Now I know how many holes it takes

I’ve been gathering my thoughts since Tuesday night as I can’t quite believe what a disaster it all was.

First off, got chatting to a young laydee on the bus to Albert’s Hall. I must have said something out of turn because all of a sudden I seemed to be a right old Doghouse Derrig. I had run through my usual gamut of conversational gems: military strategems in the Punic Wars, the naming conventions on Thunderbirds, cars, the Smiths Band and Morrison, my collection of figurines, my aversion to mashpo and peas, my bird-like feet, and my many and varied adventures with the laydeez of all stripes.



Any road up, I was subsequently forced to spend the evening with Tallulah and the G.A. round at Albert’s for what I was promised would be lush entertainment.

So there we are, up in the Gods, which is not my style at all, especially when Twin of Evil A is in the stalls four rows from the front with Dave ‘Johnson’ Johnson. To show my disdain when they sought to communicate through arm-based semaphoric signalling I averted my gaze and waved at someone entirely different. Hah!

As regular readers will know, I have no fear of anything, but especially heights I do not. No fear! However, on this occasion I was a bit woozied-up on the Frulio and for the fun of it posed as if terrified of the altitude. Which I wasn’t.

The early part of the entertainment was a bunch of tiny rockabillies who go by the name of Freeman, Hardy, and Willis, although there are five of them. So a bit like the Beach Boys in that respect.

Next up the main entertainment, a Sheffielder doing a tour promoting Henderson’s Relish. It’s for all Northern sorts but has yet to crack the Southern market with its more refined palates.

He started off with some song or other.


“Snowstorm!” shouted Tallulah. “Snowstorm!” she shouted again. “Where’s that bloody dog! Give me that key before I break your neck you malingering Phoenician!”


A quick shot in the arm settled her down.

Then a quick bit of jingle janglery.



And so the sauce-merchant went on a bit and when he got bored bought on Joe Cocker’s son, then Tony Amarillo, and finally his entire performing family.

The evening was topped off with me giving it a load of chat to another young laydee on the transport home.

Still in the doghouse.