Pinky's Book Link

Friday, January 18, 2013

Middle-aged Mother Embarrasses Teenage Son

Warning: This post may contain puns.

                                              (L-R) Thaddeus, Dale, Jonah, Newman.

Back in the Saddle Again

Returning to Townsville after a year at university in the big smoke, Jonah was keen to reestablish the band after its period of quarantine.

He strategically acquired the services of a talented drummer, Poiter, and a rhythm guitarist Dale, who added additional eye candy to the ensemble (or so my middle-aged women friends indicated).

Jonah has the proclivity towards, how can I put this politely?… officiousness.

He established a punishing rehearsal schedule and demanded a level of dedication and self-discipline from his fellow band members that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Nazi boot camp.

Thaddeus seemed to be permanently in the dog house with Jonah due to his tendency towards procrastination in respect to learning lyrics, his unpunctuality, and his general air of apathy.

I speculate that there may have been a few heated confrontations (think Gallagher brothers) taking place during those intensive months.

Before long it was deemed by the lads that track conditions were good and Loudhorse was eligible to go to the starting gates.

Placing her money on the nose, Newman’s intrepid mother hired a hall, invited family and friends, organized canapés and alcoholic beverages and Loudhorse was groomed, saddled up and led to the mounting yard.

The boys played covers of bands like Dire Straits, ACDC, the Angels, Van Morrison, the Doors and a variety of other comparable artists.

Scotto and I, along with the other punters; boganesqued our way through the night, dancing, clapping and having a bloody ripper of a time.

Loudhorse played many gigs over the next year at various watering troughs in our city with generally positive reactions.
Various friends of mine were hoodwinked into patronizing some of these gigs which demonstrates how desperate my friends are to go out for a drink (just joking guys).

All of us parents conscientiously fronted up to as many gigs as we could manage, pretending all the while to be detached members of the public.

“So which of those kids is yours?” I would invariably be asked by a jaundiced bar fly at almost every gig.
Newman’s mum and I were consistently the first to get up and dance, gawking indulgently at our fine-lookin’ boys.

That may have been what gave the game away.

One particularly admirable coup for the band was landing the gig to play as the entertainment at our city’s Amateur Racing Carnival.
I’m not sure if they were nominated because of the band’s name or because of their more than reasonable fee schedule.
Scotto and I had already arranged to meet friends at the races anyway and this was further incentive to stay late and party.
Now the Amateurs are a brilliant place to run into long lost friends and I certainly managed to do that on this occasion.

Many, many glasses of bubbly were consumed and with the excitement of the boys’ performance looming I was in a very high-spirited frame of mind. I donned my promotional fascinator and urged all and sundry to stay and watch the brilliant band who were to perform after the races were finished.
By the time the band started playing I had complemented the champagne with a couple of shots of Cointreau from my friend Diana’s hip flask and I was three sheets to the wind.

As every woman knows, it is a physical impossibility to dance on soft turf wearing high heeled shoes. No one was dancing yet but one of my girlfriends, Chelsea, pulled me up out of my seat. Abandoning my shoes I began dancing like a wanton zombie on Stilnox, pointing at the band and telling anyone who'd listen,
"Thatsh my sons playing!"
Watching the local news the next day I noticed they were showing footage of the Amateurs’ celebrations.
Imagining proudly that I might see a shot of the boys’ band playing on television I was all eyes and ears.

Instead the channel seven camera man panned over the crowd, focusing on a middle-aged woman who appeared to be channeling Peter Garrett.

Oh shit! It was me!
Jonah was on the phone about forty seconds after it aired.

“Did you see yourself on television Mum? What sort of dancing was that? You are so embarrassing! What were you thinking?”
To think of all the things I’ve done for that ungrateful, judgmental little sod.