Boy howdy!
And welcome to this week’s thrill-packed episode of rambling nonsense.
Friday night’s expedition to the Old Mail House was successful, from my point of view at least, in that I managed to pull off a triumph of rock’n’roll blokiness, by diverting course on the way to the gig to buy an angle grinder.
Impressed, eh?
That’s nearly as blokily impressive as a man with two sheds, wouldn’t you say?
(I don’t actually have two sheds. I’m not weird, or anything).
Well, that’s it, folks. Summer’s end. It’s raining again. Ah well, it was fun while it lasted. At least the giggage continues apace.
Friday at the Swan, and the turnout was a bit on the light side – apparently the good citizens of Thornbury have taken to staying home of a Friday night in recent months – and this one was not very different. In fact, as there were not too many in, and they were quite shy, Emma had to encourage them at the end of each song to applaud.
In fact, for one number – which tails off gracefully with eight bars of acapella vocals, and thus doesn’t have a definite “Clang” ending – in a moment of genius, to avoid any confusion for the punters, at the moment the last note fades away, Emma helpfully announces,“THE END”; which had the rest of us creased up in hysterics. Oh, how we love that woman.
Ahoy there shipmates!
Another weekend, another fine pair of evenings spent making a racket, jumping around like a twat, and generally having a marvellous time. Both Emma and I agreed that we can’t remember what normal people do for fun on a night out, ‘cos this is so much better.
Mind you, we also agreed that we should change the band name to “Pottymouth Infidel and the Conspicuous Ninjas”, so that gives you an idea of the kind of intellect you’re dealing with here.
Friday at the Packhorse was immense fun, and – thanks to it being one of the regular’s birthday, there was a large buffet arrayed on a table. It is codified in law that musicians are entitled to partake in any food which is displayed within 50 feet of them…so we did.
Blessings be upon you, my children…
Well, the sun has come out, spring is beginning to do springy things with an admirable degree of enthusiasm, and there appears to be a glimmer of hope on the horizon that a significant proportion of the country would perhaps, on sober consideration, prefer to not shoot themselves in the bollocks after all – so what could improve things more than a nice lively Angel Up Front gig on a Saturday night?
Well, for a start, a nice lively Angel Up Front gig on a Saturday night which doesn’t involve Alan marching at full tilt face-first into a closed door whilst loading the kit in, that would have been an improvement…
