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So, I decided to go with the Biggles faction. No more seasonal affect dementia, please... some kind of jumpstart, an absolute necessity in keeping all the marbles. I chose the funk approach. Pregnant skies pissed down rain when I was relieving bladder pressure after taking in the Newcastle v Chelsea match and a couple Harps in Biggles' football lair. The basement... the same place where most of my band experiences began. The rumpus room for boys of all ages... probably because the fierce hunters in us defy the spiders. Cold as balls, too. A snake, now, would be a different proposition. Not a bad way to make a fashionably late appearance, lit with a football match. The local bands here are full of musicians that moonlight in several combos... reggae, funk, Old Time, jazz. Each of them. God knows, some meaty bass and a full horn section is good medicine for my cranial ills. Some dancing wouldn't have hurt... certainly, well-dressed debutantes were in abundance. Were it not for her beefy, bald-headed parasite, I felt it in my heart to compliment one such attend�e... possessing some very nice legs caressed by tasteful Mrs. Pee1 knee-high go-go boots. Two-toned, black-and-white. Rahh-therr. Not so many elligible partners on the dancefloor... and it didn't take too long to find out why. The mix of the room was so hot as to simulate white noise. I couldn't even pick out the bass runs or the snare shots to find out how to move. Balls to that. I swear, culbs must hire deaf sound guys on purpose. Must. Force. Them. Back. To. Bar. Mission accomplished. Dark brown porters going to my head. Crowd thinning. Time for the late night hop to the nearly-empty local... and yet more porters. There's something about the little loo under the stairs at this club. It's a magnet for my stomach contents. Willingly given... considering the sobering experience of throwing your shoes up, and a forty-five minute drive on rain-glossed back roads to return home. Dimly listening to Biggles and the bartender trade heated exchanges about the middle east, and manage to end the debate as friends. I don't think I would know what this bar looks like, without being pissed. I'm going to miss this, when Mother England calls him back. The list of close friends shortens. I calmly accepted the punishment of my expected hangover... which wasn't as painful as I maybe deserved. Keeping busy helped, as did the early afternoon drive with the windows open... and the nagging expectancy that maybe this would be the day the hardtop comes off. Nope, had to make some jerk. And make a stab at replacing the Volvo's fuel pump (the cheap one, in the gas tank). Amazing, what one sunny day can provide. I'll be geting back to the Hostel Environment thing, soon come. Had to do some present tense to balance the the past tense. |
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