Rural Spaceman – You’re Fired.

rob sugar

Just over a week ago, my Faceache friend Lisa and a couple of others tagged me in a post made by a business website:

“Hi all!!!! I am on the hunt for male bloggers. If you are a man who is a fitness fanatic, into health, good at fashion, a knowledgeable cook, a single parent or a business owner we would love to welcome you to our team of bloggers. Please note that we are looking for dedicated bloggers who will be able to submit at least one blog of 350 words a month. Your article should not be a direct promotion of a product or service you are associated with.”

Well, I thought, no harm in giving it a go, so I sent them an e-mail with the title Me Man, Me Blog:

Several of my friends on Faceache have sent me your message appealing for a male blogger who is a fitness fanatic, into health, good at fashion, a knowledgeable cook, a single parent or a business owner. Well, indeed I am a man, which is a good start. I also blog once a week as rural spaceman, which is also helpful. I am a regular runner, don’t eat beige things, love shopping for clothes and have to cook tea every day. I’m not a single parent but had to look after my kids when they were little, because my wife is a very successful business woman (one of Cotswold Style magazine’s top 50 business women of the year). I still have to tend to them in the middle of the night when they leave the club with enough money for a kebab but not a taxi. If you would like to sample some of my blog, please feel free to follow the link below. Don’t worry if you find yourself saying ‘What’s he on about?’, most people do. I think that the blog entitled ‘I Married a Chartered Accountant’ may appeal to the business community, but I would like to point out I can write about virtually anything without any previous experience. I look forward to hearing from you soon, unless you think I’m rubbish in which case thanks for reading this far.

I received this reply:

Sounds greatSmiling face with smiling eyes  would love to have you on the team. I will send you through a document with the guidelines etc to follow.

ThanksSmiling face with smiling eyes 

 

I’d been hired! I wrote my first blog, just over 350 words, less than 500, entitled ‘How to be a Corporate Husband’ and pinged it back. Almost immediately I received another e-mail. Considering it was nearly 8pm on a Sunday, I was impressed by their dedication:

Hey,

 Wow!! AmazingSmiling face with smiling eyes  I will get it published right awaySmiling face with smiling eyes  Could you email me a short paragraph about you and what you will be writing about please? Its for your bio.. Oh I will need an image of you too if that’s ok??

Thanks

The following morning, I received this e-mail:

That blog you sent was really funny but I think some of our readers won’t really see the funny side.. I had to take it down for this reason. If would like to write more for us please could you try and tone it down a little?? haha

If you have a read of some of the other articles you can see what we are looking for.

 

Thanks

After careful consideration, I replied:

Oh dear. I’ve never been sacked on my first day before.  Unfortunately, some readers will never see the funny side. Having read some of the other blogs, I realise I may have to considerably lower my tone. haha I’m not sure I could beat how to keep your chocolate in the fridge, but having seen nearly every episode of The Apprentice and most of Dragon’s Den, I’m sure I could write some very insightful self help business consultancy blogs. What do you think? Haha

They replied:

Hi Rob,

Hahaha! That would be smashing Smiling face with smiling eyes  

 

Thanks

“No,” said Lady Barton St Mary, “I think it’s time you stopped now. They don’t get you and they never will. Leave them alone.”

Here’s the offending blog:

How to be a Corporate Husband

There’s an old saying: “Behind every successful man there is a woman.”

When I say old, I mean at a time when women were called ‘birds’, worked as nurses, secretaries or air hostesses or generally stayed at home looking after children. These days, things are certainly different, although there’s still a way to go. I know, because I happen to be married to Lady Barton St Mary, a highly successful business woman, a financial director of a large multinational company.

Here are my top 10 tips for being a corporate husband:

  1. Don’t take offence when your director wife criticises your culinary skills. Shrieking ‘I’ve been slaving over that for hours, you beast!” and locking yourself in the bathroom is not constructive. Not that I’ve done that, as far as you know.
  2. Don’t be surprised when she’s not interested in your phone call in the middle of a board meeting about whether we have frozen chips or not. She’s got other things on her mind.
  3. Improve your ironing skills. Embrace it. Make it entertaining by watching sports and box sets on TV. Don’t be surprised at the sheer volume of ironing you have to do. Corporate wives appear to have more clothes than Debenhams.
  4. Be prepared for your partner coming home still in company director mode. Typical signs include walking around the house with their hands behind their back inspecting things and saying things like, “I think it would be a good idea if you…” Gently remind your corporate wife that she is now at home and you are not an employee but somebody who will see her in her nightie brushing her teeth at bed time.
  5. Resist any attempts by your wife to organise a meeting to formulate your personal development plan with SMART objectives. The last thing you want is to fail to meet your targets and the threat of being replaced by a more efficient corporate husband that looks like Channing Tatum.
  6. Company directors work long hours. Don’t phone them up and ask them when they are coming home. They will always tell you half an hour. They will always be lying.
  7. Remember, they are in control. If they ask you to decide something, they want to be sure the decision they’ve already made will have your eventual backing.
  8. Don’t ask too many questions about what they’ve been doing all day. You will rarely understand the answer. But that might just be me.
  9. Social events are a potential minefield – on a night out paid by the company, do not order a vintage bottle of champagne and whisky chasers. Ending the evening doing the hokey cokey with your spouse’s employees whilst wearing a traffic cone on your head will not end well.
  10. Be thankful that you have an intelligent, powerful woman as a life partner. If nothing else, it gives you the chance to write blogs about it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in humour, comedy, wordpress, blogging, blog, humor, freshly pressed, Lady Barton St Mary | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Dinner Date with a Beauty Queen

I had the pleasure of spending Monday evening in the Chelsea Brasserie in Cheltenham, a rather swish venue so typical of this fashionable Regency town, where I had arranged to meet Sophie Lydia Smith, winner of the culinary TV show ‘Come Dine With Me’ and current Miss Cheltenham, for a dinner date.

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Don’t worry, Wordpretzels, Lady Barton St Mary was in attendance, since this particular dinner was a charity do in aid of The Hollie Gazzard Trust*.

You see, I used to work with Sophie’s mum Sonia many years ago, in a team that had few restrictions and were let loose on the general public to create fun events without any guidance. Fortunately, Sonia was good at organising and I was good at looking supremely confident when not having a clue what I was doing, which meant that most of the time we managed to appear competent, which was a complete lie. It did set us up for  our later careers, realising that the majority of people have no idea what they’re doing, but get away with it by pretending they do.

I’d seen the invitation on my Faceache page a couple of weeks earlier, posted by Sophie’s dad Chris. I really wanted to attend for the following reasons: I wanted to catch up with Sonia and Chris and also support Sophie’s meal. It was based around Sophie’s winning menu from the TV programme ‘Come Dine With Me’, where four or five people from a particular region cook meals for each other in their homes and are scored 1-10 accordingly. There was a possibility that Sophie’s losing competitors would attend, including an eccentric millionaire whose personal styling could best be described as Catweasel meets Peter Stringfellow, a female rugby player with an aversion to underwear and another woman who I can’t remember at all but was nice to Sophie. None of them made an appearance.

We arrived early; in fact, at the same time as the hostess and her mother, which meant that we hid in a corner of the restaurant whilst everything was set up. Sophie somehow managed to have plenty of time for everybody, a real natural, not what you would expect from your stereotypical beauty queen, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. You see, she’s not your typical beauty queen, like the ones I remembered on TV when I was a kid and beauty contests were run by Eric and Julia Morley. The girls were vapid creatures that were easy on the eye but lacked any substance. Most of them wanted world peace, a good husband and loved animals and children, but weren’t particularly interested in a career. Sophie, however, was using her position to promote women in business. Being in construction and being a chartered surveyor, she is very passionate about showing women are capable of doing jobs that have been considered a ‘male’ occupation.

I’d first become aware of this a few months ago when I turned on my TV on a Friday night. It was tuned to BBC 1’s ‘The One Show’, a light entertainment/current affairs show that I never watch. They had an article on beauty pageants and there in a crowd of tiaraed  beauties was Sophie. After the pre-recorded article, there she was sitting on the sofa next to guest Louis Theroux, who gave a micro version of the ‘Louis Theroux meets’ treatment. Then, Louis Theroux was invited to finish the show singing karaoke whilst Sophie dutifully danced in the background. It was like a surreal dream and I texted her mum to tell her so.

After a short time, Sonia explained that we had allocated places to sit – she’s always been frighteningly organised. Our names were not on the list. She was mortified and employed the old team tactic of blaming somebody else.

“It’s Sophie’s fault”, she explained, but we were philosophical about it. We’d booked at the last minute, we could sit anywhere. As it turned out, we hit the jackpot, getting to sit with Chris (Mr Cheltenham) who is in the running for nicest man in the world, although I don’t think a tiara would suit him.

Meantime, Sonia realised that she needed to sell raffle tickets. I volunteered, going about my newly found duty with enthusiasm. Everybody bought tickets and I got to know the name of everybody in the restaurant, as well as having some time to have a good chat with Sonia (Mrs Cheltenham) as we folded the freshly sold tickets. It felt like old times.

The meal was very tasty – crab starter, lemon and thyme chicken for main and a chocolate pudding dessert. Entertainment was provided by internet sensation Ellie Higgs, friend of Hollie.

The raffle was entertaining just for the fact that Miss Cheltenham had consumed a couple of glasses of wine and was rather relaxed. I had this image of her, microphone in hand, Tiara on the side of her head, sash around her ankles, singing “Dontcha” to a bemused collection of diners, but she didn’t, reserving herself well enough to deny giving her long suffering brother £50 of John Lewis vouchers even though he had the winning ticket.

Then it was time to go, saying our farewells to the hosts and all the people I’d befriended whilst taking their money for raffle tickets. As we disappeared into the mild midsummer evening, I was reminded that all this beauty queen stuff wasn’t new to me. After all, I am married to Miss Staunton Village 1976…

*Hollie was the victim of a knife attack by her former boyfriend in a hair salon where she worked. Her family have set up The Hollie Gazzard Trust to help trainee hairdressers and victims of domestic violence. To find out more, go to:

http://holliegazzard.org/

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in blog, blogging, blogs, freshly pressed, humor, humour, Lady Barton St Mary, Miss Cheltenham, Sophie Lydia Smith | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Elton in the Shed

Ok, look, Wordpretzels, I ‘ve had a look back at my recent blogs and realised there’s a danger that I’m turning into the NME, if the NME spent 6 months going to see lots of legendary acts from the 1960s and 70s. But I can’t let this moment pass without telling you all about Elton John playing at Kingsholm, home to the glorious Gloucester Rugby team.

When this concert was first announced, I had to check it wasn’t some kind of practical joke. It was hard to imagine Elton, one of the fussiest, cosseted music stars prone to explosive outbursts, playing in Gloucester. Now, our fine city has a lot of qualities, but it is not known for being pretentious or for standing for any precociousness. You see, as I’ve explained before, rugby football in Gloucester is a way of life, the team supported by all and sundry like a football team. Their fans are not backward in coming forward. In fact, the whole city takes no nonsense. The Sexton calls it a frontier town. So, I feared that Elton, upon arriving in Gloucester, would react in the way a very spoilt person who is used to shopping in Harrods being made to do his weekly purchases in Lidl.

But it was true, so Lady BSM bought some tickets early on in prime position. Elton was playing in ‘The Shed’, the infamous stand where Gloucester fans dish out their worst to the opposition, with seating on the pitch and in the stands. Actually, he wasn’t, the stage was built in front of The Shed. Of course, I’m used to being at Kingsholm to see the rugby, but this was a very slightly different audience and a bigger one than normal: sixteen and a half thousand Elton fans, including us and Miss Katherine, Pen and Miss Beth, who had The Sexton’s ticket. He’d been invited on a rugby tour to Ireland, so rather than politely turn the offer down with the excuse that he was going to see Elton John, decided on the option that would stop the piss being taken out of him by his rugby club cronies for all eternity.

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Yellow Brick Road in Kingsholm Road.

Supported by Bright Light Bright Light, fronted by a rather sweet young man from Wales with a touch of Freddie Mercury about him, Elton finally appeared in front of The Shed to the haunting opening bars of ‘Funeral for a Friend’. He was resplendent in sparkly red coat, hair in place. We were 26 rows back, centre left of stage, with a great view of him. Two people a few rows down leapt to their feet, as did the rather imposing female steward at the front of our row, immediately at their side and demanding they sit down. Meanwhile, another man on the opposite side of the aisle tried his luck, with similar treatment from the zealous security woman. He tried again a few minutes later, resulting in a face to face argument with the yellow jacketed one, all played out in mime, as Elton blasted out ‘Bennie and the Jets’. It was, of course, quite distracting, but we had some respite during ‘Candle in the Wind’, which isn’t the sort of song you leap to your feet and dance about to. But when Elton launched into ‘All The Girls Love Alice’, the long haired man who wanted to stand up decided to wave his arms back and forth furiously, the elderly man beside him shrinking in fear of being battered. The large imposing lady returned to his side, demanding calm, before returning to her own seat at the front, right under Elton and his piano.

This is when it happened. The Elton melt down.

Lady Barton St Mary and I saw him play a double header with Eric Clapton 22 years ago at Wembley Stadium, when she was with child. We’ve always told Miss Katherine she’d been to an Elton John concert. He’d had a tantrum on stage that day, but his microphone was turned off. That was the reason for the melt down. On the big screens, even a poor lip reader could see his comments about the sound engineers were less than complimentary. Several expletives and the distinct possibility that their careers with Elton may be at an end were suggested by His Regness.

But this time, the target of his ire was the rather officious steward sitting below him.

“Can I just say something to the stewards? Especially this one sitting down here with the pony tail. These people have come to hear music and if they want to put their hands in the air let them. This is not fucking China, so piss off. You’ve got a fucking uniform on and you think you’re Hitler and you’re not. You can piss off! I mean really. Don’t have any sympathy with her, this is a concert ok?”

IMG_2010

No stewards! Let’s stand in front of all the people who paid a fortune for their seat! Simmering Elton in the distance.

There was a momentary silence followed by a mighty roar of approval. The woman who had been the victim of Elton’s anger looked around, wide eyed, before bursting into tears and running off down the aisle. Two elderly ladies in front of us decided that they had seen enough, put on their coats and left. On reflection, Elton’s outburst was a little unfair, comparing her to Hitler. Then again, if there was something Hitler was good at, it was crowd control. I also assume he won’t be playing a gig in Beijing anytime soon. To be fair, if he wasn’t a celebrity behemoth he would be regarded as elderly and this is the sort of thing OAPs say.

Elton played on for a couple of songs, which gave the crowd the opportunity to do what all crowds do in these circumstances: no steward, no rules!

Hence a huge rush from the rear seats to dance about in front of Elton in our row. I could see him perfectly, but the people in the top notch top price seats had no chance. Of course, those who had rushed for the front did their best to block our view by placing children and girlfriends on their shoulders.

After a couple of songs, Elton saw the error of his ways and made a public apology.

“If she wants to come up here I will say sorry face to face, I was out of order”, he explained. Punters in the front row had a tendency to agree with him.

In came a team of security men who forced the trespassers back to the rear, no mean feat in Gloucester. It took several minutes and reminded me of a rather polite riot, people incredulous at the idea that they had to take their rightful place in the stadium rather than one they would like but hadn’t paid for. By the time Elton was singing ‘Rocket Man’, everything was back to normal. Well, as normal as it can be in Gloucester. Just behind me, the security people were doing their best to hold back the Gloucester throng.

The lady in the yellow jacket appeared on stage. Elton welcomed her with a hug and a seat on his piano stool. I was starting to wonder whether it was all a weird dream. The hoards just behind my seat was getting restless and growing in numbers. I turned to see what was happening.

Elton sang ‘The Bitch is Back’ whilst a rather large man with greased back hair and a ratty faced wife stood nose to nose with the young but muscular bouncer barring his way and recited ‘You’re a dickhead’ over and over, as if somehow the enforcer in the black polo shirt would see his point of view, say ‘Actually, you’re correct, I am a dickhead! Please feel free to approach the front of the stage and intimidate somebody else!’

Elton was at full pelt now; we all stood and danced to ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’. I was starting to wonder whether this should be Gloucester’s anthem, even if it was a Sunday.

Then Elton gave a cheery wave, disappeared and then reappeared to perform ‘Crocodile Rock’, his one obligatory encore song to satisfy the Gloucester leg of his tour. If only he knew Gloucester, but, to be fair, he spent years in Watford and grew up in Pinner, not too far away from me (my cousin went to school with him), so rather anarchical, maverick, slightly dodgy behaviour shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him.

Thanks, Gloucester and Elton, for a rather distracting and surreal evening.

Posted in ageing, blog, elton john, freshly pressed, humor, humour, wordpress | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

A normal day at (almost) voluntary work 3

Dispatches called.

Dispatches: You’ve sent two forms for the same delivery with different dates. One is 15th May, the other 22nd May. Which one is correct?

Me: You have two forms for the same delivery?

Dispatches: Yes. Which date is correct?

Me: Would this be the delivery you told me I hadn’t sent a form for two weeks ago when I thought I had and you made me do a second one?

Dispatches: We have two forms for the same delivery.

Me: Have you found the first form you thought I hadn’t sent?

Dispatches: (Pause). Which date is correct?

Posted in (almost) voluntary work, blog, blogging, blogs, comedy, comic characters, humor, humour, life observations, linguistics, wordpress | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Welcome to the Gaylord Pub

I’ve been very busy for the past two weeks with two things: one, (almost) voluntary work, where suddenly I’ve got a million and one things to do, and two, I’ve been enjoying myself. Rather too much, it appears, because my puritanical middle aged body has taken revenge, striking me down with gout in the left sole of my foot, an agonising reminder that I can’t stay up drinking until four in the morning like I used to when I was in my 20s.

That didn’t stop me trying when we went to stay with my old friend Gerald and his wife Sarah a couple of weekends ago, which, on the alcoholic consumption front,  was a seriously wrong move. Gerald has a huge estate, obtained by mysterious financial dealings (something about two men named Nobby and Knuckles, a mining drill and a high street bank).

Sarah and Gerald’s ‘drum’, as he’s taken a liking in calling it, has many bedrooms, a flat for the staff and an indoor swimming pool.

What’s more, the estate has its own pub, The Gaylord. The Gaylord has its own Faceache page and everything. So, most of the weekend was spent in The Gaylord.

The gaylord bar

The famous Gaylord pub in all its glory. Sport on the telly. Optics. Ale. In a house. It’s a dream come true.

Trying to keep pace with Gerald drinking is like challenging Mo Farah to a race around the block, with a similar outcome; I end up fighting for oxygen, dizzy, exhausted and unsteady on my feet.

You see, Gerald has an enormous capacity for drink. He is the only human being I know who could drink an entire bar dry, pass out and still stroll around a room making polite conversation whilst unconscious. Well, almost. He may think he is saying, ‘ I was reading in the Financial Times the other day that the implemented fiscal policy in the far east has impacted favourably upon the NASDAQ’, when in fact what comes out is ‘Not wobbly wheel on a church should we, no?’

The man’s a machine. I’m convinced that when his life finally comes to an end, he’ll still manage to walk around for an extra month in order to say farewell to everybody.

I’m sure many of you would love to visit the Gaylord.

Gerald said:landlord gerald

Many thanks for your interest in visiting my fine establishment. The Gaylord is a top quality pub offering the finest ales, wines and spirits, accompanied by a large range of bar snacks. Anybody who would like to visit, don’t bother. You’re barred. That includes you.”

 

Posted in ageing, alcohol, blog, freshly pressed, humor, humour, life observations, linguistics, Pubs, The Gaylord, wordpress | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I Married a Chartered Accountant 3

Lady Barton St Mary has been busy hiring a car for our holiday in July. Her accountancy brain means that, like everything else, she has to do extensive research to get an agreeable price. Eventually, she found the best deal, which meant she needed a British Airways executive club card. Or, rather, my British Airways executive club card. I didn’t know I owned a British Airways executive club card. I went to look for it in my man drawer. This is where I keep all the plastic cards that Lady BSM has ordered in my name when opening a new account, but I rarely use them once they are stored in my man drawer, which would be the likely place to find my BA executive club card.

This is what I found:

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“This one expired in 2003!” and exasperated Lady BSM exclaimed, “and this one in 2005! You’ll have to cut them up.”

It appears that I have lots of accounts that may or may not be open. I still don’t know how many I have, not even how many relationships with individual financial institutions I have, in the words of my lovely wife.

By the way, my BA executive club card wasn’t there.

Posted in accountants, blog, blogging, blogs, comedy, comic characters, finance, humor, humour, Lady Barton St Mary, life observations, relationships | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Macca and cries – Paul McCartney in Birmingham

Puppy Fortunately, Lady BSM and I had the entire week off, with the added excitement of seeing Paul McCartney in Birmingham at The NIA, now known as The Barclaycard Arena, for goodness’ sake. The Sexton and Pen had also decided to come along, which was a bit of a surprise, since I never saw my friend The Sexton as a McCartney fan. In fact, when I announced on social media that we had purchased tickets, the reaction proved that Macca wasn’t universally liked. ‘Oh dear, never mind’, ‘He’s rubbish’, ‘My wife hates him’ were just a few of the comments I received. Yes, I was aware of the television appearances he had made regarding events toadying up to the royal family, when he appeared out of tune and out of time, but this was still Paul McCartney, a Beatle and one of the greatest living songwriters of the 20th century. We sat in the upper tier and waited for the show to begin*. I surveyed the crowd, which was different from the Al Stewart and Paul Simon/Sting audiences that I’d studied. This gathering included obvious Beatles fans, now diehard pensioners (perhaps diehard is the wrong adjective),Wings fans (my age group) and people in their 20s and 30s and kids. In short, everybody was represented. He was due to start at 7.30pm, but by 8pm, there was still no sign of him. They were playing all the old hits and showing photos through the decades on the big screens dwarfing the sides of the stage and for a moment I thought that by the time he comes on, we would have heard all the best songs. Of course, almost immediately I knew this was a foolish one. Earlier in the day, The Sexton had explained that Pen had asked if Paul McCartney had written many hit songs, a question The Sexton found to be incredulous. Of course, like the 45 minutes of McCartney/Wings/Beatles tracks we listened to, it would be impossible to name all of the great songs he’d written. Naming just a few would be like picking up a handful of stones on a pebble beach. By 8.10pm, the crowd were getting restless and McCartney was showing how it was done old rocker style. I tried to remain nonchalant, since this was just an opportunity to see somebody that I used to avidly follow as a teenager but didn’t listen to that much these days. The lights lowered. The crowd hushed then a ripple of applause spread out across the large auditorium. Paul McCartney appeared. OHMYWORDPAULMCCARTNEYIT’SPAULMCCARTNEYOHMYWORDMCCARTNEYIT’SPAULMCCARTNEY A voice shouted inside my head and I sprang to my feet, applauding like a seal on angel dust. The band launched into ‘Eight Days a Week’ and I was in raptures. You see, I’d forgotten how much of a fan I was. All those hours spent sharing a bedroom in our council house with my big sister and listening to The Beatles on her portable record player; being in that same room in my teens trying to play Wings guitar solos on my tennis racquet; at college and my early twenties, putting on McCartney’s solo albums. What’s more, his voice was good, the high register particularly so. He rattled through song after song: Can’t Buy Me Love, Listen to What the Man Said, Temporary Secretary, Let Me Roll It, Paperback Writer, Nineteen Hundred and Eighty-Five, The Long and Winding Road, Maybe I’m Amazed, I’ve Just Seen a Face… The only time his voice appeared to falter was during his rendition of’ Here Today’, his tribute to John Lennon, a track from the album ‘Flowers in the Dirt’. This could have been emotion or the fact he was being raised 30 feet into the air on a platform. During ‘For The Benefit of Mr Kite’ I realised that The Beatles never performed the song live and felt quite privileged. He looked great, even his hair looked a normal colour (Lady BSM said that perhaps the stage lights flattered it). ‘Live and Let Die’ reminded me that Wings were an all out rock band, with pyrotechnics, running around and fantastic musicianship. Shame I could never get a ticket to see them, so great was the demand at the time. He sang for nearly three hours, with two encores, including just Paul and a guitar to perform ‘Yesterday’. I left the NIA Barclaycard Arena with a big grin on my face, a bit like the people who sat next to The Sexton, who described them as ‘McCartney train spotters’. To all those of you out there who have decided that McCartney is a nuisance and a joke, I say this: I saw a Beatle, an influential member of the greatest band ever, who has written some of the greatest songs ever and can still perform for three hours without a break even in his seventies. I am still a fan, I’d just forgotten how much of one. We’re going to see Elton John tomorrow. No pressure, then, Elton.   *red lights, green lights, strawberry wine … Wings ‘trainspotter’ fans will get this reference. Name the song.

Posted in Al Stewart, blog, blogging, blogs, elton john, freshly pressed, humor, humour, life observations, music, Paul McCartney, wordpress | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment