Three is the tragic number...

Friday night rolls around again and STILL no Markie! Our appointment with the Crediton and District Skittles league wouldn't wait for his slow recovery, and given that the poor chap had only just managed to hold onto his second slice of toast in eight days, we could hardly begrudge him his sick bed.




So with palpitating hearts we took on another night as a three piece. However, the raucous crowd that bore us aloft through the previous weekends nerve racking festivities was sadly missing, with the trophy presentation, buffet and raffle a long way above us on the bill. Time to knuckle down.

Our first set passed with nary a ripple from the crowd, who were largely in the lounge bar next door. The occasional 'Woo-Hoo' was all we could elicit from the assembled skittlerati.




After a 90 minute break for the buffet and awards, broken only by a momentary reappearance of the pictured Bolham Revealer (see previous) we pressed on with our wildly inappropriate modwardian rock and roll extravaganza. Three songs in, and it was time for the raffle.

By the time we got going for the final push, with an empty room, we feared the worst. Without Markies stunt guitar work and melodic wailings, could we salvage any dignity? Turns out we could, just. As we sailed into the choppy waters of the 80s section, stirrings were visible, then dancing, then, against all the odds, widespread joy and jubilation and demands for more. With a My Generation encore duly dispensed, we disappeared into the night with our pride intact, but we've never missed you more Markie! Enough Malingering already!

See you at the Bowling Green. There will be four of us if it kills us.

Love you,

Byeeeeeee!

Post Script: Markie's experimental new spleen seems to be doing the business, and with a favourable tailwind will be on his converse clad feet in next to no time.

- posted from a wireless telegraph