The Month of Mouth

What I did on my holidays by Jonathan H Smith, aged 32 and 4 days.

On Monday I got up and did work and then went to Devon, it was Sidmouth there, and then on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday we done folk and then crab and then clotted cream and then homity pie and then it was wet and then sunny and then cold and then hot and then not and then we had a paddle and a piddle and a fiddle and then we went home. The end, with bells on.

In other words: it was my birthday on Sunday, not sure if I've mentioned that yet. So in an attempt to spread the joy into neighbouring counties, using my powers of air fiddle and new found prowess at Charlie-sponsored ukulele fingering, a brace of family members & I embarked on a trip to the Devon-renowned Sidmouth Folk Week. Along with nearly a week of Big Bro, I inadvertently missed the ever present 'West Dorset, Nearly Dead, Lady-accordion Group'; although I was ambushed by the 'Get Your Balalaika's Out For The Lads String Combo'. No amount of hiding behind sundials could get their hideous twanging out of my face.

We managed to catch a snatch of Eliza Carthy & her Ratcatchers through a gash in her tent, but were denied access to its spacious interior, where there was Otter. The next day we foiled their dastardly plans to exclude us by using our tickets of gleaming paper to enter the drunken Scots Bernard Blackisms of Lau; but they upped their game by the evening by conveniently selling out of all of their bits of magic paper for Irish supremacists, Altan, so we had to catch a another snatch through the tented gash (my new favourite phrase).

Earlier in the day we had to contend with a gang of presumptuous Germans, who weren't fooling me with their faux West Country accents, stealing all the sun loungers. Yes there was sun! My skin is now glowing a glorious shade of Judith Charmers to match my new trouser shorts.

My next attempt to *insert my new favourite phrase here* of Eliza Carthy & Friends was foiled by the fiendish Rugby team, who hoisted the venue up above their nasty shoulders and proceeded to play hide & seek with it behind the church. By the time I had covered my eyes (no peeking) and counted to a hundred, the room was full; though a few dubious 'friends' bluffed their way into her inner sanctum.

More news from Sidmouth:

• Madame Gliddon is still not dead. For it was she who procured for me the forbidden nectar of Princess Leia toys in my youth, so I could chew their feet off.
  
• The MSC Napoli, grounded off Branscombe beach, is bewitched I tell you. It has miraculously reproduced asexually, and is now in two halves, one of which has mysterious shape changing abilities.
• John Kirkpatrick has a lot of friends, but the large man in front, who thought Miss Carthy was a bit bassy, found his playing slightly dated (a sixty year old making FOLK MUSIC, surely not) and had his fingers in his ears throughout the second half.
• The lunchtime Ceilidhs at the Anchor Inn are much more fun to watch than to participate in, partly because you can drink copious amounts of Otter without spilling it and partly so you can marvel at the sight of the know-it-all old woman in the white shirt getting it spectacularly wrong whilst being berated by the caller for being an arse.
• The crabs decided to take revenge on us for eating most of their family by despatching their tiniest member to nip my mum on the toe, causing whole milliseconds of agony and regret.

Currently listening: Stiffs Lovers Holymen Thieves by Tim Van Eyken