So, here we are back in wonderful Grimsby again. It’s a Sunday night and the town is ours for the taking. Even better, there is another ship from our fleet in port, and we’re all due to meet up in a bar; how hard could it be?
Mobile phones make modern life possible, and should, therefore make it easier for one party tell another exactly which bar they may, or not be in. So, once docked, someone called a friend on the other ship; the name of a bar exchanged, and we head out into the cold and windy night.
I was given the name of the bar, and putting that name into my clever new mobile phone I find the bar is 130 yards away behind us. Well, that was once we found our way off the dockside.
Unbeknown to us, we had been berthed at the far side of the dock; which meant a route march through miles of parked trucks, across the gates to the dock along a rickety walk along the top of the lock gates, down a narrow unlit road and then a mile along deserted warehouses before coming to what was once the merchant’s quarter.
Others in the party thought they knew the bar, and so we headed off away from our eventual destination and into what was once the centre of town. Mile after mile of shop fronts passed by until we gave up walking in circles. Another call told us the name of the new rock bar, and checking with the taxi line revealed that it was now a 10 minute taxi ride back to where we started.
We had already passed many bars and pubs already selling lovely beers and wines; but the others in the rock bar made it sound so nice we paid the money and climbed into a couple of taxis and headed back into docklands.
The Yardbird is a rock bar; no doubt about that. It is run by the local biker chapter, The Warlocks, and is a rough as a rough thing. There were drug deals being done, and we looked out of place a portion of ribs at a Jewish wedding. We bought drinks and settled down to watch the trip on stage try to do a passing impression of the Jimi Hendrix Experience.
They weren’t that bad in truth. The wah-wah peddle was over worked, but the tunes were recognisable, and the few in the bar were getting down to the show. Heck; even the drinks were cheap, although talk was impossible, it wasn’t that bad.
I guess what was worrying, was the baby-boomers getting down with the groove and puffing away on fat roll ups; is this our future; listening to the sounds of our youth until we’re in our dotage? I shuddered as someone’s granddad played an invisible flying V to the intro of Voodoo Chile.
We caught the final half hour of the show, and then it was time to head back into docklands, or what was left of it, to find our way back to the ship past miles of white vans and stacks of wood.
The view is more of the same tomorrow night; sure beats working.
Copy & paste to friend: (Click inside box; Ctrl + C to copy; Ctrl + V to paste)
|
|
read more blogs!
Blogs by jelltex:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| the ghost of jimi hendrix |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|