Ricky Throws Some Shapes
It’s Tuesday morning and I approach my work PC with some trepidation. You see I have become somewhat of a jinx on technology. Over the bank holiday weekend I’ve managed to break not one, but two computers. The first to bite the dust was my home PC which has been at death’s door for nigh on a year and finally won its fight for self-annihilation on Saturday. On Sunday my dad allowed me to use his PC and how did I repay him. Yes, you’ve guessed it – I managed to break it as well. We are now a two broken computer family and the delight of IT helpdesk personnel everywhere.
My technological tale of woe had started when I attempted the view the “Rock at the Racecourse” website and it all became a bit too much for my PC, so perhaps I can blame Deacon Blue for my IT distress.
After all my weather worries, the afternoon and evening at Ayr Racecourse were lovely, not particularly warm, but a nice clear blue sky and no mud so no need for macs of any sort.
I had expected, on entering the racecourse/concert venue, to join a great swarming mass of concert goers all desperate to get into the concert to see their idols. Instead a few people wandered in the direction of the entrance in a rather haphazard manner. It was then that I noticed the Banjo Player.
“Banjo Murderer” might have been a more appropriate term however as he executed a dismal cross between “Duelling Banjos” and “Ye cannae shove yer Grannie aff the bus”. Every time I looked in his direction he gave me a strange unsettling stare. I hoped that, in the name of good music and my sanity, he was not one of the acts on the bill.
Things were now hotting up on the queue front. More than two people at a time were going in. I thought that my pre-concert experience couldn’t get any stranger, and then it did. I was accosted by a Market Researcher.
I ask you – a Market Researcher at a concert. Whatever next? If there are any younger readers out there, please tell me, is Market Research a common practice before going into concerts? In my day they handed out drugs and knock off tickets. I therefore fear for our coming generations if the best pre-concert experience offered is a bad banjo player and a market research questionnaire.
Despite this I felt that I was very helpful when asked my reason for coming. I told the Market Researcher that I was planning to crash Deacon Blue’s after show party, take loads of drugs and sleep with them all (even Lorraine). She left me alone after that. (Actually I didn’t really do any of these things although Ricky does have a certain je ne sais quoi.)
On entering the concert venue, we repaired to the bar. Much repairing was obviously needed and we stayed there for quite some time, missing all the hip and happening bands who were on earlier in the afternoon.
By the time we had finished repairing whatever it was that was broken (sadly not computers) The Saw Doctors were well through their set. I have to admit to not knowing a lot of their songs but they played the hits (including I Useda Lover) and apparently some new tunes according to the more expert R and M.
Now I’ve seen Deacon Blue before. I just don’t remember all the details, so it must have been a good night. They were certainly entertaining on Saturday. Witness, Ricky hunched over his guitar for the first song and then throwing some impressive shapes for the remaining ones. Further, his missus, Lorraine whirling like a veritable dervish around the stage rattling her tambourine and getting jiggy with Ricky and various other assorted bandmembers. Ricky glugging liberally from his bottle of water, then spewing it from his mouth over himself, his bandmates and the audience. One solitary plastic glass of beer was chucked from the audience but nothing could match Ricky’s water spraying technique.
The audience lapped up all the songs and a strange tale told as an intro to “Fergus sings the Blues” They sang “Dignity” for “The Blue” so that they didn’t have to, to the obvious delight of the band. Ricky was in total ecstasy. By the end of the gig he was bathed in spotlight, arms outstretched, Messiah like, declaring his love for Ayr and his wish never to go back to Glasgow. The crowd roared its approval. And then they were off. Presumably back to Glasgow after all and a terse meeting with the Lord Provost of that city about his inflammatory anti-Glaswegian remarks.
As for me, I hit the road home, glad that it had actually stayed dry and the field hadn’t turned into a mudbath. I did have a large bath towel in the boot of my car just in case though.
If I see Ricky about town in Glasgow of an afternoon I’ll tell him that I enjoyed the gig. I just won’t be asking him out for a drink any time soon.
My technological tale of woe had started when I attempted the view the “Rock at the Racecourse” website and it all became a bit too much for my PC, so perhaps I can blame Deacon Blue for my IT distress.
After all my weather worries, the afternoon and evening at Ayr Racecourse were lovely, not particularly warm, but a nice clear blue sky and no mud so no need for macs of any sort.
I had expected, on entering the racecourse/concert venue, to join a great swarming mass of concert goers all desperate to get into the concert to see their idols. Instead a few people wandered in the direction of the entrance in a rather haphazard manner. It was then that I noticed the Banjo Player.
“Banjo Murderer” might have been a more appropriate term however as he executed a dismal cross between “Duelling Banjos” and “Ye cannae shove yer Grannie aff the bus”. Every time I looked in his direction he gave me a strange unsettling stare. I hoped that, in the name of good music and my sanity, he was not one of the acts on the bill.
Things were now hotting up on the queue front. More than two people at a time were going in. I thought that my pre-concert experience couldn’t get any stranger, and then it did. I was accosted by a Market Researcher.
I ask you – a Market Researcher at a concert. Whatever next? If there are any younger readers out there, please tell me, is Market Research a common practice before going into concerts? In my day they handed out drugs and knock off tickets. I therefore fear for our coming generations if the best pre-concert experience offered is a bad banjo player and a market research questionnaire.
Despite this I felt that I was very helpful when asked my reason for coming. I told the Market Researcher that I was planning to crash Deacon Blue’s after show party, take loads of drugs and sleep with them all (even Lorraine). She left me alone after that. (Actually I didn’t really do any of these things although Ricky does have a certain je ne sais quoi.)
On entering the concert venue, we repaired to the bar. Much repairing was obviously needed and we stayed there for quite some time, missing all the hip and happening bands who were on earlier in the afternoon.
By the time we had finished repairing whatever it was that was broken (sadly not computers) The Saw Doctors were well through their set. I have to admit to not knowing a lot of their songs but they played the hits (including I Useda Lover) and apparently some new tunes according to the more expert R and M.
Now I’ve seen Deacon Blue before. I just don’t remember all the details, so it must have been a good night. They were certainly entertaining on Saturday. Witness, Ricky hunched over his guitar for the first song and then throwing some impressive shapes for the remaining ones. Further, his missus, Lorraine whirling like a veritable dervish around the stage rattling her tambourine and getting jiggy with Ricky and various other assorted bandmembers. Ricky glugging liberally from his bottle of water, then spewing it from his mouth over himself, his bandmates and the audience. One solitary plastic glass of beer was chucked from the audience but nothing could match Ricky’s water spraying technique.
The audience lapped up all the songs and a strange tale told as an intro to “Fergus sings the Blues” They sang “Dignity” for “The Blue” so that they didn’t have to, to the obvious delight of the band. Ricky was in total ecstasy. By the end of the gig he was bathed in spotlight, arms outstretched, Messiah like, declaring his love for Ayr and his wish never to go back to Glasgow. The crowd roared its approval. And then they were off. Presumably back to Glasgow after all and a terse meeting with the Lord Provost of that city about his inflammatory anti-Glaswegian remarks.
As for me, I hit the road home, glad that it had actually stayed dry and the field hadn’t turned into a mudbath. I did have a large bath towel in the boot of my car just in case though.
If I see Ricky about town in Glasgow of an afternoon I’ll tell him that I enjoyed the gig. I just won’t be asking him out for a drink any time soon.
