Dear Beloved, stop fidgeting and listen up.
A long, long time ago (in the 70’s) far, far away in a small town called Penzance (and you can’t get much further*) there was a venue called (inexplicably**) the Wintergardens.
One night, a lonesome soul wandered down to see what was going on at the “happening” place in West Penwith; hoping to lose himself in booze & jazz. (Usual story of unrequited lust.)
When the youth arrived, he encountered a queue of, mostly, long haired, spaced out kids. He tentatively tapped the greasy, dandruffed shoulder in front of him.
“Who the F is on tonight?.” He asked.
“Queen, man.” came the laconic reply through a smog of Golden Virginia and another, less familiar, odour.
“Shit.” he thought, “Never heard of them. I’ll just get pissed then.” And he paid his 10/6d and went inside.
Three hours passed before our hero; for it is he; emerged into the Cornish night. The bit by the prom; near Newlyn. A beatific smile played about his rosy cheeks. A Rothmans’ glowed dark red in his clammy, quivering grasp. His heart resonating to the angelic vocals of Freddy Mercury (Cherubs be Attendant upon Him) and Brain May’s hypnotic guitar work (was that his “Red Special”, which he built from an 18th century fireplace? Classy).
“We’ll never see them down here again.” he predicted. Correctly.
He had walked through those hallowed doors a boy and came out a man. His best purple shirt, the trendy one with the ruff, was drenched with sweat and Harp lager. But he was fulfilled. because he’d discovered the one thing he’d been searching for the whole of his 17 years. He had found the meaning of the phrase “Spaced out”. (He’s since grown up a bit since then and discovered Jules Holland. But that’s another chapter.)
This is a true story. I know; because I was that young man.
A.
- Eight miles to the west to be precise. Then you fall off England.
** “Inexplicably” because it only snowed there once; in 1968. It usually dropped hail stones in March though.
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