Through the Doors of the Sunflower Lounge

Dear Chroniclers,

oh what a day! A celebration of shared greetings in time and space, a gathering of the clans that still reverberates mightily as I settle down once again into the bath-chair to tap out yet more incoherent ramblings on the keys of the trusty Remington Noiseless.

A Virtual Meeting-place

Many of our honoured guests here at the House enter through the well-worn portals of the Mojo Forum. It's a cyber-playground of some strange delights, and a popular destination of your host as I while away the hours in penitence, banished to the Tower and waiting in vain for an early re-admission to the warmly-padded bosom of the familial TV room.

In case you've not encountered the Mojo Forum before, I've asked Fetlock the Butler to paste a link to it below. Given his literal interpretation of even the most basic of commands, chances are the pasting will take the form of a clumsy hand-written note secured to the screen with a liberal splattering of Solvite. Apologies in advance, should it gum up the works of your personal computerette.

The link is, however, worthy of your investigation, as tucked away in one of its dustier corners you'll find a thread entitled "Praise the Lord, it's the Awesome Brummie Jolly-Up!" And jolly jolly it was too!

The Invitation Arrives

It seems like an age ago, but it all began way back in February. The very first entry on the "Jolly-Up" thread says it all and I quote from the source-text ...

Aim: To gather as many sad, music-fixated, under-achievers into one room as is humanly possible.

Mission accomplished ... in some style!

Voice of the Cynic

Perhaps I should have expected better.

Much to my surprise, I awoke on Saturday morning to find teenygoth, youngest fruit of the electrofried loins, perched at the end of the four-poster. Not accustomed to seeing her pallid form during the hours of sunlight, I imagined, fondly but mistakenly, that she had risen early to share some tender words of endearment with her dear father before he embarked on the "Big Adventure", as it had by then become known in the House. Sadly, this was to prove well short of the mark.

"Dad, are you all going to be wearing matching anoraks???"

Mrs electrofried giggled beneath the duvet as I summoned Fetlock to ready my outfit for the day. How cruel family can be!

Clothes that Maketh the Man

Much to my chagrin, when Fetlock slid back the bolts on the electrofried wardrobe my favourite smoking-jacket and matching carpet slippers were nowhere to be seen. The finger of suspicion currently points in the direction of Cook, following the subsequent discovery in her garret hideaway of a small crate of Buckfast medicinal wine and a crumpled ticket bearing the name of the local pawnbrokers.

Denuded of my first-choice attire and running short on time, I had little option but to instruct Fetlock to select items at random from my extensive collection of XXXXL-sized black costumiery.

Meanwhile, my dear lady had descended to the kitchen to summon up a little light refreshment for the journey. I eschewed her kind offer to prepare a warming flask of Horlicks and some fish-paste sandwiches and instead, went in search of my mackintosh and top-hat. Suitably attired, I made ready to leave the electrofried ancestral seat. By now, a small throng of well-wishers had gathered by the gates to the estate, the inevitable Fetlock lurking suspiciously at the back.

A Parting Gift

As I strode out toward the pot-holed lanes of Little Wittering to hail down a passing charabanc, he dashed out from the crowd and thrust into my hand a garishly-coloured matchbox of Slovenian origin. Cautiously, I opened it to examine the contents within.

At first sight, the matchbox appeared to contain a small selection of that curious confectionery delight more mature readers may recollect fondly as "Revels - the box of chocolates in a bag". A somewhat bold assertion to make, as the average contents of said bag usually comprised a sad assortment of chocolate-coated raisins, a random bullet or two of indigestible toffee and sundry fruit-cream concoctions that owed their existence primarily to a frothy vat of ill-mixed E-numbers.

I was just about to sample one when Fetlock gesticulated to me wildly,

Magic Moments

"No, meister electrofried ... box is lucky turnip charms, yes!"

After ten minutes of close-combat interrogation I wrestled the chilling truth from our anglophilically-challenged man-servant.

Apparently the objects in question were the partially digested remains of a turnip planted in a field whose carefully guarded location rests somewhere on the outskirts of the south-eastern region of Dolenjsko. Having passed relatively unscathed through the alimentary system of a mountain-goat (the coating from which still adorned these iconic fossilised offerings) the turnip-pieces had assumed magical qualities. A Slovenian lucky-charm perhaps, but never had chocolate-coating possessed such little appeal.

Hurriedly closing up the matchbox and secreting it deep within the cavernous pockets of my mackintosh-noir I strode out in search of an early-morning charabanc.

The Natives are Restless

Fortunately, it was not too long before one arrived. Proffering my Senior Citizen bus-pass on entry, I made my way to the rear, only to fall blissfully asleep as the miles sped by.

It was the loud "kerpfffff" of a ring-pull that brought me rudely to my senses as we neared the chosen destination for the Jolly-Up. A merry native had boarded the charabanc with a twinkle in his eye and a freshly chilled can of branded super-strength Continental lager clasped firmly in his hand.

Yow, babs ... fancy a supp??

An omen of things to come, I declined his kind offer.

One Small Step

Eventually the charabanc coughed its diesel-smoked way to the the very heart of Birmingham, whence its occupants were discharged, kicking and spluttering, onto the streets. Declining a supplementary invitation from my new-found friend to crack open a fresh bottle of"zoider" in celebration, I pulled out the directions to a rough coaching-inn that plied its trade under the unlikely name of "The Sunflower Lounge".

I found it eventually behind the Bull Ring, sandwiched handily between the Holiday Inn (flop-house of choice to the discerning Mojoer) and a variety of "adult" themed outlets of dubious origin. Pausing only to purchase a small glass of some strangely bucolic wheat-beer, I took a seat by the window, brushed down the pile on my top-hat, pulled tight the lapels of the mackintosh-noir and adjusted my Predator sun-glasses. Remaining incognito has always been a great gifting of the electrofrieds!

A Pleasant Diversion

As I awaited the arrival of sundry Forumers, my attention was drawn inexorably to a muted TV screen mounted on the wall just in front of me.

The FA Cup Final was due to kick off in a little over an hour's time and I was treated to the spectacle of a silent commentary from the Grandstand team, accompanied by a bizarre stream of sub-titles which I assume were being typed either by a deranged lunatic profoundly under the influence of illicit substances or a software programme that was barely out of its beta-nappies.

I cite, by way of illustration this glorious malapropism ...

"What a fantastic line-up Manchester United have - you've got to get past the likes of Ronaldo, Skol and cakes ..."

The Clans Gather

Fortunately, it was not too long before a group of tousled strangers entered the watering hole, some members of the entourage clearly looking a mite worse for wear than others. Beers were purchased at the bar, and as they claimed a table in the middle of the room I got to my feet and sidled up to the leader of this motley crew.

"The eagle has landed ... ", I whispered cryptically, conscious that loose words cost lives.

Yow what, babs ... ow, it's 'fryed lads, it's fryed!!

And so I was welcomed, with a warm embrace and a cold pint of the Sunflower's finest, to the world of Brummie Jolliedom. Within a few precious moments I was introduced in person to fellow on-liners who previously I had encountered only as a series of virtual messages displayed on a flickering screen in my darkened study. Yes indeed, they were for real!

The Downing of Sherbets

Before long, the table before us was strewn with a miscellany of drinking vessels - half-emptied flagons of strong sherbet and the odd schooner or two of cooking sherry (there being ladies present). I have it from a good source that our afternoon at "The Sunflower" resulted in their best takings ever in a single afternoon. An excellent example of exactly what international rapprochement can do for the economy of the country. And truly, it was an world-wide gathering of the clans. They came from Ireland, Wales, Finland, Greece, Canada, the United States of America ... and Bourneville!

Not only were the nations richly represented, our select gathering boasted a huge range of talents including chocolatiers (two), carpenters (two), an overseas student, a baker, a lorry driver, the manager of an advertising agency, an expert in procurement, a star of "YouTube" and a practitioner of the sublime and dark art of public company proxy voting.

Oh, and two Scotsmen arrived half-way through the afternoon!

Light Chat and Dark Chocolate

And so the hours flew past in merry banter. Sherbets were refreshed at regular intervals, and one of our chocolatiers circulated a red octagonal box containing a selection of foil-wrapped goodies freshly made by his own fair hand.

Regrettably, some of us misunderstood the precise nature of Kaspar's "stash", but doubtless somewhere there's a market out there for, ahem, "smoking-chocolate".

Oh What a Picture .. What a Lovely Picture!"

You may have guessed I had come prepared for the Jolly, a Box Brownie loaded with freshly-emulsioned glassy plates secreted carefully about my person. It lay hidden beneath the capacious folds of my mackintosh-noir ready to spring into action, and now was the time to release the shutter!

The Mojo folk were a most patient lot. They were flashed and snapped at regular intervals, then shepherded into position for a series of mildly perplexing group and individual shots. Not once did they complain. Even the young couple sitting opposite our table were very understanding. Mind you, I did have to pass myself off as a Social Worker leading a Care-in-the-Community Programme. Unsurprisingly, they took little convincing.

Some of the fruits of my work adorn this miserable and meandering corridor. Should you wish to see more, may I suggest a visit to Mojo-world courtesy of the link pasted by Fetlock below. I advise you to take ear-muffs - some of the language is a little rich, but beneath it lies hearts of gold. I think!

In Search of Sustenance

Whilst the FA Cup-Final was played out silently on the screen above us, stomachs began to rumble - one more than others, as we were to discover subsequently. The match reached its muted conclusion and it was time to set out in search of food.

The cab-rank was but a hundred yards or so away and most of the party was still capable of negotiating a relatively straight path. Accordingly, our Birmingham hosts assembled us at random in an increasingly jolly school-crocodile and despatched us en-taxi, four at a time, in the general direction of Ladypool Road, home to some of the best Balti houses in the country.

The back-streets of Birmingham flashed past as our handsome cabs picked up speed, a miasma of charity outlets, cornershops and Indian textile-emporia. Before we knew it, we were there. Taxis duly decanted, we set up trough in a fine specimen of Balti-house called, "Shaleems", along opposite sides of an exceptionally long table. We even managed a small overflow trestle.

A Meal to Remember

I had the good fortune to be seated at the end of the long table, directly on the "red-run" to the small, but pleasingly hygienic, toilet facilities. Accordingly I encountered much passing trade during our extended wait for sustenance.

I fear the size and general hilarity of our party rather threw the catering staff of Shaleems, for it was some considerable time until the first whiff of Poppadum. It so impressed my neighbour, a quietly-spoken and delightful American gentleman who goes by the on-line name of Ipecucci, that he was quite overcome with emotion. Or conceivably the vast quantities of Stella with which he had been thoughtfully force-fed by our Brummie hosts throughout the course of the day.

By the time our meal was at an end, young Ipecucci had become well acquainted with the "red-run" - a meal he is likely to remember for some time to come!

The Canals of Birmingham

With stomachs refreshed, or emptied as the case may be, we returned to the delights of Birmingham city centre, travelling in convoy despite the attempts of one Mojoer to leave the handsome cab whilst still in transit.

This time we hit the "Mailbox", home to that rare breed, the trendy Brummie. You may not know this, but Birmingham is home to more canals than Venice. Regrettably, little if any of its architecture, ambience or general culture comes anywhere close to its more famous water-wayed competitor.

The Mailbox is sited on a confluence of the inner canal system and is home to an ersatz Gondola, the closest the Midlands gets to gaudy Las Vegas-style excess. I shudder at the memory of one of our Scottish friends regaling us with a festive chorus of "Just one Cornetto ... ", whilst wearing an improbably ginger-fringed tam'o'shanter and what I have subsequently heard described as mid-life crisis trousers. Pulling my topper down low, I made haste towards "Penny Black's", a bijou drinkery selling the very finest bottled beers at prices that would have purchased a candle-lit dinner for two with wine at the Sunflower Lounge.

Alas, it was at this point I realised, Cinders-like, that my pumpkin would be arriving soon. Pausing only to down one last farewell drink with my new-found friends I made off into the cool night air, my mackintosh-noir swirling cape-like behind.

Final Thoughts

Darling teenygoth greeted me the next day, keen to inspect my increasingly corporeal form for evidence of fresh tattoos or indelicate piercings. I was a grave disappointment to her, being able to produce only two compilation CDs of the event, an "Awesome Brummie Jolly Up Special" and "The Soonds of Auchterteuchter" (for which many thanks to Panama) together with a curious postcard emblazoned with images of the spandex-clad Kiss in all their pompadoured finery.

In truth, I carried back far more with me from the day. It may seem strange to some for an on-line community with little apparent connection other than a love of music and too much time on their hands, to meet together in person - but for me it summed up perfectly what life should be about. Celebration, companionship and adventure.

Thank you so much to all my friends at the Mojo Forum, you're a great bunch and here's to the next time!

very best regards

electrofried (mr)

Post-script

Oh, and before I forget, did anyone eat those funny little Revel-like sweets mixed in with Kaspar's chocolate stash? I fear they must have fallen into the octagonal box when it was being passed round.

If so, please do let me know. I'm assured by Fetlock they are perfectly safe to eat, though you may find yourself growing mountain-goat ears come the morn.

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