26 May
I Saw a Tiny Flower
During my early morning perambulations I encountered a wondrous sight. A tiny, purple flower, defiantly growing through a crack in a large expanse of concrete. I was only moving the palettes of tinned gooseberries in order to give it access to direct sunlight and allow it to reach its full glory on this fine morning. Sainsbury's are trying to get back at me for the accidental destruction of their delivery van on Tuesday. To suggest I was stealing the gooseberries is an absurdity. I can't eat the things. They make my bot fizzle.
27 May
The Royal College of Nursing Banjo Marathon
Sod! I should have twigged when I saw the word "marathon". Must buy a dictionary one of these days. Tonight's gig starts at 7 o'clock sharp but goes on until the last virtuoso Florence Nightingale drops. That could mean me wheezing out my harmonium accompaniment right through the weekend. If some of these seasoned strummers keep going on Kendal mint cake and oxygen I could very well collapse in a heap before they do.
Groida is coming along to keep me company, but I've hidden his violin. He is also the appointed nosh wallah. Working on the assumption that the official supply of grub will run out, he is bringing a hamper of essentials (black pudding, Pringles, sherbet fountains) and a primus stove with mess tins. If it comes to it he can always nip down to South End Green for some sausages and eggs.
I am not taking any chances with the traffic. We set off at noon and start loosing off the Stinger missiles as soon as we get a sniff of Bank Holiday weekend motorists. Does anyone remember the old Space Invaders game?
Apparently we will be starting proceedings with a limber-up. I suppose there will be a klaxton or whistle or somesuch, but I'll ask nicely if I can give a 21-round fusillade on the riot shotguns. Then off we go; A roomful of nursing's finest, bone-hard fingers a mere blur, in an ensemble performance of "Rivers of Babylon". Segovia and Oddjob, eat your hearts out!
P.S. Groida has a touch of croup, so I'll make him wear his scarf. As if I didn't have
enough to worry about. Will keep you posted. I may be some time ...
28 May
They Shoot Nurses, Don't They?: RCN Banjo Marathon Report - Day 2
So far, so good. Several stretcher cases. Exhaustion and friction injuries. Some of the poor mites' hands look as if they've opened letter bombs. As predicted, the two of us had demolished the buffet by midnight. One of the organisers said Groida and I were like a pair of locusts. I had to point out that neither of us were, but had any been invited, they would have made a great rhythm section.
Big G has got the primus going and is frying up some sausages, bacon, mushrooms, eggs etc at the rear of the stage. Some killjoy started quoting health & safety rules at us, but it really isn't that much of a hazard. There's smoke, I'll grant you, but there always is with lard and the ventilation isn't brilliant in here. I can make out the keyboard well enough to play. The black notes anyway.
I can't believe we've only been going for just over 12 hours. The tunes are beginning to fuse together in me head like some sort of brainwashing carousel music. Ever seen "The Ipcress File"? "My name is Ambrose the Colossal Praying Mantis. My name is Ambrose ..." Must find a bent nail somewhere.
Ah well, Groida is about to serve up brekkers. The scrotum-featured imbecile forgot to pack the tinned tomatoes. Do I have to do everything myself? We've got about 20 mins to get our scoff down while the relief accompanists, a strange bunch of Albanians with clarinets, toot away. Then back to the grindstone. "Beautiful Dreamer" followed by "Lip Up Fatty". It could only happen in NW3. Don't forget to write.
29 May
The RCN Banjo Marathon Report - Day 3
Our competitors were dropping like flies overnight, leaving just a determined pocket of hardcore enthusiasts. However, they all seem to be running on empty now, so with a bit of luck we could be finished by tea time. Talking of which, Groida came up with a nice snack for us yesterday. Faced with a bewildering choice at the mini-mart, he did a supermarket sweep of two items and invented the biltong & hot cross bun sarnie. The Earl must be rotating in his grave, but strangely enough the combination works. The only drawback is I let one fly last night and it smelled like a burning tyre.
Anyway, we've now got an additional relief accompanist in the form of a matron from Bangkok with a gargantuan oriental tuba. It isn't the most dignified instrument to play (or to listen to) but it puts out one hell of a noise. Sounds like the last gasps of an elephant tired of life. Can't hear the banjos for the racket. Sadly it hasn't discouraged any of this remaining bunch of strumming stalwarts to head for home. Groida confided in me that his Uncle Lucas used to play "air euphonium" to records of the Black Dyke Mills Band when he was younger. Unfortunately one day he got over-excited, crouched down in readiness for the low C in the Volga Boat Song and ruptured himself.
That group of Albanian clarinetists, on closer inspection, appear to be quintuplets and bear an unsettling resemblance to Charles Aznavour. I suspect they are secret Armenians. I'd even wager a tin of pineapple rings in natural juice that they are all mini-cab drivers from Tufnell Park and only busk to supplement their incomes. Groida seems to be an object of curious fascination for them. I hope they don't revere and venerate his ilk, as some cultures do. We had all that trouble with the Aborigines last year when he tried to foment civil unrest. "Ancestral god and purveyor of ancient wisdom". More fool them.
Anyway, these swarthy dwarf woodwind players of uncertain nationality seem genuinely concerned about Big G's croup and have been offering him swigs from the bottle they've been passing amongst themselves. He says it tastes like the Tizer they serve at the Dorchester, so I can't see how that is going to do him any good, except possibly as an emetic. I hope he doesn't get too pally with this shower. I smell trouble and I'm not sure who is going to come off worst.
Oops! I'm back on again. Next up are Come Into the Garden Maude and My Ding-a-Ling. Will keep you posted on events. If this lot hasn't hit the deck by 10 tonight, I may have to start pressing a few wrong keys. Duck, you suckers!
But there was worse to come before Saturday evening was over ...
The RCN Banjo Marathon - Breaking News
Janet Radcliffe Richards! Groida has got hold of a violin! Those bloody Aznavour quins have been plying him with Armenian Tizer all day and now he has taken to the stage and is doing his Pincers Zuckerman routine, even more off-tune than usual and punctuated by hiccups, croup and bottom quacks. He only stops every now and again while he tries to remember what tune he is supposed to be playing (and latterly what instrument). I think I'll shoot one of the clarinet players (a) to create a diversion, (b) to make me feel better and (c) as a prelude to murdering all five. Actually I want to press the harmonium's auto-destruct button, I'm so embarrassed!
30 May
The RCN Banjo Marathon - Post Mortem
If anyone is in any doubt, let me make it clear that I have never deliberately or knowingly killed anyone. Okay, I may boast a bit occasionally but sometimes a fearsome reputation is worth a thousand threats.
Today, Groida and most of North-West London are lucky to be alive. If I had not exercised restraint with the breathtaking weaponry at my disposal last night, a lot of people would need sweeping up with a dustpan and brush.
Shall we start with that cretinous buffoon I have the misfortune to waste my precious time on? Frankly, I'd skin him alive were it not for his impregnable carapace.
It isn't so much that I spent the early hours of this morning traversing Hampstead Heath in Y Nauci 14 looking for him, all twenty searchlights blazing. It isn't that he caused me to disturb a nocturnal alfresco masonic gathering (several respectable-looking gentlemen bolted from the undergrowth, hastily adjusting their trousers). Nor do I fail to recognise his ability to multi-task; running, roaring and widdling simultaneously. Clever Lad. Give him a Caramac. It isn't even because after his consumption of vast quantities of Armenian Tizer and his resultant delirium, he seems none the worst for wear.
No. What sends my antennae up like chopsticks is after nearly three days of labouring over an increasingly emphysemic harmonium without a nod of appreciation, the Royal College of Nursing takes the unfathomable decision to present him with a "special achievement award" for his crazed assault on a defenceless violin and the resultant damage to the hearing and psyches of all present. It is beyond my comprehension.
After chaining him to the back of the harmonium and dragging him home, I put him to work making us some pilchard quiche and butterscotch Angel Delight for tea. He can mutter "but what have I done wrong?" as many times as he likes. It will be many days to come before I give him a friendly poke in the eye and we resume our playful hostilities.
As for those stunted Aznavour quins, they slipped away from my grasp. But I'll have the sods. As Janet Radcliffe Richards is my witness. My arm is long, my vengeance is total and the harmonium is being tuned up. I wonder if they work at the Dorchester?
The pace didn't ease up as Derby Day approached ...
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