Getting down with the kids

Last night the Missus and I joined some friends from Clare's Uni days to attend what the young people these days call a "gig" in Camden.
And this time, dear reader, absolutely no-one tried to peddle their third rate soft drugs on me (see previous post).
Perhaps my shorts / rucksack combo gave off an air of German tourist, and they were put off by potential language difficulties.
Anyway, the "gig" was excellent, and I even got an unintelligible inky mark stamped on my hand by the pierced wookie on the door (it's been years since I got one of those). It was our friend Daliah we'd come to see, and she and her band rocked the hot sticky joint man. She's just brought out her debut album on Universal records, and is about to make it big. Read my review of her album here, or visit her website here.

Trog blog

Last night, the wife and I went to a screening of The Descent (the wife working 15 hours a day for Rupert Murdoch has a few perks).
It's the scariest goddamn film ever. You think it's going to be a psychological potboiler about a group of women who go pot-holing. "Big deal", you say to yourself. You're thinking a couple of broken ankles, a cave fall, some bitchy falling out, but ultimately they pull together and beat this thing, because they're WOMEN. An extended episode of Casualty basically.
Wrong.
Think again.
Buried alive 2 miles underground, in an undiscovered network of caves, mounting claustrophobia, bottomless crevasses, and legs-broken-so-badly that-the-bone-sticks-rudely-through-the-skin are the least of these girls' problems. Try filling the cavernous tomb with hundreds of flesh-eating troglodytes who can move like insects, and you're beginning to get a better idea of where this film's going. Mountains of bones, a lake of blood, and more pickaxe fights than you can shake a... well, a pickaxe at. "I haven't been this scared by a film since I saw Alien when I was ten" (Pete Gold, voice of Dicky T's fish and chip shop radio campaign).

Essex

Last Friday, the wife and I trogged over to Essex to celebrate the 21st birthday of the brother of a friend of ours. We reckon it's probably the last 21st we'll be invited to until our nephew and niece turn 21 in the year 2022.
Still, it was wild enough to last us 17 years. We got there at 22h00, to find
the golf club crammed with 200 Essexians. A wonderful species: the young males sport kooky ruffled plumage, held in place by lashings of "product"; The older males had mostly lost their plumage and were considerably broader and redder than their young. The females were ALL blonde.
The whole group absolutely adored each other. A spikey-haired youngster got his dad in a friendly headlock on the dance floor and knuckled his head while young and old looked on and laughed - Dad included.
Two hours later, It's chucking out time, and I'm 5 pints worse off. Back at Carrie's flat in Colchester, the beer gives way to bacardi breezer, and the lads persuade me to do some comedy songs (oh no, I couldn't possibly, no really, are you sure, well if you insist). I give the most slurred, bumbling, Alzheimers performance ever, and promptly leave to get some fags.
"Are you ztill licenzed to shell algohol?" I dribble at the shopkeeper.
It's 4am.
He isn't.
So I make do with fags, white bread and Doritos.
By 4.30 I'm having a little sit down in a chair in the corner (Nick Swift taught me everything I know). I awake to find my chin covered in drool, and my wife dancing on a 2ft square coffee table with 5 youngsters.
She's cool.
I'm a grandad.
I go back to sleep.

A Very Nice Mum

Another Nice Mum gig at the Etc Theatre last night.
I arrived feeling slightly affronted, as only TWO hooded youths had tried to sell me skunk in the 200 yards twixt tube and theatre. Usually I get at least 3 offers. Clearly I am too old and square-looking. Perhaps they look at me from beneath their strategically shaved eyebrows, and see a policeman (my pristeen trainers / M&S slacks combo setting off the whole vice squad look nicely).
The gig went well, and a jolly sympathetic crowd found laughs in places I didn't know there were any. Sadly Nick Swift couldn't make it (he'd been upchucking all weekend, which I put down to the dodgy country ciders he enjoys so much), so I performed our new song about hoodies on my own, rather falteringly.
As the audience filed out for their half time Jesus juice, a pair of 8 year old kids shuffled past, followed by their mum. In horror, all the filth from my set came flooding back, including the phrase "anal wart" (and worse). I muttered an apology to Mum about the swearing, but all she said was "I really enjoyed it, and they've heard it all before". Come to think of it, most eight year olds are probably more foul-mouthed than I am.
The little f*ckers.

Natural born gits more like

Another thrilling installment in the epic saga of our elderberry tree.
The blackfly are now everywhere, and the stupid ladybird larvae are still lounging around in their hessian sack, like soporific teenagers, smoking weed and listening to Morrissey.
I've stood underneath the tree shouting "Pupate, damn you, pupate!", but this seems to have no effect. Damn their little weevily exoskeletons.
See previous blog for explanation.

Soppy

Saturday was mine and the Missus first wedding anniversary. A year ago we scanned the grey York horizon, waiting for the ominous bulgey clouds to dump their watery load on our nuptials.
The clouds had other plans however, and spent themselves elsewhere. We had blue skies that day, and have done ever since. Forgive my self indulgent soppiness reader (but then franky, what is a blog if not self-indulgent?) I count my blessings daily to have met my Missus.
If a big blue genie, voiced by Robin Williams, gave me one wish for the benefit of mankind, it would be that everyone could find their Clare.
(That or teleportation at will, like on Rentaghost).
See, I had to spoil it.

Natural born killers

Our elderberry tree has got blackfly (and yes I do know how middle aged and middle class that sounds). The garden is FULL of the little buggers. Spending time in our garden is like being on "I'm a Celebrity". I was out there for a minute just now, and came back with more parasites on me than a victorian orphan.

The solution? Ladybird larvae. By mail order. A discreet jiffy bag plops onto your doormat, containing two small plastic boxes full of sawdusty type stuff and baby ladybirds (who basically look like little black weevils). You empty the boxes into a small hessian bag (included), tie it to the tree, and let the larvae transmogrify into adults, who then emerge from the bag to wage war on the blackfly.

I shook the cooperative ones into the little bag, and went back for the uncooperative ones, only to find that one of them was already biting the head off something the same size as itself (possibly one of its siblings). I watched the victim writhe in insect agony for a bit as its head was slowly devoured... then I went in to put the washing on.

Bon appetit my little red friends. Feast and be merry!

Anne Bancroft

How very sad that Anne Bancroft has died. She was there with Mel Brooks when I embarrassed myself in front of him (see post below), and she smiled benificently at me as I bumbled away.

Poor Mel Brooks. I'm sure he'll find solace in his friends and family.

Spooky

On Friday night we took the parents in law to see Woman in White. Not to be confused with Woman in Black. Or Lady in Red. Father in law Geoff found himself sitting next to Brian Blessed - every inch the bear of a man he appears on TV. How he squeezed his giant frame into the funsized bucket seat the theatre had provided, I don't know. He is apparently a very nice chap. He helped fund Rich Coylethrough drama school.

The palaver getting in and out of the seats put me in mind of my last birthday, when the Missus treated me to stalls seats at the opening night of the Producers (a musical so funny it obviates the need for anyone ever to write another one, although that won't stop me, Andy and Nick having a go).

We arrived rather late with a champagne buzz, and had to make everyone in our row stand up. Scuse me pardon me thankyou scuse me. We settled into our seats, wriggling around to establish leg room, unwrapped the maltesers, looked around to see if there were any famous people in.

There were.

Mel Brooks himself was but two rows behind us (shows what good seats we had!) cleverly disguised as an old Jewish guy. Now I'm not normally an autograph hunter (the look of polite embarrassment in the victim's eyes is one that I feel uncomfortable at having engendered) but the sense of occasion (and the champagne buzz) got the better of me, and, armed with a pen, I clambered back through the row to get Mel to sign my programme. Scuse me pardon me scuse me sorry thankyou.

Mel Brooks saw me approaching, and with a wave of a wrinkly hand, grunted "Sorry, I don't do that " and squashed me like a mini-bagel. I tried to think of something that would make him decide to make an exception in my case, but the best I could manage was "I don't normally do this either". Still, it was better than "Oh pleeease!". I wished him a great evening...

...and then made everyone in my row stand up again. Scuse me pardon me nice shoes thankyou up yours!