Hey gang

It’s been a busy ol’ weekend, so I think it’s only fair to give you just the edited highlights…

Friday night, and we’d been looking forward to a jolly night at the dear ol’ Cat & Wheel on Gloucester Road. We weren’t disappointed; I was very pleased to see my brother and his lovely other half turned up unexpectedly mid-soundcheck, just as I’d managed to sort out my sulky pedalboard and get it into some semblance of working order. Later, they were also joined by a barrage of my favourite nieces, and all was set for a pleasant evening.

After stomping merrily through the first set, and finding the management had set aside a bar tab for the band (how very refreshing, on so many levels) there appeared to be a small commotion towards the back of the pub. I looked over and espied what was unmistakably a very large turd in the middle of the floor, which the staff were frantically trying to divert people around.

We all agreed this was a first for us, and that clearly our awesome Power Of Rock must have been rather too much for one of the clientele.

We were quite disappointed to be told that actually the incriminating item had been produced by someone’s dog – presumably someone with an unusually lackadaisical approach to litter training. We didn’t actually see the alleged pooch, but – if that really was the culprit – it must have been the size of at least a small bear…

Floor-cleaned, and free beer drunk, we applied ourselves to the second set. As ever in the Cat, it all went down very well indeed, and even with a few new tracks lined up, they were still baying for more when we ran out of encores we’d planned to play. 

That leaves cheesy disco – I Will Survive – but, as Abby tells the crowd, they’ll have to bear with us, as she’s not sure she can remember all the words. At this point, Best Niece comes barrelling up to the front, plants herself right in front of the mike stand, and locks eyes with Abby. She then proceeds to sing along, whilst exaggeratedly miming the actions to each word like a children’s TV presenter on amphetamines.

I would gladly have paid a large sum of money for the privilege of watching that, and by the end of the song I am literally crying with laughter. Respect to Abby for keeping it together during that one.

The following day saw us fetching up for a gig at Nailsea Rugby Club – as an interesting social experiment, the club had decided to put a band on in their bar after the day’s matches, to entertain the players.

As it turned out, the players were more than happy to entertain themselves – they were certainly a lively audience, but what they most enjoyed was when we allowed one of their number to take over the mike now and then to lead some “community singing”.

The most enthusiastic of them started on a clearly well-rehearsed hybrid chant/rap with them; Stuart picked up the beat behind him, Steve (who has a better ear than me) quickly worked out that they were singing “approximately in G”, so we were able to jam along for the best part of five minutes, much to the delight of the “the boys”.

Fortunately for my three bandmates, it was during the break between sets, when they had slunk out for some fresh air and left me to babysit the mixing desk, that the inevitable “and now we take all our clothes off” rugby song reared its head. There was much throwing of beer, rubbing together of beer bellies, and – to be judiciously fair – what appeared to be an array of genitalia on display. Still, I’m sure they have lovely personalities.

Thankfully they all more or less dressed themselves again for the second set, and after we finished, several of the lads were kind enough to help lug the kit back down the stairs.

So, we loaded the van, counted the money, divided the spoils, and headed off into the Nailsea darkness.

No gigs coming up this week, but I’ll sign off with yesterday’s small tale of self-inflicted domestic strife.

It’s Sunday morning, and there is a knock on the door. “Can you get that?” asks my beloved Dem. “It’s probably the new laundry basket I’ve ordered”.

I open the door, and a nice young lady hands me a parcel, bearing the partly visible text “AUNDR ASKE”.

“Was that what it was?” asks Dem as I return to hand her the package.

“Yes”, I reply, “It was a pretty girl delivering a laundry basket”.

“OK. D’you think she’ll come in and help me with the laundry?”

“Oh, I doubt it”, I reply airily, thinking that I’m delivering a whimsical observation on the inherent sexist attitudes in society’s popular culture, “Pretty girls don’t have to do laundry…”.

The temperature in the room unaccountably suddenly plummets, as I look at Dem, clutching her new laundry basket, and I mentally play back what I’ve just said.

“D’you know,” says Dem, with more than a hint of menace in her voice, “I was going to do some washing today, but now maybe I think I won’t bother”!

Whilst my conscious mind is panicking and trying to frame a suitably declamatory reply, I am horrified to hear the next sentence, which rose unbidden from the depths of my subconscious and, without consulting either my higher brain functions or my normally finely-honed survival instinct, managed to escape out of my mouth.

“Oh, take a look in the mirror, you might as well do some…”

Folks, it’s been nice knowing you…

Square on
A