With every weekend comes a new adventure for Wedding Band Sussex!
As every function band will tell you, at some point in your (normally) tightly run but fun fuelled weekend career of gigs, a series of such calamitous, unfortunate events will leave you wondering how you got through the evening.
A recent gig for us was such a time. With half the lads heading off to forge their paths at their chosen universities, a number of new considerations springboard their way into the, by now, well-oiled machine.
Travel arrangements - the bands more scattered than week old non-biodegradable confetti on a church path, how are we to ensure everyone gets there on time with their gear?!
Timings - arrive too early and you look like the uncomfortable but dutiful husband, standing idly by whilst the wife does her shopping. Arrive too late and everyone's stressing! Especially the Bride, who by now seems to have less hair than her new husband after tearing it all out. Everyone's setting off from different locations at different times - when should we all leave?!
After a night of tossing and turning on these issues for 8-ball, the time came for our first 'gig-whilst-the-boys-are-at-uni.' CATCHY!
Joe had somehow spent £60 on a train from London. Poor old Sam had got two trains, with 3 transfers and a 20 minute walk between stations to the location which was actually only 30 miles from his university in Guildford. Meanwhile Rio and Alex were expertly straddling both their packed full cars and the peddles and steering wheel of Joe's car simultaneously! (I joke, however without a van, 8-ball do need 3 cars. We could've done it though!)
Rio and Joe nailed it and arrived just on time to the lovely venue at Upper Froyle Park. Alex was a little way behind and poor old Sam was still off walking to a rickety countryside station. The show must go on however, 3/4 of 8-Ball did a hasty set up. As Sam plodded in, the moment came...
We were almost good to go, we'd even set up Sam's gear for him, as we're very helpful friends. Yet like the bearer of bad news, without even a smile or a hello, Sam enlightened us to our folly. "Where's the mic stands?" he roared (artistic license). Like a pack of meercats (pack?!) we inquisitively looked to one another whilst a strangled sound only dogs could hear escaped Joe's throat. Glumly we all stood and thought of the return journey that lay ahead of us to fetch those cursed stands.
"What are we to do?!" said a frightened Joe.
"There's another way" stated a heroic Rio. "We call our parents..." (the real heroes.)
And thus it was, like the over-sized children we've become, we sat with our tails between our legs and waited timidly for Joe's father to drop off everything we'd forgotten. All in all, the show did go on, and we all blamed Sam for 'pooping' on said party. Never let it be said that 8-Ball don't learn their lesson though!