[Editor’s note] Er, yes, this one is a week late. The next one to follow quite soon.]
Aloha amigos!
As a Mexican on holiday in Hawaii might say…
Anyways, I expect you’re all keen to hear what we’ve been up to this weekend; come to think of it, it’s really quite rude of us not to ask you what you’ve been up to.
So – how are you all? Do write and tell us.
Meanwhile, back in “transmit mode” – Friday, and the Trinity Inn in Bath turns out to be very cosy – as in quite small – but also as in ”My God, it’s hot in here”. Having managed to load in without getting rained on, it made no difference, as by the time we’d got the kit in place, we were all soaked head to foot in sweat. (Our own, I should point out – it’s not like there was a member of staff throwing buckets of sweat over everyone who walked in through the door. Although there may as well have been).
Further joy as we are asked to wait an hour before we start playing, as the footy is on telly. Oh, well, trapped in a pub for an hour, there are worse fates.
There is a stag party in, although they appear rather more reserved that most – the stag himself – “Tim” is dressed as a centurion, for reasons unknown, but nobody else is. Emma decides to make him the focal point of the evening, and so he is called up to the mike to join in on a few singalongs, which he opts to do topless, for reasons unknown (although it really was too hot for capes, so actually a sensible decision I suppose).
We play until the allotted midnight finishing time, and the go to stand out in the rain to cool off. We really don’t get any wetter as a result.
Saturday, and another new venue for us – The Bristol Inn in Clevedon. They’re a mixed bunch – the landlady is particularly lovely, there’s a wedding party in who are very much up for dancing around, some affable general punters, and there’s a moron who keeps shouting in our faces for us to play “500 Miles”, despite being rather clearly advised that this is not going to happen. I was trying to decide whether it would be better or worse if he’d been shouting for the Wurzels instead. Or Oasis.
But it does remind me of a lovely tale told by a bass-playing pal of mine, whose folk-rock band were playing a gig a few years back, and continually being pestered by a drunk lady shouting for Elvis.
“He’s dead, love”, the singer kindly advised her.
This did nothing to deter her, she kept on shouting for an Elvis song, and in the end the soft-hearted singer relented.
“All right, then, love, do you really want to hear an Elvis song?”
“YES!!”
“But do you REALLY want to hear an Elvis song?”
“YESSSSSS!!!!”
“Are you sure you want to hear an Elvis song?”
“YYYEEEEESSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!”
“Then go home and put a fucking record on.”
But despite the distraction, we manage to get through the night successfully, even if we have to skip a few numbers due to Ben’s damaged wrist (yes, wrist, for those of you who spotted the deliberate typo last week).
Coming up this week, just the one – and you’d better make the most of it, as we’re not going out for the next few weeks due to various holidays and such like: –
Friday 16th – Packhorse, Stapleton Road
Always great fun in here. At any rate, nobody shouts for Proclaimers songs, and right now, that’s good enough for me.
Square on
A