I remember doing a gig ages ago somewhere in West London. It was one of those pubs that believed in having live ‘attractions’ most nights – music, strippers, like that.
As you can imagine, being a solo act for many years, individual gigs tend to blend into one another. It takes some special detail to raise the recall profile so to say.
In this instance the landlord was an Indian guy of average build in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had receding short jet black hair brushed straight back, a big black moustache, glasses and a broad leather wristband. He was (and doubtless still is) a nice guy with a good and ready sense of humour who smoked king-sized filter ciggies.
In an obviously disadvantaged area, the pub itself was rough in every respect. Even the strippers were about as feminine and sensual as a Luftwaffe attack, I don’t know how a superficially pretty woman with most of her clothes removed can look so desperately, sadly unattractive, like something from the outer rings of Dante’s ‘Inferno’.
When the punch-up started – unusually early as I recall – the image that stays in my mind is of this Indian landlord, completely unflustered, fending off and dealing with assorted offenders in all directions, whilst continuously smoking the cigarette between his lips throughout. Cool as the proverbial….. From his demeanour I’d guess this was something he did every night. There has to be a better way of earning a living…..
I leave you on this occasion with an appropriate and pithy quotation from the lips of the great Deaf Watermelon Jackson, “Trouble comin’?…999?…nah, .357”