There is a kind of ‘Murphy’s law’ attached to our forays out to Bradninch which states that there’s always something or other on the box exactly when we’re due to hit the stage; it’s usually some Simon Cowell related nonsense, but this time the England team had a pop at pulling the locals towards the ubiquitous goggle box.
Fortunately, the folks out at Bradninch know a good time when it hoves into view in a frock coat and stovepipe hat.
D’you know what? I have not the words to describe how it felt up there last night. The words ‘loud’, ‘ecstatic’, and ‘moist’ spring to mind. An MDMA-crazed pole dancer (male) caused me to miss the end of ‘My Sharona’; Dominic reprised his silky disco stylings on the balcony; ‘Personal Jesus’ rocked the joint like a five minute mod-gasm. There were stage invasions, episodes of hyperventilation and dizziness, Cops, Russians and American girls, all losing it big-time to the sound of a band hitting the sorts of highs not achieved since Rick James spent three days freebasing cocaine behind windows covered in aluminum.
Can we do this again please, Bradninch?
