venta

There's a whole bunch of things that have been getting put-off for a while now, things I'll write about "when I have time". Ordinarily I tend to let them slide - after all, a week ago is last century for Livejournal - but increasingly I'm finding that I use this as a reference and aide-memoire for myself, so I'll just shoehorn them all in one post here.

A few weeks ago, a I headed north from Oxford to a housewarming party in Birmingham. Four of us packed into a small car and set off ("last one to spot an Eddie Stobart gets the first round in!"), planning a shopping trip in the Bullring before we partied. Sadly, the A34 had other ideas and actually we rolled into Birmingham just in time for a rather late lunch.

Somewhere near the Bicester roundabout, I'd casually mentioned pies in an anecdote. "Pies!" came the cry from the front seats. The rest of the journey was accompanied by a faint and generalised keening... "pies, pies". Once parked, we quested for pies. A couple of pubs had promising menus, but a disappointing lack of space inside for us to sit and eat same. Eventually, we despaired and rang our Local Knowledge to ask for a recommended pub. The conversation went like this:

Us: We're in <whatever> Street, can you recommend a good pub nearby ?
Local Knowledge: You want the Old Joint Stock Tavern. It does really nice pies.
Us: Hurrah!

We walked the very short distance to said pub, and were overjoyed to see the sign. Ale and Pie House ? Well, you can't say fairer than that. I had ale. I had pie.

After meeting the Local Knowledge and his wife for mulled wine in Birmingham's German Christmas market, we headed out to their house.

Sadly, although I'm sure I'd known in the past, I'd forgotten that their house would contain An Hideous Furry Beast. The HFB is extremely cute and jellicle and, being barely a year old, extremely playful. Sadly, it is also Hideous Furry and despite the chain-swallowing of antihistamines managed to reduce me to a wheezing mess by bedtime.

Still, the company was good and there was lots of fizzy wine and beer with badgers on the label. And a game called Hum Bug. The aim of this team game is to hum the tune on the card (no singing, no la-ing) in such a way that others can recognise it. This is where it becomes apparent that, although you yourself hum with immense virtuosity to a stupid and obtuse audience, everyone else hums with inane tunelessness and renders the melodies completely unrecognisable. Trust me, that's exactly how it was.

Also, if you see champagne-cork-parachutes for sale, small and fun-looking devices intended to allow your flying champagne cork to float gently to earth, don't bother. They work about as well as the Action Man parachute worked. Mind you, keen not to waste any, we didn't shake the bottle so maybe the cork didn't fly high enough.

Sunday morning was considerably enlivened by a trip to the spare room, where the window bears the unmistakable print of a pigeon which flew - splat - straight into the window. I've heard tell of that happening, but never really believed it, but yes, there was the print, every feather and the beak visible. It's a hard thing to photograph, this was the best I could do.

I was very brave a few weeks ago. Instead of my usual trip into London - abandon my car on the outskirts and get the tube in - I managed to get myself to within spitting distance of the concert venue. Admittedly, I was only going to Shepherds Bush, which is hardly central. However, with only one case of eek-missed-it-go-round-again I managed to get myself and Jay safely to the right place in reasonable time. Having picked up ChrisC and Jamie in a pub, we filled ourselves up with Thai food and headed out to Bush Hall.

I'd never been to the venue before, but had been led to expect large chandeliers, complicated plasterwork and nice beer. Two out of three, as they say, aren't bad. The hall does indeed have rather swish plaster mouldings on the walls and ceiling, and some very imposing chandeliers. Pintwatch was, however, somewhat put out to find the bar policy had changed and it could only have Pedigree, in cans. What's more, there was only one such can. Pintwatch bravely sacrificed it to Jamie, and sulked gently with a can of Guinness instead.

I first encountered the Mountain Goats via Jay, and then purchased their most recent album because I found it in a bargain box earlier in the year. They turn out to be two people - one who looks like the class geek whose homework was always really neat, and one who looks like the cleverest guy in the class who was friendly, but whom you always feared might set fire to the library. Jay tells me that they used only to be one person (the clever, fireraising, guitar playing one) and only recently added a bassist.

Despite Jay's claims that they have, of late, sold out and gone commercial and signed to a label you've heard of (4AD), I actually rather enjoyed the gig. They have a pleasingly amateurish-looking stage style - when the main guy broke a guitar string, he launched into an unaccompanied Billie Holliday song while the other changed the string for him. Roadies ? We don't need no roadies.

In between such mishaps, you get cleverly-written, rambling, storytelling songs about monkeys and child abuse and bands and... well, you get the idea. The crowd was one of the most enthusiastic I've seen in ages, and the whole atmosphere was just lovely. Definitely on the list to see again. And indeed on the shopping list next time I've got vast wads of cash spare to spend on albums.

Besides, it's not every day you get to stand in a small ballroom with hundreds of other people chanting "hail Satan".

And, er, there was a third thing. But I've forgotten what it was. Which just goes to show why I should have written it up.