The video, if you click on "read more", shows four houses in which the same person lived, the houses being displayed in chronological order. Who was that person? Hint: This is mainly a philosophy blog
Some
of the chapters, discarded for reasons of space, are from my book and are now
on Google Drive. Click here to
read them
How to use my blogger
If
you click on "labels", top right, you will see the various headings;
for instance "Strictly Philosophy". This is where you will find
the philosophy posts.
The present philosophy essay is called:
Constructing Paradox and One Thing Leading to Another
Since
this is my first philosophy essay, I should perhaps focus on my interest in
philosophy, except that in a sense I do not have one. Philosophy does, after
all, cover many different fields, rather like manure, and each may have its own
crop, with metaphysics in one, epistemology in another, continental philosophy
in a third, and so on. Also, there may be a special field enclosing a house in
which the farmer ploughs furrows with her fingernails when the seed of the next
generation of custodians of the countryside is being sown. All these disparate
fields have well-trodden paths wending through them; but just because I choose
a particular path it does not follow that the others would also be found
appealing. And yet, they all belong to philosophy, which I claim to be a
particular interest of mine.
Clearly, we can mean less by our words than what they may be taken to imply, a
discrepancy which lends itself to misunderstanding when people communicate with
one another. Imagine, by way of illustration, that a young couple are on a
first dinner date in a village pub, with both of them pretending ( in the
archaic sense) to be interested in philosophy. Then
it is possible that he is interested only in epistemology, her own area of
interest being conceptual analysis. Not realising that their apparently shared
interest in philosophy separates them by a common language, as has been said of
the English spoken by Britons and Americans, the boy and girl gaze at each
other as if of one mind.
Suppose it is objected that there is no philosophical problem here but only a
need to be more specific, which no doubt will soon be met in the case of the
boy and girl, who will quickly come to realise that they differ in their
philosophical pursuits, though perhaps not in their pursuit of each other. It
might have been, after all, that they both professed an interest in conceptual
analysis, so that philosophically they appeared to be well matched. For there
to be a problem or paradox, it must be possible to show that by 'conceptual
analysis' they again mean different things, the clearing up of that confusion
taking them to another level, at which a similar process takes them to another
level again, and so on....If this can be shown, then the paradox is that we
think that words have meaning and yet we never seem to mean what we say or to
understand what we mean.
To argue in this way is to engage in a form of scepticism,
semantic in character, which is reminiscent of Kripke's interpretation of
Wittgenstein in terms of semantic non-factualism: the thesis that there is no
semantic fact that corresponds to, for instance, our meaning addition in our
use of the 'plus' sign. My concern is not with that particular sceptical
contention but with any argument by which the fact of meaning is called into
question, for I think it can be shown that all such arguments are incoherent or
self-refuting. With this in mind, I have constructed the present anti-semantic
argument for the express purpose of being able to demolish it in a way that reverberates
across all forms of semantic scepticism.
If we prepare for that demolition by starting up the
tractor, as it were, then the first point is that any semantic paradox of
interpersonal discourse also has application to the conversations one has with
oneself. This is not to deny, of course, that there are important differences
between conversing with oneself and with others If, for instance, I imagine
telling myself that I am interested in philosophy, and if, because I was
distracted at the time, I missed some of what was said, so that I have to ask
myself to repeat it, which I now do by articulating the sentence loudly and
slowly as if talking at a slightly obtuse foreign child, then I should be
congratulated on my ability to split myself into two people. Clearly, the
suggestion that one can patiently explain something to oneself is a humorous
one, for it implies that one conveys information as a teacher that one lacks as
a pupil. Thus it is that there are important differences; but it still is the
case that semantic scepticism, if it is applicable at all, must apply to what
one says to oneself as well as to others. Put another way, the semantic sceptic
may start from the impersonal fact that at least some descriptive terms have a
wide extension, different parts of which may be covered by the use of the term
on separate occasions, or by two people on the same occasion. Extrapolating
from this, she now attempts to generate a paradox: if the ambiguity involved is
intrinsic to description, then it cannot be eliminated by attention to detail,
as with specifying one's particular philosophical interests, for descriptive
specifics, too, are infected by ambiguity, so that we never arrive at an
unambiguous use of language.
Taking this further, suppose that the young couple we met
earlier in a pub discover − Oh joy! − that they both like conceptual analysis;
then it may seem to them that the lounge transforms into the Restaurant La
Cusina on Venice's Grand Canal, the man who serves the food into a serenader with
a guitar, and the duck on the village pond, seen through the window, into the
gondola that awaits them. The fact is, however, that perhaps the girl
specialises in the analysis of the concept of the past, the boy's concern being
with the concept of other minds. It would be churlish to point out this
possibility to them; but not to worry, for it is very likely that the concept
of other minds would then turn out to be of great interest to her, and that his
fascination with the concept of the past would be unbounded. Even so, the
sceptic could claim that although the twp people seem to have settled on the
same topic, say other minds, the ambiguity intrinsic to language is such that
they are not really on the same page at all, despite all their nodding, smiling,
high-fiving and clapping of hands. It is in all these ways, no doubt, that they
signal their delight in the almost uncanny meeting of minds by which they
totally concur that there is no problem at all about being able to conceive of
other people as being conscious or having particular mental states. 'The proof
of the pudding is in the eating.', one says, the other nodding enthusiastically
at this penetrating insight, and thinking of each other they gaze hungrily at
the food on their plates.
The sceptic, meanwhile, has followed them into the room and
is hulked, if there is such a word, in a dark corner. She stares at the couple
as they engage in animated conversation at a sunlit table next to the window,
and she assures herself that even if there is such a word, so that she may be
said to be hulking, different things may be meant by it. If her theory is
correct, indeed, the sun may not really be shining on the faces of the young
couple, the word 'shining' being irredeemably ambiguous; and the word 'happiness'
also meaning different things and therefore nothing.
Time, then, to ride to the rescue, the tractor having
warmed up, a wrecking ball hanging by its chains from the raised front bucket.
Our target is the sceptic's anti-semantic arguments as applied to her own
pronouncements, to which end we need her to say the following: 'Words are
fundamentally ambiguous, and if they do not mean what they say, then how can
they mean anything?' If the implied negative thesis is true, amounting as it
does to semantic non-factualism, as Kripke would say, then it applies to
itself, so that the sceptic's own utterance is also without meaning. But this
entails that the words I am now writing and you are reading are meaningless,
which itself is nonsense. Thus it is that semantic scepticism is both
incoherent and self-refuting.
What, though, of our priceless young couple who radiate the
sun and reflect the stars: will they be safe? All that I can say in reassurance
is that I have arranged, this being my blog to do as I please with, for the
wrecking ball to come crashing through the ceiling, the sceptic covered in
lathe and plaster while those we should care about make good their escape. The
girl has invited the boy back to a haystack near her parents' farmhouse, which
they will have vacated while searching with the farmhands for the missing
tractor; but no-one will think to look for it on top of the stack, where our
lovers have waited for the stars to add to the mystery of it all. And the moon,
too, has leant its weight to the earth and pushed it out into the evening, the
boy and girl still dusty from the demolition of the sceptic's case. Not that
they care, for they thrill to each other's touch as Earth glides through the
ether of its orbit, the Piazza San Marco on one side and on the other the
planet Mars with its own network of canals, much visited in the future by the
descendants of the romantic couples fortunate enough to holiday in Venice
before it sinks into the warming sea. And with this couple, too, the heat is
rising as Venice translates into Venus and girl and boy lock on to each other
like word and object, all ambiguity jettisoned in the clarity of the course
that their bodies take. 'I know that you are there,' says the one; 'And I,
you,' says the other.
Logic Puzzle
The Problem of the
Hats
Each of three men, one of them blind, has a hat placed on his head in such a
way that he does not know its colour, though he knows that it has been selected
from a set of three red hats and two black ones. Now each of the three men is
asked whether he knows the colour of his hat. The men are together and can see
and hear one another, apart from the blind man, who can hear the other two.
The first sighted man says he does not know; then the second sighted man says
the same; then the blind man says yes, he knows the colour of his hat.
What is the colour of his hat and how does he know?
|
Additional
Product Features |
|
|
Country of Publication |
United Kingdom |
|
Author |
Owen Roger Jones |
|
Place of Publication |
London |
|
Genre |
Unclassifiable: No Bic |
|
Topic |
Unclassifiable |
|
Pagination |
284 |
|
Series |
Controversies in Philosophy S. |
|
Date of Publication |
25/02/1971 |
|
Out-Of-Print Date |
17/10/2003 |
Hi everyone. I have advanced cancer of the essophagus,
which means I am well and truly fucked. When I went for my first chemo session,
there were several mishaps that struck me as being funny
is therapeutic and uplifting and inspires other to also
look on the lighter side of the monster that cancer represents. That said, I
absolutely do not want to die. Thiss life is all I ahve evr known, and I love
it. I can very easily envisage a future in which the scourge of death has been
eradicated, with mortality being something that our descendents are horrified
to read about in ancient history books. If that is too much to expect, then I
am sure that future generations will have a far greater life expectancy than we
have, and I myself could happily live for a thousand years, perhaps followed by
another, and another, and one for the road,if it were possible.
You've likely had
days when your voice sounds excessively husky, raspy or weak. You may have even
lost your voice for a short time. Laryngitis is an inflammation of your
voice box (larynx) from overuse, irritation or infection. Inside the
larynx are your vocal cords — two folds of mucous membrane covering muscle and
cartilage. Normally, your vocal cords open and close smoothly, forming sounds
through their movement and vibration.
But in laryngitis,
your vocal cords become inflamed or irritated. This swelling causes distortion
of the sounds produced by air passing over them. As a result, your voice sounds
hoarse. In some cases of laryngitis, your voice can become almost undetectable.
Laryngitis may be
short-lived (acute) or long lasting (chronic). Most cases of laryngitis are
triggered by a temporary viral infection or vocal strain and aren't serious.
Persistent hoarseness can sometimes signal a more serious underlying medical
condition.
Some self-care methods may relieve and reduce strain on your voice:
·
Breathe moist air. Use a
humidifier to keep the air throughout your home or office moist. Inhale steam
from a bowl of hot water or a hot shower.
·
Rest your voice as much as
possible. Avoid talking or singing too loudly or for too long.
If you need to speak before large groups, try to use a microphone or megaphone.
·
Drink plenty of fluids to prevent
dehydration (avoid alcohol and caffeine).
·
Moisten your throat. Try sucking
on lozenges, gargling with salt water or chewing a piece of gum.
·
Stop drinking alcohol and
smoking, and avoid exposure to smoke. Alcohol and smoke dry your
throat and irritates your vocal cords.
·
Avoid clearing your throat. This action
irritates your vocal cords.
·
Avoid decongestants. These
medications can dry out your throat.
·
Avoid whispering. This puts
even more strain on your voice than normal speech does.
Reproduced on 18/12/2020 from Big Mac Facebook site.
Friday, 27 March 2020.
Hi everyone. I woke up this morning and wished
I hadn’t. One moment we were doing our usual dance worship of the Big Mac band,
the Coronavirus just a new rock group that probably wouldn’t last, and the next
moment a few weeks later here we are, the Earl Haig just a distant memory as if
it were yesterday, and yesterday the same as today with everybody shunning me
as if I had the fucking plague.
Last night I waited for Val to push me my
porridge through the serving hatch of the isolation unit that the government
had ordered me to convert the garden shed into. Then I got totally blinged up,
even down to the diamante red trousers and dancing shoes and the turquoise
crystal rivet belt that I’d had specially made for me by myself and then I
clicked on one of the Big Mac videos and closed my eyes. And the years fell
away and I was back in the Earl Haig of recent weeks; but when my eyes blinked
open again I wasn’t. And two little tears welled up one from each eye and
trickled down my face, neither being able to see the other until they had
passed my nose, at which point they ran towards each other and merged together
on my upper lip, just as we humans used to embrace all those decades ago last
week before the Great Social Distancing Event.
Is this how it ends, with each of us the
isolated orphan of the Big Mac Band’s demise? Well, no, for the band are alive
and kicking and still in full possession of their instruments and playing just
as well mentally as they did on stage. No, I have no idea what that means, but
I do know that they’ve given a great deal of pleasure to thousands or millions
of people over the last three decades; also, that the world, or this corner of
it, is a better place because of it. Oddly, a kingfisher just flashed across my
mind, like an iridescent bolt of blue, but probably nothing to worry about. How
do we feel, I wonder, about helping the band financially? I hate to think of
them scavenging in dustbins late at night. What I suggest is that we organise a
fundraising dinner and dance, perhaps in the Earl Haig if we can find a window
open. Oh, social distancing. Then we can buy the band CD’s that are for sale
online. Once you navigate to the methods of payment section you’ll find that
PayPal is one.
The day will come
when we push ourselves back onto the road from the ditch that we all seem to
have careered into, ultimately because of the dangerous driving of a crazed
microbe. Just think how good it will be when the ditch is at last filled in,
the virus buried out of harm’s way, and a pond is built and attracts
kingfishers (Ah, now I get it) and once again the excitement builds as we wait
for the band to appear, heralded by the wind section on the dance floor and in
and out of tables and then on stage, and the first number will whatever it will
be, and then once more we’ll dance the night away. In the meantime we are
either short of money or there is nothing to spend it on apart from face masks
and tins of spam. Cheers, Laurence
Here is the CD
seller link:
Saturday, 14 March
2020
Soul and Motown
Band Defy Plague
It might well have
been the newspaper headline this morning; for the Big Mac Band gave another
great performance last night, this time at the Earl Haig Club, Whitchurch,
Cardiff.
Yesterday Val and
I were still undecided whether to go, because we didn’t know what to expect:
would we be tested for the Corona before being allowed in? Would we have to be
disinfected first, and if so then what form would it take? In public swimming
pools there’s a foot bath of chlorine that you have to wade through, but in my
head I imagined a vat of some kind that we’d be dunked into like biscuits. And
I was worried about all the hotfix crystals falling off. How odd that even the
word “Corona” makes me feel sick, and yet as children we were always excited
when we knew that the pop lorry was on its way. I shudder when I think how much
of the stuff I drank, but we were not to know, of course, that it would mutate
into a deadly virus.
Anyway, we did
decide to go, but as it turned out the only precaution taken when we got there
was that we were fitted with a wrist strap, presumably some kind of Corona
detector that would sound the alarm if we became infected. How embarrassing
would that be, I thought, but I simply could not get the bloody thing back off.
The only other indication of the global pandemic, or panicdemic, was the
presence by the door of two burly women wearing gloves and face masks. They
must be the rapid response team, I said to myself, and I pitied them in all
that heat, for the place was filling up by now; and then the band came on.
What a relief that
was, for we were not at all sure that any of them could have survived, given
how exposed they were to the Corona, but there they were, in all their glory;
and then Mike announced that if the world was coming to an end we might as well
go out with a bang. To hell with it, I said to Val. That’s right, she replied,
we’ll not let a mutant soft drink spoil our enjoyment. And so we danced the
night away and forgot all about the greatest threat that the Big Mac Band, and
the rest of us, have ever faced. What also made it a memorable night was that
on the way out we made friends by the exit door with Gareth and Tony from
Barry, and we hope to see them again if the Corona doesn’t get us first.
Speaking of which,
and now that Val and I are back in our self-isolation unit, to which we’ve
invited all the neighbours so that we can find out their names while there’s
still time, we are both wondering what on earth the prohibition on face
touching and hand shaking is all about. When we emerged from the unit
yesterday, having cleared a path to the door through all the toilet rolls and
tins of dog food, though we don’t have a dog, we found an official letter
dropped through the letter box. It had a heading in large capital letters
beneath a skull and crossbones logo: WATCH OUT, THE CORONA’S ABOUT, it said,
and underneath was a list of forbidden actions. Do not shake hands, we read,
even with yourself, and do not, under any circumstance—this part was underlined
in red ink—touch your own face. This was a double blow, for Val and I are fond
of shaking hands with each other, and not being able to do it has been very
difficult for both of us. As for the touching of the face, it’s not something I
needed to do, or not until it became forbidden, and now I do it all the time.
Also on the list was a ban on face kissing, which puzzled me a bit. If not
touching your face, then rationally this extends to kissing it. It’s just that
it has never occurred to me to kiss my own face, and today I spent several
hours making the attempt and not even being able to get farther up than my
elbow.
Still, Val and I
had a really good time last night, as did everyone else, and for several hours
we immersed ourselves in the music and the dance, glad to be able to forget
that the ship was going down, even as the band played on. It was not, I am glad
to say, “Nearer my God to Thee” of Titanic fame, but “ Mustang Sally” and all
the other great favourites. Then we came home and sealed the doors and windows
against the Corona, oblivious of its very likely already lurking inside. The
only explanation for this present pretty pass is that the virus has infected
our brains and addled them, and to such a degree that all that makes any sense
any longer is the Big Mac Band.
27You, Valerie Rogers, Joanne
Rogers and 24 others
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Hi everyone.
Good news and more good news.
The good news is that the planet is still habitable,
so we don't have to worry about Big Mac gigs being cancelled because Wales and
the West is burning or under water, or not just yet.
When, too, I rang the Beaufort just now the woman who
answered said that Big Mac on Saturday 8th of February is in the auditorium,
not the ballroom, but that the orchestra pit has been converted, along with the
existing space, into a dance floor.
She said that other bands have performed there, and
with people using the dance floor and having a good time while the planet
remains habitable.
I made that last bit up. There's a bar upstairs, she
said, and plenty of room to swing things around.
Tickets can be bought online, or at the theatre from
10 a.m.
Come and enjoy yourselves, she said, before the
Australian refugees arrive. I made that up. Cheers, Laurence
17Mike McNamara, Peter Gainey and 15 others
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Big Mac in Cwmbran Saturday 7th December 2019
I was in a bit of a dither as to what to wear for the
Big Mac gig at Our Lady of the Angels Church Hall in Cwmbran yesterday, or
possibly the day before by the time I finish this piece, so best to turn the
kettle off. Normally I just bling myself up and hesitate, if at all, only as to
which belt to wear: the sparkly blue rhinestone rivet one with matching buckle
or the sparkly red rhinestone rivet one with matching buckle. 'What if', I said
to Val, ‘the place is full of nuns and priests at prayer?' 'Oh', she replied,
'then you'd better wear the red belt.' But then I thought: It might be some
kind of Hot Gospel revivalist meeting, with the Big Mac band as new converts.
So I wore the blue belt.
In fact the place, when we eventually tracked it
down, was a very large roaringly noisy crowded hall with no cassocks or habits
to be seen, and with no religious icons looking down on us, or not until Big
Mac and the band came on; and any prayers must have been for us all to have a
great time, for that is what we did.
Speaking of which, if I can just thank the group
whose table we were at for making us welcome and being so friendly and
hospitable. I didn't get their names, but when they left early, generously
leaving us a bottle of wine, it was because one of them, at least, had to be up
at six this morning to do some work on behalf of homeless people. That should
be enough of a clue if they read these words.
And then the evening wore on and wore itself out,
with only the memories of it still up and dancing. But memories have to be
remembered lest one forget, and forget that one has, and there is much that I
recall. My first dance comes to mind, and it was with myself and on an empty
floor, the first always being the best; and then there were the kind people who
included us in their party at the table; and Mike with his customary funny
story about Pete; and the man who admired my outfit and said I looked
psychedelic; and people laughing and letting go; and the rolling thunder of the
drums.
Not, then, a particularly prayerful occasion, but
there was a communion, if not of souls then of a shared escape from self and
the rejoicing in that release. For the most part it is only on a dance floor
that we dance, but this is much more repressive than it may seem; for away from
the floor, or for many of us even on it, our self-permitted bodily movements
are very strictly choreographed. In an office or shop, or for much of the time
at home or even in the middle of a field, we cannot, for instance, stretch our
arms up high, and just because we want to, let alone its being spontaneous, and
for the simple sensuous freedom of movement it gives as a gift. Imagine jigging
around as if on a dance floor but while waiting for a bus. Well, perhaps not all
that difficult, but now try to picture yourself doing it without embarrassment.
Luckily we have Big Mac, and on Saturday, this
paragraph now being on Monday, they shook us and rattled our chains until we
overpowered the guards and ran for the hills, which were alive with the sound
of music. Perhaps, then, Mike and the band have something of the evangelical
about them, and we the congregation whirl and spin and chant and sing and
rejoice in joyfulness itself and the glory of the moment and of being alive.
Long may Bic Mac lead us to the promised land of a great night out and the
chance to dance. Laurence
8Mike McNamara and 7 others
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Maes Manor Hotel last night, guided again by Satnav
Woman, who insisted on taking us the scenic route.If she'd glanced out of her
satellite window, she would have realised that.it was dark on Welsh Earth, with
all the picturesque wonders of the Blackwood area being lost to us. Still, it
was worth the drag when we finally arrived, at least after the warm-up band had
finished and Big Mac came on.
They were excellent, as always, this being invariably
the case when a band is always excellent, and we all had a good time and a
great dance. And then the evening ended, as it always does, and we all went
home, apart from those who had danced themselves to death.
What a way to go! And it's perfect from the point of
view of funeral elegies:
he absolutely loved dancing, and although it killed
him, he would not have wanted it any other way. If there's a hereafter, he's
probably dancing in the great function room in the sky...
And so on. Meanwhile, here on Earth, there's the
Paget Rooms coming up, and something else after that, and after that and that
and that...Long may we all be alive for ever and dance for all eternity to the
Big Mac band.
23Mike McNamara and 22 others
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Last Friday 20th September 2019, and the Big Mac gig
at Merthyr Labour Club. We arrived early in the main hall and were the first of
the earlycomers, about which, by the way, I know that the word does not exist
but I’ve been reading Mike’s poems and a little of his inventiveness with words
has rubbed off on me. Sitting there and looking around, I was struck by the
uncanny resemblance, not between Mike and Wogan but between the main hall and
the ballroom of a cruise liner, despite the absence of portholes and the view
through the windows being not of the sea but of Merthyr town centre. But still,
we did have a ball as the evening progressed.
It’s interesting when you sit there and await an
exciting event, as if the anticipation somehow reaches out to the event itself:
a bit like waiting on the Titanic for a different kind of show. And there they
were, the band, and it all changed, as if we’d been rescued, and we surged onto
the dance floor in wave after wave of noise and excitement, as if our captive
selves had been fretting at the bit. And then, the icing on the cake and the
ice on the deck, the tidal wave finale of the last few numbers when the band
really let rip.
Mike reminds me not of Terry Wogan, except at a
distance of about five nautical miles, but of the band leader on the Titanic
and their final gig when they hardly missed a beat as the deck slid away from
them. Some say that they were playing “ Nearer my God to Thee”, which doesn’t
sound great to dance to, but with Big Mac it would have to be “Mustang Sally”,
and we’d still be dancing as we slid along and out and down.
When your whole body is convulsed by the beat of the
band, and the sheer joy of it, that stern captain on the bridge of your brain
is not entirely in command; and the glory of it is not that you believe
yourself to be unsinkable, as if it could never happen to you, but that the
letting go sets you free. It would bring this voyage to a perfect end, with
Mike and the band at full crescendo in the mad moon light, and Mustang Sally
galloping towards the rails, and the funnels crashing down, and the ship
upending, and all hands reaching above the waterline, not drowning but waving
at the stars.
23Mike McNamara, Peter Gainey and 21 others
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Not only elegant but eloquent too, Lawrence!
Author
Thanks Mike. I'm learning from you, or trying to, to
let the words fly, and to be freer on the wing --and a prayer.
We all loved the whole
performance last Friday night and now really looking forward to you playing at
our wedding in October 2020
·
·
·
·
Hi everyone. We went early to Ebbw Vale RFC, my
partner Val and I, to dance to Big Mac last night. Not having been there
before, we relied on our sat nav satellite woman, who seemed her usual
confident self until we got to the town centre, at which point she lost all
sense of direction and sent us around in circles, not having a sat nav to help
her out. Neither did we, or not a fully functioning one, and we were expecting
her, the reference being to " 2001: A Space Odyssey", to start
singing " Daisy, Daisy"; So we switched her off and consulted a
pedestrian, who asked a passing jogger, who pointed to a row of houses directly
opposite and said that the club was at the end of them. Which it was.
Still, it was worth it, and we all got excited when
the show started, with Mike and the band charging the place up with their own
special electricity, not from the national grid but generated by the music and
the personality and presence of the singers and the instrumentalists. Those who
played wind instruments were able to generate currents of excitement---I'm
still with the electricity conceit--- by wind power, thereby helping the
environment as well as rousing us all into a state of frenzy at least at the
very end when it all built up into a crescendo with sparks flying everywhere
and limbs flailing. Then we got lost on the way home.
22Mike McNamara, Peter Gainey and 20 others
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Nightmare to find. Satnav totally out of its depth!
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· 1y
Love the idea the wind section was contributing to
the environment
Author
Thanks, Gwyneth. It all helps.
Hi everyone. Went to Risca Top Club last night to
pick up two tickets for Big Mac on Friday 23rd August at that venue. It's a
long way to go, but we stayed on and made a night of it.
We went there because it was the only way to get the
tickets.But I spoke to one of the organisers , because I know that not everyone
is able to make the journey, as I explained to her, and she has very kindly
offered to set up a card machine so that people can pay by card over the phone.
If you are interested, her name is Nicola and she's
at the club between 5 and 7 tomorrow
evening and after 7 on Tuesday, Wednesday and
Thursday. I don't know whether she meant just this week, but I would guess that
the Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday is every week.
There are at least 30 tickets left, I think she said,
or was it 13? Or was it something about being thirsty?
The line was bad; or was it the wine? No, the wine
was OK.
What is beyond doubt is that she said that the
tickets are selling fast. Cheers, Laurence
11You, Mike
McNamara and 9 others
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