Friday 22nd November 2019

Friday.

At last, my old friend.

And my head says lets get back on the cross trainer, and my should says fuck that for a game of soldiers.

So I don't.

Friday is Jools' early morning yoga session, and she must leave the house by ten past six, which means that we are up, heating on and drinking coffee before six.

She leaves, and I call my friend Tony in NZ. It is amazing that I we call our contacts on Facebook, for free, and just talk like they were in the same room. OK, there is a delay and they are using our date to subvert democracy, still, the technology behind it is amazing.

After half an hour, I have to get ready for work, scan some bills for travel expenses, then get the home office gear out, make a fresh brew and get down to sorting the fresh issues of the day out.

It is a slow day, outside it is a cold and gloomy day, not fit for walking in, so I find stuff to do, plan my activities for the new year, and finish preparations for my trip to Denmark next week.

Have lunch.

Do some more work.

And thats that.

I pack up at three, watch something on TV, waiting for Jools to come home with the week's shopping, which we put away, have a coffee. And then the exciting stuff.

The exciting stuff is an actual gig.

Dover now has a venue, we've been a few times, but not for a year. And this week one of the original UK punk bands, the UK Subs were playing. A work colleague, Pete, said he wanted to come, and my orchid loving friend, Henry, was also a fan.

So plans were made for Pete to come over from Thanet, and Henry to come over from Sussex, meet in Cullins Yard for a pre-gig drinks and a meal. And banter.

Cullins Yard is a bar-cum-restaurant down by the marina, has a nautical flavour, but does a good line in beers and food. We arrive an hour early, so decide to have an early dinner instead of waiting for the others.

Fish and chips was good, as were the pints of Broadside I had, though the chips did lay heavy.

Pete arrived with his "colleague", Lizzie, and so did Henry. We moved to a big table and wJools and I had another drink, the others had food, and we talked about all sorts of things; music, orchids, work.

Meanwhile a jazz trio was setting up.

We hoped this would be a trad jazz band, rather than the noodling kind. But our fears were realsied when they started, Jazz noodling to the extreme.

Not nice.

We leave and walk along Townwall Street to the old Harbour Station, show our tickets as the support band takes the stage. A local band that does a set of punk standards. And a George Michael cover.

Seriously.

They were OK, and set the mood well.

The UK Subs have been going for over 40 years, and are lead by Charlie Harper still, who is 75 years old: the same age as my Mum was. But Charlie is not giving up now.

He is not as movable as he used to be, then who is. But he is punk as it gets, climbs on stage, abuses us in a lovable way, then the music starts, and he barks along.

And this continues for an hour.

A group of drunken men, roughly my age, threw themselves around the area in front of the stage, shouting along to the shouty songs. Tey were happy has pigs in shit.

I knew two songs they played, didn't matter, as most songs sounded the same anyway, and the drunken bums in front, slamming into each other, loved it.

The end came just after ten.

We were all hot and sweaty, and our ears were ringing.

Pete offered to drive me home. So we walked back to the promenade where his 400 hp Audi was parked, and it growled its way up Jubilee Way to St Maggies. The exhaust was so loud, it nearly drowned out the Ramones in concert album were trying to listen to with our ringing ears.

And that was that, nearly eleven and time for bed.