What Is It With Guitarists?

So, what is it with guitarists, then?  Not the Townshends, Knopflers, Pages, Langs, or Tristanos (my knowledge of whose personal idiosyncrasies is as comprehensive as my knowledge of applied mathematics) I mean the ones I actually know, the acoustic, so–called “folkie” fellers. Not those plonking out a few easy chords and the odd riff or run, to accompany their vocalisations, I mean the real dedicated blokes; the Johns, Werners, Peters, Sammys, Klauses, et al, the ones reluctant to ever put the  bloody instrument back in its case; they’re the ones I mean. What is it with them – this dog thing, eh? Why is it, I wonder, that these guitareros, seemingly preferring growlers to groupies, are so often accompanied by a large, hairy, four-legged–friend where e’re they walk?

As do countless people, I like dogs, and cats. Mind you, I’m not one of that faux–luvvie brigade describing themselves as animal lovers, and gushing; “Aaaah” and “Ooooh”, “Aren’t you beautiful?” or “Gee you’re soooo cute” whenever they see a mutt or a moggy, but, in general, I do like animals. In fact, I like animals so much that I’m a convinced vegetarian, meaning I don’t eat their slaughtered corpses (which is a bloody sight more than a lot of the “Aaah” and  “Oooh”, “Aren’t you beautiful?” exclaimers can say).
Naturally, putting your hand up to being a veggie, is throwing yourself wide open to  a load of nescient driven drivel. Immediately the wits (or half-wits) come out with corny cliches like: “I don’t think we’ve got any freshly-cut grass in the fridge, but you can have a carrot, if you like,” before, convinced of the originality of their humour, collapsing into a heap of hilarity
Then there are the genuinely puzzled, who ask: “Well, what doooo you eat, then?”  (Everything you do, mate…….except cadavers.)
Or the biologically misguided who say: “If you don’t eat meat, you’ll never have any strength.”  (You mean like gorillas, and rhinos, and hippos, and elephants, and bulls, and all them other frail vegetarian creatures?)
Or the health–conscious who, whilst tucking into their double-cheese-hamburger -with-chips-and-a-slather-of-mayo, intone: “Not eating meat is very harmful to your health.”
If there’s a film or a book, wherein appears some kinky character, somebody hard to categorise, understand or come to terms with, obviously a bit doolally-tap, you can almost bet he or she’s a veggie, and quite possibly, to make things even more sinister a vegetarian hippy, or a vegetarian traveller, fergordssake beware of vegetarian terrorists!
It’s a proven fact (in some peoples’ minds) that veggies, apart from being unhealthy, undernourished, and undersized, are absolutely certain to be bonkers, because eating no meat definitely impedes brain cell growth, leaving you tuppence-short -of-a-shilling. This is so patently true, innit? I mean, look at George Bernhard Shaw, he’s a prime example of a vegetarian simpleton, as are: Einstein, Kafka, Leonardo, Edison and gordnose how many musicians, actors, painters, dancers etc, etc.
Okay, okay, I’ll admit, veggies aren’t incontrovertibly the most adorable creatures: Hitler was one, but then he was also a dog-lover, though I bet he never “Aaaahed ” or “Oooohed”  over ‘em.
Come to that, I don’t think he played guitar either.

My family’s vegetarian convictions, are easily explained. Knowing they are boiled whilst still alive, I’ve never, ever, eaten crustaceans, aware of how geese are maltreated to obtain it I’ve refused Pâté de Foie gras, etc. But other less obvious, yet equally obscene. mistreatments are easily overlooked, meaning I tucked happily into me steak and chips until…….
Once we lived in a village where one heard, but never saw animals, they were incarcerated in dark barns and stalls, obtaining a brief glimpse of daylight for the first time, when they lay, bread–crumbed and battered, as a schnitzel upon someone’s plate. We read a great deal about, and observed personally the dreadful conditions suffered by animals cramped into minute areas, if one of the poor bleeders died, it would remain standing as there wasn’t room enough for it to fall over; we saw chicken concentration camps, became aware of the thoughtless, cruel transportation of creatures from one country to another.
As if all this wasn’t enough to convince us that we wished no longer to be part of this organised, legalized lack of compassion, we saw documentary evidence of the brutality of the slaughterhouse. When The Smiths recorded “Meat Is Murder” they knew what they were on about alright.
Then I experienced it at first hand…There was a restaurant we, at that time, occasionally frequented, one day as we came out of it, the owner waved, calling me over. “I’ve got  something to show you” he said.
Innocently, I followed him into a building behind his restaurant, and there, hanging from a hook, was a not-quite-yet-dead calf (I will spare you the ghastly details).
“What’s wrong?” asked Shirley, when I returned to the car. “You look absolutely awful, your face is green.”
As I drove away, I explained what the bastard had done. Had I not felt so dreadfully ill, I might have physically attacked the arsehole; as it was, I was having enough problems holding my breakfast in place.
Needless to say, we never entered his vile establishment again.
Needless to say, we never exchanged another word with the fuck-pig.
Needless to say, I never ceased trying to devise some way of getting my own back on him for the  ”jape” he’d played on me. I could imagine him telling his cronies, (most of ‘em probably sodding hunters) about: “The look on that stupid Brit’s face.”
But revenge proved unnecessary, for shortly afterwards the bastard was summoned to the great slaughterhouse in the sky, where I hope he was treated as humanely as he treated his helpless, voiceless victims on earth.

But to return to my opening enquiry: what is it with guitarists, then? Why the canine fetish? Are they a form of bodyguard? If the guitarero plays a bum note, and someone in the audience laughs, do they set the brute upon ‘em?  I’ve never dared ask, for fear I might end with a wolfhound’s tooth necklace, the teeth still firmly embedded in the wolfhound’s jaw. Not that I’ve ever met any fierce ones (guitarists, yeah – their dogs, no) and I only put that bit in about the necklace to amuse myself. Often they’re big, playful, friendly souls (not the guitarists, their dogs) though I remember Klaus had a snappy little corgi named Mister Smudge, but being lumbered with a moniker like that who could blame him for being snappy?

Anyold, I had this gig to do with Jörg, an excellent guitarist who can overindulge
in arty-farty esotericocrity one minute, then thunder off a driving rock riff the next,
and I’m looking forward to it. Of course he’s got a dog, hasn’t he? (bound to have, he’s a guitar-freak, in’t he?)  can’t recall her name, but she was a big, shaggy, dewy-eyed, good-natured creature who never left his side, or perhaps Jörg never left hers.  In any case he refused to appear anywhere without her.
Now this is purely apocryphal, I vouch not one jot for its veracity, it was told me by Thomas (who once did a whole tour with Jörg) and although the aforementioned Thomas is possibly not above relating a porkie or two, I can believe it – having experienced the excess of affection existing between them (Jörg and the dog, not Thomas and Jörg). He says that, when they were on tour, he went into Jörg’s bedroom early one morning to discover him fast asleep (this occurs in bedrooms from time to time) and snuggled up next to him: beneath…yes, beneath…the sheet was his faithful woof-woof. Later, on a train travelling to the next gig, hunger overcame them, as it will, and they had it off to the dining car. Jörg was stopped, told dogs were not allowed in. He went away, returned wearing black shades, tapping helplessly at objects, and pretending to be visually challenged (which is pc for ” blind as a bleeding bat ” ) unsurprisingly, his disguise was seen through (sic), and he and his hound once more sent packing.
However, you can count on the authenticity  of the following anecdote:as it involves me!
Jörg and I were booked to do an afternoon concert for a town’s annual celebbrations.’Twas not a bona fide music festival, it was the town’s yearly booze-up, and we’d bin hired as a change from the usual massed accordions, rattling snares, and untuned brass instruments of the Oberunterhosenhausen Fire Brigade Volksmusik Ensemble.
It’s very important to know how these functions function, and we knew!
We decided it’d be cooler if, instead of doing two solo spots, as the organisers wanted, we combined for one big spot, sharing it; backing each other from time to time, as well as performing singly.
Our decision was also partly powered by defense motives; the event was taking place in one of them vast marquees (posh name for beer tent) where temperatures rise rapidly, and humidly, once Old Sol gets his sleeves rolled up. Long tables, with benches on either side of ‘em, ran in lines away from the stage, toward the rear of the marquee; a set-up conducive to the thumping of litre beer glasses on wooden surfaces, rabbiting away with people sat directly opposite, and the ubiquitous horror of German schunkeln (lock-arms-tergether-sway-back-and-forth-along-the-benches-and-let-the-world-see-what-a-wonderful-time-we’re-all-having).

We knew some visitors would be interested in our music, would sit at the front, listen, and some undoubtedly attempt to figure out Jörg’s chops, but that the majority would be intent (no pun intended) on shovelling as much grub into their cake’oles, and swallowing as much River Ouse as possible (the throw-ups, and hangovers of last year forgotten). It is, ov kosst, every performer’s perception of paradise to have witty spoken intros ignored, along with the songs, as glasses and bottles clang; knives and forks bang; waiters and waitresses edge between big-bummed rows, hands tray–loaded, shouting:
“Who wanted a schnapps?”
“Is this beer yours “
“Who ordered curry-wurst and pommes?”
(When we first came to Germany , passing one of those far-from-appetising-smelling sausage stalls, I  spotted it advertised on the “menu” and, naturally, assumed “curry-wurst” indicated a banger  which had been treated to a delicious Indian makeover– oh, silly me, how naive.! What it is, what it actually is, is a grilled, sausage slotted into a cardboard container, chopped, curry powder (yep, stand on me, curry powder) piled across the surface like yellow snow, then great dollops of ketchup sloshed on top.
And yes, folks, I’m truly, truly sorry to have to tell you, it is distressing, but !’m afraid it’s a fact, the indigenous population actually eats the gruesome things!!!!!)
 
An understandable attitude towards the kind of prospective shit-kicker facing us would be: do the job, cop the bread, and fuck off home. However other aspects always arise to eradicate this admirable intention; one of them being professional pride, that indefinable little dooberry that drives us in such situations, causing us to pick up the gauntlet, when commonsense says let the sod lie (do the job, cop the bread, and fuck off home).  It sends us Quixoteing off windmillwards, lance poised, determined to make the lushed-up, lurching louts listen, when we’d be smarter listening to that repetitive little voice in our heads and heeding its advice: “do the job, cop the bread, and fuck off home.”
Anyway, we opted to play the allotted two hours as one long spot, rather than in two sessions, figuring that “united we stand” was the shrewd-phrase of the day, that together we stood a far better chance, not only of audible survival by uniting against the noise of the hoping-soon-to-be-thoroughly-pissed-as-newts squad, but of also mayhap actually winning over the drunks, and that a break in the high-diddle-diddle would lower the drawbridge allowing the out-of-hand- to get out-of-hander.

We went on stage to tune up, and do a sound-check – a total waste of time, I reckoned, but looks good, keeps the organisers happy, and ensures no bovver when crossing-the-palm-time comes finally, thankfully, round. Big old hairy four–legs, can’t recall her name, but she was a dewy-eyed, good-natured creature gets on stage with us. “Stay there,” says Jörg, pointing to a corner slightly behind us, and immediately his friend settled down, on the spot indicated.
Wow! He’s got her well-trained, I thought.
Oh yeah!
In yer dreams, cock!

As soon as Jörg and I soared into the first song, she rose from proneness, leisurely stretched herself, gave her shaggy coat a shaggy shake, strolled down the steps at the side of the stage, turned to give us a so-wotcher-gonner-do-about-it? look, and went straight into her schtick: sailing, like a shaggy schooner in a wind set fair, from one long table to the next, mournfully gazing at its occupants from deep-set, sad-brown, dewy-eyes; those fathomless pools of mournfulness  which are issued to all pups at birth (along with waggly–tails) and which all dogs instinctively know how to
utilise to their best advantage.
Need it be said?
She scored at once, but not just once, gordferbid; she scored ceaselessly, at every table: bits of pizza, chunks of meat, lumps of sausage, slices of cheese, bread, rolls, cakes and chips; wolfing down every offering as if it was the first delicacy of the
day, month or year. Every now and again, she’d look in our direction (where we were contending with drunks, would-be drunks, and, now, in addition, an attention-copping canine) knowing full well that we were entirely helpless, could do nothing to stop her, that interrupting our show would only lead to our losing that hard-fought-for attention we’d manfully managed to acquire from sections of the thoroughly sozzled, and wannabe Mozarts, many of whom were now clapping (on the wrong beat, ov kosst. The majority of Germans seem impervious to the back-beat; a left-over from their comes-with-the-genes taste for march music, I suppose) some, unbidden, were even singing approximations of choruses. We’d managed, not quite by Winnie’s “blood, sweat and tears,” but by sheer hard, determined, graft to overcome the dire beer-tent atmosphere, and through force of personality (plus a deal of handsome guitar playing from Jörg) made the buggers listen. So much so, that there were umpteen loud demands of ” Zugabe! Zugabe!” after we’d announced, and played, our last number.
As we went into our second encore – take good note of that: the second one…not the first, oh no, the second! – the dog decided to return to the stage. She’d obviously timed the show to perfection, working out how many bits of pizza, chunks of meat, lumps of sausage, slices of cheese, bread, rolls, cakes and chips, she could scrounge before her master (oh ha-ha, ho-ho and hee!) would finally be in a position to call her to heel.
So, the second encore it was.
Leisurely up the steps at the side of the stage she strolled, shaggily shook her shaggy coat, wagged her flag of a tail, looked from side to side; then cooly, calculatingly lay down – right slap-bang in front of  us – placed her large head on her large paws, raised her dewy-brown eyes to contemplate the punters we’d worked so hard to win……. and promptly stole our fucking limelight!



?)
Or the health–conscious who, whilst tucking into their double-cheese-hamburger -with-chips-and-a-slather-of-mayo, intone: “Not eating meat is very harmful to your health.”
If there’s a film or a book, wherein appears some kinky character, somebody hard to categorise, understand or come to terms with, obviously a bit doolally-tap, you can almost bet he or she’s a veggie, and quite possibly, to make things even more sinister a vegetarian hippy, or a vegetarian traveller, fergordssake beware of vegetarian terrorists!
It’s a proven fact (in some peoples’ minds) that veggies, apart from being unhealthy, undernourished, and undersized, are absolutely certain to be bonkers, because eating no meat definitely impedes brain cell growth, leaving you tuppence-short-of-a-shilling. This is so patently true, innit? I mean, look at George Bernhard Shaw, he’s a prime example of a vegetarian simpleton, as are: Einstein, Kafka, Leonardo, Edison and gordnose how many musicians, actors, painters, dancers etc, etc.
Okay, okay, I’ll admit, veggies aren’t incontrovertibly the most adorable creatures: Hitler was one, but then he was also a dog-lover, though I bet he never ” Aaaahed ”

or ” “Oooohed ”  over ‘em.
Come to that, I don’t think he played guitar either.

My family’s vegetarian convictions, are easily explained. Knowing they are boiled whilst still alive, I’ve never, ever, eaten crustaceans, aware of how geese are maltreated to obtain it I’ve refused Pâté de Foie gras, etc. But other less obvious, yet equally obscene. mistreatments are easily overlooked, meaning I tucked happily into me steak and chips until…….
Once we lived in a village where one heard, but never saw animals, they were incarcerated in dark barns and stalls, obtaining a brief glimpse of daylight for the first time, when they lay, bread–crumbed and battered, as a schnitzel upon someone’s plate. We read a great deal about, and observed personally the dreadful conditions suffered by animals cramped into minute areas, if one of the poor bleeders died, it would remain standing as there wasn’t room enough for it to fall over; we saw chicken concentration camps, awoke to the thoughtless, cruel transportation of creatures from one country to another.
As if all this wasn’t enough to convince us that we wished no longer to be part of this organised, legalized lack of compassion, we saw documentary evidence of the brutality of the slaughterhouse. When The Smiths recorded “Meat Is Murder” they knew what they were on about alright.
Then I experienced it at first hand…There was a restaurant we, at that time, occasionally frequented, one day as we came out of it, the owner waved, calling me over. “I’ve got  something to show you” he said.
Innocently, I followed him into a building behind his restaurant, and there, hanging from a hook, was a not-quite-yet-dead calf (I will spare you the ghastly details).
“What’s wrong?” asked Shirley, when I returned to the car. “You look absolutely awful, your face is green.”
As I drove away, I explained what the bastard had done. Had I not felt so dreadfully ill, I might have physically attacked the arsehole; as it was, I was having enough problems holding my breakfast in place.
Needless to say, we never entered his vile place again.
Needless to say, we never exchanged another word with the fuck-pig.
Needless to say, I never ceased trying to devise some way of getting my own back on him for the  ”jape” he’d played on me. I could imagine him telling his cronies, (most of ‘em probably sodding hunters) about: “The look on that stupid Brit’s face.”
But revenge proved unnecessary, for shortly afterwards the bastard was summoned to the great slaughterhouse in the sky, where I hope he was treated as humanely as he treated his helpless, voiceless victims on earth.

But to return to my opening enquiry: what is it with guitarists, then? Why the canine fetish? Are they a form of bodyguard? If the guitarero plays a bum note, and someone in the audience laughs, do they set the brute upon ‘em? I’ve never dared ask, for fear I might end with a wolfhound’s tooth necklace, the teeth still firmly embedded in the wolfhound’s jaw. Not that I’ve ever met any fierce ones (guitarists, yeah – their dogs, no) and I only put that bit in about the necklace to amuse myself. Often they’re big, playful, friendly souls (not the guitarists, their dogs) though I remember Klaus had a snappy little corgi named Mister Smudge, but being

lumbered with a moniker like that who could blame him for being snappy?

Anyold, I had this gig to do with Jörg, an excellent guitarist who can overindulge
in arty-farty esotericocrity one minute, then thunder off a driving rock riff the next,
and I’m looking forward to it. Of course he’s got a dog, hasn’t he? (bound to have, he’s a guitar-freak, in’t he?)  can’t recall her name, but she was a big, shaggy, dewy-eyed, good-natured creature who never left his side, or perhaps Jörg never left hers.  In any case he refused to appear anywhere without her.
Now this is purely apocryphal, I vouch not one jot for its veracity, it was told me by Thomas (who once did a whole tour with Jörg) and although the aforementioned Thomas is possibly not above relating a porkie or two, I can believe it – having experienced the excess of affection existing between them (Jörg and the dog, not Thomas and Jörg). He says that, when they were on tour, he went into Jörg’s bedroom early one morning to discover him fast asleep (this occurs in bedrooms from time to time) and snuggled up next to him: beneath…yes, beneath…the sheet was his faithful woof-woof. Later, on a train travelling to the next gig, hunger overcame them, as it will, and they had it off to the dining car. Jörg was stopped, told dogs were not allowed in. He went away, returned wearing black shades, tapping helplessly at objects, and pretending to be visually challenged (which is pc for ” blind as a bleeding bat ” ) unsurprisingly, his disguise was seen through(sic), and he and his hound once more sent packing.
However, you can count on the authenticity  of the following anecdote: it involves me!
Jörg and I were booked to do an afternoon concert for a town’s annual celebrations.’Twas not a bona fide music festival, it was the town’s yearly booze-up, and we’d bin hired as a change from the usual massed accordions, rattling snares, and untuned brass instruments of the Oberunterhosenhausen Fire Brigade Volksmusik Ensemble.
It’s very important to know how these functions function, and we knew!
We decided it’d be cooler if, instead of doing two solo spots, as the organisers wanted, we combined for one big spot, sharing it; backing each other from time to time, as well as performing singly.
Our decision was also partly powered by defense motives; the event was taking place in one of them vast marquees (posh name for beer tent) where temperatures rise rapidly, and humidly, once Old Sol gets his sleeves rolled up. Long tables, with benches on either side of ‘em, ran in lines away from the stage, toward the rear of the marquee; a set-up conducive to the thumping of litre beer glasses on wooden surfaces, rabbiting away with people sat directly opposite, and the ubiquitous horror of German schunkeln (lock-arms-tergether-sway-back-and-forth-along-the-benches-and-let-the-world-see-what-a-wonderful-time-we’re-all-having).

We knew some visitors would be interested in our music, would sit at the front, listen, and, some undoubtedly, attempt to figure out Jörg’s chops, but that the majority would be intent (no pun intended) on shovelling as much grub into their cake’oles, and swallowing as much River Ouse as possible (the throw-ups, and hangovers of last year forgotten). It  is, of course, every performer’s perception of paradise to have witty spoken intros ignored, along with the songs, as glasses and bottles clang; knives and forks bang; waiters and waitresses edge between big-bummed rows, hands tray–loaded, shouting:


“Who wanted a schnapps?”
“Is this beer yours “
“Who ordered curry-wurst and pommes?”
(When we first came to Germany , passing one of those far-from-appetising-smelling sausage stalls, I  spotted it advertised on the “menu” and, naturally, assumed “curry—wurst” indicated a banger  which had been treated to a delicious Indian makeover– oh, silly me, how naive.! What it is, what it actually is, is a grilled, sausage slotted into a cardboard container, chopped, curry powder (yep, stand on me, curry powder) piled across the surface like yellow snow, then great dollops of ketchup sloshed on top.
And yes, folks, I’m truly, truly sorry to have to tell you, it is distressing, but !’m afraid it’s a fact, the indigenous population actually eats the gruesome things!!!!!)
 
An understandable attitude towards the kind of prospective shit-kicker facing us would be: do the job, cop the bread, and fuck off home. However other aspects always arise to eradicate this admirable intention; one of them being professional pride, that indefinable little dooberry that drives us in such situations, causing us to pick up the gauntlet, when commonsense says let the sod lie (do the job, cop the bread, and fuck off home).  It sends us Quixoteing off windmillwards, lance poised, determined to make the lushed-up, lurching louts listen, when we’d be smarter listening to that repetitive little voice in our heads and heeding its advice: “do the job, cop the bread, and fuck off home.”
Anyway, we opted to play the allotted two hours as one long spot, rather than in two sessions, figuring that “united we stand” was the shrewd-phrase of the day, that together we stood a far better chance, not only of audible survival by uniting against the noise of the hoping-soon-to-be-thoroughly-pissed-as-newts squad, but of also mayhap actually winning over the drunks, and that a break in the high-diddle-diddle would lower the drawbridge allowing the out-of-hand- to get out-of-hander.

We went on stage to tune up, and do a sound-check – a total waste of time, I reckoned, but looks good, keeps the organisers happy, and ensures no bovver when crossing-the-palm-time comes finally, thankfully, round. Big old hairy four–legs, can’t recall her name, but she was a dewy-eyed, good-natured creature gets on stage with us. “Stay there,” says Jörg, pointing to a corner slightly behind us, and immediately his friend settled down, on the spot indicated.
Wow! He’s got her well-trained, I thought.
Oh yeah!
In yer dreams, cock!

As soon as Jörg and I soared into the first song, she rose from proneness, leisurely stretched herself, gave her shaggy coat a shaggy shake, strolled down the steps at the side of the stage, turned to give us a so-wotcher-gonner-do-about-it? look, and went straight into her schtick: sailing like a shaggy schooner in a wind set fair from one long table to the next, mournfully gazing at its occupants from deep-set, sad-brown, dewy-eyes; those fathomless pools of mournfulness  which are issued to all pups at birth (along with waggly–tails) and which all dogs instinctively know how to
utilise to their best advantage.
Need it be said?

She scored at once, but not just once, gordferbid; she scored ceaselessly, at every table: bits of pizza, chunks of meat, lumps of sausage, slices of cheese, bread, rolls, cakes and chips; wolfing down every offering as if it was the first delicacy of the
day, month or year. Every now and again, she’d look in our direction (where we were contending with drunks, would-be drunks, and, now, in addition, an attention-copping canine) knowing full well that we were entirely helpless, could do nothing to stop her, that interrupting our show would only lead to our losing that hard-fought-for attention we’d manfully managed to acquire from sections of the thoroughly sozzled, and wannabe Mozartst, many of whom were now clapping (on the wrong beat, ov kosst. The majority of Germans seem impervious to the back-beat; a left-over from their comes-with-the-genes taste for march music, I suppose) some, unbidden, were even singing approximations of choruses. We’d managed, not quite by Winnie’s blood, sweat and tears, but by sheer hard, determined, graft to overcome the dire beer-tent atmosphere, and through force of personality (plus a deal of handsome guitar playing from Jörg) made the buggers listen. So much so, that there were umpteen loud demands of ” Zugabe! Zugabe!” after we’d announced, and played, our last number.
As we went into our second encore – take good note of that: the second one…not the first, oh no, the second! – the dog decided to return to the stage. She’d obviously timed the show to perfection, working out how many bits of pizza, chunks of meat, lumps of sausage, slices of cheese, bread, rolls, cakes and chips, she could scrounge before her master (oh ha-ha, ho-ho and hee!) would finally be in a position to call her to heel.
So, the second encore it was.
Leisurely up the steps at the side of the stage she strolled, shaggily shook her shaggy coat, wagged her flag of a tail, looked from side to side; then cooly, calculatingly lay down – right slap-bang in front of  us – lay her large head on her large paws, raised her dewy-brown eyes to contemplate the punters we’d worked so hard to win……. and promptly stole our fucking limelight!