I first met The Battery Farm outside a butcher’s shop in New Moston, wherein I had been bartering over of 1kg of diced beef. I had intended to eat the beef blue and mostly raw as per the specifics of my iron-rich diet, however the shopkeep, a truculent hipster, insisted that this would make me ill. They’re even gentrifying raw meat now. ‘I’m aware of E. coli and its associated risks, thank you very much’ I stated proudly, knowing full-well that my particular brand of stomach lining is almost supernaturally fortified against Gram-negative, facultative anaerobic, rod-shaped, coliform bacteria. Nevertheless, he continued his tirade of reactionary unctuousness, denouncing my assurances as LIES, pure and simple LIES. ‘YOU ARE A LIAR’ he screamed. I assured him repeatedly that I was not lying. Far from it. To my eternal credit, instead of growing ever-more furious with each repetition I actually became calmer, yeah? Anyway, after a bit he got the message and out I strolled with my produce. Yes, he got the message indeed. Sorry, what was I talking about? Ah yes, The Battery Farm…
I left the butcher’s and began to head home, my line of sight hooked by the visage of four overfed youths loitering outside the post office. They stood frozen in line, staring into space with unnerving intensity. They didn’t look like they were there to post letters. The nearer I came to them, the further they shifted from their malignant stillness, slowly turning to face me with air of menace so intense it was alluring. They floated into my path and stopped dead in front of me, their eyes boring into my soul as the eyes of the many people I have wronged (or who have wronged me; depends on your perspective). They spoke as one – simpatico, symbiotic – in a voice whose quivering neutrality hinted at a desire to simply disappear. Four disparate souls trapped in the hell of functioning as one seemingly interdependent organism. Or should that be… disfunctioning? Think about it. We stood for at least five minutes in thick silence, occasionally standing aside for passing pedestrians but never breaking eye contact. They were sizing me up, I could tell. Their inaction told me they knew just who they were dealing with. Their enigmatic façade was already beginning to crack. Finally, they spoke; ‘That was quite a fracas just now’, they intoned blankly. ‘Yes, well, some people need their minds opening for them’, I retorted brilliantly, defiantly. I wasn’t going to let them intimidate me, which – let’s be plain – was exactly what they were trying to do. ‘Is there something you want?’, I demanded after another short pause. Their initial cocksuredness visibly receded to mere cockhesitance. ‘Well? Spit it out!’ I commanded, my hackles rising with every unnecessary word. The worm had turned now. Their stoicism was faltering. Finally, they sputtered a response; ‘Are you Darren Smiley, celebrated local poet and meat packer?’ My invective gave way to disdain, and for the next 7 minutes I roared a mirthless laugh right in their stupid, white, student activist, milquetoast, liberal snowflake faces!!! ‘HA HA HA’, I bellowed. Ha. Ha. Ha. Local?! LOCAL?! I’m a much more pressing concern than that! ‘Local?! LOCAL?! I’m a much more pressing concern that that!’, I barked authoritatively, ‘you idiots better give me a good reason to stick around or I’m telling you now I am straight up outta here!’ ‘Please, sir, we’re sorry’, they vacillated, abandoning any pretence of dignity. ‘I will kill you right now!’, I raged, admittedly starting to lose control of myself. Can you blame me? ‘We’re a band and we want you to be our manager!’ they blurted out in cowardly desperation, stopping me in my tracks and saving themselves from the full force of my fury. Their air of cool insouciance had long since abandoned them. Puzzled, my rage subsided. In my confusion I became docile… but intrigued. I asked the obvious question; ‘What’s in it for me: Darren Smiley?’ ‘Well, I mean- ‘ ‘50%!’ ‘50% of what?’ ‘The profits! What else?’, I could see they were trying to hoodwink me. ‘Oh, yes, those’, their poker faces had really slipped now as they stuttered and stammered their way through their meagre response – the poor, beleaguered fools. ‘Well – erm – what if we, y’know, go for something like, maybe, 40%-‘ ‘NO DEAL!’, I cut them off before they could even finish, using a time-honoured technique to assert my dominance in a tense negotiating situation. ‘I want 50% and not a penny less’. Finally, meekly, they relented, cut down to size by my sharp negotiator’s eye and superior wit. They agreed to 50% of all profits coming my way. A contract was signed there and then, and a beautiful relationship was formed. To this day though I still haven’t received my money. I’m a generous soul so I’m willing to let that slide. It’s the other stuff that still rankles. We’ll get to that though. Immediately I set about blessing this bunch of abject no-hopers with my knowledge and experience. My savvy and intuition. My showbiz nous. I knew from years of just generally being trendy what the kids were after. I and I alone knew the trajectory of the money trail. Listen to me and they’d be riding the A-train to Hitsville. I’ve often thought I never got the credit I deserved for the work I put in with The Battery Farm. I’m not bitter though. D’you think I care? Get over it, yeah? Still, it would be nice to have some formal acknowledgement of the fact that I more-or-less created this band. Oh yeah, that’s right. Created. You won’t read about that in the FAILED mainstream media. Before I came along, they were arsing about playing 10cc and Bryan Adams covers in various local pubs and were determined to continue hurtling down Soft Rock Avenue, destination: Obscurity. I remember when we first talked about their sound and they explicitly told me that their main objective was to successfully copy Dan Gillespie-Sells’ iconic Guitar sound from The Feeling’s debut album. A noble objective, but not one that makes that lean, lean green. ‘Listen lads’, I said, my synapses firing with blistering, iconoclastic ideas, ‘there’s only one place to be right now. There’s only one thing the kids are talking about, the thing that’s gonna make you cash money millionaires and… nah, forget it actually, you guys don’t seem that keen’ ‘No, please tell us!’, they pleaded, their eyes wide with awe, their appetites whetted to breaking point, their tongues thick with anticipation. I had them in the palm of my hands, like little birds snarfing away on seeds. ‘Alright, I’ll tell you’, I said magnanimously. ‘That thing that’s gonna make you your fortune? The thing all the kids are pining for in their droves? Two words boiz [I came up with that] – Punk. Rock.’ They sat dumbfounded. It seemed so simple. How had they failed to think of it before? ‘But, we don’t have the songs… the sound… the attitude’, they muttered ‘Well boiz, the day you crossed my path was your lucky day! I just so happen to have a full batch of PUNK ROCK bangers written and ready to go. All you’ve got to do is learn them. Follow my advice and you’ll head straight to the toppermost of the poppermost’. Yes. I wrote The Battery Farm’s songs. All those big tunez that you don’t know and don’t love? 97/91, I Am a Man, all of ENDLESS UNSTOPPABLE PAIN ? I wrote them. Me. Darren Smiley. I don’t need proof. I’m telling you, that’s the proof. Without me they’d still be cranking out half-arsed karaoke versions of ‘I’m Not in Love’ to disengaged drunkos. They took all my incredible advice and all my tremendous songs, and they didn’t do them justice. Remember when I mentioned that you don’t know and don’t love these tunez? Well, The Battery Farm disappointed me in that, to this point, they have remained irrelevant in the public eye. Despite all that I gave them. All the sleepless nights. All the avenues I cleared for them. All the opportunities I got them. Me. They squandered all of it. Do you know how many t-shirt throwing gigs I booked them? How many personal appearances at village halls they turned down? What thanks do I get? Nothing! They plaster my handsome face all over their tat with reckless abandon and I get nothing, not even a writing credit. And why? Because I ‘don’t exist’, because I’m a ‘conceptual motif’ apparently. Well I do exist, and one day I’m going to get the recognition I deserve. I wrote all those songs in an hour between poetry readings! That’s how much of a talent I am! You’ll see. You’ll all see. So that’s pretty much my story. I created The Battery Farm, wrote all their songs and sacrificed all my hair for them (Dom’s hair is actually mine, shaved and fashioned into a toupee – he’s Kojak bald in real life) and I got not an ounce of credit for it. In the end I was sacked for one reason and one reason only. Jealousy. Pure and simple. They couldn’t handle the dynamism that I brought to the table, and ultimately their resistance to my genius has led them straight into a basin. Whatever. I’m not bitter. Why would I be? Me? Bitter? Don’t be so stupid. I’ve got loads on the go. Don’t worry about me. Like God, I have no beginning and no end. I’m just biding my time. Soon, you’ll all see just how real Darren Smiley is.