Choose Life, Choose Blog, Choose Not to Watch Sequels…

Being a little out of touch with such things, I was recently astounded to see a sequel to a famous slice of British counter culture cinema littering the cheap end of a local McColl’s video stand. Like all reunion gig covers, this one was emblazoned with the font and colour schemes that you will have recognised from the first time around, only this time glazed with middle age and the many furrows of times gone by. You hope that means the playlist comes with journeyman growth and a richer, honeyed soul, but inevitably it’s more likely to mean that the performers just cannot reach the high notes anymore. Worse still, the reunion is going to be acoustic with seating for everyone, regardless of whether or not you have legs that are still utility enough for the task of standing up.

But hey, the cover still looks good; like a new-wave Remington advertisement that’s forgotten how to open its aperture. That said, good on all of them. I hope I’m every shade of wrong about what I’ve said. I’m just going to not know either way.

In truth I’m still in the process of not knowing much at all since Arthur and I were indulged by a beery named Tom into an evening of worldly real ale tasting. The cans weren’t big, but damn it makes a difference when you don’t pasteurise the contents! Arthur experienced his first affair with sour beers, and I was reduced to smiling by what I am happy to report was the mightiest IPA that I’ve yet tasted. Tom oversaw the proceedings with dignity and the kind of minimalist intellectualism that leads to all the best food and drink tasting. It’s all been recorded and edited for Cave Mind, and will available soon under the episode title of Mouthfeel. Expect the quenchingly bizarre, and a rustling packet of ginger biscuits in the background.

In not entirely unrelated news, Arthur and I are continuing our efforts to organise and host a fabulous showpiece, showground bonanza. Things got off to a slow start with coercing people onboard, but I’ve been working on them, and now I’ve got maybe one of them on side. That’ll be my wife and producer, so thank goodness. It’s going to be a visit to the Shrewsbury Range Rover dealership next, because if I’m going to be dashing about a showground with a clipboard, I’m going to do it in supercharged style. If I can get a fleet of them, then of course there’ll be some field based drag racing. After we’ve run down the red diesel tank in the corner of the grounds doing that, it’ll be the first inaugural Dress Up British Bulldog Championship.

First round; Goth’s versus Steam Punks. Of course they’ll be a local St John’s ambulance service on stand by. If we can’t get those, I’m sure we can persuade a local butchery to come in on the Monday and clear everything up while it’s still fresh for resale. Please do bring a mop and bucket with you however, just incase we have to do the clean down ourselves.

If you think this vision of a showground weekend is in keeping with your own perspective of a good time, and have some ideas of your own to throw into the milieu, then go ahead and send your ideas/daydreams to admin@seriousbiscuits.com

Elsewhere, we’re currently dealing with a final and unexpected administration blip before The Meifod Claw is considered house trained and ready to sit on your lap.

Now be gone, be wise, and be back before you hear the trumpets calling!

He’s not being cruel; he’s only a fool, with a pocket full of rye…

JW Bowe xx

P.S! Anna urges me to point out that the only Costume British Bulldog that she’s going to watch is morris dancers versus mummers. She’s right, too. Both sides are armed with sticks. Winners get to ride up front in the ambulance afterwards says I!

 

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