Friday June 21st 2019.

Well, here we are. Summer solstice. Next week Tesco will have Xmas puds for sale and Slade on the music as winter tightens it’s grip once more. It was my turn to be first up. Things were going slightly better than usual, when a bloke turned up delivering pizza. When he removed his helmet, I could see it was Geoff Durno who, in the absence of a wood fired Margherita under his arm, sat down as if to stay.

Jeff sang one for the fetishists, “Wrap me up in your oilskins and jodhpurs”, and one for the lovers of chocolate confectionery, “Wagonwheel”. His intro tonight was fairly short. Jeff always prefers not to think before speaking; he likes the surprise as the words tumble out.

Most of Mike’s songs tonight dated back to the 15th C.. “Last trip home” was an exception, about the Clydesdales being replaced by tractors; lovely song.

Mel’s first three involved the (alleged) use of cat in Chinese restaurant food (other chicken substitutes are available), Judy Garland, who, as I was corrected, was NOT the Judy married to Mr. Punch, and a funeral of a bloke who wasn’t quite dead. Could you ask for more?

Alun was part way through the gentle “Language of the heart” when Deliveroo Durno started up his Yamashitty 650 in the car park outside and it ended up more like the Shangri Las’ “Leader of the Pack”. This was followed by “The Summer Before the War”. Depressingly, with “Godzilla-with-less-foreign-policy-experience” running the US, this could be this summer. We were singing so well on our own Alun simply played and left us to it as we raised the roof with the chorus of “Lizzie Lindsay”. He had done the verses in his best Harry Lauder accent, telling of the girl who ran off to the highlands with Ronald MacDonald to open a burger joint in Pitlochry.

Geoff Durno’s set would have been excellent if he’d stayed. Still, we’ve all got to earn a crust (Crust! Pizza! Geddit?).

The Break. My inability to win anything except the crap that Jeff brings in is legendary. Something went sadly wrong tonight and I won a very respectable bottle of Italy’s finest.

T Gwyn resumed proceedings with a rare offering from Billy Shakespeare; this was followed by a quickie from Housman, before slipping in to Cymraeg.

Where was the Morris Man? I hear you cry, but with a smile on your face. Presumably down with the other hippies and hairies at Stonehenge. A shame really as the term Torricellian Vacuum came up as Jeff sucked on a bottle of beer. The man with a HND in Classics probably thinks it is the machine the woman he pays (minimum wage) to do the menial stuff uses to to clean the carpets. It’s no use being able to quote ancient Greek stuff in dactylic hexameter when you don’t know how the world works.

There’s a gentle song to soothe you through the day from Mel. Guests “The Rip Roaring Success” next week, but I probably won’t be there so it will be AWR or, God forbid, Robshaw doing the write up. Anyone know what’s happened to Gillian and Brian? Missing them.


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