Mischievously morphing the 60s TV puppet-cult disaster-rescue phenomenon that was Thunderbirds, with the contemporaneous disaster rescue Covid vaccination programme is a seriously cheeky conceit. Man-up, Eric, cut yourself away from those marionette limiting strings and tell it like it is.
Word gets around. The gig is near enough a sell-out. Eric Davidson’s back in Town: one man, a mic, a ukulele and a seemingly bottomless, broiling vat of bilious pish-taking, scansion-soaked spleen to vent in volcanic, hi-voltage rap, scat rhyming rant and polemic put-down poetry. Hyperventilating, breath-taking perverse verse for the Covid event-horizon generation.
The Thunderjab 3 riff? Laters.
Davidson’s ad hominem broadsides target the usual subjects opening with an a cappella name the shameless snouts-in-the-trough Tory donors being awarded millions for supplying sub-standard PPE that would shame a Poundland bargain-hunter. Imagine George Formby meets John Cooper Clarke on an Odyssey seeking for the elusive truth after drinking a substantial draught of the “wine-dark sea”.
Matt Hancock gets the, “You’re More than a close aide to me” power-slush ballad parody treatment whilst the Rt Hon Member of the 18th Century becomes the “Dedicated Follower of Fascism”, who just can’t wait to goose-step into No 10. (The Edinburgh Reporter emphasises that these are flights of poetic parody and in no way resemble the truth – as indeed the subjects in question don’t either – allegedly….)
He’s been having a Covid precipitated mid-life crisis alright – box-set repetitive syndrome aching his ennui to such an extent that he is reduced to getting his rocks off with Jenny Agutter wittering-away in a wimple. Alleged Celebrity TV cooks get a mugging in the mincer during a hi-octane rap-rant emotional meltdown.
The solution to all this Gordon The Gob-Bully gobshite and Nigella, kitchen-kitten soft-focused gastro-porn, lies in his uncle’s Glasgow chip-shop panacea for universal ills – “..he pours Buckfast into his deep-fried Mars Bar batter”. There are howling, extended surrealistic riffs about Paul O’Grady’s dog adoption technique that segue into anthropomorphic Happy Birthdays for the Family’s wire-haired miniature dachshund and the impossibility of it being able to blow-out its birthday-cake candles (How do you make a dog go woof? Throw him on the fire?) He cites the Bayeux Tapestry as evidence in his defence.
And so it goes. The Thunderjab 3 closer explores how, in an ideal World, International Rescue would answer our doom/gloom-laden cries for redemption. Somewhere in the mix Davidson goes off on a tangent about being given the kiss-of-life from Lady Penelope’s lipstick-pink lips. Hmm.
A cri de coeur ridiculing those who choose to ignore sending Facebook “photos of exotic climes” and, instead enclose images of their restaurant meals anyone? Inevitably, the penultimate swan-song (Boris and his Bully Bullingdon Boys having already wrung its neck and eaten it raw) parodies Abba with “Thank You For The Covid/And Giving It To Me”.
The harrowing closure hears a chilling evocation of so many thousands of Covid death funerals unattended. But he bounces back, bowing out with belly-bursting bonhomie and signature sangfroid.
Honestly, what is he like? The mischievous minstrel with a sting in his tale. Miss at your peril.
