Now that cushy research post in Doha doesn’t seem quite as appealing, your cruise holiday in the Sea of Azov has been called off, Masterchef is nearly over, nothing to look forward to but the endless hell of yelling Brexitty bullsh*t, followed by Xmas, followed by more Brexit, but now with horrible hench Noel hollering at Holly Willoughby like a malignant but ripped meat dwarf.. let JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH swoop down upon you from over the glassy frozen sea, out of the chilly light and autumn’s sere breath from the misty horizon , and bear you up up up upon wings of pure imagination, good grooves, cool swing and hot licks thanks to the imperturbable majesty of Luke “All Killer” Rattenbury (gtr) and the unflappable sang-froid of special guest Angus “No Filler” Bishop (drms), and they lay down some dank stanky sh*t for you to enjoy, aided to some degree by me on bass, and possible special guests of all shapes and sizes, while the fearless buccaneers of the Bee’s Team wait, poised and ready in the scented dusk behind the well-stocked bar, the bag-o-fish guy hovers in the turbid street outside the steamy windows, the badmashes mix with the Bad Boys over a tasty burger … somewhere far away across the darkness at the edge of town, politicos are plotting, Ms May is dutifully writing thank-you letters to herself in a dark dusty cupboard, Jeff Goldblum enrages a generation of Trinity grads by tinkling the ol’ ivories with a knowing leer, Megatron and Optimus battle for command of the shadow zone, but we’ll be safe in here, good things will be happening, so join us, join us…
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time for sticking your fingers in your ears and your head under the pillow, and screaming ‘lalalalala’ til it all goes away - and if that doesn’t work, a time for JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH where we’ll be cutting right through through the swathes of misinformational bullshit, celebrity jungle witch hunts, imaginary backstops to backstops, manipulative virtual orang-utans, dank unwholesome memes and needless spiritual shitposting that have been clogging up your poor bruised frontal lobes, and inviting you to join Luke ‘Strong’ Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz ‘Stable’ Thomas (drms) as they set off on a magic carpet ride of good grooves and hot licks, aided by our special guest, the effortlessly debonair George ‘Family man’ Trebar, on bass, while the fearless buccaneers of the Bee’s Team under the command of their intrepid leader Jack Rowan stand by to proffer good vibes and libations of top quality hooch, and out across the wide wide world all kinds of things go down that you won’t need to worry about for a while - that nice Mr Corbyn tends his polls and offers jam tomorrow, Melania carefully rakes up all the brushwood as Donald looks on, Boris checks his Gumtree ads, The Spice Girls prepare their leadership bid, International Men have a day all to themselves to attend to their metrosexual manscaping , the tectonic plates grind away deep below the earth, Mars keeps the lights on, the last leaves are torn screaming from the stunned trees, Orion lifts above the horizon and winks, and somewhere deep within the chilly urban labyrinth a man fills a bag with stolen fish and sets out into the night… come and join us, you’ll be glad you did, you will.
Hey! How’ve u been? Forging ahead dynamically like a Sovereign Individual into our exciting Ayn Rand fantasy of a future? Or bumping sadly about like Trump’s abandoned umbrella on the steps of your own grounded Air Force One? Don’t get all neggy n shit - the future’s as bright as a newly minted Brexit 50p, or if not, at least there’s JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH rolling your way down the tracks once again, so park your imaginary weed-stinking Tesla at the curb and jump on board, cos we’re on the scheduled service to good grooves, hot licks and pure joyous musical energy thanks to the indefatigable efforts of Luke ‘The Conductor” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “ A Pound Off The Topline” Thomas (drms) as they see you safe on your journey, aided in some manner by me on bass, while the Ansel Adams of the Optics Jack Rowan and his team of fearless buccaneers preside over the well-stocked bar and outside on the pavements the heavy stained slabs lie mute beneath the restless cavalcade of human traffic, mammals and MAMILS, some glowing in their youth, some strutting in their pride, some bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock-kneed and coughing like hags, some just trying to get through to the end of the night, while overhead the satellites are spinning, the galaxies are waiting, Mars still hangs burning in the void as the axis tilt yet again, Fortuna’s wheel sends us careening on the way to who knows where? Vassalage, chaos, the Critic’s Round of Masterchef, its all to play for, so grab yer axe and come join us, what’s to lose?