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Here I am again. Pint of mango cider in one hand. Pencil in the other.
Unfortunately, it’s just a myth that women can multi-task, as there’s a puddle of cider working away at the varnish on one of The Brewery Tap’s fine tables. Oh well, the Bar Manager will forgive me when my blogging efforts bring in the crowds to empty the barrels. Won’t he?
I glance over at the aforesaid fella. Our favourite local Bar Manager’s the spitting image of Mr Dursley, and he’s as pissed as Dursley is bloated – with the bonus being that his mind’s absolutely not on the cider now dripping onto the once-shiny floorboards. I try to coax the resident border collie over for a quick drink, but he’s having none of it, being too busy trying to sober up his master via a generous showering of slobber.
Somehow, though, I think that our perky emcee, PJ, has spotted my blunder. Having flashbacks, are you, PJ? He’s still got PTSD from when I knocked gooseberry cider all over his brand-new deckchair at the Leestock Festival (a whole year ago!). Luckily, PJ’s in full throttle, threatening tonight’s audience with a taste of his very-special-adult humour.
Get off that platform, PJ! We want a real comedian! We want John Pearson!
On cue, John P, takes to the floor. He’s massive, and is in no need of a platform, his head’s already making a dint in the Tap’s ceiling.
Besides his resemblance to the BFG-tree crossbreed, then the thing I really love about John is that, like me, he’s passionate about the big Cs of life: ‘caves’ (hey, didn’t the BFG live in a cave, or was that the Grinch?), ‘chocolate, crisps and chlam ….’. Okay, I’m not hot on that last one, so can’t quite bring myself to finish the word.
Instead, I focus on the crisps.
Okay, perhaps not the crisps either. Because, the real truth is that I, Jay Cool, hate crisps with a passion. My first job was as a crisp factory packer – working night-shifts – and, believe me, the old trick with counting the sheep to get to sleep has never worked for me since. Instead, I’ve had to suffer a lifetime of night-time trauma – watching crisp packets jumping over a fence, thirty-six to each field, over and over and over.
I throw John P over the next gate – there’s no way I’m inviting him back to my cave (not after his blatant unkindness triggering off my PTSD)! But I hold onto the remainder of my cider because, being the cause of PJ’s PTSD, is actually quite a lot of fun!
And I move on to the next comedian, Sophie Weaver:
Sophie’s been a sit-down comedian, rather than a stand-up one, ever since (she claims) she ‘sat down at the age of eight and ‘never got up again’. Personally, though, I think that I can do one better:
I’d like to root myself down. In short, to become a tree. Trees, I’m led to believe, have an underground communications network. They can pass messages to their friends (and enemies), via an army of fungi messengers, without ever having to get off their arses – or take the brakes off their wheels – to go anywhere! Neither, Sophie, can they be pushed along by any control freaks. Trees can stay firm and keep their ground in any unpleasant situation (except, perhaps in a storm?).
So, you just go ahead and wheel yourself off, Sophie, because now I’m onto Rob Coleman. Not literally, mind; it’s true that he does claim to be a bit of a ‘babe magnet’, and I have to say that he is very cute:
But he’s no young Hasselhoff!
No, Rob’s cuteness is more of the Worzel Gummidge type – and he can look elsewhere for a Sally Ann!
But, I can see that Rob might have his uses. If I flip him over (no, not like that!), I’ll be able to mop up the ever-growing pool of cider that seems intent upon subsuming me.
Then, I take Rob by the handle and stick him in the Tap’s dungeon.
But, please don’t concern yourselves because, even if there’s no bondage gear down there, then Rob can laugh himself into oblivion on some excellent (so I’m told) Mole Trap beer!
With that mess all mopped up, PJ welcomes Helen of Norwich* onto the stage. This, she boasts, is only her ‘second trip out of’ her hometown, after ‘seven months of experimentation’.
Helen’s words remind me of being a sprog, dipping my toes in and out of some freezing-cold outdoor swimming pool – the only difference being that, even after seven years of experimentation, I wasn’t stupid enough to eventually jump on in!
But jump on in Helen does, and I’m not entirely sure why, when – as she says herself- she looks like a Timelord-Come-History Teacher, i.e. she could have arrived in style and crashed through The Tap’s roof in her Tardis. Or am I thinking of Willy Wonka’s lift?
(Try out the full Tardis experience yourself, courtesy of this bath towel from Amazon!)
Anyway, our Helen (having made it out of Norwich, she is now officially ours!), reveals that she’s the ‘anxious type’, and the official hoarder of all books related to anxiety, OCD and depression. It’s okay, Norwich Library, we know Helen owes you lots of money in fines, so feel free to recall her at any time.
Phew – the dark cloud of my SAD has lifted now that Helen’s gone. Summer is on its way and I’m stifling a giggle at John James, who’s just a touch pale for a sporty type.
John’s telling us he’s here to perform his Edinburgh Preview Act, but I’m guessing Edinburgh comes a second best to his primary venue – the gym in Transylvania’s Bran Castle.
In spite of appearances, though, Jamesy has everyone in stitches (didn’t Dracula create the monster in Frankenstein?), until he makes the fatal mistake of confessing his desire for Britain to leave the EU**. Suddenly, the atmosphere darkens, and something shifts into reverse gear – Mr Dursley takes the first bit, closely followed by his loyal border collie, and Jamesy is a blood-sucked goner!
Still thirsty, Mr Dursley doesn’t let us punters get our fair share of the free stuff, I decide it’s well-nigh time for that second (well, maybe third) pint of the mango juice.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2019
Image of David Hesselhoff courtesy of Wikipedia creative commons.
Photographs of comedians courtesy of Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s she-who-remains -anonymous photographer.
*Note to Helen of Norwich: Sorry, our resident photographer missed taking a snap of you! You’ll just have to venture out of Norwich again for a return visit to The Tap. But, this time, please pull in the punters by arriving in your Tardis!
**Note to Jamesy: Do you really want to be booted back permanently to his native Romania? Where will you find your fresh British ‘farm assured’ blood supplies?
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 