Monday, May 30, 2011

So Long Serendib.....

My last few hours on the island of my heritage are here and it's been a gorgeous near couple of weeks.

The sojourn to Arugam Bay was everything I envisaged. The journey interesting and the destination wonderfully relaxing and beautiful.

I've spent more time with Jerome Speldewinde in recent days than a chap would care to imagine, but he's cool, in a sort of husky voiced mooching around in his Speedos sort of way. I have stories to tell about the Spellbinder fellow and his body that will make you ponder.

Sunday afternoon, that's yesterday to those reading this today, saw me and C at the jazz at Barefoot. The atmosphere was chilled, the temperature was warm and the company was as cool and sexy as it gets. I got to play three songs with the band, hopefully meaning that David Blacker and Dominic Sansoni now realise I can actually play the drums, not just talk about it!

It feels a bit sad to be going, but it will of course be great to see the girls and give them their friendship bracelets that I bought. I'm not allowed to buy clothes for them, no doubt because I'm just way too cool.

I found a hairdresser, just opposite Castle St Hospital in Rajagiriya, and have now had two number one clipper sessions there. It wouldn't be worthy of a mention except for my discovery that the owner is a drummer. The revelation saw both of us get our phones out and show each other pictures of our kits, comparing cymbals and gigs and whatnot. C said I'm a saddo.

I missed Java Jones and was annoyed with myself when I heard that he was here in the metropolis last week. Sorry Java, I assumed you were up in the hills and promise to call you next time I'm here, which won't be long I'm sure.

My flight is at 6 AM tomorrow morning and my jury's out on whether it's a good flight time or a crap one. On the positive side it gives me a full day and evening here. On the negative side it means I need to stay up as there's no point going to bed, so might arrive in London more knackered than a sleepy town that's just taken some tranquilisers then sat in some sea air with a couple of cold beers for a few hours.

Thank you to all my Sri Lankan friends for their kindness, hospitality, drums and warmth. I will return before you even have time to wonder if I've gone. That's not a promise, more of a threat.


Friday, May 27, 2011

Help Me....

I'm being held upstairs at Barefoot in the Sansoni / Posingis office lair. I've been told not to repeat anything I hear.

They're plying me with Carlsberg, talking of hanging pictures and parties, DJs and drum forums.

Mr Posingis' command of Sinhala and all things Maldive fish is amusing, the rest I can't tell you, especially the bit about the watered down drinks.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Hot, Hot Heat, Strings, Photo Blogs and Random Things

It's fucking hot here. But I like that. It gives me a chance to wear my Havaianas flip flops, complete with their Brazilian flag, as I'm partial to a Brazilian.

WiFi is a slight issue, with C's one being kaput, so I'm making use of wireless wherever I can.

Monday sees us heading to Arugam Bay, somewhere I've never been, and I think I'm as excited about the cross country journey as I am about the destination. That's perfection, isn't it? A great journey as well as arriving at a special destination. It's a metaphor for life, or should that be a metaphor life?

The Vesak lights and lanterns, people and vehicles are out in full force. I've never actually witnessed it before and it is genuinely mental, a reminder that the word "subtlety" and Sri Lankaness are uncomfortable bedfellows. The lights I can take or leave quite happily, but watching the people watching the lights has got my attention.

Vanloads of villagers, dressed in their Sunday best, singing and smiling. Fathers holding little kids and other children fast asleep have all caught me.

I went to that exhibition of photographs of Sri Pada last night, by Ian Lockwood. I know not much about the Lockwood chap but he's taken some stunningly memorable images. They're on display at the Barefoot Gallery if you fancy taking a look.

Dinner at Green Cabin afterwards saw me eat about twenty string hoppers. Fifteen white ones of my own then I had to finish off C's, which were red, but I made do. It was my all time favourite meal; white strings, prawn curry, pol sambol, white potato curry with kiri hodi, so that's my excuse, not that I need one, as I'll say to the Doctor next time we talk about my blood sugar and cholestrol.

My picture has made it to Naz Sansoni's Image a day blog, something I'm quite chuffed about. C is floating about in the background too, always a worrying thing, just ask The Auf.

That's it for now.

Oh yeah, anyone know where I can get a good head shave, clippered, number one?

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Crap Songs - A Quickie

Boys Of Summer - Don Henley - I've never liked it. Why is it so popular?

Anything by Elton John.

Wonderful tonight - Eric Clapton - There's really no need for songs like this

Lady in Red - Chris de Burgh - see above

My Hero - Foo Fighters - I love the Foos and I hate this song. It's pants. How did it slip through?

That's all for now.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Back In A Bit....

I'm coming down, as you lot say, for a little jaunt. So things might be quiet around here as I mooch around the metropolis and head out station too.

I've left The Auf in charge of things in London while I'm gone. He's a bit young and headstrong but I feel that the responsibility will do him good.

Please say hello if you see me, perhaps point me back in the direction of C's place, that would be good.

Ooooh bee dooo, can't wait!

Monday, May 16, 2011

Vagina Monologue (on Sri Lankan mothers (again))

I quite like the fact that I understand brackets, just thought I'd tell you that.

Anyways, I mentioned to you in this post that I went to a funeral the other day and took my Mum. Funerals are sad and this one was no exception. Yet there's some joy to be found within the intense sorrow for so many. And a bit of joy is in seeing people you haven't seen for eons. It was good to see some cousins whom I hadn't seen for years and it was good, in a very debatable way, to spend a whole day with my Mum.

It's rarer than a down escalator in Odel, this me spending a whole day with my Mum business, so I approached it with what I can only accurately describe as optimistic trepidation.

I faced a two hour drive each way to Cambridge where it was happening and there were to be no kids, no Grandchildren, no bros and no my Dad. I figured that it could be nice, we might talk about things that we never really get a chance to talk about, but at any stage things could go wrong, so very wrong, and I had to be ready at all times, Sri Lankan mothers being what they are.

I suited and booted myself, loaded the car with Jazz CDs and presented myself at the olds' place in the morning. My Dad, as Sri Lankan Dads do, mooched around in his sarong eating breakfast and offering me bites and bits of everything on the table. His continued offering suggested he thought I was lying when I said that I'd just had breakfast, or that I'd suddenly gone all bashful in my parents' house and not just take any food I wanted if the need hit me.

His wife, a.k.a my Mum, was upstairs getting ready so we chatted, in as much as fathers and sons do, for a while. I joked that he had a nice "day off", he replied with a smirk, saying that one man's loss is another one's gain. We laughed. Then the Mother descended, we both paid her the required amount of compliments about how nice she looked, my Dad argued with me about whether I should take the M10 or M11, my Mum had a ten minute argument with herself about whether she should wear a coat or a cardigan and off we went.

The journey was surprisingly relaxed, though I was far from it. We She chatted about all sorts of things, we listened to the CDs and I behaved myself pretty well.

The church service was as nice as these things ever can be and we moved on from there to the burial, then the repast at a local hotel. On route I witnessed my Mum having an argument with a German lady. You might wonder what's unusual about that. The answer is that this particular German lady was the one whose voice is used in the satnav in my car. I swear to you, they were having quite a heated row and I chose to keep quiet as they battled it out.

My new favourite Fraulein ignored my Mum and just continued to say what she wanted to say. A phrase about medicine, taste of her own, that sort of thing, flitted through my mind but after a while Germany won and we realised that Fraulein BMW Satnav, to give her her full name, had been right all along. I laughed loudly. In my head.

The repast (a new word for me, hence my extensive use of it) came. We chatted with people and the close relatives of my Aunt did their best to deal with the bittersweetness of seeing people who they hadn't seen for years at such a low occasion.

I remained relaxed but in a guarded way. I knew that she (the mother) could pounce at any moment and I had to be ready, like a bat out of Belgium.

Then. It. Happened.

We were chatting with a chap and I asked what he was doing with himself these days. His reply was that he was involved with the department of health, specifically in policy making for IVF.

You may recall that my Mum is a Doctor, as are 113% of all Sri Lankans anyhow. I made a brief attempt to steer the conversation away from this shallowness but it was in all vain. Before I knew it I found myself pretending to be engrossed in talk of IVF in Sri Lanka, department of health policy and whatnot. I uttered a few ums and aahs at the right moments and, even if I say it myself, did a pretty fine job.

Just as I thought I'd come up with a way of steering the chat towards music, using the old line about those women who can blow a ping pong ball and a decent tune out of their nether regions, my Mum turned to the fellow, pointed at me and said:

"Well there's no use talking to him about IVF, he doesn't even know what it stands for."

It was a good thing that I'd been in "be prepared for her to pounce" mode for the past six hours. A lesser man would have stumbled, maybe losing his cool for a couple of seconds. I was like a duck, one of those swimming ones, an iceberg I think they're called.

You see, over years I've learned the the worst thing to do, when confronted by a Sri Lankan mother in full battle cry, is to engage. That's what they want. The rights, the wrongs and the grey areas matter not one iota, the crucial thing is to avoid entering their arena.

My head, the legs of the Iceberg duck, was going into overdrive while my exterior, the bit above the water, was calm and cool, like a cucumber, an Iceberg lettuce duck cucumber perhaps.

Even if I was to engage, to protect my reputation, I was slightly unsure what IVF stands for, on which she had a point. I knew about "inter", I knew about "fertilisation" but that "V"? I was pretty sure it was for "vaginal" but there was a nagging doubt. They smell the fear, these mothers.

So, all things considered, I chose the only other option. My mind is known for its speed in situations like this and I responded in a mere twenty, perhaps thirty seconds.

I pursed my lips and made that slight hissing sound, the one that goes "pffft", and laughed a little. The fellow chuckled a bit too, but I reckon he knew my quandary and was being kind. He did know I was a drummer after all.

Fortunately the matriarch didn't choose option A as a response, the one where she pushes it and asks me what IVF does stand for. I exited the chat quickly, heading for the asparagus sandwiches as if I had a peculiar fetish for the smell of asparagus pee or something.

Some hours later, after we'd done the Lankan goodbye thing as well as the journey, I dropped her home, handed her over to my Dad, then hurried back to RD Towers to google IVF and find out the answer. Yes, yes, I know I was wrong about the vagina thing now. But there was no need for her to try to show me up like that.

Was there?

Friday, May 13, 2011

Pissed Off....

So Blogger has managed to lose all my comments since and posts since a couple of days ago!!

Sorry if you're one of the people who commented yesterday.

I'm not impressed.

Thursday, May 12, 2011

WTF..... it about Sri Lankan ladies and cup cakes these days?

Everywhere I go I'm ambushed by photographs or tales of the latest adventure in cup cake making. By hideously colourful shots of icing in the shape of a random musical instrument, a sporting item or something that vaguely looks like a car.

Or tales of cakes, deadlines and successes or failures? Of "how am I going to make nine hundred cakes in the next five and a half minutes?

Seriously. Why is this? Is the world ending or something?

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Old Age, My Arse!

Lately I've become aware of an increasing difficulty in remembering names. I'm unsure if it's something that's got worse lately or if it's always been there and I just haven't been aware of it. Chances are it's the former. Which is a bummer and might mean that it's a sign of old age increasing wisdom and maturity.

It's not a biggie, it's not that I meet a person and get to know them quite well, then totally forget their moniker the next time I see them. No, once there's a degree of familiarity, a sort of ongoing relationship, then I'm fine, as are you.

But, what does happen, is that I can meet a person, let's say at a party, not that I go to many these days. We'll get introduced or do the thing ourselves, then we'll be chatting away merrily about life, Superdry shirts or anything important for that matter, and after a few minutes I realise that I haven't the faintest recollection of what the fellow's name is.

It's embarrassing. Sometimes I can get away with asking their name again, but when it comes to forgetting the second time I know that I've reached a limit and have to bluff my way through the rest of the conversation. It's always stilted, with me doing that hopping from one foot to the other as if I'm dying for a poo thing, for my desire to get away as quickly as possible grows with each minute, knowing that the longer we go on the more likely I am to be faced with the prospect of introducing my "friend" to another stranger and having to come clean as part of the process.

The thing is that I've recognised and acknowledged this problem and I always think that's a good fifty per cent, maybe even half way, to solving something. I've put a plan into action using things I remember reading in one of those American "How to make friends with everyone in the world and thereby be hugely successful and the envy of all your friends and neighbours" books.

Now, whenever I meet a new person, as we talk I say their name in my head over and over again. I have to be careful that the voice in my head doesn't manifest itself outwardly and also that I actually listen to what the chap is saying. Usually I sacrifice listening and do "token" listening; that thing where you nod and say "yes" at appropriate intervals, you know, the one that women are so good at detecting then accusing you of not listening and asking you to repeat what they've said.

And it seemed to be working. Okay, I haven't had the faintest clue what people have been saying to me lately, but at least I've remembered their name.

The plan seemed to be working. Until last week that is, on two entirely separate occasions.

There I was, at a funeral. It was an old aunt who had passed away and I took my Mum and went off with her to the funeral. Though it was a sad occasion it was nice to see some of my cousins and other distant Aunties and Uncles, many of whom I hadn't seen for several years.

I was talking to a random Sri Lankan man, one of those who you're never sure if he should be addressed by his name or by "Uncle". I introduced myself and he reciprocated, telling me his name was Gerry. It probably still is, even now.

So we put some chat, about the usual sort of things. The subject matter isn't important here, mostly because I haven't got the faintest recollection of it. I was far too busy remembering his name, which, as you're aware, I did very well.

He talked to me and I said "Gerry, Gerry, Gerry" over and over in my head, time and time again. Then we got separated and I went to talk to someone else whose name I can't remember, but it was a most fascinating chat.

Anyhow some while later I found myself in conversation with Gerry again. As we chatted, this time about Colombo and Ward Place specifically, I casually replied to a question and flung his name at the end of it. He did the briefest of double takes, no doubt impressed that I'd registered his name and flattered that I'd used it. Exactly how these fellows should react, according to my American books on how to conquer the world.

Now let's jump to a few days later at the concierge office at RD Towers, if your mind is up to this sort of mental agility. There's a new fellow in there and I had to talk to him about getting a letter or something. So I introduced myself and got his name, Miro, he said. I mulled it over in my head, making sure that I remembered it solidly in order to use it next time.

As I left his office I had a long conversation with myself, mostly in my head, in which I asked him about his name. It helped a lot.

The next day I saw him there, in his concierge's lair. I said hello, addressed him by his name and he gave me the exact same look that Gerry had given me. This time I wasn't as pleased.

I'm not good at this jumping all over the show in a story thing, I just finished a book in which the author did it all the time. On one page you're reading about now, then on the next you're reading about now, but this now is twenty years later or ten years before. It was all so understandable and simple but now, as I try to tell you a story spread over a mere few days, it's very different.

What had happened with Gerry those few days before, when I replied and called him Gerry and he gave me that look, was that I realised I'd got the name perfectly correct. I'd hit the nail on the head, thread the camel through the eye of the needle and hit the cow's arse with the banjo. My memory trick had worked, I'd said "Gerry" so much that it was ingrained in my mind.

Except that the fellow was someone else. The name bit was a resounding success, just that I hadn't remembered what on earth Gerry's face looked like. And that was why he gave me the look. I had to spend the rest of the conversation calling him Uncle, to make sure he thought he just misheard me.

And with Miro it was the same thing. I'd committed his name to memory perfectly, except that it wasn't Miro I'd used it on. It was a different chap altogether.

I realised that there's a flaw in my plan, that remembering the name is only half the battle.

All I have to do now is figure how to remember the face that goes with then name.

Monday, May 9, 2011


David Blacker, in his comment on this post, mentioned carmanship. It's a word I'd never heard before and it caught my imagination by the balls.

For weeks I've been pondering on the word, on what exactly carmanship consists of and why it makes so much sense to me.

Firstly there's the fact that it's a word that does exactly what it says on the tin, kind of onomatopoeic, but not quite. We've got "car", meaning car. We've got "man", which seems right, even though, as you'll see later in this post, women score on the carmanship scale too. And finally we have "ship", in this referring to a form of transport rather than an ocean going boaty thing itself.

How would one define carmanship? Believe it or not but there's not even a Wikipedia entry for it, that's how obscure it is in one way. However, it's a word that just about everyone knows instantly, we all know in our heads what it means, but to describe it to someone is like suddenly having to describe a colour to a blind man.

I'm no different. I can't describe it, it's just carmanship. But, in my opinion, as well as the esteemed o of David Blacker and a few others, how highly one ranks on the carmanship scale depends on the following factors:

1 - Car history.

What cars have you owned during your lifetime? Fast cars, two seater sports cars, quirky ones like Beetles and proper Minis all earn good points. With a few exception Japanese cars will downgrade a driver significantly, as will French cars, even though I owned one once.

2 - Parallel parking.

This is a slightly contentious issue for, in my opinion, most Sri Lankan drivers are crap at reversing and so, by definition, most Sri Lankan drivers lose a few points on their carmanship score because of it. This isn't yet another example of the big bad west discriminating against the poor little Sri Lankan, bear with me and allow me to explain.

We Brits learn to parallel park as a part of our driving test. After that just about every drive involves us having to park in a tight space. We get used to it. You people in Sri Lanka rarely reverse and parallel park. You drive forwards into a space, then reverse out with some random guy in a uniform or a passer by standing behind your car and stopping the oncoming traffic. Or of course, your driver does it for you.

At the risk of alienating myself from some ladies here, as well as Sri Lankans, I think it's also a fact that women find it harder to deal with the spatial intelligence required in parking too. The end result is that the better you can parallel park in a tight space the higher your carmanship.

3 - Fuel

Diesel or petrol? We all know that diesel is regarded as being more friendly to the environment than petrol. Sadly that doesn't do you any good on the carmanship scale. Own a diesel? Go on about the better economy you get from a diesel, the impact on the environment? It's all correct and right, it just loses you a few points on your carmanship score. That's the way things are, sometimes life isn't fair.

4 - Top Gear

The ability to watch endless reruns of Top Gear is a definite plus. I was watching an episode with C the other day (romance isn't dead in these parts you know!) and she said something about Top Gear being so formulaic now. I agreed, adding "yeah but what a great formula". My words of wisdom there sum it up. Get bored of Top Gear and you lose points.

5 - Mechanical knowledge

It's not beneficial to be a total grease monkey as far as carmanship is concerned. You don't have to be one of the professional mechanics who can dismantle and engine and rebuild it with twice as much power in between breakfast and elevenses. But, a certain amount of practical mechanical knowledge is advantageous.

Knowing roughly how an engine works, how to change a tyre, why a six cylinder engine sounds sweeter than a four cylinder one or why oversteer and understeer happen are all good things. If you've ever dismantled, cleaned and reassembled the twin carbs on an MGB Roadster then that increases your score too. I have, but that's merely a random coincidence, not why I included that specific point.

Also, understanding the difference between BHP and 0 - 60 time helps, as does a realisation of what's important in a engine these days.

6 - Sex

Ever had sex in a car? Move up several notches on the scale if you have. Have I? Like fuck have I. Chance would be a fine thing.

7 - Indicating

Another slightly sore subject for many Sri Lankans. I know many of you don't believe in it, feeling that other drivers should demonstrate and work on their telepathic ability to guess where you're heading. The fact is that indicating, when used properly, is good and adds to safety. Effectively doing it raises your carmanship at once.

8 - Hating the BMW 1 series.

It's pretty self explanatory but true nonetheless. Anyone who likes these things, or God forbid actually owns one, shoots down the scale.

9 - Swarfega

If there's a tin of Swarfega in your garage that's good. If you instantly recognise the smell of Swarfega that's also good. If you think Swarfega is probably the name of something Indians use in their cooking, that's bad.

10 - Speedometer in the middle of the dash.

If you own a car that has the speedometer right in the middle of the dashboard, or if you think that's a fantastic idea then, not only are you immediately very low down on the carmanship rankings, but you're also likely to be a cab driver.

That's about it. How do you score on the carmanship scale? It is a bit sexist I suppose, as I can't think of many women I know who'd score highly. But that's because they're too busy multitasking. For what it's worth Vicki Butler Henderson and that German Sabine woman score higher than just about any man I know.

Are there any other criteria that you think should be included.

If you think your carmanship is good, try this.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

That Wedding Day.

As the enthusiasm fades, quicker than the light at the end of the tunnel, I thought I'd tell you a little bit about my Royal wedding day.

I woke up feeling groggy (Groggy is NOT a dwarf) after a damn fine but late gig the night before. K had stayed the night and I strolled into the sitting room with my sarong on, turned the TV on and sat down to see what stage of the proceedings we were at. The first thing that struck me was that the bloke that looks after the weather, God I think he's called, had been kind to us.

My timing, unlike in my drumming, was impeccable and we'd arrived at exactly the right moment to witness our future Majesty entering the Abbey. K and I watched sporadically. We checked people out, like the Beckhams and the two ugly sisters, Prince Andrew's daughters, sitting behind the Queen. I'm sure they're lovely girls but they just remind me of Cinderella's two sisters.

Actually I lied there; I'm far from sure they're lovely girls.

I chuckled, and still do, at the mention of Elton John "and his partner, David Furnish." That phrase "and his partner..." has stuck in my mind as funny. Every time they're pictured together, which is pretty much most of it, those exact words are used, yet everyone knows that David Furnish and the big fat piano playing queen are a couple.

We had a bite of brekkie, watching the crowds, the flypast and everything. For K this meant that she had to break off from Facebook and whatever else goes on onscreen for lengthy periods, sometimes as long as a minute, no mean feat indeed.

Then I dropped her back. The streets were quiet as church mice, just not the ones in Westminster Abbey, who were probably excited and noisy and crapping all over the show. We drove past pubs with Union flags out, the local high street festooned with bunting and flags and then, when we got to the girls' road, found it closed to traffic as there was a street party going on.

I drove round the back and dropped K, to walk down their road to get to the house. The street party was in full swing. There were tables out, people milling around and chatting and it made me smile in a "nice to be British" way.

We have these occasions frequently here, as often as once every twenty years. They make communities come together and people behave as if they like each other. Food gets cooked and shared and everyone makes a beeline for the food cooked by the one Indian family in the street. Drink and conversation flow freely and endless promises are made to get together more often and cultivate the new found friendships.

Then we don't. Instead we wave to our neighbours when we have to and complain about the way they park their cars if they're half a millimetre over the imaginary line. Such are the joys of suburbia here.

As I drove back to RD Towers I felt very glad that I had a gig to go to that afternoon, or I would have felt exceedingly sorry for myself. My complex just isn't the sort of place to have a party. It's the foreigners there you know, they're just not British.

I watched the rest of the show, being particularly touched by the scene when the couple left Buckingham Palace in the Aston Martin and drove to Clarence House (or was it St James' Palace?). It was my most definite highlight of the whole thing, a view shared by many, I've since found out.

I loaded up the car and set off for my gig, after a poo of course.

The shortish journey to the venue was weird, weird in a funny, interesting and fascinating way. I was on my own in the car, well apart from Mr Grohl, Hawkins, Smear et al, but there was an atmosphere to the streets that was unique.

I must have passed between five and ten roads that were closed for street parties, all of which were in full swing. There was barely any traffic out anyway and the sun beamed brightly like the smiles on people's faces. Being Britain there wasn't much in the way of whooping and ahollerin', more a quiet and reserved air of friendliness, peace and goodwill to all, except Muslims of course.

The gig was at a cricket club. There had been a match going on all day and we were scheduled to play from early evening for a couple of hours. The clubhouse was festooned with flaggery and, as we set up underneath a semblance of a marquee, my attempts to check my drums were rudely interrupted by spectators politely clapping fours, wickets, tries and whatever else they have in cricket these days.

As far as sound goes outdoor gigs are often a nightmare. This one was no exception. As my drums weren't fully miked up a brief soundcheck led our sound man to conclude that the way to balance things was for me to play every song as loud as possible. For most drummers this isn't a major problem, that's what we're like. But it depends on the choice of songs. And I tell you, it's pretty hard to play Golden Touch by Razorlight and Adele's Rolling in the deep as loud as possible without making them feel like AC DC songs. I wish I knew how to type a lightning bolt.

Still I did my best. My monitor mix was non existent, which comes from not having a monitor and relying on hearing the mix in general, something that's almost impossible outdoors. We fucked up a couple of usually easy songs as if we were an act on a reality talent show that gets through to the next round purely out of sympathy.

But fun was had by all. The rapidly enveloping darkness meant that I could only see a front row of people dancing and hear the applause. There was quite a lot of the latter and things were received well. The English weather dictated that, come the early evening, those that weren't dancing were sitting and freezing in the wind so many opted to go into the clubhouse and listen to us from there.

I had what was probably my best ever moment with this band too.

A kid (not to be confused with Kid A) and his Dad came to the left side of the stage and were watching me and / or our lead guitarist intently. I smiled and looked at them and they ignored me. Fair enough, I thought, as there are about sixty three guitar fans for every drum fan, and realised that they must be two of the sixty three.

B, our lead guitar player, being like most lead banjoists, played up to them for a few songs. He grimaced his way through solos, put his leg up on his monitor like a dog trying to pee, ever wary of pulling a muscle, and generally did all the things that his guitar idols do at proper gigs.

In between two songs he said something to the Dad, who replied. His reply was this:

"Yeah, it's okay, we're watching the drummer actually". Fucking brilliant. Really.

We finished, did an encore. Or perhaps that should be; we did an encore, then finished. Either way, we packed up our instruments and received the accolades. Our keyboardist was even asked for an autograph, something that flummoxed him big time.

I cruised home and enjoyed a relatively early night.

And that was my Royal Wedding day. Spiffing, as The Auf would say.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Number 8

I received a text from K, the fourteen year old, a couple of weeks ago. It said:

"Dad, M's Dad likes weird stuff like Led Zeppelin and Thin Lizzy too. I think you should make friends with him"

M being one of her close friends.

I chuckled.

To me, liking "weird stuff" like Led Zeppelin and Thin Lizzy is actually quite normal for people of around my age.

To K, another person who might share a bit of my taste in music is like finding a metered tuk tuk, or a Tweeter who actually knows the difference between "there" and "their"; rare and exceptional.

Though I must admit that any person with a penchant for Thin Lizzy is a potential friend of mine!

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Happy Birthday Lady Divine

Today is the birthday of just about everyone's favourite blogger.

Many happy returns LD, I hope you get everything you wish for.

It's also my eldest's birthday today!

Monday, May 2, 2011

Posts In The Pipeline

These are some posts I've been contemplating writing. Some are definites, some are almost definitely nots and others are definitely maybes.

1. Why is she called "Aunty" but I'm not called "Uncle"

2. My Royal Wedding day.

3. The serving classes and the served classes - Asia vs the West

4. Why I'm scared of espadrilles.

5. Making black girls dance.

6. The drip.

7. The arse wipes progress report.

8. "Dad, I think you should make friends with him".

9. The loneliness of the long distance drummer.

10. On carmanship.

Any that grab you?