Aldershot Princes Hall Thurs March 10th

As it turned out, Big John woke up early and so the two vehicles actually left at 4.30am. They got down in good time, though, so even Nick managed to crash back out, and everyone got a decent night’s sleep, which is just as well, because at about 10.30am I’m woken by a commotion outside the bus. I can see Big John and Nick standing there watching something, and when I step outside it turns out to be a fairly hefty chap squaring up to two WPCs outside the magistrate’s courts next to the theatre. Within a matter of minutes it’s turned into something straight out of Police Camera Action as another couple of policeman arrive, and suddenly matey is shouting and yelling and bobbing and weaving like a boxer.The boys in blue obviously decide that discretion is the better part of valour and in next to no time another couple of officers arrive along with a squad car which screams up to the bus, lights flashing and siren howling, to help subdue Rambo. I curse under my breath, thinking that everyone will have been woken up by the police car, so I go up the stairs to check on my slumbering babes. Far from finding them blinking and mewling in their bunks as their beauty sleep is disturbed, however, they are all crammed into the back lounge, where they’ve got a birds eye view of the proceedings, which are taking place on a mezzanine floor about level with the bus windows, They’ve got cameras and mobiles out and are snapping away like rabid paparazzi. Vultures….! This is another old friend of a theatre, and as before tonight’s show is being promoted by diamond geezer Mr John Martin. He texts me to ask when we’ll be at the venue and what time we’d like our breakfast bringing down, so I reply “ we’re here, and now, please !”. He’s as good as his word, and in next to no time appears with piles of sandwiches, sausage rolls and biscuits.
Now, I happen to know that her Majesty Queen Elizabeth is a big fan of the show and follows these blogs assiduously, so to her I say “ Your Maj, forget all these sports people, musicians, entertainers, politicians and various other nonentities when you’re putting your Honours List together, and let’s see plain Mr John Martin become Sir John, knighted for his services to rock’n’roll in general and needy crew members in particular ! Rarely can there have been a more deserving case for the old sword touching the shoulder. Arise, Sir John , say all of us in Bootiesworld ! The local chaps here are top notch too, especially Darren, who directs me to the best place from which to intercept the ice-cream lady at the interval. Here’s a man who really knows how the wheels turn in this business ! Any of the shows Sir John has done for us in the past have always been belters, so we know we’re in for a good night. A lot of the folks here go and see the band wherever they play and are diehard Overtures fans, so it’s no surprise that we have folks choogling away in the side aisles within a number of two or the band going onstage. The only slightly disconcerting thing is an occasional noise which comes over the comms headphones and appears to be someone in the crowd either vomiting, or making a jolly good stab at doing so. Remembering that last year there was an incident where an unfortunate punter parked their tiger over about six rows of fellow groovers in most spectacular and olfactorily unpleasant manner, we wonder if this same person has returned, and that the sight of the band playing onstage provokes some kind of Pavlovian response involving copious amounts of sick. The answer is more straightforward; it’s a chap with some mental issues and apparently he makes these involuntary sounds when he’s excited, which doubtless comes as a major relief to the people sitting around him who recall the sights ( and smells ! ) of last year ! Despite the fact that the band see they have the crowd in their pockets right from the off, there’s no question of just cruising, and they gradually apply the pedal to the metal as the show progresses. Steve’s having one of his “ octopus” nights where he seems to have grown an extra arm or two, and Den’s totally mastered the art of bantering with a partisan crowd between songs without ever losing control of the situation. With Phil, Jamie and Chris rising to the occasion as ever, the whole thing is a slam-dunk, so that by the time Mony Mony carpet-bombs the theatre we know people will be talking about tonight for a long time to come. Our Uber-fans Marilyn and Debbie are here tonight, leading the charge from the front as ever, and speaking to them afterwards they comment that they think it’s one of the best shows they’ve seen the band play, and if anyone knows it’s these girls ! It’s been a total blast, and this almost takes the pain away from an onerous post-gig chore, which is once again van-related. The car doctors have looked at Arthur’s vehicle today and decided that though it’s a bit shagged out it’ll survive in the short term, so as soon as we’ve loaded up, Arthur, Junior and I jump in the nice new hire van after the show and head for Sandy, where the now temporarily repaired Merc is waiting for us. We start to cross-load the kit from the Longmarsh van into the Merc , and it’s while we’re doing this that the lights of a police car swerve into the yard. Ah. This could be a tricky one…” Yes, officer I KNOW it looks like we’re stealing a load of PA from the van, but we’re not, honest…you see this is our van and it’s broken down but now it isn’t and we’re taking it away to Derby and leaving this nice new rental van instead but actually that’s coming with us TOO for now cos it’s going to Bedford and of course the people who own the garage know me and…..oh bugger it, jut put the cuffs on…I don’t even believe it myself “. Fortunately the officer obviously thinks our story is SO implausible that it must be true, so he lets us go and scoots off.. All we have to do now is drop the hire van at Bedford and then there’s just the little matter of the drive to Derby. When we arrive there the bus still hasn’t arrived, so we sit in the van and wait, eyes drooping. We need a volunteer to go and stand on the road to guide John in, and as I’ve got my hat, coat and gloves I get the short straw. The bitingly cold wind whistles round my undercarriage as I wait, and somewhere a church clock strikes 5.00am.….beneath the encroaching hypothermia, a sense of déjà vu starts to creep in…..