|With A Nice Bit Of Posh|
From Burnham On Crouch. Last night I wasn't actually in one of those oft Ian Dury belittled towns but in the non typical Essex environment of Colchester. This is in the far east of the ridiculous county that was famous in the 80s and isn't actually far from Ipswich in Suffolk, a sleepy old place that seems to be famous just around a square mile where there be prostitutes and statues of ex football managers. I once crawled along there in the car about Seven years ago looking at Portman Road and admiring the Bobby Robson and Alf Ramsay likeness not aware that I was in red light central and just about a year shy of unwittingly being a prime suspect in mass hooker murder.
No Colchester doesn't seem to have these problems, it's just a strange old market town, famous for Humpty Dumpty and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star alongside being the oldest Roman town in Britain apparently. Anyway it's a gig that's grown on me over the years. It's a pisser to park, but you're made welcome inside the former church and given a bit of a rider (well water lemonade and cooperative sandwiches). I went in, did a set which included some Edinburgh stuff and then got in the car and fucked off. That sums it up. Sometimes I hate this job but there are times when I know I'm going to miss driving to places like Colchester to entertain the chattering classes.
On Thursday Sutton Coldfield was very good too. It was my last preview for a couple of weeks and definitely the last until after my Australia trip. I'm away to Perth next Wednesday by the way so any of the people who tune in from down under and if you're in the Perth area (yes I'm aware of the size of the fuckin place!!) by all means get down to our Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman show in a venue somewhere in Perth. I'm on with Ian Coppinger and Vladimir McTavish so google and you will find!!
Right I'll blog tomorrow as well on what might be a momentous day. Funny how the Ingurlund people have got a bit nasty in the last couple of days just because a dour Scot has got to the Wimbledon final. I couldn't give a fuck to be honest. Good luck to the lad. Amazing how the phrase plastic tartan army has surfaced from a few dissenting English voices claiming that they wouldn't have known a tennis racket from their own backside a few short years ago. Fair enough but I think they're forgetting the legions of knackers blubbering with their painted faces on after another penatly heartbreak, calling Danny Mills Millsy and reckoning that 'scholesy' should be employed in a more floating role just behind the front two. These are the people who don't bother the other times of the year when the real fans watch their club. Fuck off, just fucking fuck off you fucks.
Right speak tomorrow. Off to drink beer now.
TODAY'S BLOG IS SPONSORED BY FORMER REF LESTER CHAPTER.