This is a serious publication.

Oh, yes, it deals with the stuff of decision, the matters of moment, things that musicians and drummers need to know. Some people seem to think that the accounts in this blog are made up.

How very dare they.

Every word is true.

Just ask my friend Harvey, the giant rabbit.

Be Welcome, Gentle Reader, and read on…


My face just doesn’t fit.

I’m sure that comes as a surprise to you all, as my aquiline good looks are legendary all across this Manor.

In fact natural beauty such as mine could have made someone less gifted quite big-headed.

(I’ll need to read that a few times myself before I understand it, so you haven’t a hope.)

No, it’s just that my fizzog, pleasing to the eye or otherwise, just doesn’t fit the demographic.

Whenever we are walking through shopping area, there is seems to be a bloke in a sharp, cheap suit, or a young lady of the Battleclass Bimbo, clutching a large clipboard. At their feet is a box, tub or suitcase full of freebies.

I have no idea what they are, the quality of the items or where you would stick ‘em if you got ‘em, but that’s not the point.

They’re free and we want ‘em.

However, like the family who had the room next door to the stable, there’s no gifts coming our way.

The clipboard holds a survey.

The survey has a target audience.

And that’s where my face don’t fit.

The eyes of the operatives flicker across the face of all who trundle down the thoroughfare; some fit the demographic, and the smile is flicked on, suggesting the operative might also function as a lighthouse.

But when the scrutiny falls upon us, the eyes flicker (probably with disgust) and move on.

We never get asked.

I suppose if there is a survey for funeral plans or incontinence pants I might stand a chance.

However, there is an exception to this golden rule.

Guitar shops.

I fit right in there all right.

As soon as I go in, there must be a neon sign lights up above my head that pulses in yellow-green light the word ‘MUG’.

This is especially true of a well-known music shop locally, that I cannot name but is the one with the big Windows.

As soon as I cross the threshold some temporary friend appears in from of me obscuring the guitars.

“Hello Mate?” they quoth cheerily.

“No thanks”, I reply “we’ve only just met”.

This does not put them off.

They clearly think I’m stupid (that’s entirely possible) and very rich (that’s not) as they ask a couple of facile questions and try to steer me to the expensive end of the rack. Taylors and Martins are very nice.

Mostly very nice.

But I don’t want one.

Truth to tell, all I want is a few minutes vacantly gazing at the wooden wonders driven only by idle curiosity, before I wander out again, pausing only to inform an assistant that you can get them cheaper in the internet.

That usually endears me to the establishment.

But no, would Sir like to try the new Taylor 912 CE. It has an abalone ashtray and self-righting tuners. It comes with a year’s supply of anti-snot wipes and a hard case that you could crawl inside in the event of a nuclear attack[1]. It has a fretboard inlay that features the backsides of all the members of Steely Dan rendered in gold and the wood it’s made from can only be found on Mars.

During the winter.

No, Sir would not.

Sir would like you to remove your fawning features from my immediate vicinity, and if time allows, Sir wouldn’t mind if you plonked your cheeky bits on page 402 of the ‘How to Sell Guitars handbook’, and slammed it shut.

I only came in for a plectrum.

As I left the shop, I noticed a bloke in a slightly shabby suit, wielding a clipboard with a large box of ‘Big Boy Nappies’ at his feet. He caught my eye and smiled brightly.

I hurried on.


This week has been the usual silliness. Four gigs (two on one day, and both using the full show) and a club visit. We went to The Iron Horse on Monday evening and it was nice to see a very well supported club. Run as always by the affable John, the usual regulars were out in force. It was nice to see folks we’ve not seen for a while, including the World Champion Spoon Player himself, Mr. Bert Draycott – still I am delighted to report as ‘Bertie’ as ever.

The photos are courtesy of The Wrinkly Wroadies, who managed just enough time with snouts out of glasses to take them[2].

Thanks to folks who looked at the new website, it seems to be going well enough if Google Analytics are anything to go by[3].

The final word this week must concern Hilda. Last week it was Rachel and her operatic singing, this week it’s Hilda. We went to see her and some of her friends this week. She’s 95 and in a wheelchair. She hasn’t much speech, but she certainly has a laugh. It sounds like a mixture of Sid James at his lecherous worst and a wildly oscillating sheep. Add to it a little giggle and a hiccough, and you’re there. We know she enjoyed herself just because she produced this wonderful sound for an hour.

Fantastic – Merry Christmas Hilda.


And so, as the salesperson of fate approaches the customer of destiny and discovers a fast track to the ambulance of justice, I notice it’s the end of this blog.

Until Next Time, Acoustic Chums,

Keep Strummin’








[1] You would still die. It’s a guitar case. What are you –stupid?

[2] Some readers may think that I am disrespectful to the Wrinkly Wroadies. Oh, I do hope so…

[3] Oh, go on then:



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