Tuesday as a twenty year-old amounted to more Monday. I spent a night two weeks ago watching Stoke play Aston Villa in a quayside bar in Crete. The situation was this: since I was the only person there with an interest in the match they turned the volume up just enough so that you couldn’t quite hear the commentary while at the same time it was overridden by the music on the speakers, generic reggae. This latter later led to a conversation with T on our balcony where I drunkenly made two rather vociferous contentions: 1. Things had changed: Tony Pulis was a Great Man (this was the day his mother had died – he turned up at the ground at half time after dealing with this and oversaw the reversal of a half-time score of 0-1 to a full time win 2-1); 2. Black Uhuru were the only really great* reggae band that has ever been.
So (and I hope this helps makemeadiva’s ears): (& In searching for this I learned the sad fact that Puma Jones – the female singer with the great name – died in 1990 age 36 of breast cancer; [I never kept up with their career, post early-mid 80s.])
* great being a key word in the drunken lexicon