I am asked by Marcus whether bowler hats are ever acceptable in Abergavenny. I immediately despatched a research team to the more recondite end of the dank corridor that runs the entire length of the east wing of the Turn Up library. There, behind a rusty doorknob, lies the expanse of archive room twelve, containing the as-yet uncatalogued delights of the Ramjollock Collection, which has been held in strict scuggery for decades. I have a notion that the team may be able to ferret out something useful from the piles of papers that gather dust there, and I anticipate their report as we speak. Until they reappear we may have time for speculation.
What sort these days wears a bowler hat? There was a time, of course, when the average High Street seen from above would be a river of jostling bowlers surging in from the gasworks end. Bank Managers and the like felt naked without them, which may have contributed to their demise in the nineteen sixties as laxer morals and more frequent displays of public nudity took hold in the more august of our financial institutions. I’m sure most of us well remember those heady days when bankers and chandeliers went inevitably hand in hand.
But what of Abergavenny? Did any of this social turmoil impinge upon the timeless splendour of the town that nestles innocently in its beautiful surroundings? Crispin St Peters found his way there of course and I once saw him perform in a pub in Sidcup, so Abergavenny’s innocence may only be a facade. If only we could find a peg on which to hang these theorems and suppositions.
!
Pegs may be the answer. Bowler hats sit beautifully upon a peg behind an old ornate wooden door because the entire rim can lie neatly against the grain, and there’s a good few suitable doors in Abergavenny. So perhaps the answer to Marcus’ enquiry is yes, but only when removed from the head and hung up out of harm’s way.
Ah! I hear the thunder of rapidly approaching footsteps. The footfall of a team of researchers is unmistakeable with their long coats flapping like runaway tongues through a light morning mist. They suddenly burst into view, rheumy-eyed and damp with exertion.
“Well, did you find anything useful?”
“That we did! A bowler hat is not a sausage!”
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ReplyDeleteArmed with the information provided by the Turnup Research Team, we resolved to take a bowler hat to our gig at Abergavenny, sported by our Great Hairy Leader Rob-who-is-Bryn. Upon entry to the venue the place fell silent, then a few words were exchanged in Welsh. A few locals made a cautious approach and peered at the bowler, some reaching out to touch before running to hide. Having satisfied themselves that it represented no immediate threat, they returned to their drinks. Our translator tells us that they had feared Bryn might have been Hector the (IR) Inspector, or worse, Fred the Homepride man come to usurp their local bakery. Others thought that, with his long coat as well, Bryn was the AI man come to see to the cow.
ReplyDeleteTen minutes into the gig, the real problem with the bowler hat became manifest. Rivulets of moisture running down Bryn's face told of an escalating problem within the confines of the bowler itself, only the tight fit of the leather sweatband deferring a deluge of biblical proportion. After a three hour set, and knowing his trousers to be tucked unwisely into his boots, we took Bryn outside and voided his headgear carefully and environmentally responsibly into a suitable roadside conduit.