So-o-o-ho

It's quiet for a moment, then all the graves open up and dancing begins.

Go to the new restaurant above the French House, Polpetto. It is what we all want as our neighbourhood eatery, but never get. If you live in Soho, you're lucky. If you don't, get on a bike and go there. No more need be said on this subject.

Guitars, however, require  a paragraph or two.

The BOF's big brother died a bit ago and left him a lovely guitar, a Strat of the finest fret and finish.  BOF had always been a keyboard man, playing at the side of the stage in the Marquee, the Greyhound, the 100 Club, and other little hell-holes of the seventies. He had watched the axe-men in his band, Peaches, grinding it out on Gibsons, a Gold and a Black. He may be wrong, but he seems to remember that the Gold came from the 50s and cost around 2 grand then.

Scouting Denmark Street today, the BOF ended up in Vintage and Rare Guitars, a shop that sells what it says it sells.  He'd tried to avoid it, but Hank's only sells acoustics and the rest seem to have given up on old Gibsons.

The BOF, you see, had decided that he must have the Gibson to complement the Fender, such is his new joy with the electric fretboard. Remembering his days on the loud boards, a Gold seemed to be the answer, preferably from the 50s.

Hah!

It would appear that they can now set the axe man back a cool quarter of a million. Except, it's probably not axe men who buy them, more likely ghastly Bob Diamonds and the like, who hang them on their loft walls encased in perspex and never so much as strum an Emi7. Investment value, apparently.

Fuck you, Diamond and your ilk.

The BOF will have to settle for something a little newer, when it turns up. But he is now determined to have one, to punch out that hairy humbucker sound. Sadly, the BOF's vile neighbours (more diamond-types) are leaving soon to Chase the dollar, so he won't be able to entertain them at 11 on the dial at 11 at night, unless his new friend from Denmark street calls very soon.

Here's hoping...