Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Tuesday, 11 March 2014
Bells, Bores and Bumps on Sunday
For anyone who does not go back to an old post after they have left a (gratefully received) comment, this is a footnote to the post before last aboutbumps in the night.
After parking the car (conveniently right outside the pub) having got back from Bristol on Sunday, I thought I would poke my head around the door to see if I wanted a little pint.
Sunday afternoons at The Bell have been marred of late by an experiment which allows a load of folkie ego-maniacs to get up on stage and bore the locals rigid by fiddling away - mercifully un-amplified - on various instruments which would have been recognised by any of the characters in a Thomas Hardy novel, as well as more modern guitars and voices which need no amplification. As far as I am concerned, they should be sent back to their bedrooms or - preferably - an isolated farmhouse, so that anyone who really wants to listen to them should have to make a troublesome journey into the middle of nowhere to show their commitment.
Prior to this and about one month ago, when the lunchtime band finished around 3.00 pm, someone would play vinyl records on a twin deck, whilst all the drunks who only come in on Sundays carried out the arduous task of boring the weekday regulars who had popped in for a quick pint after the band had packed up and gone.
So what I am saying is that - for someone like me - The Bell has hardly ever been a good place to visit on Sunday afternoons, but it seems to be popular with a load of Outlanders, so fair enough. The Outlanders spend money there, but the makeshift bands - who often number about 15 - are all either tee-totals, or they nurse a single pint of beer from 3 until 6.30.
Anyway, I was standing by the bar waiting to be served at the same time as trying to decide if I did actually want to be, when I noticed a movement in the corner of my left eye.
A bar-stool moved silently away from me to a distance of about 10 inches, without anyone touching it.
I looked at the nearest person to it as it was moving, and he had his back to it with his feet nowhere near it. Nobody else noticed.
The position of the bar-stool was directly the other side of the part of the bar where the glasses flew off the shelf the previous Sunday. The area where these little events are taking place (right where the furthest bar-stool is in the photo) seems to be quite localised.