It took me four decades to learn the lesson that meeting your musical heroes is a dish best sampled cold, with a long spoon, alone with an imaginary conversation in a locked room. Thus, ever since I first became a fan of Half Man Half Biscuit some twenty years ago I have nurtured my adoration in private, indulging only with my husband – a fellow fan, and the fine fellow who first introduced me to HMHB (Nigel Blackwell, genius; Neil Crossley, bass and vocals; Ken Hancock, lead guitar; and Carl Henry, drums) on road trips.
The principal reason I love them is for their supremely clever and funny lyrics, but also because listening to HMHB is like finally having an enjoyable experience of punk, which I pretended to like forty years ago in order to get my first writing job. They are punk with a sense of humour and a sense of perspective, both of which are surely essential for anyone over the age of 12 if they are not to appear an asinine ass-hat of the highest order.
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