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The quiet joys of brotherhood ... (April 07, 2009) So there I was listening to the music and suddenly it's my
turn. No I don't mean my opportunity to get on my feet and perform. I mean it's
my turn to have a visit from the drunken refugee from Big Brother. I’d spied him earlier in the evening - a weasel-like character propping up the bar while he waited for the gig to start. And from the way he was loudly holding forth to the bemused girl behind the bar on everything from drink driving to ‘bloody imigrants’ I decided to stay well clear. No such luck. Pissed idiot approaches... If I agree he's probably going to hang around all evening
and engage me in conversation or at least something that in his alcohol
befuddled mind approximates conversation. Alternatively, should I disagree he's
doubtless going to start an argument and attempt through loud vituperation to
convince me that ‘they’ are bloody good. No I did not make an improper suggestion. Neither did I cast dispersions on his sex life or ancestry but those within earshot could be forgiven for thinking that I had. “So what gives you the f****** right to slag them off then?” he asked at 10,000 decibels. Oh God the ‘angry’ chip in that prune-sized organ he calls a brain has been activated by the umpteenth pint of Old Grangemunglers Mild he’s just consumed and he’s directing it at me. I should have known better. I should have suddenly recalled an urgent appointment in Poland, and rushed to the fictional airport instead. “Actually, the point I just made was about as far from slagging off as George Bush was from the truth.” I quip. “Huh?” he replies. “Listen, they’re an average acoustic act, at least singing their own songs, but they’re not bloody good. Let’s say possibly a five out of ten but in my opinion that’s it. Are they friends of yours?” Yes they f****** well are and you’re that bloke that writes the FolkWords stuff. I know ‘cause XXXXXXXXXX (name withheld to protect the innocent) told me. That’s why I came over to see what you’re going to say about them.” This is going from bad to appalling. Now I am in a quandary. Do I continue to tell the truth and risk having him continue, or perhaps decide to turn up the ‘angry’ chip until it reaches violence level? Do I give in and adjust my views to get rid of him? Do I just pretend to faint? Or do I decide it’s time to pack for Poland? Much as I want to say: “Look pinhead, why don’t you find someone else to attack.” I decide to have one more try. “As it happens I’m not going to say anything about them. They are nice folk, playing nice folk but they are not going to set the world alight. I don’t think that saying that they’re OK is worth doing. Neither are they rubbish they are just ordinary. Fair enough for pub music but that’s it.” “Well you’re a c***!” he indelicately bellows, loud enough for the ladies on the next table to look away rapidly. At this point there’s an intervention. Frankly, I’d have been happy with the arrival of St Michael or King Kong as long as either of them felt that crushing this member of the Very Thick Drunk Club was their mission for the day. Instead, it was what appeared to be the Tight End for the Chicago Bears. All six foot four and twenty odd stone of him. “Sorry mate is he being a nuisance?” he asks. “Not exactly a nuisance but perhaps offensive, rude and loud would cover it.” I reply. “We were discussing the finer points of the band and he took exception to my view that they were OK but not great.” A huge paw the size of a melon descends from above and lands on pinhead’s shoulder. “Come on mate. You’re pissed. Let’s go.” Says the Man-Mountain, and proceeds to drag pinhead off his seat and out towards the door. As they depart Man Mountain delivers a less than sotto voce parting shot: “He don’t mean no offense mate. If you think they’re no good, you say so. I think they stink!” Happy days! Click here to return to the Observations and Comment page
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