Banjo boy wizdom

Saturday night was spent at my gun club, enjoying a few wet ones in the company of Paul Young and his Tex Mex band. As we sat at the table nearest the stage in what used to be the pistol range, I could not help but notice the lead guitarist making eyes at Mrs. England Project.

The front of the man, I thought, and a little unwise given the venue.

The night went on and I began to believe that perhaps my imagination was running away with me. Perhaps the fellow wasn’t gyrating his instrument toward my beloved in that way. Perhaps he couldn’t actually see the audience through the dense smoke of my cigar, held firmly between my teeth as I squinted at the dog in a manner not unlike Mr. Eastwood’s.

Are you looking at my woman?, I imagined myself saying to the rogue while tying my holster cord to my thigh in readiness for the inevitable quick draw, crack of a single shot and subsequent sound of a man falling heavily onto a stratocaster.

Ahhh, beer, source of my greatest imagined victories.

Perhaps he was twanging at one of the other of the three ladies that I brought with me to the bash. It’s always wise to carry spares don’t you think?

No, it must be all in my head. The stage is bright and the audience is in the dark, I thought. The man would have to have the eyes of a wolf.

Then Mr. Young announced that the band were taking a short break and as the wolf passed my table he whispered something into the ear of my good lady.

I enquired of the Mrs. what the departing entertainer had said and was informed that, apparently, he wished to convey to her that in his opinion she was gorgeous. It was nice of the minstrel to notice but I couldn’t help thinking that my presence deserved a little more recognition. She was clearly unavailable, having been marked out with bands of gold and diamonds the size of small moons.

Mrs. England Project was clearly enjoying herself and my other two young ladies seemed to be revelling in the possibility that I may have finally met competition of some worth. He was skilled with the guitar and not bad looking in that wanted dead or alive kind of a way and, for some reason, I got the distinct impression that my cohorts would have like nothing better than to see me taken down a strip or two. Flogging would have been too good for them.

Wolfey and the rest of the band returned to complete their set, we continued to drink and make merry and as the night drew to a close I found myself playing croupier at a blackjack table in the casino that had been kindly provided for the night by our hosts. How I got from the seat that I had occupied nearly all night to that particular table in a completely different room was unfathomable. I seem to remember being annoyed about something. Why was I continuing to twist my cards when I was already way past thirty something? Who were those people standing in front of me? When did I start drinking rum?

I made my excuses to my new card playing friends and went in search of my trio who I eventually found in the company of a some people I thought I vaguely recognised. Something to do with the banjo or something.

Anyhow, we eventually left for home and the girls filled me in a little on what had transpired while I was loosing the house thousands on the tables. As it turned out the errant guitarist had been put straight by Mr. Paul Young while the band were on their break. Have you seen that girl in the audience? the fender grinder apparently remarked. Yes, and have you seen the size of the rocks on her finger? Mr. Young replied.

That night Mrs. England Project seemed even more sparkly than she normally is and I have to hand it to wolfey for his remarkable distillation.

She is gorgeous.