The long trek to Hinton Ampner House...

After a Saturday off (giving much-needed time to the physio team to work intensively on Ian's numerous drumming-related injuries), we found ourselves packing the trailer with all the kit ready for the long hike to our next gig. Much debate ensued about sheeting the trailer: would the weather hold long enough? Where do we put Hermann the German? (Dan was stuck in Scotland, and he usually packs the trailer) One look at the farm tarpaulin, which is more hole than canvas thanks to Mr and Mrs Mouse and their 10,000 closest friends, and we took a chance on it, and set off for the long hike to the next gig.

Four hundred yards later, we arrived. The early omens did not look brilliant: the picturesque property of Hinton Ampner House was not exactly heaving with punters - and those that were strolling gently round the beautiful gardens seemed to be of an age that justified the ambulance parked in the grounds. We were reduced by the intricacies of EasyJet's booking system to just one guitarist, and Tessa was going to be late.

'Hmm, this will be an interesting evening,' we thought, and set about unpacking the trailer, which, despite not having been packed by Dan the trailer-packer (which is not at all like fudge-packing, btw) had somehow managed to retain its load.






Things immediately looked up: the Trust had laid on a fantastic tent: at one end was a stage with real grown-up electric supplies, and at the other end was a bar (only one free pint per band member boo hiss bad luck John) and a large pig being barbecued (one bap each boo hiss again bad luck Charlie). And as if to emphasise how the evening would go, as soon as we cleared the trailer, the heavens opened.

After setting up and a quick sound check, it was home for tea'n'cakes.


Dave and Ian hit the rock'n'roll coke.

When we finally got going, it was to an audience of not very many, scattered round the outside of the tent. But numbers gradually grew, as did the appreciation. I spotted an elderly and utterly respectable lady sitting off to my left, who looked as if she was mumbling to herself. I assumed that she was cursing the noise and young people in general, and then spotted that she was in fact singing along, word-perfect, to Lola.



In the end, it turned into a fairly intimate gig - almost like playing a small club. No body seemed to mind when we messed up a couple, and then had a row on stage about whose fault it was. There was an outbreak of Charlioke while Tod had to sort out a broken string, and then, with our second-to-last song, the dam broke, and the floor suddenly filled with dancers. And, at twenty past our allotted finish time, the Nation Trust head honcho approached; I was expecting the instruction to stop at once, but in fact, he was demanding that we do one more! And so 'Hard Day's Night' was trotted out again. Give us another few goes, and we'll sort out the chord sequence.

And, thanks to our early finish, we had everything back in Shed 3b by ten thirty.
Fantastic.