Saturday's Gig

So, finally, after almost exactly two glorious years of touring, during which the Thomas Lord Old Gits have travelled, ooh, it must be tens of miles, and visited venues as far away as Chichester, King's Worthy and, er, Bramdean, we rounded off our hectic schedule of dates almost as close to Shed 3b as we have ever played: Kilmeston.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't a bit concerned when I first saw our performance area. A less-than-robust and somewhat undercapacious gazebo was placed with its back to the busy Cheriton-Corhampton highway. It would have been just our luck to have coincided with the Annual Slow Ride of the Hampshire Harley Davidson Owners Club. In front of the stage was an ominous ditch, and the floor was littered with wobbly table tops. Early reports had also suggested less-than-voluminous ticket sales....

Still, being the professionals that we are, we got on with setting up - having first got rid of the table tops. Well, most of us got on with setting up - two-thirds of the guitar section leant on the trailer and discussed girls with big boobs.

But by eight o'clock, the seating area outside the village hall was packed, the hog roast was dripping, the sun came out, the wind dropped, and we set off with setlist no. 23a/vii/12[as amended 17/7/10].



Hurrah for the good folk of Kilmeston! They turned out in huge numbers, they sang, they danced, they clapped - most stayed until the very end and demanded more! Special mention to Davina Warr's blonde companion who went arse-over-tit into the ditch, surfacing triumphantly - cigarette and drink intact. Special mention to Tod, who was fully psyched up and on the point of launching into another banging tune, when an elegantly mustachioed gentleman appeared stage left, tapped him on the shoulder, and asked if he wanted to buy raffle tickets.

Another frequent stage invader kept arriving mid-song to hand out morsels of advise in a somewhat slurred style. Being the good-natured folk that we are, we nodded kindly at him. It was only when he started toying with a very expensive guitar during the interval that words were exchanged. It was pointed out that death by anal insertion of headstock is not a nice way to go - even with the combined medical skills of Messrs. Young and Cresswell close by. He got the hint.

So now we reach a pause in our performances. Harvest looms, even for Charlie, and key band members will be vanishing in the Autumn to assorted colleges and universities.

Who knows when we eight, we jolly eight, will once again whip out our huge organs, strap on our Gordon Smiths, polish up our Peaveys and smack those skins again?

We eight; we jolly eight.