Tuesday, 27 September 2011

A lot of Wivi but a lack of Wifi, Snurd!

By five o'clock on Thursday afternoon I'd had enough of the M4 and so decided to take a cheeky detour down to my destination the wrong side of Taunton and came off the motorway entirely to head to Wiveliscombe via bath, Bradford-On-Avon, Frome, Shepton Mallet and Wellington. Sadly, so did everybody else and the snail's pace I had enjoyed since setting off not long after two continued until I reached my destination around seven. It was worth the drive. The gig was in the converted skittle alley of The White Hart Inn, where (handily) I was also booked in to. This had two results: A great maiden gig for the pub and a particularly beery night for yours truly. I don't remember going to bed but briefly I enjoyed:

A delicious plate of bangers and mash
Several pints of real ale followed by several pints of cider follwed by at least a couple of JD & cokes
A capacity crowd that laughed at pretty much everything


A woman who laughed so much at me that she cracked a rib.

That's never happened before.

Apparently she has a rare condition that leads to her bones being easily breakable. It's probably a good job I'm not any funnier than I am - the poor girl could have been in real trouble.

I woke up late and left the hotel later, managing to leave my key in the room. I hoped that was all. I spent the rest of the day getting to Plumstead. I wasn't really looking forward to the gig, if truth be known and this became more apparent when on arriving in S. East London I point blank refused to find it I drove around Woolwich, Greenwich, Blackheath and at least one place I've never heard of for what seemed like an age before stumbling upon a pub I had been in once before, many years ago. I asked them if they knew where "The Pavillion" was. A man pointed out the of window at a dark shed on the rugby field opposite and said "it's there, mate". I got my stuff out of the car and wandered over. It was in total darkness on the three visible sides. Not feeling particularly comfortable, I continued into the darkness. Side four had some fairy lights on and an open door. I walked in to find a full crowd eagerly awaiting what turned out to be a really top night. My cousin Neil had shown up with his wife Becky (They initially couldn't find it either) and this compounded my eventual relief: Something always goes wrong at my gigs if there are family present. Nothing did, though and it was another beauty.

When I said my goodbyes I went back to my car to find it unlocked and also no sign on the laptop I had stupidly left in the boot. I cursed my luck but then figured I may have just left it in the hotel and never packed it all. This, I decided was more likely as there was actually other stuff in the boot of some value that would have been worth nicking. Considering myself an idiot, I spent the ninety minute drive home chastising myself for leaving the thing in the extreme West Country and hatching plans as to how I would get it back. This would not have been a good week to be without a laptop. When I got home I parked up and found said laptop in the foot well of the passenger seat. Why I had put it there is beyond me. The euphoria I cannot explain but suffice to say that when I woke up on Sunday I was momentarily still convinced that I would have to drive back to Wivi before remembering and being euphoric all over again. It certainly made the day go quicker...

...Which was good, because I had a date with four Norwegian women, a Frenchman and a Coventry Psychobilly exiled to Ashford.

And here they are! From left, Therese (looking happy), Kine (using her hands for once),  Heidi,  Adam, Linda and Laurent  (What's he so pleased about?)

My surprise was that after a weekend at the Bedlam Breakout psychobilly weekender they would want to go for a curry. Curry it was - you don't mess with Norwegian women. I found this out in Spain. Confused? So was I when I tried to find their hotel. I came out of Warren Street tube OK and walked directly to where their hotel should have been according to Google Maps. it wasn't, so I walked back to Warren Street tube, which was where their hotel was. They were all clearly suffering the effects of a weekend in Northampton and despite hurrying the pace along I failed to get anyone to have more than three drinks. They're pussies, Vikings. The curry was fantastic and I have to congratulate Laurent the French guy. He made up a joke, on the spot, in English. One of the girls, Kine, was accused of being an expert toe-painter, as in, she paints with her toes. There is a convoluted reason to this but I didn't really get it. Anyway, Laurent explained that her work was so good that it was currently being exhibited in Holland in the Vincent Van Toe museum.

Laurent (Still smiling), myself and Therese (Either doesn't like having her photo taken or just LOVES my jacket...)

He's a legend.

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