Living it up when it's pouring down

Any lingering desire to attend Glastonbury and its inevitable mud-bath has been firmly quashed by the relentless deluge which accompanied our sojourn to Hyde Park to see veteran rockers Aerosmith. With Loved One and Rocker/Rockette in tow, we establish ourselves in our traditional spot in front of the sound desk, and settle in for the evening. In order to insure we didn't lose anyone from our party we built a lager, er, laager around ourselves, which lasted about a minute before it was trampled carelessly into the mire by myself. Undaunted, we bought another forty pints and prepared ourselves for former Soundgarden front man, Chris Cornell, to ponce about on stage. Since mowing off his locks and starting up Audioslave with the former Rage against the Machine crew, Cornell has lost it IMHO. The nadir of his career being, as any fule kno, the utterly wet Bond theme, for which he should be brutally coshed. I, however, am man enough to overlook this descent into naffdom, especially as he does a smokin' rendition of 'Jesus Christ Pose' - my all time favourite Soundgarden choon. Temporarily placated, I went on the first of many grueling journeys to the portaloos to download urine. There will be a nobel prize for the first person who perfects festival ablutions, but probably not in this century. I opt for the cover of the trees and irrigate an oak in the company of an extremely inebriated man, who appeared to be weeping while he wee'd. Asking no questions I waded back to base, tramping on endless feet and receiving hearty abuse from all and sundry. I return in time for Jet to come on and ask me whether I'm going to be their girl, which I have to politely decline. These Aussie boys do good and the crowd are well primed for a hard n' heavy dose of the 'Smith. We've been joined by T n' E who've miraculously found us in the human storm and look both fresh, dry and sober in comparison to our sodden, sozzled selves.

So on to the main course and here is Steve Tyler in a fetching 10 gallon hat and traditional mike scarf, belting out the classics like he'd never taken every drug in creation and drank most of the Jack Daniels in America. These ancient rock gods must have some truly unique DNA to allow them to recover from a life of debauchery sufficiently enough to be able to do it one mo' time for the fans. I'm hoping to osmotically absorb some of this magic elixir, as I feel a monumental hangover may be in the offing. Rocker has taken on the wild eyed mentalist look I know and love and abandons us suddenly to go off in search of rockette; that's the last we see of them then. This us unfortunate, because 'Walk this way' is brilliant to hear, as are all the old faithfuls, and Joe Perry lashes his machine with his usual lascivious intensity (You can just make him out, leaning back on the drum stacks above.) Hell, it even looks like Gerard Depardieu has joined the band, tho we may be mistaken. My trendy jacket has confirmed that the term 'shower proof' means exactly that and not a drop heavier, and I seem to have inherited Rockette's leather stockman's hat. Praise the Lord for sober friends with a car, as we inch towards Hyde Park Corner and the sanctuary of a Mini Cooper. Thanks for making it out there kids and even more thanks for getting us home. Now, has anyone heard from Rocker?

B

Manc's for the memories

Ah yes, those photo shop filters never cease to amuse. This is mostly to disguise the starry look in Loved One's eye and the flushed skin of Billsworth. A trip to Manchester inevitably involves the odd drink, and Saturday night was no exception. Rather than ease our way into the afternoon with a genteel glass of chenin blanc and polite banter, a keg of Dethmuller was cracked open and plonked down next to some jugs of Sangria. As I'd already opened a Magners, I was mildly concerned that we may have been leaping into proceedings with unnecessary enthusiasm. Come 7 o'clock, we'd polished all that off and were violating the odd bottle of red. Come 8, we seemed to suddenly be on Brandy Sours. Come 9 I recall Disarrano and Christ preserve us, was that tequila? Come ten, an element of nudity is creeping in, nipples are being flashed and there is random falling over. Come eleven, we are discordantly abusing the Rocky Horror back catalogue and the jaunty labrador pup has turned into some crazed hellhound, all glowing eyeballs and salivating jaws, or was that just me in the bathroom mirror? Come twelve and I appear to be back on the Magners, and the last taco shell is dribbling into Loved One's hair from her brother's mouth. I'm hoping by 1 we'd gone to bed, please let it be so.

Ah well, at least we scored a bargain on a sofa thanks to Grand-ma-age, hopefully one day soon we'll have a house to put it in.

B

For more evidence visit flickr

Wood sprite

Having never actually been to Wimbledon Common despite setting off there with great intent on a number of occasions, I was pleasantly surprised. There are a number of fairytale forests you can disappear into and not see a soul for hours, apart from random joggers and the odd slavering Labrador. Juju and Chatsie had provided a hearty chicken for us to gorge on and a fine selection of tarts to appease our sugar cravings. The children disappeared into the primordial bracken from time to time for a game of not really hide and please seek me a bit quicker thanks. The sludge infested pond revealed all manner of exciting bugs and gelatinous plant life for study, and many minute frogs fled for their lives as small fingers scrambled after them. Altogether a very pleasant day and one which I would prefer to blog about rather than the house hunting farging nightmare we seem to be embroiled in yet again. I'll leave it at then shall I?

B

Boules-up

The fiendish look of concentration, the pursed lips, the hurtling chunk of metal, it can only be the Boule d'Or. Once again we gathered in Cleaver Sq, to chuck over-sized goons at a small wooden pig/ball. Once again we were horribly trounced by practically everyone. I'm not sure what it is about our boule skills. We seem perfectly adept, yet still we find ourselves suckling the proverbial hind tit. I would like to lay blame at the sandaled feet of Au Savage and the Bernmiester, but sadly I am equally at fault. We just literally and metaphorically, drop the boule, but nowhere near that tedious little pig. Still, it was a very pleasant day, the Oranjeboom flowed free and we were united in our despondency. In the coming year, we should really entertain the thought of actually practicing a bit, rather than waiting for the next d'Or to come around before raising our wrists. Crazy talk I know, but we want to win that cake and those marzipan boules, God I could almost taste them!

B