Martin Luther King Day

Monday January 17th.

Tonight we have a WOLF MOON.

The January full moon is traditionally called the Wolf Moon because wolves can be heard howling at the moon more around this time of year. It was believed that wolves howled more during the winter due to hunger. However, howling can also be a sign of wolves defining territory, trying to locate other pack members, reinforcing social bonds or coordinating hunting

It’s a very bright moon and if, like me you become a lunatic when the celestial body plays silly buggers, you’ll be howling up at the sky.

Not that we’ve got anything to howl about – as if!!!

Twenty odd years ago the old git was in a band. A 50’s rock and roll band. He played rhythm guitar and took to wearing a Teddy Boy suit and shades. And for those of you who don’t know what a Teddy Boy suit looks like, lucky you, you’ll be younger than both the old git and I, or is it me? ‘Shades’, of course, is the old beatnik term for a pair of sun glasses.Their suits were red or black or silver with velvet trimmings.
So now that you are cognisant with the visuals I’ll get on with the story.

The PREFECTS, as they were called, played at weddings, birthdays, Rock’n’Roll clubs, the occasional hotel dance, and sometimes they went abroad. The most memorable being Africa, where they played to an audience of ex-pats in a forgettable ex-pats’ social club in Uganda. The band consisted of a vocalist, a lead guitarist, a rhythm guitarist, a bass player and a drummer. Five men with families who were languishing at home whilst they were playing ‘Rock Around The Clock’ to inebriated Britishers in Kampala.

It was New Years Eve, and I was alone with the dawter and her godmother. The snow lay crisp and even all over the garden and the three of us hung near the phone to get a good will message from the travelling troubadour.

What we didn’t know was the drama that was taking place in the trestle tabled dining room. Havoc ensued as the drummer started hallucinating behind the drum kit. He’d had a reaction to ‘Lariam’ the anti malarial drug. As he sweated behind the drum kit, batting away dinosaurs and perspiring over the skins, the ‘oosbind laid down his rhythm guitar and stepped into the breach. As the band played on a doctor was summoned from the audience and the unfortunate drummer was whisked away to an anti room.
Whilst Jimbo tried to remember his paradiddles and rim shots, me and the other two females, went out into our East Sussex garden, dismayed that we hadn’t heard from Africa.

The moon was full. The snow was high and it was cold. As cold as it got before global warming. Knowing that the dawter was missing her musical dad I decided to introduce some memorable entertainment. We stood with our backs facing Brighton. We fiddled around with our waistbands and with one whoosh we pulled down our drawers. Our naked white bottoms, shocked by the temperature, wobbled as the icy blast passed over our buttocks.

We mooned to the world.
We mooned for fun.
We mooned for the loss of the head of the household.
We mooned and laughed.
Dancing around the snowy bushes we shouted out New Years Greetings to whoever could hear us.
Which was one freezing neighbour and a terrified fox.

It helped, and when we found out that the old Northener had turned into Keith Moon whilst we mooned, there was a lot of cold chuckling.

The band disbanded when it became clear that Christmas and Hogmanay was their busiest time, and since they were making threepence a gig, we all thought it would be better to have the old git at home with his daughter as opposed to leaping about a stage on December 31st in a far flung pub in Kettering.

Tonight there will be no family mooning.

Tonight there may be a lot of wailing but definitely no baring of the buttocks.

The ‘oosbind has laid down his drum sticks and by the time the Wolf Moon has reached its zenith he’ll be tucked up in bed with a turmeric latte and Dave Grohl – apparently his new book is terrific.

As for me, I may well moon to the world showing my contempt by baring my bum to all the arseholes in parliament – it’s the least I can do.

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