Journey’s End 2: Ringo Blaze & The Screaming Toilet Fish From Hell

[The White Hart Pub. The same place I remember so well. But, not the same place I found a few nights ago. Photo is mine.]

Me to my brother, Dan: They call themselves Ringo Blaze & The Screaming Toilet Fish From Hell. Eh?

My brother, Dan to me: Green or purple eight inch spiked mohawk. Totally punk.

The story goes something like this:

It was early November, 1984, on an unusually warm evening in Wimborne. My teaching day was over and I found myself sitting on the stone wall, adjacent to the churchyard of the Wimborne Minster (Church of St. Cuthburga). The antique engravings from the 18th century depict a number of gravestones in the green space. Today, only a single memorial cross dedicated to those men and women who died in the Great War, WW I. I wondered where all the stones went. Some parishes stack them along the stone walls of the churchyard. Here there was nothing. I made a mental note to look into this, being a Taphophile even back then.

[The Wimborne Minster. Photo is mine.]

The afternoon had slowly blended into early evening. The clerks, shopkeepers, barbers and teachers were heading home or to their favorite pub (their ‘local’). I worked up a dry throat watching all the people bustling about. My downtown local was just around the corner and down a lane, cobbled and rough on the feet. Setting off I entered the Corn Market Square in just over four minutes. There it was…The White Hart. Amber light glowed from the mullioned windows as darkness fell. I headed for the main entrance.

[Entrance to The White Hart. No handbills this time around. No Ringo Blaze. Photo is mine.]

The noise level inside told me that it was a young crowd. In I went, passing a collection of posters and handbills for music, fairs, garden club meetings and lawn bowling events. I didn’t notice it at first. Inside, I bumped into a young woman who had cut my hair just two days earlier.

Hi, I said.

Hi, she said.

I know you, I said.

She stared at me and took a tiny step back.

You cut my hair two days ago, I said. I really like the cut. Got plenty of compliments from my students. I lied.

We spoke for a few minutes and I finished my pint of best bitter. I decided to go home and make a plan for dinner. On the way out, I noticed a small poster. It was an advertisement for a band that would be playing at The White Hart in a few weeks hence. The band’s name was Ringo Blaze…

Whoa. That was some singular name for a group. That alone would be a draw, for me anyway. I didn’t have a camera with me then so there is no visual proof of such a poster, so you will have to take my word for it.

A few weeks later, I told my brother about the group. He described the punk nature of the name. I was surprised because I associated punk with Sid Vicious and the Sex Pistols. New York City’s Lower East Side. Anything but a small pub in a quaint English village in the middle of Thomas Hardy Country.

Flash forward to four days ago. Mariam and I were in Wimborne for two nights before heading to Southampton. I was needing a icy Fever Tree Tonic water so we headed for the White Hart. As soon as we entered, I sensed something was off, truly off. The room where Mariam and I met a former student of mine was filled with boxes of clothes, old newspapers and dirty glass ware. And, the place was without any customers. And, it was the time of day when most pubs were crowded. What was going on? There was a little girl, about eight years old, standing by the pool table holding a cue stick. At the angle she held it while trying to hit the three ball…well, I was waiting for the tearing sound of the felt.

[The interior of The White Hart. Empty but for two customers. A bartender and a little girl. Photo is mine.]

To round out the story, give it an ending of sorts and tie up loose questions, I can say that I found out what happened to The White Hart…the White Hart of my memory. It seems that a number of months ago, the place was closed down because of alleged drug selling. It was only recently re-opened. Just in time for us to see it in it’s present state of unkemptness. I never did find out, however, about the piles of clothes in one of the rooms, or who the little girl was, and why she wasn’t in school.

I just hope the new owners pull it all together. It’s a very old pub. Lots of tradition. Lots of memories made there.

Including my very own. And, most likely those of Ringo Blaze himself.