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A Big Fish in a Small Puddle: A tale of sex & drugs & rock & roll & beer & fags & curry
The life and times of one of Swindon England's most well-known characters and musicians, Ian Doeser, Lead noise maker of The Hamsters From Hell. Stories about his connection to famous bands such as XTC, Dr. Feelgood, The Clash, Wilco Johnson, The Meteors, Dr. and the Medics, plus many more. Stories of struggle and success and just getting by in a town that had seen better days.
424 pages, Kindle Edition
Published January 30, 2024
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February 28, 2024
Although I lived in Swindon for the second half of the 1980s, I only caught the Hamsters From Hell a small number of times, being at that time still very much a doctrinaire anarcho-punk and not really listening to any other kind of music, at least until the end of my sojourn there, at which point I had begun to gravitate a little toward the new phenomenon of banging techno, as well as developing a disturbing penchant for Madonna, Transvision Vamp, and Fairground Attraction. All of this notwithstanding, it would still have been impossible for any young rebel to remain completely unaware of the small-town rock and roll legend that was, and still is, Ian Doeser from Park North.
Of course, I had heard all of the stories, and so I was glad to add to my limited musical education – essentially, Blondie, Joy Division, The Jam, and Crass, and maybe a bit of Lambrettas (at school, I could never quite make my mind up as to whether I was a mod or a punk, eventually plumping for the latter, I suspect chiefly because the dress code seemed much lower maintenance) – by catching the Hamsters in action at the Town Gardens Bowl, one sunny Sunday afternoon, I think most likely in 1986. The only thing I really recall for certain is a drunken rendition of The Batman Theme, which I obviously remembered from the first Jam LP, as well as from the TV show. But I was doctrinaire, remember, and beards were out; beards was for hippies, as Joe Hawkins might have put it (although I’m sure now that I can recall a single page pin-up from Punk Lives magazine, of Bones from Discharge sporting one, not to mention Peter Hook from the aforementioned Joy Division). That said, it was a small town, a smaller music scene, we were both serious drinkers, and our paths were bound to cross eventually.
The first time I ran into Ian in person was in the greasy café upstairs at the Brunel Shopping Centre (presumably now demolished). He was with his girlfriend Jane, I was with Corin Engdahl. He seemed to know who I was – I had done a few solo gigs in pub backrooms and moribund community centres, alternately billed as either TED FROM BATH or TEDNI TERRORIST - although this may be memory playing its thirty-five-year-old tricks on my small monkey brain. Both Ian and Jane were demolishing enormous Cornish pasties sans chips, much less salad. I must have grimaced at the sight of the things; Ian informed me that you haven’t lived until you’ve had a Cornish pasty. A more affable young man I don’t believe I ever met.
And so to the book, the ostensible purpose of this review. I don’t know what I can say about it, other than it’s so much more than an endless list of pub gigs and multiple sets in big tents in mucky fields. No. More than that, it’s a time capsule of a small and superficially unremarkable place over decades: and more than that, it’s an ongoing one. I recall Nina Stenning saying something along the lines of, Swindon, it’s not the place, it’s the people. I didn’t always have the best of times there, I spent much of my time in Swindon inside a Special Brew tin, but in reading this remarkable document, I realised that that’s what I will carry with me inside, always. So just buy the damned thing. Buy it and then read it. And when you’ve consumed it, and consume it you will, don’t take it to the charity shop – much as this is a book that cries out to be shared – no, place it on your shelf, because in six months or a year, when you’re feeling low or you’re feeling bored or you’re feeling nothing at all, you’ll want to come back to it. Yes, you will. Because A Big Fish In A Small Puddle is by turns hilarious and heartbreaking – though mostly hilarious - and is absolutely life-affirming. Yes, it is. | guarantee you, you will laugh out loud, almost throughout. So thank you Ian, for a welcome and thoroughly invigorating addition to the rock and roll memoir canon, have five stars.
Of course, I had heard all of the stories, and so I was glad to add to my limited musical education – essentially, Blondie, Joy Division, The Jam, and Crass, and maybe a bit of Lambrettas (at school, I could never quite make my mind up as to whether I was a mod or a punk, eventually plumping for the latter, I suspect chiefly because the dress code seemed much lower maintenance) – by catching the Hamsters in action at the Town Gardens Bowl, one sunny Sunday afternoon, I think most likely in 1986. The only thing I really recall for certain is a drunken rendition of The Batman Theme, which I obviously remembered from the first Jam LP, as well as from the TV show. But I was doctrinaire, remember, and beards were out; beards was for hippies, as Joe Hawkins might have put it (although I’m sure now that I can recall a single page pin-up from Punk Lives magazine, of Bones from Discharge sporting one, not to mention Peter Hook from the aforementioned Joy Division). That said, it was a small town, a smaller music scene, we were both serious drinkers, and our paths were bound to cross eventually.
The first time I ran into Ian in person was in the greasy café upstairs at the Brunel Shopping Centre (presumably now demolished). He was with his girlfriend Jane, I was with Corin Engdahl. He seemed to know who I was – I had done a few solo gigs in pub backrooms and moribund community centres, alternately billed as either TED FROM BATH or TEDNI TERRORIST - although this may be memory playing its thirty-five-year-old tricks on my small monkey brain. Both Ian and Jane were demolishing enormous Cornish pasties sans chips, much less salad. I must have grimaced at the sight of the things; Ian informed me that you haven’t lived until you’ve had a Cornish pasty. A more affable young man I don’t believe I ever met.
And so to the book, the ostensible purpose of this review. I don’t know what I can say about it, other than it’s so much more than an endless list of pub gigs and multiple sets in big tents in mucky fields. No. More than that, it’s a time capsule of a small and superficially unremarkable place over decades: and more than that, it’s an ongoing one. I recall Nina Stenning saying something along the lines of, Swindon, it’s not the place, it’s the people. I didn’t always have the best of times there, I spent much of my time in Swindon inside a Special Brew tin, but in reading this remarkable document, I realised that that’s what I will carry with me inside, always. So just buy the damned thing. Buy it and then read it. And when you’ve consumed it, and consume it you will, don’t take it to the charity shop – much as this is a book that cries out to be shared – no, place it on your shelf, because in six months or a year, when you’re feeling low or you’re feeling bored or you’re feeling nothing at all, you’ll want to come back to it. Yes, you will. Because A Big Fish In A Small Puddle is by turns hilarious and heartbreaking – though mostly hilarious - and is absolutely life-affirming. Yes, it is. | guarantee you, you will laugh out loud, almost throughout. So thank you Ian, for a welcome and thoroughly invigorating addition to the rock and roll memoir canon, have five stars.
Displaying 1 of 1 review