Ash's Oak 40th

By 9.30 the Oak was in full swing. The hog roast had been devoured having been thoroughly appreciated; there was laughter, conversation, empty glasses and rising smoke. It was a happy beer garden. The band, unfortunately, were chaotically lurching from one number to the next. The absence of John Lewis who normally could gently orchestrate, smoothly moulding the diverse egos into something resembling a harmonious unit meant that there was a distinct lack of balance between each instrument. The sound resembled the proverbial ‘fire in a pet shop’. Lyrics and keys were forgotten, guitars were out of tune, the audience had been lost. The final number rescued a dismal display. Tom Petty’s classic ‘I’m so lonely’ featured Ian Thornley on banjo, banging out the melody: a very odd, bizarre concept, but it worked. ‘Ash’ thanked everyone, especially his wife, before the party slipped back into the pub to pack the Roy Castle corner.

The jam session began with Andy and Richie knocking up some blues standards but they were stopped in their tracks when Derek produced his accordion. Being the father of the ‘Doc’ it goes without saying that they originate from the same gene pool thus possess many of the same traits. Sitting on a bar stool he began to play. Spending much of the winter on Tenerife he has built up a network of bar room residences where he exchanges performances for beer and small sums of euros. How the fuck he does it is a total mystery to me. Gripping the sides of the instrument with both hands squeezing occasionally, a groaning faintly organ-like droan is expelled. Completely devoid of any melody or rhythm he is capable of perpetuating this delivery for a minimum of 8 hours. Andy left at 6am full of blue bols and brandy sadly humming ‘we’ll meet again’.

Sunday became the afternoon for confession. Each culprit was in unmitigated denial. Doctor Dave vaguely remembers inviting Adele to bed, Knocker claims to have kept his clothes on, Lowtie was still experiencing flashbacks rolling his eyes inside his head to blank out the bleaker moments, Chris felt that he had maintained his role of the ‘listener’ throughout the entire evening, Mick boasted that “’ee didn’t give a fack what anybody fought; anyway, who was that fat bird wiv the big arse?” But the cracks in their arguments began to show as the ‘Stella’ flowed. But, today is another day and, in turn, every ones mind drifted back to the present. Dave sensed the smell of ‘woman’; yes, she did have two arms, two legs and a pulse: that was enough, all the required elements in place. She was also a divorcée who had a villa in Turkey, perfect. Lowtie began to wind up Chris with a fictitious incident from the night before, Mick was informing the group about a huge contract which begins next week, “yeh, ten grand foa free days work”, the Doc unsurprisingly descended into his ‘pertinent and relevant’ mode by raising his finger to June to exclaim that if Oliver Reed had drunk as much as he had he would be in a coma, Knocker began to strip, Jo and I went home for tea.