After the event, the night five thousand sparrows took to the leaden skies and flew in formation for sixty seven minutes in the shape of a wheelbarrow, no one could say the signs weren't there. Babies wailing down by the Kennet and Avon, tramps in faded tuxedos lining the bunting filled roads, and a slight but persistent rash on my inner thigh, all proclaimed it's coming.
But the most obvious portents, the glaring clues which were only pieced together in the rubble-strewn aftermath, were written on the wall all along. The deceptively frank tones lulled the mind and caressed the forehead, while whispering 'Junction', 'the three B's' and softly 'this Thursday'.
Yes, I was there. Or some piece of me was there. Somehow it doesn't matter now. As the band started playing I thought of Sicily in the autumn. The wind, strong yet unmotivated, would tug my long golden hair and slide its' searching fingers down the back of my red and black Tommy Hilfiger casual slacks as I looked out over the forlorn craggy slopes. I felt the echo an earlier time when man had no need for Tommy Hilfiger red and black casual slacks, when men dreamed only of women and the stars and growing vast quantities of facial hair. But abruptly the music ceased, and slightly irritated I regained the room. There were people, of course there were people. A whole roomful, laughing and drinking, their supple faces caught in poses of laughter and thoughtfulness by the light emitted from the filaments of the bulbs handily hung above the crowd. They joked and talked, discussed aspects of their day, proclaimed their undying love for fancy goldfish and debated the relative importance of cheddar in an all-cheese diet.
Now as the third song began I was again irked by the absence of rhythmic accompaniment, and could discern a subtle pattern emerging. It was only when young Archibald and I put our heads together that we deduced the cunning relationship between the continued lack of complementary percussive instrumentation and the ill remembered phrase 'the first half will be an acoustic set'. How we laughed till we accidentally defecated!
The songs came thick and fast, like oil spilling from a tanker. Some we had heard before, some we thought we might have heard before but weren't really sure, some we had definitely heard but didn't really like and some that we didn't think we had heard before but were still rather good actually. There were notes and chords, harmonies and cadences, and time seemed to twirl round the room with a satin ballgown and sensible shoes. At last the songs gave way to the break, which gave way to the start of the second half, which gave way to the E-type Jaguar at the roundabout, because he had right of way. Obviously.
The drummer drummed, the singer sang, and the tall and short one fiddled with their stringed objects and all combined to make a sound that was truly magical. Awe inspiring in its firm-bottomed majesty, like table tennis bats covered in loganberry jam left in a big heap on the plains of the Serengeti in springtime.
But it couldn't last. The music rose, climbing inexorably note upon note, chord over chord, ever reaching, striving, until at last, on the very final crashing chord, I finally realised, I finally understood....that THIS was the end. To most people greatness will never come, but as the final chord echoed around the unmoving heads of every person in the room, they realised with infinite importance that this moment, now, this very instant, was the last opportunity to get a pint at the bar. They knew what to do...
And me? Well thanks to that night I got that job. Thanks to those four guys with their meandering musical inclinations I impressed the board with my knowledge of early Junction, and with that the rest was easy. The mob got their money, the Ruskies got the Plutonium, the dolphins got their rubber swimsuits and little paraplegic Johnny got a mint new swingball set.
Robinia
