(A re-post from 4 years ago. After the post I daren't go back)

Nothing prepared me for the gig at “t’Monkey”; not five years of Open Mic-ing, not ten years of living nearby at Penistone.

The first thing I noticed about the place was that it wasn’t there.  Located in the Barnsley Triangle near Thurgoland, land of sheep and Thurgs, it steadfastly refused to acknowledge the Google Map I had run off; pointlessly, as it happened as there were no street lamps to read it by.  (This was in January, you understand, deepest January).

When I did eventually find it it was closed – or so it seemed.  It was in complete darkness apart from a dull glow coming from one window.  The only other clue advertising its welcome was the presence of several mud-splattered four-by-fours abandoned on the roadside.

“Welcome” overstates things a little.  When I went in, instead of the ubiquitous coconut welcome mat in the foyer (a lean-to shed) there was a hand-written piece of A4 on the floor which read, in capitals, “FUCK OFF”.

The next thing I noticed as I peered round the door was that it was colder inside than out.  I had decided to wear a black shirt and slacks and black leather jacket – my Johnny Cash look.  I had dressed for Open Mic, not for Alaska.

The barmaid resembled a ball of charity shop clothing.  Her face was quite thin so I assumed the ball comprised her thermal protection, worn like the many layers of an onion.  She challenged me non-verbally what I wanted to drink but I could see that choice was limited.  There were no beer pumps, bottles of wine, optics etc, just an open cupboard stacked with endless cans of No-Name lager and Coca Cola – a job-lot from Makro, no doubt.  (The theme, incidentally, continued in the décor, with hundreds of Baked Bean tins stacked pyramically in the windows.  I didn’t ask why).  I got a coke.

At the far end of the room were a gaggle of what looked like extras from “a Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich”, ragged but otherwise warm.  Fingerless woollen gloves seemed de rigeur.  Johnny Cash looked perished.  They were huddled around a fireplace where a small flame reluctantly nibbled at a piece of plywood, and were sat on an eclectic mix of garden benches, old armchairs and church stools.  A sculpture of dust formed a settee on which, no doubt, hundreds had sat, slept, vomited, copulated and died.  Its present occupant was a tidy woman in her 40’s who, I hoped, was there for the wanks.  I was to be disappointed as a dirty, fat, toothless babushka opposite grinned at me.

Mine host was a bloke coaxing, fanning and swearing at the flame.  Despite the Arctic conditions he wore shorts (with wellingtons) and spoke in tongues seemingly understood by the others.  I had, in fact, taken my guitar with a mind to treat them to one or two of my little ditties but had wisely left it in the car outside.  “Wisely” because I’m sure he would have smashed it for extra tinder.

The gig passed off without event and with my contribution going down acceptably.

As I left two new blokes at the bar approached me menacingly.  They looked like they’d been tarmac-ing or reaping souls with their ingrained faces and dirty clothes.  This was going to be “Deliverance” meets “Kes”!  One grinned showing a desecrated graveyard of black, yellow and missing teeth.  The other held out a grimy hand, told me how much he’d enjoyed my poetry and thanked me for coming.

You just can’t tell, can you?