Matthew didn’t do Indy Man yesterday, but he did send me his musical tip for the month, another load of old (old = over 21) punks with tunes.
A blend of the Manics, Stone Roses and The Cult, I reckon.
I left you towards the end of my week in the West Country, on the second of two nights at Ilminster Best Western.
Friday night in July meant my room was a) smaller and b) no longer a bargain, but I did at least have the deep joy of spying a Tribute glass among the Prosecco of a large group of wedding guests at the Shrubbery.
I’m delighted to have been able to increase the number of cask outlets in Ilminster by a third, and on a gorgeous evening that Tribute was a comfortable NBSS 3.
“Go and see Phil first; he knows EVERYTHING” said an anxious wedding guest to a new arrival with enough luggage to see them through the summer. Remind me never to invite us to your wedding.
I suspect they weren’t exchanging vows, or whatever folk do at weddings these days, at St Mary’s, the only thing worth seeing in town.
Actually, that may be unfair. Next door to the Minster the Dolphin (aka The Dolp) shares the stonework,
and has that characteristic Wadworth house style; homely and pleasant.
Everyone is outside in the sun, leaving a cheery but lonely barperson to expertly pull the 6X.
The “Edge of Seventeen” carries from the jukebox to the garden, drowned out by the joyous sound of Hi-Vis locals talking rubbish.
Drug addict mums, the joy of Horlicks, riotous 18th birthdays at The George (closed), the smell from a noisy motorbike (“is that Red X or Castrol R ?”).
It all happens in Ilminster, I can tell you.
But I won’t be adding the town to my top 10, despite a decent enough Crispy Beef and Singapore Rice from Dragon Palace.
Not unless the Best Western starts offering me their best room for £40 again.