Ouch.

Two things to report from this weekend:

The Man Eyken gig on Saturday night. Lovely. Very lovely. Very very folkie. Basically in a room above a pub near Euston, where a folk club meet every week, and do their own tunes. He was without his band, but as always smiled his way through the performance, like he was enjoying every minute of it, and swapping between a melodeon, a guitar and even at one point a recorder... which sent my mind spinning back to the horror of learning recorder at school, how very useless I was, and then back to the present, and wondering whether it is really really wrong to find a grown man playing a recorder attractive (probably)??? Schwesty and Choc Chip were on good form, goading me endlessly, for my adoration of the red-DMed one. But they know what I mean... all in all a very good night. We even managed to cope with a true Irish odd-ball, who accosted us as we wandered back to the tube station afterwards. He declared loudly that Man Eyken sent him to sleep, that he was boring and sang everything in too low a key, that it wasn't true folk, that at least the people that had sung before him (including one warbling woman who had to stop half way through her song because she was in the wrong key!!) showed some spirit. We indulged him a little, finally agreeing to disagree. But he insisted on stalking us all the way back to the station, and then into the tunnels, accompanied by a strangely silent wife/partner (probably embarrassed into submission), saying that we must be groupies, asking us whether the woman who so enthusiastically introduced Man Eyken was his mum?!! We finally lost him on the Victoria line thank God. A very strange and very simple man methinks.

Then on Sunday went paintballing with Mr and Mrs Pedro and Troy. Shooting people is bad. And also quite fun. Though if you could see my poor battered body (nice red welt marks on both arse-cheeks, proving my ample behind is just too tempting a target), then you'd also understand it hurts!! I proved a braver soul than I thought. At one point finding myself alone half way up the "battlefield" while the rest of my team fecked off and retreated! Gits. The volley of shots that then headed my way, courtesy of the gang of evil children on the opposing team, probably would have finished me off, had I not been behind a very handy net... prize for best injuries probably went to Mr and Mrs Pedro, though, who both got shot from point blank range by some chav tossers, before one of the games had even started. Cue screaming, swearing, and Pedro doing a big man act. When Burnley learnt of this story, he asked me whether me or Troy had at any point smirked during this incident. To which I faithfully answered - what moi???!! Mr and Mrs Pedro are still attached at the hip, and still blinded by love (blinded to the entire outside world that is..). Oh well, one day they'll learn. When they grow up. Oh no, hang on, they are grown up.