The title’s a fraud, don’t worry. Just fancied donning the white coat of pseudo-science for a fleeting, triumphant moment. Imagine me delivering some lecture whose fierce magnificence has the students of that kind of stuff awestruck; fixed to the history-laden benches of their musky auditorium, their pallid faces faintly lit by the star-bearing genius of my hypothesis.
The truth is I’m hung over. Reflecting through a pretty decent quality blow-to-the-head cloud formation. Needing shades. Needing to either sleep, or do something demanding woolly-head defying grit. Hence the post. Plus the fact that yet again last night was evidentially revealing re- the delicious/delirious connect twixt people, bars, guitars.
I attended a sort of boutique pub quiz, populated by a talent-rich crowd. There were A list journo’s, a high level motivator/performance consultant, teachers, musicians, brilliant, convivial people from business as well as arts and media. The quiz was essentially good-natured family fare, with a competitive edge evident but not prevailing. Question One was delivered somewhere about 10.30pm. By then almost everybody was legally unable to drive. By Question Thirty-Five the volume of demands for clarity from the quizmaster (my brother) and general background colour were of a strikingly higher, bolder, noisier nature.
Post the quiz certain people were either volunteered or sheepishly took on the role of folky entertainer. I had rich and intense conversations with some geezer from Victoria/Vancouver and the Performance Man – we were on times too rich, too genuine, too loud for the fair observance of the folky rituals going on around us. So we hushed and then re-ignited between songs. (I really wouldn’t want to judge the quality of the entertainment at hand, it being absolutely a matter of families or individuals doing turns – a phenomenon I entirely applaud. I did think, however, that it cried out for somebody to do a refreshingly spiky version of “Ever Fallen In Love With Someone You Shouldn’t Have Fallen In Love With?” to up the ante.)
In short, the evening was a minor classic of its atmospheric type. Loquaciously, the beer was really talking.