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A bat out of hell
If it was considered that our comments on queuing and service in the United Kingdom were a little harsh, let us then add rudeness to the list. Consider this. We were innocently sitting in a Central London eatery having just finished a snack when a snotty, sour-faced young woman came up to the table and out of the blue, without introduction or pleasantry, launched into a conversation which went like this:
Her (very aggressively): Are you actually eating?
Us: No we’re not actually eating, we’ve only just finished (the crumbs weren’t yet tidied away or faces wiped).
Her (even more aggressively and increasingly red-face as we held our ground): Can’t you see that other people want your table? All the other seats are taken.
An older woman, a mother perhaps, sensing that the slovenly young thing was about to be served a lesson in manners (we were just in the mood), implored her to leave us, the inconsiderate people, in our seats as we weren’t worth the bother. 'Ere, cummon luv, ignore 'em, vey aint worf bovvering wif.
And off they went, both glaring in our direction.
But if this left a poor impression, the balance has been tilted for the better, all down to the staff at Chandlers, an ordinary looking pub directly across the road from the Ealing Broadway station. We stopped for dinner, the menu looked alright and so we ordered our standby favourite, scampi and chips. Behind the bar, were a friendly, chirpy woman and a thick-set, shaven-headed, bullish sort of a bloke, the sort we described in Thailand as looking like the stereotypical brick-built tattooed football thug. In short, and she was very very short, both were engaging, inviting discussion, making suggestions and ensuring their service was prompt and efficient. Right down to him giving articulate, confident advice on wines to us and other customers, completely defying the beer and curry image his physical presence portrayed. Marty said we were having a meal before heading off to Brixton to see New Zealand band, The Bats, he volunteered that he was from south of the river and double-checked our pre-prepared directions. Kaelene has vowed never again judge people (or whole nations) by their appearance.
As it turned out, the directions were fundamentally flawed. Drivers on the Victoria Line, the only tube to Brixton, were on strike, supporting one of their colleagues sacked for opening the doors on the wrong side of the tube at a station. It may have been justified, he may have had our sour-faced young woman on board and wanted shot of her, but the irony of our being wrong-footed by strike action wasn’t lost on us. (Can we ever trust unions again not to inconvenience us?).
The Windmill, a music venue in Brixton, is rather different to the Royal Albert Hall. It is one of those delightfully grungy places, described by Time Out rather indelicately as a gloriously lowdown, coolf**k venue. That was a compliment. Situated at the end of a street of houses, it looks like a disused garage or condemned house, inside it is an L-shaped bar, dark, with a low ceiling and small stage area in one corner. This is a serious muso’s sort of place. The Bats were the third act, following an earnest wrist-slitting trio called Mathew Sawyer and the Ghosts, and a rock band called My Sad Captains with a Daniel Vettori lookalike wearing a grey cardigan on lead guitar and vocals (they, the band that is, were very good).
It would be unfair for us to review the Bats. Despite Marty having been an acquaintance and Facebook friend of bassist Paul Kean for a number of years, we’ve not listened to their music and, in conversation before the show; Paul said we should not compare them to our previous night’s encounter with Eric Clapton. Not only had the group arrived in England that morning after a twenty-six hour flight from New Zealand, they don’t claim virtuoso status. That said, it was a sold out “ultra-rare performance from this legendary psychedelic folk pop foursome” and good enough that we wondered why it takes a trip to the United Kingdom to appreciate a home-town band.
There were though a couple of disappointments; we had to leave before the end of the gig to find our way home from the unfamiliar south side of the Thames with the Victoria Line tube down and us not knowing the fundamentals of the night bus service and, secondly, for Kaelene, that Raybon Kan hadn’t turned up. We had a spare ticket in case he was stalking her.