Nobby

This week, a slight change of direction, a revision to editorial style. On reflection, ‘style’ isn’t possibly the word I was looking for.

So some things might change. There might even be a Parental Advisory on this edition…

Not everything changes though.

Be Welcome, Gentle Reader, and read on.

I’ll quickly dispense with the news and then get straight to the rubbish.

This week, a great U3A show, then a race down the A19 for a guest spot at Pickering Acoustic Music, which was really great fun – lovely folks and a great room: if you are down that way, drop in at The Sun Inn on a Wednesday, and say hello. Then a race back up the A19 as more work the next day led to a Care Home set, which was lovely. It was an important Birthday for Betty, and it was nice to see her enjoy it.

Talking of which, we have had a family get-together this weekend, with members of the Westley clan gathering from the four corners of the empire. The purpose might have been to mark an occasion on the timeline of Mrs Wrinkly-Wroadie, but of course, she can’t be in that numerical locality.

Or anywhere near it.

However, at 40 in each leg, it seemed a good excuse to gather the tribes.

I am still drying out.

Not that Mrs W-W partook of strong beverage.

Not at all.

No, in the restaurant, she remained the soul of propriety, and ne’er touched a drop.

The fact that she was bladdered when she came out might have something to do with that.

Anyway, it most certainly is NOT an Octogenarian celebration.

So: happy 21st Pauline!

Nobby Knackernutt was a very nice lad.

He just wasn’t a very clever lad.

Hence he was known by all of my class, Class 2b at Gas Street Primary, as Knobby Knackernutt.

He called himself Dave, Nobby’s Mum called him Dave; but we all knew him, rather fondly, as Nobby.

He was great was Nobby, he just got everything wrong. He could be tasked with counting his own important little bits and get the answer wrong.

Which is why he got called Knackernutt.

He’d do anything you told him. If you told him to spend playtime showing Big Janice in Class 3 his wossname, then he would.

That’s why he’d spend the rest of the day with an ice pack down the front of his trousers[1].

Then there were art lessons. We all wanted to be in Nobby’s group because he did that thing where he stuck his brush in funny places, then tried to paint a cat.

One art lesson, it didn’t look much like a cat, but it was hilarious.

Then Mr. Dale caught him painting, as it were, hands-free and he didn’t think it hilarious.

Which is why Nobby had to move the ice pack to the back of his trousers.

All of which nonsense came back to me on a recent excursion to a Folk Night which shall remain nameless.

No really, wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me[2].

The main act was a singer songwriter who was armed with a loaded acoustic guitar. The guitar strings were in tune, but they were in tune with the strings on six other guitars. His voice was in tune with a seventh. His songs were self-penned.

Or crayoned.

They dealt with the dramas of contemporary life, if buying a Chinese Takeaway counts as a drama. The chorus was all about the rice.

His set was utterly entertaining and extremely painful. It was forty minutes too long, not bad for a twenty minute spot.

By the end, he seemed a bit familiar, and after his final crucifixion of an Oasis number, he came over.

“Hello – it’s Steve isn’t it?”

I sighed.

“Hello Nobby” I said.

Everything in this blog is of course entirely true.

On reflection, true-ish is probably a better word.

Even if it doesn’t exist, it’s still a better word.

Many of the adventures chronicled herein require the application of a fictional veneer[3] to protect the true identities of the places, events or people.

Like Nobby.

All of it though, has a basis in fact.

A bit like a song really.

See?

See?

See?

I got there in the end – oh ye of little faith.

When writing a song, fact is generally the starting point. However once the train pulls out of the station, it is likely to wend its way through the countryside of Fancy, stopping at important stations of fact along the route.

Who was it that said, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story”?[4]

Well, it works well for me, when weaving the threads of something that you want people to believe, but simultaneously be entertained and engaged by.

And sometimes that means engaging the listener with a small shiny bauble.

There might be one, or perhaps two.

How many in this blog?

Just ask Nobby.

And so as the bauble count of fate skyrockets past two, and the believability of local blogwriters is seriously compromised, I notice that it is the end of this edition.

Until next time, Acoustic Chums,

Keep Strummin’

Especially jiva.

[1] Fierce lass Janice. I think she now runs Germany.

[2] A fiver might do it, but wild horses have no chance.

[3] Sometimes the veneer is four feet thick and armour plated. Sometimes the described event might never have happened in the first place, which is apt to confuse the issue.

[4] It was Mark Twain.

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