I went greyhound racing on Saturday. The greyhounds beat me. Haha! Thank you, that’s me, goodnight and thank you for coming. Of course, this probably makes me look like a gambling addict after the previous Saturday’s antics at Ascot, but honestly, it was just a co-incidence. This was a family outing, and aside from predictable wins by the birthday girl (my sister) the rest of the Marsdens found themselves wallowing in miserable failure. Normally I’d rip up my tickets in barely-concealed frustration, but I made a point of retaining all mine this time, just so I could name and shame the thin, pretend rabbit-chasing bastards on LiveJournal:

Crackator Rossi, Mandeville Anne, Doonanes Pit, Echo Lad, Lilly The Minx, Pigalle Lass, Boherash Dee, Craggyman, Beardys Lex Ann, Orbitron, Two Day Wonder, Yak Yak James, Roxholme Bliss, Long Valley Pet, Covent Garden, Ballyguiry Joe, Knockna Cailin, Micksys Queen, Boherash Caitlin, Spencer Sally, Parsons Lad, Little Squeeze, Swift Vimpto, Oasis Kildare, Southeast Rose, Roxholme Franky, Shell Out.

Shell Out. Think you’re funny, do you? Anyway, while we squandered quids on the tote, the discussion came round to the operation my dad has recently had on his hand. He described it as a “disease”, so I asked what the name of this disease was, and my mum said “Dupuytren’s Contracture”. Ah, right, I said, so how do you spell that? She wrote “Dupuytren’s Contracture” on the back of a betting slip. If I ever own a greyhound, which is unlikely, I’ll definitely call it Dupuytren’s Contracture. It’ll probably end up having to have an operation.

I had a busy Sunday, firstly rehearsing with a very hungover Keith John Adams somewhere in Islington; we’re playing a little gig tonight in the basement bar of a Turkish restaurant at 100 Cleveland Street, W1; entrance to said gig is free, if you’d like to come along – and you’ll also get to hear what various other highly-regarded acoustic artists sound like after they’ve eaten a kebab. I must say that I’ll feel like a bit of a fraud playing at an acoustic night, mainly becaquse I’ll be hammering at a USB keyboard connected to a Powerbook running Logic Audio. Hopefully someone will shout “Judas” from the crowd, and I can say “I don’t believe you… you’re a liar,” and then play a Bob Dylan song.

Later on Sunday I went to the Soho Revue Bar, which has undoubtedly hosted its fair share of women writhing around onstage with barely anything on except tassels on their tits. I was playing bassoon with martylog, who didn’t writhe around on the floor with tassels on his tits, thankfully. Our Mystery Fax Machine Orchestra was preceded by a couple of magicians, who I didn’t see because I was sitting outside in a corridor reading a copy of Private Eye. I passed them backstage before we played; someone else said “You were great!” to them, at which point the two magicians looked at me, expectantly. “Er, I didn’t see you, actually,” I said. “I was outside reading a magazine in the corridor.” They didn’t say anything. “I mean,” I continued, “I’m sure you were better than the magazine.” “What was the magazine?” asked one of them. “Private Eye,” I said. “It was quite good this week, as it goes.” Silence. “Look, I really shouldn’t attempt to compare a satirical magazine to your act, which I haven’t seen, but I’m sure is excellent.” Silence. “This is awkward, isn’t it.” Silence. “It’s my fault, of course.” Silence. “I’m trying to say that I’m accepting the blame for this awkward encounter.” Silence. “I’m sorry.” Silence.

Rhodri and Two Sullen Magicians will not be appearing together every weeknight at the Soho Revue Bar in a thrilling new topless spectacular, in case you were wondering.