Maybe you hoped for rain at Glasto to dampen your pals’ humblebragging FB posts… maybe you expected a billion pound birthday present from the magic money tree and meany May gave it to the DUP instead - no fair! - maybe you somehow convinced yourself that summer was 100% here when really it was just a thumbnail preview and the real thing may be lost in the Cosmic Ordering post room… don’t get down in the mouth, get up and get on down to JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH where we’ve still got an unshakeably strong mandate to deliver a far-reaching program of blues-to-bop-to-latin-to-swing-to-whatever thanks to the endless creativity and tireless enthusiasm of Luke ‘Luke’ Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz ‘Loz’ Thomas (drms), gamely assisted by me on bass, while multi-dimensional entities that manifest themselves on this plane as the Bee’s team wait, vibrating soundlessly, amidst the scented dusk behind the well-stocked bar, ready to pour you libations that will refresh and invigorate your jaded senses quicker than a government housing officer can pass the buck…. far away across the multiverse Mr Corbyn prepares for a follow-up greatest-hits tour of Carling Academies, Ms May runs panting in ever-decreasing circles through an endless wheatfield pursued by the vengeful ghost of the Reverend Ian Paisley, Craig David finally discovers some well-deserved down time in his packed weekly schedule, Ed Sheeran returns home to change his sheets and tune his guitar, clandestine Russian hackers accidentally break into LinkedIn and drown under an endless torrent of unsolicited emails, The Trump does something so dismally predictably awful that you can't even be bothered to find out what it is, dogs delight to bark and bite, Fortuna's wheel keeps on turning and we keep on keeping on…. don’t be shy, come and join us, now's the time.
The sun’s out! Not a moment to lose - abandon whatever attempts you were making to convert the latest horrific tragedy into internet commentary gold, pull a sickie if you’re one of the dwindling band of worker bees still gifted with old-school contractual protections, or just abscond from whatever exploitative gig-economy bullcrap disguised as self employment you’re engaged in, and get yourselves down to JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH … We’ll be expecting you fresh from the beach, your pink-and-white flesh still bearing the imprint of the greasy pebbles, your hair fragrant with the evocative scent of disposable barbecues, your eyes dazzled with the shimmering rays as they bounce off a million pairs of knock-off Raybans before being absorbed into the inky blackness of a million sweet tribal tattoos, waiting to dazzle and delight your sun-scorched senses with the killer sounds of Luke ‘Scorchio” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Hotter Than The Sun” Thomas (drms) plus me supplying low end as per, while the Bee’s team led by dandy highwayman Jack Rowan wait, vibrating gently in the scented dusk behind the well-stocked bar, ready to slake your thirst with a selection of exotic liquors, the languid zephyrs of midsummer play about your fevered temples and the last showing of the light in the western sky glows like the unearthly radiance shining from your own personal doorway to The Law… as everything seems more and more improbable, as the prolonged period of uncertainty keeps on delivering like a horrible Amazon Prime of despair, give your poor bewildered self a break and come and join us, now’s the time, there is no other.
A total upheaval, as candidates bared all, let their particulars be examined by the nation, and braved the hostile climate, making a clean breast and astonishing spectators with their unexpected surges - yet again the Naked Bike Ride has shown us a triumph of optimism over the forces of gravity and confounded the naysayers - if you’re safely fully clothed* and need a break from wondering just what the heck is going to happen next, JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH is here once again, defying the way the mainstream media has totally ignored our successes, with the return of the dream coalition team of Luke ‘The Surge” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz ‘The Urge’ Thomas (drms), plus me making up the numbers on bass, and the ethereal ascended beings of the Bee’s Team under the leadership of dandy highwayman Jack Rowan ready to offer soothing libations to help you all just chill the flip down, you know… as the prolonged period of uncertainty stretches ever further into the cloud-dappled future, as poor Ms May and her new chums sweatily attempt to cobble together a convincing vision of a strong, stable realm riven with sectarianism but forever free of homosexual dinosaurs, as the nation’s responsible parents remind the newly enfranchised youth that it’s not the winning, it’s the taking part that matters, as Mr Corbyn stands before his modest bathroom mirror and practices adjusting his tie with a smile of quiet command, as an appalled nation tries to reconcile feelings of victory with the sudden return of Mr Gove to our ever more neglected TV screens and front pages, it’s time to put down your tethered devices, abandon your tribal prejudices, hang up your hang ups and come and get down with some righteous hard swinging jazz n’ bop n’ blues n’ groove … see, it’s all ok, come join us, join us…..
*Bee’s Mouth is not licensed for full public nudity.
Confused? Fearful? Maybe changing your profile pic to a national flag, or writing solemn, pontificating posts about how it's All Our Fault or People Are Dying Abroad Too, longer seem like adequate responses? Maybe the tension is too much? Let JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE'S MOUTH pour soothing balm upon your poor jangled nerves, as we keep calm and Carry On Swinging, as though infused with the twin spirits of Kenny Burrell and Kenneth Williams, thanks to the impassioned, ineffably hip stylinga of Luke 'Lightsabre' Rattenbury (gtr) and the cataclysmic grooving precision of special guest Tristan 'T Bone' Banks (drms) plus me on the ol' Dog-house, while dandy highwayman Jack Rowan and the ethereal, ever-obliging Bee's team stand by, on hand to offer soothing libations... Tear your horrified gaze away from Mrs May as she flaps and squawks like a dusty vulture on her way to running the worst election campaign ever created by a sinister Australian, stop wondering anxiously if Mr Corbyn can keep remembering how to do his tie up properly, keep your head steady and your powder dry against whatever trials may loom ahead through the gloomy mists of the prolonged period of uncertainty, and for now respond to It all by grabbing yer axe down off the shelf and coming to join us, let's celebrate.