Sorry we’re a bit late with the news this week, it’s all been a bit hectic really…
Saturday night at the Lansdowne in Calne was a fairly quiet affair, the place wasn’t exactly packed to the rafters – although there was a lovely bunch of Austrians there on holiday, who provided us with some very fine socks-and-sandals dad-dancing entertainment, and seemed extremely appreciative – even though they couldn’t really understand all of Lou’s deft repartee…and (fortunately) didn’t appear to understand any of Stuart’s. Not that that’s unusual…
Sunday dawned, and a Grand Day Out all the way down to Cornwall, for an unusual (for us) gig at a holiday park…
Having thought ahead a little bit, we’d realised driving down there, playing a gig, and then driving all the way back again was a sure fire recipe for death-by-falling-asleep-at-the-wheel, so we took up a very kind offer of free local accommodation from Paul and Mary, a couple of Stuart’s old pals from the dawn of time, who I have to say were absolutely wonderful company and extremely hospitable.
So, we rolled up down there late afternoon to settle in a bit, then headed off to the labyrinthine Perran Sands Holiday Park – a kind of pop-up estate of static caravans sprawled over several square miles of sand dune. Dem tells me that I’ve actually been there before, where years ago we took the wee kiddies for a week – I have no real recollection of this, apart from their giant furry mascot “Rory the Tiger”, who I remember sent Lily into an absolute panic of terror every time he came within fifty yards of her.
We eventually found our way to the reception-y place, and Stuart and Lou, in their “Mum and Dad” roles, sallied forth to find out where we were supposed to go, whilst Ben and I waited outside.
After about twenty minutes watching windswept holidaymakers wandering about, Ben opines that perhaps our band mates “have been eaten by Rory the Tiger”, and suggests that maybe we should go and hand ourselves in at Lost Children.
Just at this point they reappear, and we are led round the back of the aircraft hangar-sized “entertainment complex”, to a smaller and rather civilised-looking bar, which we are told is our home for the evening.
We set up, and manage to have most the kit in place before “the bingo” starts – I bet Metallica never get to have bingo on their gigs – but at least it gives us time to sneak off and stuff our piggy faces with chips before it’s time to play. And, rather to our surprise, we go own a storm, we end up playing past the allotted hour, and the place is roaring with applause. Eventually it’s time to pack it in, pack it up, and make our way back to Paul and Mary’s nice comfy gaffe (I got to sleep in a room with 12 guitars and a drum kit, it was just like being at home) and collapse in a heap.
Then it was up in the morning, a quick message to work to tell ‘em I’m not coming, and a relaxed tea and toast session with our host before trundling back home again. Luvverly!
Coming up this weekend – we’re not straying quite so far…
Saturday 8th – The Jolly Cobbler, Kingswood
A nice little local pub, run by our old pal Mike. The good news is that there is no bingo, only a slim chance of Austrian fashion faux-pas, and no risk whatsoever of encountering Rory The Tiger…
I’ll leave you with this one, courtesy of my now-suddenly-disinherited eldest offspring.
I’m really good friends with twenty five letters of the alphabet.
I don’t know why…