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Sunday July 15th 2007.

Sunday,is the day i try to let the mind rest from the gnashing teeth in the far corners of outside world,by the time the sun has risen above the slate grey roofs i rise to blow the dust off music i have not played for a good while,sometimes when i hear the first cord,i know why the dust is deeper than spiders legs.
Because my mind was still amongst the empty beer glasses i left behind in the local beer festival yesterday afternoon,an event i went too with good intentions of having one slurp of " Black Dragon Mild " before walking home and because i just had to have a pint of " Friggin int Riggin " as well,how could i refuse such a taste,when the words drifted in.." Friggin in the riggin,friggin in the riggin,cos there is fuck all else to do "..i watched the glass fill up the nectar just wavered over the pint glass lip,my first taste danced on my taste buds,i could not help but think in the hazy
sunshine what a waste for the Sex Pistols to diminish so quickly,yet would i want today to see them strutting at sixty singing " Holiday in the Sun " " Belsan was a Gas " and to hear the electric riffs of " My Way " Boom out..no i think not..yet how would they have reacted to the long years of Maggie Thatcher,it would be interesting to hear a crashing version surrounding the miners strike.
On such gloomy thoughts i turned away the Nile Band was on a make shift stage,next to the beer tent they played a mixture of Middle Eastern with the added gift, so the programme told of belly dancing,by the time i had arrived the belly dancing must have long gone,i stood instead feeling the warmth of the beer match the suns rays,feeling rather calm with world,yet doubt,crept in as to why could such as this in front of my eyes could not take away the cloud of what is in the rucksack lying by the amp,is it, or is it not,would the blast reach me and would i spill my pint,or would i run rather than rip off my shirt and use it to stem the blood.....i turned to gaze at the bass player a handsome lad of skin darker than mine,i could not see his lunch box shame, i am sure it was worth lingering over,better than the rucksack.
The wireless the other day had an informed man who stated this suicide bomber campaign would last 15 years,i thought gosh i'll be dead in fifteen years, or possibly which ever way you look at lady luck pushed around an old folks home with a daily treat of pissing in the cornflakes as my only joy.
Just when i had got used to not being bothered about turning away from an Irish accent.My pint pot was empty one for the road,i turned all the coins into the hand of the barman asking if it was enough,a smile told all..and into my hand floated.." Pale Rider " a full bodied straw pale ale,a fruity aroma with a hop taste recommended by some lads i had been talking to,one in particular could not stop touching his bollocks,crabs,i thought or simply real ale at it's best...working far too fast.Life goes ever onwards,i shrugged,i learned to live with the IRA..i'll learn to live with this campaign.

Today i blew of the dust to " Black " and " Wonderful Life "

" The Sun's in your eyes,the heat is in your hair
They seam to hate you
Because you're there "

Yet i remember meeting an Irishman in Singapore on a balcony and into the long hours of the night we stood as one talking away, Hope i think they call it.

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bichoose
bichoose

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