Sunday 9th August 2009 – Secret Goings on in Fairfield

I find a lot of rock music quite aggravating.  I can block out things I don't want to listen to, but I often fail with the crude driving rhythms of some rock music.  I then find myself in a vicious circle of concentrating on something I don't want to listen to because it's annoying me so much.

          Such was the case last night.  And as I focused in on the annoyance, it dawned on me that not only was there the irritating drummer, the background was clearly a profane use of the pipes.  The Juke box offered up the name of the group and the track, which I noted down for later retribution.

          I looked it up with Google, and got a YouTube video of it.  The group is called ac/dc, and in this video they seemed to have taken a small group of pipers hostage, and were parading them round the town in a truck, making them play along with the group.  They were clearly unaware of the subtle retaliation of the pipers, who were secretly sending out distress calls with their pipes.

          Come back "Mull of Kintyre", all is forgiven (well, maybe not all, but some).

 

I have cracked one of the secrets of the Grown-up Ladies: they are running an unmarked saloon in downtown Fairfield, where ageing gentlemen can sup draught ale, watch sports, play thirty-one, and do the many other unmentioned (not to say unmentionable) things that gentlemen do in these circumstances.

          My spies had identified it for me quite precisely, but even knowing the street number (to the nearest half!) wasn't quite enough.  I walked past it several times before I noticed a small sign on the door, denying access to anyone under twenty-one: I knew that had to be it.

          It took a little bit of courage to go in, because when I opened the door, it was so properly lit inside that, just for a minute, I couldn't see a thing.  I could have been stepping right into a Shuffleboard Team committee meeting.

          But there it was: with ale on tap, and a grown-up lady who could carry out an empty barrel, and carry in a fresh one; who gave thirty-one lessons; and took bets on the outcome of Nascar races.

          Speaking of Nascar racing, this week was Watkins Glen in New York, where they run what they call a 'road race'.  This is not the terrifying speed ballet on the oval, but ducking and diving on what looks like a F1 circuit.  The view was that this was much more dangerous, but of course it isn't, since they are going so much slower.  They managed to bang into each other regularly without the awful consequences you see on the oval.

          Later that night, the congregation was much younger, but they played pool with some skill and passion, and seemed to be the sort of young people who might grow up to be proper grown-up people.

          The barmaid put my drink in front of me and waved away any payment: "No, no", she said, "my mother bought you that".  Now you know you've arrived in society when that happens to you.