Communicating mainly by gestures one of the herdsmen, in a battered trilby style hat, his face lined by sun and wind and warmed by a gap toothed grin, gestured towards a small wooden hut. In the centre a very rough and ready fire of old sticks and twigs burned in the middle of the earth floor. This was where they made their cheese.
You can unsubscribe at any time.Thank you for subscribingWe have more newslettersShow meSee ourprivacy noticeTHIRTY years ago, they were all the rage. But nowadays if you so much as mention the word bum bag to people they look at you with disgust.To many, the bum bag is the ugly stepsister of the fashion accessory world but that doesn’t stop me.I wear mine loud and proud, whether it be on holiday, nipping into the garage for sweeties or even on my way down to the wrestling ring before a major bout.Without it, I feel vulnerable. I feel I am less safe with my important belongings scattered loosely around different pockets than in the one safe and sturdy satchel.
Joel reminisced about his earliest shows in town, at the Marigold Ballroom (formerly on Nicollet and Grant), a venue more suited, he said, to Lawrence Welk, before the obligatory winter weather quips led into a Minneapolis acknowledging instrumental jaunt through “Love Is All Around.” In its way, this show was as sepia toned as any wunnerful Welk showcase. There were bits of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and “Mama Told Me Not to Come,” “You May Be Right” veered into Led Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll,” “River of Dreams” flowed into Motown for a bit of “Heat Wave,” Joel even perfectly recreated the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life” in its entirety for some reason. From metal to doo wop to soul, all these songs had in common was that they were old, and Joel wove them into his own with seamless incoherence, like we were hearing a chronologically jumbled lost verse to “We Didn’t Start the Fire”: Lawrence Welk, Axl Rose, Sergeant Pepper’s, Wimomeh/ Motown, Zeppelin, AC/DC, Mary Tyler Moore..