*there would be a comma in that title but I was really taken with the idea of a squid band. I was going to Photoshop I mean MS Paint a picture of this, all these squid standing about with hipster glasses and guitars but then I accidentally googled 'squids' and from the level of hilarity this provided it is apparent that I really need to get some sleep. Also it's not like they could use electric guitars underwater, so they would either have to be land squids, which I do not believe exist, or an acoustic hipster band, which I wish did not exist. Ah, 'squids.'
If I could be any sea creature, I would be a squid. Imagine the joy of standing at the photocopier next to Rupert from Marketing, who is telling a boring and faintly racist story which you can no longer be bothered listening to and suddenly SSSSSKKKK! Ink everywhere. "Oooh, that was weird," you say as you walk away from inky Rupert, "a print cartridge must have exploded or something."
It's now two days until band contest, annual highlight of the brass band social calendar! I am really excited. Excited about getting to the hotel, hanging up my uniform, wondering how I always manage to forget my gloves, panicking about my gloves, finding my gloves shoved into the bell of my cornet for some reason and then cracking into the Pirate Rosé.
(Pirate Rosé is a version of classic drunken creativity exercise 'Make Your Own Rosé.' We invented it last contest. MYOR is when there is a little bit of red wine left and a little bit of white wine left and, well, I'm sure you can figure it out. Pirate Rosé is like that, but you also have half a bottle of rum. I would say it was delicious but I don't remember how it tasted, probably because by that stage of the week my tastebuds just went "Oh God, more booze", threw up their hands in disgust and moved to the oesophagus.)
Last year our room was a stinking, clothes-strewn hovel (room-mate Jess is, like me, a hasty packer and stuffed her suitcase with wet laundry then bussed it down to Dunedin, which combined with the constant reek of two sweaty hangovers to create an odour both mouldy and turdy) saved only from complete awfulness by a bottle of air freshener the hotel had provided.
The scent was somewhat ironically called 'Fresh Linen' and every time someone knocked on the door of the room whoever was nearer the door would shriek, "Fresh Linen! Fresh Linen!" and the spray would be frantically whizzed around before the door was opened. I'm pretty sure we used the entire bottle over four days. Rooming with Jess again this year. Picking up the Fresh Linen tomorrow.
The other highlight of last contest was the morning that I made an enormous effort to get back to the hotel before the band was up and about (I had spent the previous evening... elsewhere), thought I'd managed it, and ducked back into my room immensely pleades with myself.
Only to find out that my walk of shame had taken me right past the McDonalds where half the band was having breakfast.
Yes. Band contest is a time to stay classy! I shall keep you abreast of events, complete with photos of me in my marching uniform.
Tee hee, abreast.