Ah, there you, 007. Take a seat, and listen carefully…
Another slightly mad weekend, starting in the Trout up in sunny Keynsham; after a fairly quiet start, by the end of the first set, the place was livening up nicely; a shame, then, that I somehow completely forgot how to play the intro to the last song of the first set.
“Oh, f**k”, I tell Ben, “It’s gone. I have no idea how it goes. Complete blank. Can’t even guess”
“Just make something up, then” he sagely advises.
So I do; and we get clean away with it. This rock’n’roll stuff turns out to be rather easy, as long as you don’t worry about getting it right.
Thanks to every gigging musician’s ally (the effects of excess alcohol on the crowd), the second set is rather livelier; and thanks to the effects of alcohol on me, I manage not to forget anything else, and Rosa recruits a rather fine-looking pair of percussionists to join us on stage. Finally, with the floor awash with spilt drink as usual, we bang up against the noise curfew and are forced to stop; just in time before we collapse with heat exhaustion.
Saturday’s excursion, to an interestingly-architecture’d estate pub in Swindon, provides a veritable feast of slightly-disturbing happenings. We should have been forewarned when we saw that, due to some ongoing decorating work, half the loos have been closed off, and so there is a large sign denoting the remaining facilities to be “Unit Sex Toilets”.
It occurs to me that “The Unit Sex Toilets” is a fine name for a vaguely psychedelic rock band. (R Harding, take note).
One of the local lads has taken a shine to Rosa; she comes up to us in a state of some mild distress.
“He licked my hand!” she wails.
“You better wash it, then.” I advise her. “Right away”.
“And probably cut it off”, adds Ben.
“And then burn it, just to be on the safe side”.
She does not appear to be comforted by her band mates’ well-meaning advice.
She is even more perturbed when Stuart gleefully announces that he has today found a website which advertises a rather interesting (and hopefully unique) service, whereby they take a cast of your bum-hole, and use this as a mould to make a casting of it in chocolate, which you can then present as a gift to your loved one.
When some disbelief is expressed, he (suspiciously quickly) finds the page on his phone and shows it to us. It is not a pretty sight [Editor’s note: Looks like lips, almost the same thing really, especially when they make the choccy’s!]
An interesting alternative to the more traditional gift, I suppose – it certainly makes a change from “…And all because the lady loves Milk Tray”.
I must admit I find it difficult to credit that such romantic overtures would prove successful; still, as the old cheesy disco song says, “I Lost My Heart To A Starfish Trooper”…
At this point, Rosa runs away to hide, risk of further hand-licking strangers notwithstanding.
“You’ve broken her”, we admonish Stuart, but he is now giggling helplessly and is incapable of coherent response.
Once a wounded-looking Rosa has sullenly reappeared, there’s nothing for it but to turn everything up a bit, play the second set, and thrash out the end of the night with a bit of cheery AC/DC.
There, there … rock makes everything better.
More potential weirdness coming up…
Saturday 14th – The Portcullis, Fishponds
Back in the ‘Ponds, last time we played here there were comedy wigs, basques, and vuvuzelas. And that was just the landlady. Pretty much anything is possible…
Incidentally, if anybody is wondering what to buy me for Christmas – I don’t think I’ll be needing any chocolate…