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Ginger. The best hair colour on this planet. The colour of the sun and the colour that drew me into Dinsdale’s world.
But, in hoping for a trip out of the spring and into the summer, instead, I was taken by the hand and rather forcefully taken for a viewing of Baba Yaga’s cooking pot. I can’t say that I was smitten by the view and, having narrowly avoided being simmered and peppered by the old girl, I did a runner into the depths of a dank-dark-freezing-cold forest.
I had the good fortune to come across a pre-built shack and decided to take cover. My new accommodation was far from ideal, as it turned out to also be pre-inhabited, by a cross old man and his grotty grandson.
The pair of them made a good cover for me, both being so skinny from a diet of Jew’s ears and worms that Baba Yaga just wasn’t interested in them. Little did she know that they were providing sanctuary to the plumpest of her escapees.
Settling down on a bed of leaves, I continued with my read. Would there be a happy ending for all? Would the young boy ever become a skilled enough hunger to catch a hare for his grandad’s supper? Would the poor-old dear, Baba Yaga, find meat for her pot – enough to justify the running costs of all that simmering?
Could I expect a guest appearance from the Gingerbread man?
Only one way to find out ….
Oh, and feel free to join me in my lodgings, but I’m in it for the long haul, so please, please, please bring a couple (perhaps four – mustn’t neglect my hosts) of double-winter-tog sleeping bags, a barrel of warm-mulled wine, and a plentiful supply of high-energy-ginger biscuits, and …. a reading torch?
And, first comedian on the billing at The Brewery Tap this evening.
I’m surprised when Adam starts on about all the psychology books he’s read. Psychology being mostly about individual behaviour, its hardly something a one and only would need to read up on. With all the time and space he’s had for self-analysis, surely Adam knows all he needs to know already. Not surprisingly, he starts claiming he didn’t quite comprehend where the last book was going, whilst confessing that he ‘was reading too much into it’.
Of course you wouldn’t ‘get it’, Adam, and no you are not dyslexic – reading hadn’t been invented when you first made your appearance!
Oh! Oh, yes I see! Yes, Adam, you are very likely right. Perhaps, I am ‘reading too much’ into the connotations of your name. Perhaps, you are not: a loner, a man without any backbone (sorry, rib-bone), or a feral beast!
Shame about the feral bit – us ladies of Sudbury (inclusive of Salopian infiltrators), are in desperate need of a bit of rough, of wild adventure and untamed pheromones. Still, one mustn’t be too greedy; one can’t have it all and you are hilariously compelling (sorry, repelling) for a day-job-wiping-arses kind of a man.
After a quick spray-down, courtesy of our compere PJ (who always carries on his person, a can of Tesco’s best air freshener), we are treated to …
Ed Sheeran.
I’m guessing he’s not really called Ed Sheeran, but as this is his opening joke, the label has stuck. At least, it’s stuck with me, because the very mention of that name gets me high on an imagined overdose of sweaty armpit pheromones (with a generous scoop of ginger spice thrown in). And, judging by the wrist and hand action going on, then I’m not the only one taking the high road. Ed’s professes to be a ‘mind reader’ but, when I consider our mutual journey, his claim that men are ‘crude’ and women are ‘nice and lovely’ puts paid to his delusion.
Disenchanted, I turn my attention to our next entertainer – PJ! But, I forget to take a photo of our handsome emcee, so seeing as his best joke involves broccoli, this will have to suffice:
PJ arranging broccoli whilst pooing
I move swiftly on to full coverage of comedian Adam Bromley, embracer of all things mud-pasted and vegan.
Luckily, courtesy of a PJ special, then I have just the thing for you Adam …
image from flickr.com (creative commons)
Fertiliser is vegan, isn’t it? But Adam’s fully engrossed calling himself posh, boasting about his knowledge of ‘Latin’ and laughing at his own jokes. I try to interject to ask him about the Latin name for poo, but he’s in full flow, hopping all over pub and bouncing up and down on top of the punters. Seems he’s keen to validate his ADHD diagnosis.
It’s okay Adam! Calm down, we believe you. You don’t have to give as good as you get – at least, not with regards to ongoing offerings from PJ!
deviantart.com (creative commons)
At that, I depart ways with Adam, and move onto my hot favourite – the one and only Ali Warwood!
I love Ali, and it really doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’s been born and bred on the fringes of Wolverhampton (like myself), or the fact that the name Warwood features on my family tree. The real, totally objective, reason that I love Ali is because …. ermmmh!
Is because, as a mother, I’m right there with her about the Sudocrem anecdote. It’s not a great thing to put Sudocrem on a scab that turns out to be Weetabix, but neither is it, in my case, to paste fungal cream upon a Cheerio posing as ringworm, and then to mistake the result for a Polo mint! (Warning: Don’t eat fungal cream! Elmlea makes a suitable alternative!)
And, no I won’t give away any more of Ali’s gags. If you want more, go and see her at the Cambridge Fringe on the 26th May!
In the meantime, with Ali done, it’s time for the real highlight of my evening – my second pint of mango cider!
On this day, this ordinary Thursday, I find myself stuck for inspiration.
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 