Down

Life is sometimes a bit of a duck’s bottom.

How?

Be Welcome Gentle Reader, and read on…

stories weardale

It’s a funny word, and has several and various applications.

It is of course, the fluffy stuff you can (if that way inclined) peel from a duck’s bottom. It grows in the little ducky places usually of interest only to other ducks and, presumably, down collection operatives.

Once collected it can be stuffed into a large cotton bag for the purposes of cosy sleep. This is why it must first be parted company from the duck, as sleeping under a sackful of disgruntled mallards[1] does not for a restful evening make.

 

“Down Down, deeper and down.”

Thus spake Messrs Rossi and Parfitt on the 1975 Staus Quo Hit, entitled… Down Down.

I’m not sure what the meaning was in this case, other than it was probably rude.

‘Down’ is also a directional indicator, and an emotional state and in these last two definitions we get closer, Gentle Reader, to the point.

It is in face, most useful when it follows the ancient English word p*ssing[2], with the optional addition of ‘it’.

 

Which is what, if you remember, it did last night[3].

And Guess Who was down to play an outdoors gig?

S’right. Us.

 

We have played Gibside (National Trust) several times before, and on each occasion enjoyed terrible weather, and this was no exception. The problem was that the storm was well heralded and much trumpeted by weather forecasters across the media.

So much so in fact that everyone knew about it, and drew their own conclusions as to the efficacy of an outdoor gig in a thunderstorm. They stayed away in droves, not that we can blame ‘em. We played indoors anyway, the sound was good and we played a longish set.

To the walls.

Ah well, such is the life of the Acoustic Duo, when it is chucking it Duck’s Bums from the heavens.

 

This week has been busy again, Cherryburn National Trust (no rain) outdoors and great, a library (slightly odd) and a care home – lovely. A bit of work and still attempting to get used to phased retirement. Some small progress made on the songwriting and learning new songs front. More Care Homes booking mean that we need more material. I do not much care for covers, but these gigs are somewhat different, both in purpose and style, so new songs it is – and some of them are great fun – big surprise to me. We still try to inject a bit of FG twist into them, hence half the fun. A club visit to – to Croxdale. Acoustic Chums and Gentle Readers alike might be interested to know there is a website for the club and a facebook page too. The website is here and the facebook page is best found on facebook – it is called, predictably enough, Croxdale Folk Club

 

The photos this week are of what we did and where we went, but also have a few more from Botton, which I failed to post midweek.

 

Which just leaves me with the latest news from Chairman Dave.

The now famous leader of The King’s Head and Washerwoman’s Legs Folk Club has been successful in rebuilding the club from an art house forward thinking venue into a traditional folk club, to the point where some evenings Dave is there by himself. Only, Dave is never alone. When by himself, he still has his friends. The talk to him, whisper and advise what to do next. It was his friends that suggested the club have a theme night based on the poetry of Fidel Castro, and the same voices prompted the ill fated attempt to re-record the entire catalogue of Martin Carthy, re-arranged for Kazoo and Shruti box. Well it seems that they have suggested a new project to stop him feeling down.

If I were a duck – I’d look out.

Oh, and don’t forget…

pathead
And so as the Folk Show of fate plays the final bars and somewhere, somehow Terry Ferdinand is trying to fade up, fade down and chat on Firmament Book all at the same time, we wish him well wherever he is now broadcasting.

Until next time Acoustic Chums,

Keep Strummin’

 

 

[1] With or without freshly peeled bums.

[2] Look; you didn’t tut when Shakespeare used it: ‘Monster, I do smell all horse piss, at which my nose is in great indignation’. The Tempest

[3] If you are reading the repeat, that would be last Saturday.

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