Archive for the ‘buddy holly’ Category
Rain, Cabaret and Empty Streets – reports from a rainy last night…
Morning all,
As I sit here (reading and writing, reading and writing, etc…) with the pub cat to my left (seriously, he’s called Jack), I actually ponder on how nice it would be to have a TV right now. As much as I don’t particularly watch the thing (bar Doctor Who and Formula 1), I feel somewhat compelled to want one if only to cure the boredom – there’s only so much music I can listen to every day and my head isn’t geared towards studying at the moment.
(Actually, no. What I just said (wrote) is not entirely true! It’s more a case of “we have a TV, but we choose not to fix the cable is case it interferes with our studies.” Actually, no. That’s a complete fallacy. It’s actually that “the cable is knackered and we can’t be bothered to get it fixed…” and that’s fine with me. It’s only in cases of extreme boredom that I wish I had a TV. I’ve tried to catch the radio this week, but I’ve just been disinterested – I’ve other things on my mind right now.)
But back to now and Jack has just dropped off and the music in the pub has stopped (at least it’s not cover bands!). Thankfully, cover acts are in somewhat short supply in High Wycombe (they make up for it with shit “nite klubs” throwing the latest in bangin’ urban numbers while also playing token chart R’n'B). There’s a bar a couple of minutes down the road from my house that positively dig cabaret acts – Elvis Pesley, Crusty Springfield, Cruddy Holly – they get all the dead stars (minus the charisma, but with a brilliant blandness topped off by a dodgy wig). Everyone in rock ‘n’ roll to country music history gets a roaring tribute and is immortalised by someone with an expensive speaker system a crap Yamaha keyboard, but I have been led to believe that that is where the money lies…
If, per chance, you have seen the 1971 version of “Get Carter” (with Michael Caine), check out the scene where he arrives at a bar and takes a phone call (near the start of the film). The scene has some slow band knocking out the hits whilst some lady in a sparkly dress croons and all the men leer much to wives disgust (this is of course of different time). Well, that’s the kind of place High Wycombe is!!
I wonder if Joe Dolan is as popular here as Katy French (don’t be afraid to say “who???”), personally I aim not to find out, but I offer some little advice – don’t knock wedding bands as I’m told those mullets are lethal and can grip around a persons neck and strangle at a thousand paces.
In this particular place, we have the pub jukebox, where heads who are a lot more intoxicated than I shimmy on down with rhythmic styling’s to various beats and bobs and whatnot. But even now there are still very few people about, so there is not much in the way of booty rattling going down. It’s not that this particular place is quiet, but more of a deadening lull that currently blankets the entire area – I just figure that people are inside watching television… bastards!
At nearly an hour later (I decided to read a while), Kim Wilde is lashing out some eighties wonderness on the pub-box (get used to it) and Jack is still asleep to my left with sharply attired “indie” girls (bollocking on about how bored they are) sit to my right and so I decide to take stock…
- Still pissing down – yep
- Still wishing I were somewhere else doing something else – yep
- Still pissing down – yessss…
- Still wishing the TV was working – depend on what’s on really (if it so happens that Alan Titchmarsh is the only thing on, then TV can fuck right off!!)
On a side note, I had another “angry spell” tonight and as far as I’m concerned Dream Theatre are the new enemy (just the most pompous, arrogant wanker of musical styling’s since Yes and various other 1970’s prog-rock-wank). Alas it’s now 11pm and Jack has just woken up. It’s time to finish my beer and grab a quick burger from the kebab van (it’s the only thing open here). I jolly march all the way home, quietly aware that I still talk to myself rather loudly in public. I need a holiday…
High Wycombe loves you all,
Leigh
