Some back of a fag packet thoughts on the FANTASTIC Lambeth Country Show, bashed out whilst the final traces of Chucklehead Cider are still roaming around within my brain.
Chin Chin.
The Bucket Shakers were back this year. They were incredibly friendly and provided a charming front of house meet ’n’ greet as you entered Brockwell Park. The message of ‘help fund the show in order for it to survive’ was a little ominous. And rhetorical.
*cough* Council Tax.
Or even costly by-elections…
Three stalls down and I was done:
Dulwich Hamlet Supporters, the Lovely Lido and Streatham Redskins; in essence my Transpontine life tucked away within a 10m radius of the beauty of Brockwell Park.
Look - I can even see Le Velo from over on the Herne Hill horizon from here.
You need a routine and you need to stick with it in order to have a successful Country Show.
Actually, that’s bollocks. You just go with the flow, which usually happens to be swimming around in a pool of slightly warm Chucklehead.
But I am a man of routine, if nothing else. And so I did the up and down, up and down the aisles thing, started to queue for the Chucklehead and then overdosed on some Rocksteady with the ACE Delegators.
South London smells of jerk chicken.
And thank the chuffers for that.
It is a truly uplifting aroma that spreads out around a five mile Transpontine radius of Brockwell Park come the Country Show season.
Church bells may be used back in the Badlands to flush out the Bible Bashers. All of South London comes out to play when it can smell jerk wafting into the neighbourhood.
The scarecrows were ever so slightly scary, especially the one that deserves to have her have eyes pecked out.
Back over at Brixton Buzz and we have actually had an email conversation with some deluded fool who took exception to the picture caption.
IT’S A CHUFFING SCARECROW.
Meanwhile the crowd control for the veg table is becoming incredibly rock ’n’ roll. There is almost a gig like mentality around the legendary cut up a cucumber in the style of a large penis competition.
Or maybe I just wasn’t wearing my specs.
Eye, eye - over here.
The comment of the weekend came from a young Madam whilst enjoying the Touch up an Owl stall:
“Can we go now pleeeeeease? They all look the same, Mummy.”
Get that young lady some jerk and head her over to the Main Stage for some dub.
Aye.
The rain came from nowhere around 2:30pm on Saturday - literally NOWHERE. Enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a large pair of pants etc, yet still we had something of a downpour.
Nothing compared to Sunday, mind.
Poor old #ASWADAWOL.
The Council crap was actually quite cool this year. It wasn’t forced down your Chucklehead starved throat in the style of years gone by.
This is the secret to the success of the Country Show. Entice out the locals with the promise of jerk and cider, and then ask them how they feel about spunking away £50m on Your Nu Town Hall vanity project.
Preferably ask this question after five pints of Chucklehead have been downed.
Boy it was HOT and STEAMY on the Saturday. Which led to some light refreshment.
OK - let’s talk about Chucklehead.
TWO stalls this summer, plus a cattle gate type queuing system to hold back the crowds. I stumbled when it came to my moment of cider glory and hesitated over dry, medium or sweet.
In the end I think I actually said:
“Oh fuck it - what do you recommend?”
I was rewarded with BOOZE.
The rest was a blur. I think I danced, I think I stroked a camel. I definitely had to be pulled away from approaching a certain local party political stall.
Chin chin, Comrades.