June

[Sweder]

Quite the heaviest plod of the year, merciless sun adding to my burden as I melted across the hilltops. No great surprise after the Girlschool Reunion weekend. I've decided to leave the details of our time in Bournemouth for another time and place; much of what transpired - and details of those involved - would mean little or nothing to most here, revolving as they did around personal memories of decades lost in the mists of time and youth. Suffice to say it was less 'Withnail and I' and more 'Last of the Summer Wine'. Sort of.

What struck me was the range of diverse paths we’d taken since those halcyon days of cross-country travel, lugging bass-bins, cadging lifts, bunking trains, loitering around venues/ pubs, ligging backstage and sleeping rough. Our lives are like concentric wheels in a Spirograph pattern, intersecting at junctions between 1978 and 1982 but for the most part wheeling away from each other, curving off into separate areas of modern life on arcs of parenthood, employment, hobbies, likes and dislikes. More intersections appear, infrequent collisions of experience and taste; some consensus on movies - another unashamed fan of The Host! - and of course a continuing passion for good rock music. Turns out that no less than five of us have taken up the bass guitar over the years (with notably differing results it should be said). As far as vocational development goes we have a bank advisor living in darkest Devon, a record company executive plying his trade in Tokyo, a healthcare professional based in Gloucester, an event logistics specialist living in rural Sussex, a civil servant in south London . . . wheels within wheels, worlds apart yet forever linked by those hazy, crazy days of yore.

Amongst various revelations was the excellent news that Ruptured Dog* might be about to resurface. This band drew admiration and revulsion in equal measure from its inception in the early eighties until its demise in the mid-nineties, managing at least one Peel session and a star turn at the old Marquee along the way. Doug, erstwhile founder member and latterly bass-player, recently unearthed an ancient relic in his garden. This strange machine, when connected to a mystical power source, made contact with the great stratospheric gas-dweller Interweb. The unseen behemoth hooked Doug up with his old pal Tony Maim. A reunion rehersal is imminent - that is, in darkest Devonian parleance, sometime in the next three to four months.

All in all a great weekend, memories rekindled like the embers of a great hearthfire until the stories crackled and popped, tankards of mead spilling over warped wooden tables. Laughter, astonishment, revelation and, at the mention of those no longer with us, sober reflection and declarations of undying love filled the hours.

The only thing I could express any love for this morning was the moment of relief as I staggered back into my front garden, broiled pink, sweat-soaked and desperate. My right knee continues to whinge so I’ll be making contact with the specialist – ‘the knee whisperer’ – kindly passed on by Helen after the Seaford Half.

Track du jour was the ‘Orrible ‘Oo (as the late beloved Thomas Vance used to call them) with Join Together With the Band. The relentless beat is perfect for the cumbersome lumber of my last mile home.

[SIZE="1"]* being Johnny-come-latelies to the Interweb RD found their seemingly unique moniker had been hijacked by a bunch of spotty youths from Norn Iron. The original thrash-metallers are, therefore, known in cyberspace as THE Ruptured Dog[/SIZE]