My time at the keyboard has been minimal of late. A holiday in Portugal, a couple of outdoor music gigs, attendance of a birthday bash, and trying to locate my arse with both hands contributing factors towards this literary laxity. The latter consequential of wandering around in a haze after overdoing my ‘loudmouth soup’ intake during the former events.
Thursday saw me partake in an ‘Open Mic’ event in Harrogate. It is the third occasion I have participated in these clambakes. This particular evening, yours truly read an adapted version of a piece recently shared on my website about a Fortnum & Mason picnic. It is pleasing to report my literary offering was afforded plenty of positive feedback from the audience.
It was good to return home with several post stick comments from an appreciative crowd. That being said, I wish I’d have got the ‘Your flies are open’ post stick message earlier!
On Friday evening I boogied, danced, and drank the night away in Leeds’ Millennium Square. A tribute band performing an amalgam of Motown hits the catalyst to my excitable foot tapping and caterwauling.
My offkey warbling, though, was nothing compared to the crime against singing performed by my partner in crime Sarah. Her vocal equivalent of shark fisherman Quint scraping his nails down a blackboard in the movie Jaws, manifesting a look of utter disdain from a nearby reveller.
Upon hearing her voice, the grimace and squint this old fella exhibited was how I imagine a face would turn if its owner had gulped down a full bottle of Tabasco sauce with a battery acid chaser… The miserable get was stood there without a drink, smile, song in his heart or the merest hint of a foot tap to the beat.
To borrow from my late mum, the bloke had a face like a ‘pan of sh**e’. Feeling moved to confront the fella with these caustic observations, I hinted to Sarah it’d be best if we moved to a more upbeat standing area to avoid any underlying temptation to confront him.
After she muttered something along the lines of “Miserable old b*st*rd!”, we headed to a point nearer to the stage; and more importantly the bar and toilets. After all, I didn’t want to waste my energy on long walks to the bar or loo when there was dancing to be done.
Footnote – When Sarah muttered “Miserable old b*st*rd!”, it was aimed at the guy disapproving of her singing; not me… Although, then again!
Saturday night saw yours truly venture back into Leeds city centre for a drink with family and friends to celebrate my cousin Tony’s 60th birthday. An occasion where it felt good to ‘treat’ long lost and new cohorts to my trademark non-sequiturs.
Tony has been in Australia for seven years, so I hadn’t seen him for… err, well seven years…. Over in Oz my cousin has done well for himself farming sheep and training Black Widow Spiders to construct webs. He is also in the process of writing a book about his 25 favourite vegemite recipes.
He hadn’t changed at all in those seven years… Yes, the scruffy get still had on same clothing he wore when he boarded the boat to the Antipodes with just 50p and seventeen restraining orders in his pocket.
It was also good to catch up with Tony’s dad, my uncle Bernard, after many years. Our lack of contact isn’t because he moved to Australia like both of his sons, he still lives in West Yorkshire. I just haven’t seen Bern because he doesn’t like me.
Bernie’s disdain for my smart arse reposts often leading to him subjecting me to horrific donkey bites and Chinese Burns in my childhood… Only kidding, on Saturday evening he greeted me with the warmth most men bequeath a long-lost nephew… Admittedly, though, he wished I had remained lost!
It was also good to meet up with my old east Leeds neighbour Mike. A friend with who I socialised with often when living in that fair metropolis. It must be over a year since we last met up; but it was heart-warming to see time had not weathered that bond of friendship… As a bonus, the long break meant he’d forgotten I owe him a fiver from that occasion.
I am now sitting at the office desk in my Wakefield apartment. Looking out at trees and the Edwardian homes opposite, my eyes are drawn to the flora and fauna swaying gently in today’s mid-summer zephyr.
On the other side of apartment beech trees, Barnsley Road traffic seems busier than usual today, as a result my audio backdrop is the steady rumble of vehicle tyres. A distracting soundscape augmented in its virulence by a distant pneumatic drill.
Today, I intended to write about the ongoing riots around the UK in the wake of three murders in Southport. I have strong feelings about the behaviour of the perpetrators of these riots. But I just can’t motivate myself to pen about the chaotic events in several provincial cities since the incident in Merseyside.
On reflection, for what is only my second blog in two weeks, I decided to write a more whimsical tale about events on the sunnier side. I hope I have succeeded in that goal.
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