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Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Never mind a fat naked man on a bike, here's a thin man on the recorder...

WhiteyThat's Jarvis Cocker playing 'Caucasian Blues' at the Brighton Dome last night. He said that when setting out to write a blues song for caucasians, he tried to think of the whitest possible instrument, and came up with the descant recorder. Personally I'd have gone for the triangle too. They're the only two instruments Lisa can play.

Anyhoo, last night was the second evening that Lisa and I have spent in the company of Mr Cocker, but the first in which he played more than three songs. I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse. Having greatly enjoyed his lecture at the Brighton Festival last year, I'd have been quite happy for him not to sing this time around. I find him hugely entertaining as a person, but I'm not sure music's his forte. Naturally Lisa disagrees.

On the plus side, the man more than makes up for his lack of a singing voice with sheer likeability, stage presence, sense of humour and the ability to thrash his arms and legs around like a madman for ninety minutes straight. Unfortunately that does mean that most of my photos look like a scene out of Ghostbusters...

Pulp Friction
I'm sure that's ectoplasm coming out of his armpits.

Anyhoo, I'm not saying Lisa and I are old, but we did manage to get through a whole packet of Werther's Originals during the concert last night. That was one of the highlights for me. As was the woman sitting directly in front of us, who sent a series of highly intriguing text messages in full view of me and anyone else who was leaning over her shoulder straining to read them. The first said "Thanks for dying my stuff. I'm wearing it now", but my personal favourite was "Thanks for sorting me out today. Hope your tootsies don't hurt too much". I'm still trying to form a mental image of that one.

After a late night last night, I had to drive up to Crowborough this morning, where I met all manner of interesting people, including the tennis correspondent of a national newspaper. He'd just returned from a fortnight in Paris watching the French Open, and was on his way down to Eastbourne before heading for Wimbledon next week. But if you think a life spent travelling the world and being paid to sip complimentary red wine in the press box at professional tennis tournaments sounds pretty good, you'd be wrong. Apparently when you have the best seats in the house every day, the dust from those clay courts really sticks in your throat.