Remember when I said that occasionally a story just falls into my lap? Well it happened again.
Spent the weekend having a long overdue visit to my bezzie mate’s new B&B venture in Robin Hood’s Bay.
Having been healthy all week I was determined that this would not be a boozy affair and I would be a good girl who’d have a moderate sociable drink then switch to fruit juice or tea.
That lasted about 30 seconds. A Strongbow was thrust into my hand as soon as we walked in the door and then I cleared out the pub next door of Crabbies Alcoholic Ginger Beer! While we were there we spotted Janice from the Muppets. No word of a lie. I am not sure it was the look the lady was going for but that was the look she achieved nonetheless.
Lip fillers from ebay, my love, are not a good idea.
The next day, we had a blustery bimble (new best word) along the beach, and a warming hot chocolate with indecently decadent, unhealthy wedge of cake to fortify us for the plod up the hill. We then spent the afternoon loafing infront of the box watching Phoenix Nights to put us in the right frame of mind for the night ahead.
This…is where we were headed for the evening.
Feign to deny that if the Hot Supper didn’t lure you in , then surely a psychic goat would be the clincher.
We were not disappointed… Quite early on in proceedings I began to think that perhaps there had been some kind of hallucinogenic ingredients in the cake I’d eaten earlier, or that I was still drunk. I only had two drinks all night, for fear that any more might make what I was a party to become even more strange. If Brian Potter himself had rolled in, clutching a black vase as a drinking vessel, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. We appeared to have entered The Phoenix.
Our compere for the evening, Mr Squinty McGinty, was none other than ‘Lomper’ from The Full Monty AKA Eddie Windass from Corrie.
The organist, Herr Kristoff Parkenstein, kicked off the night with the birdy song and it progressed in a similar vein for the rest of the evening.
Raffle tickets were sold. I asked what the prizes were and was told “drawer liners and stuff that you’re not sure what it is.” That was us in like Flynn, so we bought a strip each.
On looking round at the rest of the audience, there was a high proportion of high waisted jeans, dribbles and vacant stares. It was apparent that there was some kind of adults with leaning difficulties night out going on. (Another reason for us to go easy on the drink or we’d end up blending in too well and getting bundled onto the old minibus at the end of the night.) One of us was already sporting a fetching ketchup stain after having an inept moment with some ketchup in the chippy, so we already looked the part.
Had to stay sober now to make sure none of used the derogatory term ‘spaz’ or ‘spacker’ to each other!
There was a young local dance act in very brave gold hotpants and not enough space for their routine. Operator ineptitude on the stereo left them in mid pose, grinning like air hostesses on acid as they awaited the next track to kick in for their second routine. The first song came back on again and they all cracked up laughing. The second dance was abandoned and they all slipped off out the back door (hopefully to slip into something less tight).
The next act was a lady who used to be in Corrie. She started with a rude gag and then burst into a song on her ukulele about Jimmy Savile.
Not. Making. This. Up.
It was shaping up to be a cracking night.
Just before the pie & pea supper, Nurse Radchett went round with an envelope full of meds, doling them out in little containers to her charges. I say Nurse Radchett, she was way younger and prettier than the original, but the principal was the same. Gene Genie & I tried to make ourselves look more care in the community than we already did, to try and cop for some free pharmaceuticals… but to no avail.
It was soon time for the headline act. Forget Steve whatshisname & his rough diamonds, (who could have been in Dire Straits but opted not. – Unlucky dude).
I’m talking Gary the psychic dancing goat boy here..
Slightly disappointed that it wasn’t a real goat but hey, you can’t have everything.
The psychic goat ‘chose’ volunteers from the audience on which to demonstrate his abilities while one of the ‘Czeztikov Brothers’ operated him with a foot pedal and played some kind of bagpipes behind him.
This. Shit. Really. Happened. Y’all!
Time for the raffle draw, which was slightly awkward, for reasons I daren’t even describe without being incredibly un-PC.
Gene Genie had a winner with a packet of tissues that look like 50 quid notes. I then won a set of replica famous paintings by Scottish artists. However, we then, (by default due to the first winner being a vegetarian) struck gold with the top prize – a whole, uncooked, oven-ready chicken.
Am. Not. Lying.
Cue, Gene Genie – my anally retentive, fussy foodie pal, through gritted teeth, hissing; “Do not claim that fucking chicken! I am not having a chicken that’s been sat at the side of a stage all day!” So we sat there, hiding our tickets & pretending it wasn’t us, even though everyone around us knew it was. Eventually they drew out another ticket and somebody was happy to claim the chicken at last.
Lomper /Eddie Windass then began dancing about. He pointed at me and gestured for me to join him on the dance floor. I clung to my chair, shaking my head and feeling myself flush pink and hot. Mercifully he moved on, clearly realizing that to pursue it would reduce me to tears.
Not. For. A. Gold. Pig!
The learning-impaired were now up and shuffling their high-waisted trousers around the dance floor. It was time for us to leave. We were tired from the previous nights over-indulgence and could handle the surrealism no longer.
God only knows what else went on after we left but I have since found out that this is a monthly event and it’s usually in Saltaire. They even sometimes have an act on called Madam Zucchini and her vegetable theatre.
Totes. Going. Again.