who still owed the Caesar family large sums of protection arrears. The Caesar family ceased trading in 1962 after a health and hygiene scandal rocked their ice cream empire. They were unable to secure their former large, predominantly pensioner clientele and receded into the pages of ice cream history books.
This left the Minghellas undisputed masters of the Island ice cream market and my father a sad, broken, but incredibly firm, large-groined man.
I drifted from one ill-advised job to another - deck-chair attendant; assistant gardener working on Council flower displays; bakery factory worker; worker in a factory that made square disinfectant blocks for men's urinals - until I found a proper position at which I could excel - counting the people onto the passenger ferry with the little hand-clicker thing. I became an expert at standing there, erect and proud, clicking my clicker with all the panache I could muster and wishing the holidaymakers a cheery "Fuck off back to the mainland!"
British Rail, who owned the ferries then, were impressed and I was made Head Clicker. Not for me the dull monotony of being an IW ferry captain. Not for me, the predictable and generally unglamorous job of throwing the ropes. I wanted the raw, octane-fuelled excitement of clicking the people on.
It was here that I learned how to stand expressionless for minutes on end; how to be of service to the elderly or the plain obnoxious; how to help the blind drunk urinate over the side of the gang-plank; how to wear my British Rail cap with pride; and how to observe people's every little habit.
In 1965 father had become a gardener for Lord M________ at _________ Manor. He knew little about gardening but through very clever use of the few latin words he knew, he was able to convince his employers he was a veritable master of the garden.
In 1971, a vacancy occured at the manor. With my British Rail erect bearing and clear, platform-hugging voice, Lord ________ was impressed enough to slap me roughly in the face with his leather gauntlets and to offer me a job. I was to be Lawn Orderly, my job being to walk aggressively around the grounds shouting "Get off the lawn!" at any guest, bird or animal that happened to stray onto the grass.
In 1973, one warm, sensual June evening, as I was recounting some of the more exciting episodes of my clicking career with British Rail to the assembled esteemed and noble guests of Lord ________, he leaned over and purred provocatively into my ear the suggestion that I might like to be his new butler. I jumped at the chance and was only too pleased to take part in the leaving ceremony for retiring butlers,whereby the outgoing butler, himself, wiped his feet on the incoming one, myself, who had to prostrate himself flat on the floor, in a symbolic farewell wipe. I had never been happier! I even agreed to grow a small moustache like my employer.
For many years I served Lord _________ as part of a large motley group of family retainers, dressed proudly in our out-dated liveries. We worked six days a week and then on Sunday, after the church service, Lord ________would expect us to put in a good showing for the local village football team. Many's the hour we spent trying to wrestle, bite, kick, lacerate, bludgeon the pig's bladder out of the hands of the opposing village's clutches. How we'd laugh as the pack thundered into the church wall, sending bodies flying; snapping legs and arms; and asphixiating people in the crush. How we'd banter happily as we slithered down into the stream only to leave one or two motionless and drowned bodies. And finally, how we cried with joy or despair, depending, as the by-now-thinning throng managed to touch the brutalised and exhausted pig's bladder against the opposing village's church.
Then a hundred victorious faces, all that looked suspiciously alike, would lift themselves up to the sky and cheer "Hosannah in the highest!" and descend upon the defeated village, cutting them down with sabres, pitch-forks or whatever else came to hand.
However life and work were rewarding and family-like in our rural idyll at ________ Manor. Lord ________ was as erect and fine an aristocrat as you could wish to meet. Punctual to a fault with the beatings that he administered to us servants, he never slouched and always demanded fresh clothes daily. How different was this paragon of upper class cruelty compared to my future employers! He never allowed dischord into his house and he always made sure he was thoroughly practised and safe before performing anything. He knew how to run a landed estate of 470 acres, including 37 tenants and their tied cottages, 7 tenant farms and a church, in a way that the Bebop Dustbins could never even begin to dream about. So disorganised were these latter that they couldn't even work together to spell the words!
And then in 1984, horror. disaster, misery! Lord _______ died. His voracious family descended on ________ Manor, ransacked it of all its treasures and threw the staff out into the surprisingly mild and comfortable lanes.
It was in the Isle of Wight County Press that I spied a very small advert, requiring a manservant for a popular music combo. I felt that I needed to move into the modern age with a change of direction. Being still somewhat naive, this position seemed ideal. I applied and was granted an interview with the band. Unfortunately that nice Mr. Rabid was no longer in charge of the band. Even more unfortunately, I was appointed.
The Bebop Dustbins were fools. Idiots. Boasters. All talk about making it big with top twenty hits. They regularly discussed what songs they would put on their first album; who they would get to design the first album cover; whether they should let Sting produce the first; and so sickeningly on. I bit my lip, smiled condescendingly and muttered "Why, of course, masters!" Inadequate to a band member, they always insisted I call "Master!" I was disheartened, dismayed and dipped in the large dog dung of despair.
How unlike my previous employer, Lord ________, they were. They were too spineless to administer a good morning beating to me. No more heavy, exhausting daily laundry work. No more deadly village football. No more cosy, merry, inbred faces to wish you a good morning. No more highly organised, back-breaking household chores, that gave me character and British backbone. The solid roast beef was replaced by reheated rice dishes and Pot Noodles. The deep, manly, decisively commanding voice of Lord ______ was replaced by the effeminate bleating of the Bebop Dustbins, all trying to out-wit each other concerning the size of their genitalia. And nights became purgatory as they made me do impersonations of their favourite Shipping Forecast highlights.
However it was a job and a living. The music was poor, usually unmelodious, shabbily arranged and under-practised.The lyrics of a song seemed to consist of bits of lyrics from totally unconnected songs, stuck together with metaphorical tape. Many's the time that, bored out of my tiny mind while they practised, I have unpicked a whole white shirt of my own, thread by thread. One time, so wrapped up in total gut-stopping monotony, I found I had chewed through half a finger out of absent-minded boredom and was about to almost start on my hand. To this day I only have half of my middle finger.
I spent my time in their employment moving their equipment; shepherding them around while trying to prevent them getting their heads kicked in; listening to them bragging about how many people came to their gigs; being forced to stand in the audience and say "Gosh,look! That band really have got big penises!" What sickened me the most was the fact that people began to believe it. Girls actually began to say that they might even consider sitting down and considering the slight possibility, if they were amnesiacally drunk and in a drug-induced stupor, of thinking about sleeping with one of the band. There was much doubt about which one they would choose but they all agreed that in a purely theoretical world they might. Soon I would hear people saying "Their stance concerning vivisectional practises is perfectly valid, if a little naïve, and the musical arrangements are somewhat loose and could be more contrapuntal, but you can't argue with their big genitalia."
I have broken over 10 years of silence to refute this totally undeserved reputation. The penis of each individual band member was and is unequivocally and indisputably unexceptional; undoubtedly mediocre; totally unremarkable; and very, very normal-sized (although two of the band have members that more accurately are small and possibly even dangerously tiny). I have decided to go both public and on-line with this accusation and I am quite happy for the national press to quote me. I am certain that the band will not try to refute my truth about them on this site or any other.
And now the bit I was asked to write. The bit for which you've all been waiting (all two of you out their in cyberspace). The bit that I was paid quite alot to write .....The biography of The Bebop Dustbins.
Well, there were five blokes in the band. They wrote some rather inferior songs and did some gigs. Then they split up. And I think that's about it. I don't think I missed anything...umm...no, that's all there is to tell. The only good bit about the band was that, although they had horribly ordinary penises, they had bigger ones than The Waltons - a fact that The Bebop Dustbins cherished and polished, being so bitterly and twistedly jealous of The Waltons and so desperately wanting to be better than the latter in at least one thing.
And so I leave you with a parting toast.
The Bebop Dustbins. Generally crap but at least they had bigger dicks than The Waltons.