You’ve just clicked on that pencil over there to the left of the previous page yeah? Either that or the hidden link in the opening text of the homepage. Or perhaps the ‘Write-Up for This Event’ button in the cool picture area. Either way, you’ll have clicked on, or if not, clicked pretty bloody close to the words ‘Ronnie Scott’s’. In that case, can I ask if anyone was at all unsure what this event was, where it was, and what kind of event it was? No of course you weren’t. Everyone knows what Ronnie Scott’s is, where it is (abouts), and the kind of things that happen there. One of the main thoughts that might have come to mind when confronted with the possibility that I’d been there recently... would surely have been, suspicion. How can I, a person essentially much like me, afford to go to a place like that? Short answer is I can’t. Long answer is I can’t afford it. But I’ve given the exclusive rights to the longest answer, ‘I can’t normally afford it’.

Next week’s ticket prices run up to as much as £50! You might (and in fact already have) asked yourself how it came to happen that I attended one of these money burning rituals. Should you ask that, you would not receive an answer from my lips, but only a pitying shake of my head, and wry smile from my mouth as your naïvety amuses me.

Due to a cancellation in the usual scheduled programming their regular as clockwork, £30 a head performer jacked it in and walked away for some reason. The reason? I don’t care. The contingency? I do. You see Ron still has bills to pay. He lives in one of the busiest most expensive areas in London’s West End. The loss of ticket sales would put a serious hamper on cashflow. There was a hole the size of Belgium in his finances, and it needed filling quicker than Paris Hilton.

The venue team quickly got their feelers out. They need good musical acts, acts of the same calibre, and similar genre to their usual jazz based crooners. And they need them to be available with one day’s notice. Not easy you’ll do well to agree. The difficulty of the task in hand in fact, was proven by the first two pushed on with a broom. Performing like they’d just hopped onto the stage as a shortcut to the bar. Then drunkenly whined their drinks order into the microphone.

For the duration of the first two acts I stuck, resolutely to my seat. I was lucky to get that bloody thing as it was both the last, and tiniest table the physical laws of the universe would allow, but it was mine. And I wasn’t going to give it up for some chancer with a dream, or a lady of the night on her way to a live sex show before a Ronnie Scott’s polo shirt wearing champion forced 20 notes into her hand and closely avoided arrest before bundling her on stage. By the third act, the place was getting pretty full, although still I’ll bet running under its fire-code regulation number. The £5 entry price tag, and the £7 a drink price tag cancelling each other out to get in a pretty good crowd. So I thought it might be best for me to move to the ‘on my feet’ part of the evening, and start pushing my way to the front with only strongly dictated ‘tut’s to stop me. Good old England!

First proper band were called ‘The Joker and the Thief’. When they first turned up and started setting up, the frontman created a little Fisherprice play-station in front of him. Fixed to a stand there was a horizontal bar, with a selection of toys for him to pick up and play with in turn.

“Mum, Dad... I’ve decided, I’m going to be a rockstar. Can I have a microphone for my birthday please, to start my band?”

“Of course you can son, but you’ll need more than just a microphone silly. Yes yes, we’ll have to get you the whole kit won’t we. Two tambourines, a triangle, a megaphone, drumsticks, two symbols (one so ludicrously small it could fit inside a cocktail umbrella), and one of those tubes you swing around your head to make the sound of a manatee calling emergency services.”

“But mum... I don’t think I’ll need any of that stuff.”

“Hahaha.... of course you won’t dear. It’s to make everyone thing you’re mental before you start. Lower their expectations.”

“Oh... thanks mum.”

I don’t know if it was the Fisherprice play-station, if it was the matching outfits, or the fact they were at Ronnie Scott’s. Whatever it was, this band was pretty darn good. I don’t want this to get into a music review, and most of all I can’t be bothered writing a music review, but if you’re interested in pretty cool, lively, passionate blues and soul music from a trio of young London enthusiasts, then check them out here.

After them, it was the turn of an old favourite. Good old Lester Clayton. The very reason I’d been privy to this special £5 Ronnie Scott’s offer in the first place. As usual Lester hit all the right notes with his youthful spring/summer tunes. We’re just hitting the right season for it now too. I’m not sure what Lester’s up to this Summer, but if he hasn’t been asked to attend any Summer acoustic festivals then someone’s missing a very good trick. It’s nice to hear so much romance in most of his newer songs nowadays too. When Lester’s enjoying life, he’s on the top of his songwriting game, so long may his happiness continue, for the sake of everyone’s ears.

Turns out, Ronnie Scott’s is actually a pretty shit venue. The acoustics are good, but for close to £50 for a normal ticket, I’d expect to be able to sit at a table with a good view of the stage, for it to be pretty sparse with only seating room, table service, and a large selection of drinks, especially at those prices. In reality, I saw none of those things. What I did see was £7 drinks you have to spend 20 minutes getting yourself. A small plate of tortilla chips jump straight out of a bag of Doritos, shun melted cheese of any kind, take 30 minutes to arrive and steal more than £5 from your wallet on the way back. And a seating area you have to leave if you want to hear anything on stage.

For £5 entry, I can’t and I’m not really complaining, but I wouldn’t want to go there again, even for free.