(actually, that was supposed to be a “Yo!”, but I mistyped it. Never mind.)
So, Friday night at the Trout in Keynsham; a bit quieter than usual; possibly the rain hammering down put off some of the more lightweight lager drinkers.
Still, the place was jumping quite nicely by the end. Lou had brought a few of her pals along, which was good to see, and had also decided to spring a little surprise on Ben and myself, in the shape of one enormous and ornate sombrero (which was plonked on me whilst playing), and one teeny-tiny one which was deposited onto Ben’s bonce at the same time.
Band rules dictate that once a humiliating item of apparel has been put in place, it must remain there for the duration of at least one song.
It was therefore quite unfortunate for Lou that she still didn’t win this week, as, purely by chance, I had happened to wander into a fancy dress shop earlier in the day, and procured a very fine large pair of white feathered angel wings and a little halo. It was a bit of a struggle to get them on to her, but we managed it between the two of us, and claim victory, by virtue of having her laughing so much she missed out nearly an entire verse of the song.
Also we managed to make her miss the cue for the start of U2’s “Vertigo”, so instead of the usual
“Un…dos… tres…quatorze!”, (which, incidentally, actually means “One…two…three…fourteen”), we were all treated to the rather more magnificent
“…………Un,dos, fuckit, GO!!”.
See, Mr Bono? THAT’s how you should have done it.
As usual, Lou was making friends and chatting with the audience over the mike, and making a spirited attempt to get them to buy a round of shots in for the band. After receiving a sarcastic, “Anything else you want…?”, Ben butted in and placed an order for “A dozen cheerleaders and fifteen gallons of jelly”.
An interesting concept, and one which has, for no particular reason, been labelled, “Death by Snoo-Snoo”.
The following night, having all stuffed our piggy little faces at my place, we ventured up to Chalford near Stroud to the Old Neighbourhood, which is perched way up in the hills, miles from anywhere. “It might be a bit difficult to find”, says Stuart, “You’d better follow me.”
So, Lou hops in the car with him and promptly falls asleep, whilst Ben and I jump in the van and follow behind. We go through Stroud, turn off the main road, and up into the hills. As predicted, Stuart starts driving slower and slower, takes to indicating before every side turning and then changing his mind, and finally slowly grinds to a halt, before getting out and walking back to tell us, “I think we should have taken the other turning”. (I loved the “we”). Ben and I are doubled up with laughter, and I can barely punch the address into the satnav; which gets us there within 5 minutes.
The pub turns out to be rather jolly; a nice bunch of people, including a few old chums who live locally and have popped in to see us, and we end up having an excellent night, with much silliness and jumping about the place; the only slight downside was that unfortunately the pub has a dog, which meant we had to go through the ritual of explaining to Lou why we couldn’t take it home, and keep it as a “band dog”; which she grudgingly accepted only after we pointed out that the vet’s bills for Stuart are expensive enough as it is.
Right then, coming up this week – just the one, and look – it’s even local!
Saturday 29th – The Portcullis, Fishponds Road
Yes, we know, there are two Portcullises in Fishponds, yes, they do both have bands on fairly regularly, and no, I can’t remember which one this is. It’s the one we played at last time. Probably. I expect the postcode will be on our website. And apparently a lot of Ben “work colleagues” from Morrisons across the road will be stopping by; he may be needing a new job soon…
Right, until next time, then: –
Square on, and go careful with that snoo-snoo