In return for taking someone to see some free improv earlier in the week, which was never really going to be their cup of tea, I was taken to the 100 Club - on London’s retail paradise Oxford Street - the other night to see something they wanted to see.  I’d never been there before (to the venue; I may have dallied a while on the street once or twice before).  The venue was nice; wider than it was long, friendly bar staff, hi-tech Dyson hand driers in the loos.  To compensate it was full of middle-aged, poorly dressed, overweight, bearded (and frankly, rather ugly) men.

One of the support acts was a woman playing a steel guitar.  She was rubbish, horribly derivative blues sung in a grating faux-American accent, but there was one hilarious (to me, no-one else seemed all that amused) moment when she dedicated a song to her husband. 

The song featured his name, sung repeatedly, and with tongue nowhere near cheek.

Her husband’s name was Barry (the crime was compounded by rhyming it with “marry”).

Barry.  If ever there was a name I had never envisaged being celebrated in song, there it was.  I nearly laughed her out of the building back to her seemingly beloved Noo Awwwwleans.