When I was approached to take over as President of Blokes Notes, a role variously known as “The Bloke”, “El Presidente” and “I Don’t Know, Ask Him”, I was initially overawed at the prospect. I mean, sure, I had strong opinions about apostrophe placement, and I had a beard, a previously mandatory requirement for presidential ambition, but otherwise…
Apparently that was more than enough qualification, so here I am.
Blokes Notes is the the brainchild of a small group of men determined to free themselves from the echo chamber of their bathrooms and sing out loud, firstly for each other and then to the unsuspecting public. That small group has now swelled considerably and men in black T shirts with an obscure logo featuring a quizzically raised eyebrow have often been spotted singing their lungs out at various events in the Hastings/Camden Haven and as far afield as…Wollongong! Don’t say these men don’t get around.
While some might say leading a bunch of singing men is akin to herding cats (cats have a very special place in the Blokes Notes repertoire) in fact, it’s remarkably pleasant, as really all I need to do is nod agreement to whatever the musical directors says, maintain my beard and not abuse my executive authority and insist on singing Drunken Sailor every night.
If none of the above makes the slightest sense, and you could grow a beard (if you wanted to) then perhaps you should satiate your curiosity and come along and give us a whirl. Or let us give you a whirl. Or at least sing something together...