Mojo’s of Colne, January 2024. What a great night. What a great little venue.
Marcus Lazarus, Peter Durband – Jeff & The Rejections
Now And Then
The Beatles
Transcript by Marcus Lazarus
(One, two … )
Intro:
Am . G6 . Am . G6
Am . . G6
I know it’s true
Am . . G6
It’s all because of you
Am . . . Fmaj7
And if I make it through
. E . . E7 . . . . Asus . Am
It’s all because of you
Am . . G6
And now and then
Am . . G6
If we must start again
Am . . . Fmaj7
Well, we will know for sure
. . E . E7 . . . Asus Am
That I- I will love you
G
Now and then
Bm
I miss you
. . Em
Oh, now and then
Am . . . D
I want you to be there for me
Am . . . D
Always to return to me
Am . . G6
I know it’s true
Am . . G6
It’s all because of you
Am . . Fmaj7
And if you go away
E . . . E7 . . Asus . Am
I know you’ll nev – er stay
G
Now and then
Bm
I miss you
Em
Oh, now and then
Am . . . D
I want you to be there for me
Solo:
Dm . Cmaj7 . Dm . Cmaj7
Em . Am . D . Dm . G
Am . . G6
I know it’s true
Am . . G6
It’s all because of you
Am . . Fmaj7
And if I make it through
. E . E7 . . Asus . Am
It’s all because of you
Outtro:
Am . G . E7
Am . G . E7
Am . G . Fmaj7 . E . Am
So when a charming street hawker interrupts your and your friends whilst casually sipping the finest Chianti outside a cafe in Pisa, what should you do? Of course you say you’re not interested and they just go away. Problem solved.
It’s a gorgeous sunny afternoon in Pisa, Italy. A group of us had flown in just for the weekend just to go and see Steve Lukather playing in a small club in the town. Tickets were cheap, and so were the flights and hotel, so we though what the hell …
I arrived alone in the city mid-morning having taken a separate flight and typically couldn’t check in until 3pm that afternoon, so found myself at the only real attraction in town. Yep – I found a cafe serving beer so I stuck my headphones on and soaked up the atmosphere waiting for friends to arrive. The morning dragged on as it does at those times, so I eventually took a walk around the tower. The vicinity was festooned with market traders trading what can only be described as complete tat, and tourists all doing that ever so funny thing of pretending to hold up the monument as a cohort took an equally gut-busting photographic reminder of this incredibly unique angle. It was somewhat more amusing to me to take pictures of those people than the tower itself and I have a plethora of memories to last me a lifetime. How I snorted at those gullible idiots snapping up Leaning Tower plaster replicas, flags, bags and packets of fags emblazoned with the symbol of epic failure.
Still, I did manage to educate myself with the history of the tower and how the many attempts to straighten it all failed and they eventually decided to leave it that way and spend many more years and millions of euros making sure it didn’t end up as the biggest roadblock in the city. So there it was, and I was impressed.
The phone rang; it was Paddy – they were here, just getting booked in and would meet me at the hotel. Great – I can warn them about the crap market stalls and the cheesy tourists and encourage them to give it all a miss and let’s go straight to the bar. No chance. All the bars seem to be cleverly situated at the end of the market. That probably isn’t true, but it makes better reading.
So we wind our way back through the throngs and unwashed masses and eventually find a quiet outside table we can all congregate and catch up. Now mid-afternoon, and we had the rest of the day to get ready for the gig. Beers arrived, stories got longer and louder and the day just simply flew by. Magical; just what the Doctor ordered. But since he wasn’t there we ordered another round of beers.
And that’s when it all went wrong. At least, for me. At least, that’s what I believe. I think I was cursed.
By now, the intoxicometer was approaching ‘stupid’. Still a long way to go before it hit ‘comatose’ but was way past ‘gullible’. You see, there was this annoying lady of African descent who kept coming back to our table to ask if we wanted to buy beads, charms, loads of things, and it got to a point beyond annoyance into the realms of amusement before long but nobody waivered. But this is me we’re talking about, not any normal, sober, sensible person. Oh no. I cracked.
My logic was thus – if I buy something, she will go away. So I bought something. Don’t ask me what it was, I can’t actually remember. Probably a nice wrist band or something. Anyway, she had me. 5 Euros. I wasn’t going to be suckered in. I knew my rights. I knew I had to barter. “OK” I said and gave her 5 Euros. That definitely wasn’t what I was thinking in my head, but too late now. She smiled. That was good, right?
Long story short, I was now in possession of a “thing” I didn’t want and have no recollection of buying, but also I now had a “Lucky Elephant”. Yay! A miniature elephant shaped object that she threw in obviously realising I had suffered enough at her hands, and my “friends” for want of a better word. And then she vanished. Completely. We never saw her again. It was a moral victory but somehow I felt used …!
The elephant served us well for the next hour or so with everyone getting in at least one reference to it in almost every sentence – if nothing else, it was the focal point of the group for a good few hours.
The night was a great success. We hung out, we drank, we listened to Steve Lukather, we purloined a bottle of vino from some locals on the way back to the hotel and sat drinking it underneath the tower. It was well past midnight and we were having a ball. Great memories.
So happy and inebriated we all staggered back to the hotel, only a short walk from the tower but in our condition we must have doubled it at least.
I collapsed on my bed and felt a sharp pang in my buttock – the bloody elephant. Took it out and stood it on the dressing table, and check my 2 phones for the alarm – set for 8am as I had a 10 am flight. Sorted. To bed …
Dozily stirring the next morning I could hear my back up phone going bananas. Realisation dawned that I could not afford to lie in – strange room, strange head, strange elephant staring at me … I’m not in Kansas anymore, Toto. I looked at the clock. 8am. What?!!!
I leaped out of bed and headed for the bathroom where I found the backup phone, now silent. I gazed downwards. Still fully dressed from the night before. Panic. Think. Think. Think. Plane. 10am flight. Must be at airport for 9am at the latest. Calm down – check time. 8am. Cool! Plenty of time. Have a quick shower, teeth, check out, taxi.
Only when I went back into the room did I spot the clock on the wall. It said 9:05am. Huh?
Shit! It’s 9:05 – what happened? Realisation: didn’t move clocks forward when I landed yesterday so both phones still think it’s 8:05. F*&k! F*&k! F&*k!
OK – don’t panic – perhaps the plane is delayed – the airport is only 15 mins away by taxi, security, check in etc should be OK if they don’t close the gates before 9:45, I can do it. Right, that’s the plan – now run!
Hang on – why didn’t my iPhone go off at 8am/9am? Picked it up. It had. It was on ‘silent’ mode. Could this get any worse?
Bag (simple hold all with just the basics) – grab it. Teeth – quickly. Elephant – out the window. Who needs it? Right – go.
Flew downstairs, checked out and asked for Taxi – urgent. “No problem, 10 minutes”
10 minutes? OK I’ll wait outside. Opened hotel door and stood on the pavement. Nobody, and I mean not a soul in sight. Not a car, a street hawker, a taxi, a bird in the sky. Literally, nothing. I thought the world had ended. For me, it almost had.
I had to pinch myself that I was actually awake and a solitary jogger went past with an official number pinned to his chest. “He takes it seriously” I thought. Wonder where the taxi is? Another jogger with equal enthusiasm went past. And another, followed by a group of 3 more. Realisation dawned. This was an official race through the city, hence no cars. No cars means no taxis. No taxis means no flight. No flight means … the phone rang. it was Lucie, my wife.
“You OK?” she asked, innocently.
“Sure … erm, just on my way to the airport now.”
But I couldn’t keep it up, I had to spill the beans.
“You f*&*$ng idiot” was the last thing I heard.
Should go back in and ask what was going on and sensibly ask for advice? Or should I panic and start running towards the direction of the airport? Yep, you guessed it …
So 20 minutes later I’m at a section of road not cordoned off and I can see TAXIS!! Saved! Although now by my deadline I had only 5 minutes to 9:45am. Jumped in a cab, got to airport and ran through to check in without trying to look like a suicide bomber – could do without being shot today, I was already having a rough morning and still not fully awake yet!
Gates had just closed. That was it. Fail.
So, what to do? Information. Go to information and ask about flights back to UK today. Very helpful lady from British Airways said “Yes, no problem, that’ll be 575 Euros … “
“I just want a seat on the plane, I don’t want to charter it”
Apparently that was not an original comment at all – who knew?
Last hope – Ryanair – good old Ryanair, I’ve always loved them. Sometimes. Long story short again, bought a ticket for 150 Euros, flight in 2 hours.
May as well get a coffee and call Paddy. If nothing else it’ll be a laff. For them at least …
It was.
Turns out we’re all on the same flight home now to Stansted Aiport. Yay. I can continue to be the butt of their humour for at least another 6 hours yet. Penance, I felt. Deserved it for being stupid.
What I didn’t deserve was 6 more lucky elephants. How we howled with amusement as one after the other they all turned up at the airport and presented me with a parting gift each. They ran into the same African Lady opposite the hotel and decided there was only one thing to cheer me up. I am truly blessed to have such friends ….
I do Karate on a Saturday morning now with my boy. He’s just gone five and we’ve yet to find a channel for his endless energy. Actually, we did find a channel just before Christmas that introduced Ben 10 to his little world, and we’ve never heard the end of it since.
For the uninitiated, Ben 10 is a kid who can transform in grotesque and powerful alien life forms at the touch of a button. Pretty much like any 5 year old if you press the wrong one. Of course, the merchandising that goes along with Ben 10 is such that each character has an ‘ultimate’ version, thereby doubling the possibilities and of course halving your wallet in the process.
So now the bedroom that Thomas the Tank Engine and Lightning McQueen so recently adorned is now slowly transforming itself into Ben 10 world. He has some of the action figures, a duvet set and a giant poster showing all aliens and their names, which is great as it means we can brush up on the characters without sound stupid. To him, that is. We do find ourselves walking around the house asking where ‘Ultimate Spider Monkey’ is or shouting out ‘Humungosaur!’ for no apparent reason other than osmosis as we hear it several dozen times a day.
Lying in bed this morning listening to him leap from the bed several times ‘in character’ and then launching into fifteen verses of “If you’re happy and you know it …” I did briefly long for the days when all was silent in the house. It didn’t last long as he burst in the room wearing little else but his vest (back to front, of course) and declared he already had his socks on. To a five year old, these things are important enough to declare regardless of timing. His mother returned him to his room to complete the dressing process and all we heard was “I’m doing it, woman …..”
Transformation is a wonderful thing. It’s amazing to see them grow into little human beings, all full of confidence and cheekiness, as they explore this strange world and all those that dwell within.
Yesterday for example his school was visited by five Zulus, complete with drums, shields, tribal dress and wellingtons (who knew huh?). They spent the whole day at the school teaching kids about tribal life and rehearsing some dances and songs to perform for parents when we picked them up. I have to say it was mightily impressive; so much so that I seriously considered a career change as I was grooving to the beats, clapping and chanting, but there is one obvious drawback. I shall leave you to decide which of my many talents and personas would preclude me from joining a group of South African Tribal Warriors but I can tell you I am definitely black on the inside.
If I could I think I would be black; I wanna be cool and that’s hard with a pot belly and a bald head. It’s a shame transformation is bestowed upon us and not a free choice, so the sooner they invent that device that allows Ben 10 to turn into anything he chooses the better .. come on Apple, I’ve spotted a gap in the market!
Germany is a powerful force in European economy. Their banking system is unrivalled, as is their obsession with attention to detail and timing. These qualities have ensured the German people have dominated the leadership and direction of all things “Euro” for the last 20 odd years. No matter how much we protest and cast aspersions, you just can’t fault their determination when it comes to total dominance.
Let’s not mention the war. Firstly, it would would be churlish to suggest we came out of it a lot better off than they did, and secondly that’s not true. Where am I going with this? Bear with me. You may not have noticed but it looks like the Germans have taken over anyway.
Before anyone tries to wave the politically correct card here, can I just point out I lived in Germany for a number of years in my youth and have fabulous memories of a beautiful country, genial people, and cream. Cream in coffee, cream on top of Ice Cream, cream in the bread shop … you get the drift. As I said, a great place to be if you’re a kid.
These days I find myself contributing to the German economy on a regular basis, and it’s only just dawned on me that Germany is in fact dominating my life, and if you own a Mercedes or BMW, probably yours as well.
There was a time when such luxuries were considered a wise investment and words such as “bullet proof engines”, “craftsmanship” and “longevity” were synonymous with German manufacturing. However, sometime in the last 15 years some clever Germans must have thought:
“Hang on. If we build cars to last and people buy just one in a lifetime, we will never sell another car again. We must copy the British who make cars so bad you have to replace it within a month; this keeps their economy ticking over now they’ve sold all their oil and natural resources.”
“Ja. But If we do this, we will have no car manufacturing industry left and we will all have to depend on France for subsidies and eat Fromage with our Sausage”
“Ok, so we compromise. We build some of the car correctly, and other parts we will build from lego and blu-tak”
“Brilliant. And we charge stupid prices for the car itself, as no-one will even realise that we exploit our Chinese cousins under the banner of “minimising production costs” which actually means “cheap in every way possible”.
And so the plan was deployed and we all fell for it. We spend as much on spare parts for German cars now than the total combined sales of Jaguar and Rolls Royce combined.
Why am I so bitter? I’ve got a BMW 3 series estate, and a Mercedes C200 Kompressor sitting outside. Both have cost us as much in upkeep as the Greek GDP recently. Everyday, something seems to just fall off, light up red on the dashboard or something equally soul destroying. You’d think i would have learned. I had a 5 seies Beamer a few years ago and had the same experience. Once bitten, twice stabbed in my case. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, never buy a German car again.
Today, the Merc is going back in Autotrader and I’m eyeing up a Land Rover Discovery. Good job we managed to hang on to that at least as a nation huh?
What …? Indian …? Oh well, at least the Indian people know a thing or two about keeping an old wreck on the road for years so I think I’ll take my chances with them, to be honest .. bring it on!
You know the advert on telly where some fat bloke is spraying his fence while his wife and kids look on in complete apathy and he’s laughing and being generally quite pleased with himself that everything is so easy and at this rate he’ll have the whole fence finished in 10minutes?
I’m here to tell you it don’t quite work like that. I currently look like a twiglet while I write this, having been subjected to a number of factors including the wind, blowback and blocked nozzle syndrome. My patio looks like I have performed some ancient sacrificial ritual looking as it does like a whole bevvy of virgins have been slaughtered on the alter (well, patio table to be fair) as the strangely brown wood dye looks as though it may well be dried blood.
Now in hindsight, sacrificing a few virgins might not have been such a bad idea. I was under the foolish impression that this stuff did exactly as it says on the tin, although in this case it came in a plastic container but let’s not be pedantic.
I filled my pump, brought it up to pressure, aimed at the fence and pulled the trigger. Bad idea. Should have been obvious that the stuff was going to come out backwards – that’s the way my life goes so I should have known, to be honest. So a quick readjustment on the nozzle and were ready to go again. Although it did take me the best part of 15 minutes to hose down not only myself, but most of the back door and half the patio as well. At least I’ve got my leaky water butt to assist in such matters (did I tell you about my leaky butt? Perhaps later …)
Seemed to be going OK once I got the hang of it. Until it ran out halfway through a panel. So now I’ve got 6.5 panels a lovely dark brown, and 6 more a completely different colour. I could go to B&Q and get some more but it’s Sunday and I can’t be arsed.
I’m going to trim the hedge now. I may be some time ….
I’ve always been a creative sort of a bloke. I remember building my first drumkit out of boxes and buckets in our garage, a computer out of cereal packets and a barbeque out of bricks. You may think the last item hardly qualifies in the category, but if you saw the finished article you could only really say it was a ‘creative’ effort.
I constantly hear songs in my head that I’ve never heard before and I’ve no idea where these come from. I try to get them down but they never quite end up the way I first heard them. I must have a hundred ‘ideas’ for songs on various snippets of recordings and scribbles on scraps of paper but just never find the time to work on them properly. One day I’m sure I’ll hit the jackpot and get the Christmas number one I’ve always dreamed about but for now I’ll have to resign myself to being a collector of ideas.
I like to enter competitions that require a certain amount of creative thinking, and this was rewarded only a couple of years ago when we got a call saying we’d won a fully inclusive holiday to Disneyworld with everything thrown in plus spending money – result! I’ve won a few other things over the years which encourages me to carry on and see what else fortune may bring.
Anyway, I won a competition at work recently to name a new division of the business that deals with electronic data transmission of gas meter readings on a daily basis. The winning name was “Pulse24” and they’ve already adopted this and set up a website and everything, and the initial prize on ofer was simply a bottle of champagne. Fantastic – but they changed it at the last minute when the competition winner was announced in front of the whole company. Regular readers would probably now be expecting me to announce some form of mitigated disaster, but no … they actually gave me a voucher for two to enjoy brunch at the Savoy, no less, with unlimited champagne, buffet lunch, and a jazz band at a table overlooking the river!
We first decided to try and take up the prize last June. I say ‘first’ as the plan was to drive to the train station, hop on the express to London and get a cab to the hotel. Great idea. So we stood and waited on the platform. And waited. And waited. No trains. No-one else on the platform. My superior observation skills were truly put to the test and it occurred to me there may be something amiss, but I couldn’t work out what it was. No trains, no people. After an hour of waiting I suspected there may be no trains to London. Lucie seemed to concur. We worked out that even if we drove to London we’d only get a couple of hours to enjoy our prize, if that. So we decided to cancel and try again some time later. On our way out of the station there was a bloke in the information booth. You would like to think that someone in charge of ‘information’ would actually be informative but this is obviously not a prerequisite of the job for Network Rail employees.
“There’s no trains. Engineering works” he muttered.
“So why didn’t you put a sign up then?” asked Lucie, despondently. “The slow trains are stopping on the other platform but we haven’t seen an express service in over an hour!”
“They are stopping on that platform, yes”
“We know that – we just told you”
“Mutter, mutter, Engineering works, mutter, mutter”
It wasn’t worth the effort, really. Anyway – we did eventually manage to get to the Savoy last week and I have to say it was absolutely brilliant. Your glass was never empty, the acoustic band in the corner knocked out some classic stuff by Santana and all things Latin Americano and we had three and a half hours of unadultarated luxury and indulgence. I was slightly perturbed at one point however. As I went up for a slice of beautifully cooked roast beef (melt in the mouth – just the best I’ve ever tasted) the chef glanced up having carved off a reasonable slice or two.
“That looks fantastic, mate” I told him.
“Yorkshire Pudding?” he asked.
I know I’ve got a bit of a beer belly but I thought that was a bit much, to be honest…
Liverpool – a city of colours and sounds that all blend into a landscape of harmony throughout the annual Beatles festival. Unless you happen to be a bouncer in some obscure wine bar in Penny Lane that is. Me good self and Bob, the best McCartney soundalike ever, arrived for the annual jamboree and we heard that some poor bloke had been gunned down the night before in the very bar we were due to play our first gig. The bar was now a crime scene and understandably the local Bobbies were reluctant to allow any kind of beat combo entertainment within said premises while CSI Merseyside were on the case. My immediate reaction was “F***ing hell … oh well, at least that’s only 3 gigs today instead of 4”. Bob’s immediate reaction was “F***ing hell, good job I’m not a Lennon tribute, innit?”. With all due respect to the fella and his family, it just cracked me up. We’d only been there 5 minutes …
We had another gig lined up also in Penny Lane somewhere but were informed 10 minutes later that the gig was also pulled as the owner was in Barbados and knew nothing about it. Ok – down to 2 gigs instead of 4 that day; bit of a relief actually. We had rehearsed over 35 songs for this years event on top of the other dozen or so we know backwards, and anyone who’s ever witnessed a Bob & Marcus gig will know it’s sometimes difficult to know which way we are actually playing them anyway. So we did the only decent thing we could think of and headed for the bar.
Eventually we decided we should wander off down to the Cavern pub for our first gig (7pm), and bumped into Ray Johnson on the way out. Ray is one of the directors/organisers of Cavern City Tours. I told him about the gigs pulled in Penny Lane, and that we were just heading off to the Cavern Pub. “The Pub? Err, it’s flooded … ” he dryly (sic) informed us. If you don’t know Ray, you would have trouble distinguishing fact from fiction. So we gave a cheery two- fingered wave and headed off. It means “I love you” in Liverpool – honest. Try it next time you’re there.
The Cavern was a decent enough gig for the first one; they’re always the worst – takes a while to get used to the sounds and settle into a routine but we got through it OK. You can rehearse at home with a guitar on your knee singing along to the tracks as much as you like to perfection but actually getting out there stood up in front of a crowd is always a strange transition. It’s a bit like driving in a video game – its not until you actually get on the road that you realise “game over” is a more of a literal statement than a simple invitation to try again.
We had set the tone – even though we had prepared some intricate and obscure McCartney songs into the general set list, places like this weren’t really the stage to try them out; people just wanted to sing along. So we abandoned pretty much all the stuff like “Warm and Beautiful”, “Wet and Interesting” and “Blue and Gasping” (Japanese import) in favour of “We Can Work It Out” which struck me as ironic at the time as I realised half-way through that I hadn’t actually worked it out for some time, and completely f***ed up the first middle 8 harmony.
Oh well – one down, one to go. The next one wasn’t until 1.30 in the morning at the Adelphi hotel. We had a few spare hours so we did the only decent thing we could think of and headed for the bar.
Pretty much the rest of the weekend was along similar lines with the one exception. Our good friend Rocco had turned up to watch us with his lady Sue. Anyone who’s ever met Rocco will tell you he’s an ‘interesting’ chap who loves to relay to all and sundry his encounters with the jet set and the famous. Rocco likes to think of himself as an entrepreneur, showbiz agent and consultant to the stars. In reality he’s a lovely fella but more influenced by style than substance which detracts from the realities of good business. One thing you can say about Rocco though is he never gives up. Sue is a great singer and a wonderful personality, and it baffled me why the two of them were together at all, as you do. Anyway, we were having a drink in a city bar and all four of us set off back up the hill to meet other friends for dinner. A few minutes later I turned around as the constant hum of Rocco had suddenly dried up (‘I met the prime minister you know and we’re like good friends now and he only got the job because I know Simon Cowell and if you need tickets Marcus I can get you tickets not a problem you just leave it with me …’ etc etc). Sue told us he left his keys in the bar and had turned back to get them. We waited a few more minutes but no sign.
Sue’s phone went off. “Hello,” she says, “have you found them?”
Pause
“So what are you going to do Rocco?”
Pause
“OK. We’ll have a …. hang on, have you got your phone?”
Suddenly, it all became clear how these two were attracted to each other. Bob and I were creased up.
God bless Liverpool.
We were all invited to a ‘naming day’ yesterday. This is a new one on me, but apparently alleviates your guilt for not bringing up your child into a sanctimonious society where values and principles are intrinsically bestowed upon the ‘guests of honour’ as well as the parents. I always wondered what the role of the Godfather and Godmother were, and what your moral obligations should be to the Lord and society when you’re learned that little Billy has been nicked for the fourth time in as many days for ram-raiding the local Aldi store in a transit van, wiping out the entire stockroom and making off with goods to the value of £25.50.
In days gone by, I suspect little Billy would have been brought before the parish elders and his Godparents held responsible for ensuring his moral punishment was right and proper, and that the whole family would share the burden of shame equally. These days I suspect the whole family would share the burden of whatever little Billy managed to procure on EBay.
I digress. The ‘Naming Day’ was a bit of a washout, which was a shame. The parents had gone to the trouble of hiring a pub garden complete with Bouncy Castles and games for the kids, although ‘game of the day’ seemed to be ‘who can scream like a right brat the loudest most often’ for which there was some serious competition. Inevitably, it rained, so we took refuge inside the pub and as luck would have it there was a table right next to the buffet. Result!
Now, my 6 month old son is still trying to get accustomed to life outside his warm and comfortable play gym, and is currently going through a bit of an ‘unsettled’ patch. We think he skipped the baby phase completely and has gone straight to 2 year-old, except he can’t even sit up yet, and as a result he gets very frustrated with himself. He hates being strapped down in a buggy, hates lying down on the floor, can’t roll himself over on his back if he rolls on his front, is teething as well, and generally quite upset that his life is so dependant on everybody else. I can see trouble ahead with this one ….
Anyway, true to form, the boy began his ‘bored’ routine once we settled by the buffet, which starts off with some minor whinging leading eventually to full-scale decible testing of the 747 magnitude. Lucie has found a subtle answer to this though – she covers his buggy with a blanket and after a few minutes he falls asleep. Brilliant! We call him Parrot-boy now.
So, in any event, it worked this time and we were free to spend at least an hour stuffing our faces and having a break. Inevitably, one little girl eventually wandered over and was obviously curious about what was under the blanket, and you have to bear in mind I had had 3 pints of Abbot Real Ale by this time (5% – wonderful stuff). She could just about make out there was a baby under there but eventually her curiosity got the better of her.
“Why is the baby under the blanket?” She politely enquired.
“Because he’s really ugly” I retorted.
She looked at me like only kids can with that mixture of surprise and innocence with her mouth half-open, not really sure what she should say next. Her predicament was saved however by a combination of her Dad laughing hysterically and my own wife kicking me in the shins. 3 year old kids – no sense of humour.
We stayed until it was time to go, which was handy. We then loaded ugly parrot-boy into the car and pulled down the shade on his window. Closing the door the same little girl had been observing this, and gave me a knowing and strangely sympathetic smile. Too ugly for the car as well, obviously.
Sometimes I wonder why my life is so full of bad karma ….
Everything is well with the world. The only problem I’ve got with the car is that it’s low on fuel and it was explained by my local MP the other day that the only reason we invaded Iraq was to ensure that Bushey Service Station retained enough petrol on a weekly basis purely to fill my tank. What a nice man; I think I’ll vote for him next time.
I finally managed to get out into the garden and destroy my very own patch of rain forest with the lawn-mower, while also taking out a whole host of ant nests. I assume the ants had heard that Bushey was cool for travellers and vagrants as we now hear that we are to get our third designated traveller site, while the whole of the rest of Hertfordshire has none. My local MP said he was powerless to do anything about it but would I like some lucky heather? What a lovely, charming man. I’ll certainly vote for him next time.
Anyway, our next door neighbour has a pond, which attracts frogs. The problem with frogs is that they tend to move around, and not stay by the pond where they are safe, and wander around into neighbouring gardens. And they spawn little frogs. Hundreds of them. Most of them are now garden mulch courtesy of the Flymo, but hand on heart I did try to save as many as I could by getting Amanda to round up a few in a bucket as they were spotted. The Flymo did manage to collect Mummy frog though which made a bit of a mess, but I knew it wasn’t Daddy frog. I found Daddy frog towards the end – he refused to move as I approached and even a few gentle nudges with the front of the lawn mower proved unpersuasive. Amanda refused to go near him, she hates big frogs. Kids eh? Wimps, the lot of ’em. You may well ask why I didn’t pick him up myself, but I can’t stand them (hence the lack of conscience over the mass genocide just undertaken) so we had a predicament. He sat there just staring at me while I contemplated my next move. Man vs Frog, a classic encounter, and there could be only one winner.
He moved. I say ‘moved’, I think it was more of a lurch towards me in a frankly aggressive manner. I found myself erring on the side of caution and jumped backwards, letting go of the lawnmower. Well, I mean he could have suddenly turned nasty, couldn’t he? Amanda is now howling in the background as I draw on every ounce of manly resolve and regain control of my tactical weponry. I flick on the lawmower with a deft touch and aim it fairly and squarely at the enemy. Girding my loins for an all-out attack from the flank, it seems my intentions were finally understood and Froggy leapt towards the fence and proceeded to casually stroll towards the shed with a typically Gallic swagger. Victory! English spirit has once again prevailed in the battle against a Froggy opponent – I felt like Wellington at Waterloo.
Amanda released the captive prisoners once we had strimmed those fleeing battle survivors along the sides of the fences (except Daddy Frog who was probably now on his way to my local MP to protest at the brutality and victimisation in Bushey) and the war was won. Until next time. I’ll say this for the Frogs, they don’t know when they’re beaten. Just don’t mention the war …
Marcus Lazarus Music 