Aye oop, lad!
Well, as another weekend full of rawk’n’roll fun sails majestically past down the river of Time, flowing relentlessly onwards to the Sea of Oblivion, and we stand thoughtfully on the banks of the Present gazing into the distant horizon of Eternity, where the birds of Desire fly homewards to their nests of Remembrance silhouetted against the sunset of Significance, I can’t help but wish I’d remembered to put some trousers on.
Young Lily and I ventured up to Swindon on a freezing Friday night; we arrived at the Tap & Barrel to find it pretty quiet, but the folks that were there seemed nice and friendly. By the time we’d set up it was a bit more populated, and by a stroke of luck we more-or-less managed to remember the whole set. Not that it mattered too much, I don’t think they were too fussy; there was reasonable amount of singing along and jigging about, and we were even treated to some granddad dancing (imagine dad dancing, only much, much more so) from a very amiable chap, whose name remains a mystery – as was everything else he said. Full marks for incomprehensible muttering, that man! But, he seemed to be happy enough.
