Conkers, Violins & Fat Moons

Conkers, Violins & Fat Moons,
Everything that's wonderful is what I feel when we're together.
Wetter than a lucky sweat gland,
When you're near the neck boil disappears, dear,
And I feel so weird just to know that you've no beard.

My life is conkers, violins & fat moons,
That's how this refrain goes, so come on, join in everybody!

Or not, then. Instead I will snook my runny snot back up into my nose in honour of every lady's favourite sweaty fiddler, Seth Lakeman, but first I must unfurl the mysteries of the medium of cassette for the mum-sponsored, outbound journey of excitement. On this cold, balmy night in Southampton, with the unmysterious, regular sized moon low in the sky, and only the illusion shattering sound of alpine quacking in the middle distance to shatter the freezing silence; we join the disorderly queue outside the gilded hall for mugs and bows. Behind us Kelly is fobbed off with an overpriced beer and no hope of a hand shandy, as the west bar begins its long hibernation.

Ben's Brother take to the stage, and a long dispute begins with the Lymmington contingent as to if one of them was not in fact Ben's, but Seth's brother. Mucho high-tech ticket scanning is performed by the door monkeys as we negotiate our way into the open air leper colony. We return in time for Teddy Thompson's new and disappointing Dolly Parton direction, before the Lakeman-inspired jumping, jigging, honking, hooting, whooping and yeah babying begins. We turn our noses up at a banquet of finger lickin', lip smackin' chicken and the evening ends with a menu of crackers & pop cheese.


Currently listening: La Radiolina by Manu Chao