A new high in Thorvertonage, we broke new ground, cut new turf, played new tunes and wowed new faces. If this blog has been a little while coming, it’s because we’re only now in a position to make sense of what was a great and surreal night.
Hormones were practically dripping from the ceiling, of all and in some cases synthetic varieties. By the time we reached the triumphant crescendo of the end of the first set, stocking tops were on display, percussion instruments had been seized for the duration by the new Rhythm Police wing of the tone army, and strangely, the pub dog made homeless because someone had fallen asleep in his basket.
The respectable folk of Exeter’s Newtown revealed themselves to be the hooligans we always knew them to be (we christen thee Red Squadron), damaging the ceiling’s plasterwork pogoing to I Can See For Miles. The Southern Boogie of Personal Jesus left people confused but elated (some thought it was Dr and the Medics with different words, which I guess it was in a sense). Gloriously big handed lady types generously offered to avail themselves to your favorite behatted, bewildered balladeers.
To snatch triumph from the Jaws of victory, Poor Harry had to turn down the most direct and urgent proposition of his short life, only to climb into Mum & Dad’s car for the ride home in front of the generously hearted dame. Bless.
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