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Excuses, Excuses

Health

Whenever I get these upper-respiratory infections (about every nine months or so, it seems), the physical ailments (hacking cough, wheezing, nasal clogging etc.) are bad, but what really screws me up is the physical and mental lassitude that occurs not only during the illness, but persists for days and days thereafter.

Hence the paucity and dare I say crappy quality of the posts over the past couple of weeks, for which I am truly sorry.

It’s not only that:  to give you another example, my half-dozen per-month range visits have dwindled, in the past couple of weeks, to zero.  I think I’m going to get a call from Texas Legends any day now, asking if I’m okay.

I don’t even have the energy to drive over to pick up Rx refills from the drugstore, even though the on-hand supplies are dwindling fast.

We had dinner at Doc Russia’s place last Sunday night — our first dinner together in ages.  Normally, our dinners last well into the night, involving much food, drink, conversation and general merrymaking.  This time, after barely a couple of hours, I had to call it quits, an indecently-short time after dinner.  Never had a drop to drink, either.

All of which is my way of saying that this website has sucked over the past couple of weeks, and I know it.

I’m slowly — far too slowly — starting to get better, proof of which is that I actually took out the range bag yesterday and loaded it up with ammo for some testing I’ve been meaning to do.  (In case you’re curious:  the difference in felt recoil between .357 Mag, .38 +P and regular .38 Special loads across a couple-three revolvers of different brand and barrel lengths.)

I don’t know if I’ll make it to the range today — I really have to get those meds refilled, and I’m not sure I have the energy for two trips.  Following my semi-annual visit to the eyedoc two days ago, I also need to get new lenses for my failing eyesight;  fuck knows when I’m going to get round to that, but I really need to be able to read things like street signs and such.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to unload all this shit on you;  but you, my Loyal Readers, deserve some explanations for the website suckage of the past couple of weeks:  and there they are.

I’ll be posting at intervals over the next few days as the energy provides, just not in a five-minute post-midnight tranche as usual.  Bear with me.

Personal Recommendations

Architecture, Food & Drink

Here’s a list of “proper old” Brit pubs, for those who are either of a Brit persuasion or else part of a vanishingly-small number who actually want to visit Britishland.

For the record, I’ve been to four of them (The Bell, The George, The Coach & Horses and The King’s Head) and had a great time in all.  (By the way, the interiors of The George and The King’s Head are stunningly alike — when I saw the pic of the latter in the article, I thought for a moment that it was the George.)

That said:  when I was at The Bell, the beer selection was absolute shit — even Mr. Sorenson had trouble finding something decent, and we ended up drinking cider (ugh).  The George, of course, serves Wadworth 6X and their lamb pie is excellent.  I don’t recall much about the C&H because I was drinking there with either The Englishman or Mr. Free Market, and after those kind of epic sessions, memory is frequently foggy:  probably caused by sundry pints of Fuller’s London Pride, in retrospect.

I don’t know about the other pubs mentioned in the article, but they look excellent.

Missing from the list, however, is my absolute favorite, The King’s Arms in All Cannings:

…as is Salisbury’s Haunch of Venison:

Very much worth a visit, despite the lack of 6X.

Sick Transit

Architecture, Resistance

Francis Turner has written a piece that I could have written, only he’s not insane with rage and uses a lot fewer swear words.

That’s “the late” Limoges Hôtel de Ville (Town Hall), as it’s since been torched by Muslim/African/Communist (some overlap) rioters during the recent Scuffles.

Untouched by anyone (so far, we should be so lucky) are excrescences such as this:

…and our own inverted turdpile:

I don’t want to go on, for reasons of both repetitive boredom and depression.  Read Francis’s piece instead.

Overturning The System

Marxists, Riotous Assemblies, Traitors / Fifth Columnists

…and by that I mean the Constitution, the Judiciary and the Senate, to be replaced by… what, exactly?

Read this, and be amazed.

I’m not so sure that their little plan, however, will be achieved that easily.

The next few months should tell us, I guess.  But in the meantime, let us heed the wise words of some professor or other:

BUY GUNS AND AMMUNITION, BECAUSE IF THIS HAPPENS WE’RE LOOKING AT CIVIL WAR.

I’m not hoping for it, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be ready for it when it comes.

Bring it on.

One Brief Moment

Entertainment, Good Stuff, Music

Back when I was serving my country in the Seffrican Defence Force, I found myself playing bass guitar in the Army’s Entertainment Group.

At the time, the senior NCO in charge of all the national servicemen like myself was a guy named Dave Langley.  Dave was very different from the rest of us:  quite a bit older (late twenties), married with an apartment in downtown Johannesburg, he was unbelievably “straight” — that is to say, conservative and a normal citizen, unlike the rest of us.  He was, truth to tell not very likable:  officious, very much subservient to higher ranks, and worst of all, he had no sense of humor that we could discern.  He was tall and rather stout, and had a variety of facial tics that we mercilessly lampooned when saying things like, “Langley says we have to sweep the parade ground today”, accompanied by a series of eye twitches and chin pulls that caused howls of laughter.

What was worse was that he wasn’t a musician — in all his time there, he’d never been called on to join a band, perform at any function or even been seen to practice any instrument.  It was rumored that he could sing, but that didn’t mean much — everyone in the EG could sing.

Anyway, you may recall that I was playing in a band of national servicemen called Hogwash.  One day, there was a pause in out daily practice — can’t remember the reason — but Danny the guitarist and Franco the drummer had left the room, leaving me alone with Boze the keyboards player.  We were just noodling around when the door opened and Dave Langley came in.  We expected him to grab us to clean the kitchen or some damn thing, but instead he rather nervously handed Boze some sheet music and said, “Do you mind playing that so I can sing it?”

Boze squinted at the music — I don’t know why, he could play anything ever written on paper — then said, “Sure,” and passed the music to me.  It was Cliff Richard’s Miss You Nights (featured on last Saturday’s birthday greetings, hence this post).  I knew the song but had never played it;  but no problem, it was pretty easy, so Boze launched into the introduction like he’d played it all his life.

It turned out that Dave Langley had a very nice voice, a full baritone with excellent pitch, and so on we went.

About halfway through the song Danny and Franco came back into the room, stopped and stared at the scene, then immediately went over to their instruments and started to fill in.  The song ended, and I think Langley would have left, but instead Danny said to him, “Let’s do this again”, and off Boze went.

This time through, however, I could tell that Danny, Boze and I weren’t just playing the notes, but were also figuring out the song — parts for strings (Boze’s little synthesizer) and more importantly, the many vocal harmonies and fills that turn a simple song into a powerful ballad.  Here’s the link, if you want to join in at this point.)

At the end of this second run-through, Danny said, “One more time, guys — and Dave, give it all you’ve got.”

What Dave Langley got was the full Hogwash Treatment — full, lush harmonies, note-perfect instrumentals:  it could have been performed (or recorded) just like that, and would have been a showstopper.

Anyway the song ended, and as it happened, lunch call came and the guys all left the practice room.  I stayed behind to pack my Rickenbacker bass away in its case, then Langley came back into the room to grab the sheet music.

As we walked out of the room, I noticed that he had a tear running down his cheek, which was not in character for the impassive, humorless man, and I asked, “Dave, are you okay?”

He brushed the tear off his cheek irritably, and said, “You know, I never thought that anything I ever sang could sound that beautiful.”

Dave Langley never did get to perform with a band, or anywhere else during his time at the EG.  When it was the end of his service, he left camp, and nobody ever saw him, or heard anything about him ever again.

But for that one brief moment, he’d been a musician.  I’m just glad I was there to see it.