A weekend with George Ezra

Beginning a day later than scheduled (due to migraine), this weekend kicked off with a Saturday drive to Cornwall. I set off at an ungodly 0630 and arrived 4 hours later, having seen Stonehenge on my detour. (I’ve yet to travel to Cornwall without a detour. This is the 2nd time I’ve driven this way, so this is a 100% detour rate. Makes me wonder what I pay my tax for…)

I was too smart for the satnav so I didn’t get tricked down a country lane this time.

Once with Kayte, she put up her feet as I chauffeured her around. This place and that, like a right little driver. I popped my multi-storey carpark cherry and carried 2 dogs in the back of my car. I should’ve taken a photo of them but I’ve only just thought of it.

On Sunday, after lunch with Kayte’s family, GEORGE EZRA!!!

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We got to Boardmasters, the Newquay festival where he was playing, and mooched around for a few hours.

We heard Tony Walker and Becky Hill. I didn’t know these people, although I did think Mr Walker had made a remarkable recovery. Kayte corrected me. I’d confused him with Paul.

We saw Fat Freddy Drops, and I’m still not certain which one was Freddy because they were all fat. And it’s the beat. They drop the beat. I worked it out because they kept dropping it.

In between, we went on the helter-skelter, ferris wheel, and that twisty thing on arms — twister? And we ate churros — lots of churros. I like churros. Kayte likes them now, too. I’m not certain how she’s managed to breathe without them…(?!?)

Rag’n’Bone Man sang and apologised for his depressing songs. He sang and apologised, sang and apologised — after a few apologises I shouted out, WRITE SOMETHING UPBEAT, THEN! Or, better yet, embrace the depressingness. Be unapologetic. Anything but waste time on hollow sorries.

Now I’ve had time to think about it, Mr Man is probably depressed and apologising for his emotions. If that’s the case, NO! DON’T! OWN IT! It’s this ‘shame’ of being depressed that depression wants. Invite your depression up to your table, get to know it, make up a bed. Make it a lodger. Charge it rent.

I had heard that the Rag’n’Bone was shit live. He’s not that bad at all. If he’d stopped apologising I could’ve gone all the way up to a very good indeed.

And then…

I wasn’t quite wetting myself, I don’t show excitement.

It was…

GEORGE EZRA!!!

As a man, he should sing sing sing but never ever speak.

If he’s opening his mouth and there’s talking words coming out, I’m gone. I’m done. I’m outta here.

He talks too slowly and his stories are too uninteresting to make hearing him talk worthwhile. I just don’t understand it because he sings quickly when he wants to. He talks, though, like —— he’s —— on —— holiday —— talking —— to  —— a —— local —— in —— painfully —— slow —— English —— ’cause —— this —— is —— Spanish (or wherever). A lot of his boring stories were full of him talking to people. I would’ve lost my mind. I was already shouting, GET TO THE FUCKING POINT!!! Or better yet, SHUT UP AND SING!!!

Oh, and his trousers! Fuck me, back-to-school. For all the money in his bank account, he could’ve got better at Primark! Very unbecoming. Other than some questionably dressed revellers, he was the worst dressed person there.

Now the bitching portion is out of the way, he was alright. I didn’t cream myself because he kept talking. But when singing he was highly tolerable.

Would I see him again?

I wouldn’t run. If we so happened to be in the same place at the same time, and he wasn’t talking, I’d cock an ear in his direction.

 


 

Driving back to Portsmouth today wasn’t a pleasure.

I set off with a scheduled arrival of 17:38 but the 20-minute delay to get onto the A30, followed by the 90-minute detour, slaughtered that arrival time dead.

The going went smoothly for roughly 10-minutes before it was carriageway carparks to the M5.

Hoping I was out of the woods, I enjoyed driving much slower than the speed limit ’cause of caravans, tractors, and a big yellow thing that I don’t know what it was. It should’ve been moved at night, that’s what it was.

I kept chasing the hour mark. So ‘3 hours remaining’ took over an hour for it to actually be 3 hours remaining. ‘2 hours remaining’, the same. ‘1 hour remaining’ — don’t even get me started. I started collecting hours. I started to see ‘2 hours remaining’ again. I started to lose my patience.

On the A31, a car broke down and the shit hit the fan because road tax isn’t paid for infrastructure. I am a new driver, and clearly, this road has had a serious problem for a number of years. But I’m not going to get into it, it annoys me.

After 90 minutes creeping 2 miles, I was in a position to get off on a detour. I’d reset the satnav a few times until it told me something I liked, and I went! My five-minute detour shaved off over an hour of sitting and waiting. Sometimes, country lanes do help.

I got home at a reasonable (pah!) 1910. I set off at 1220.

Other than the drive home, great weekend!

Tomos James

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