Have you ever been to a hole in the wall pub in Glasgow?
I'll tell you about them.
They're the sort of place that used to have white walls but the nicotine has stained everything the colour of sepia.
Framed pictures adorn the walls, but there's no theme.
You could be sitting under a picture of a famous football player while looking across the bar at another featuring a chimpanzee drinking a cup of tea.
Then you might realize that it's not a chimp at all, but the barmaid staring at you from the hatch that leads to god knows where.
They have brass tack hanging about for some reason to.
There's no link to a history of it being a coach house, but that never matters.
The good thing about them is that the drink is usually cheap.
A pint is never watered down and there is rarely any hassle.
The down side is that pensionable aged women go out on the pull to them, and with a couple of shandy's in them think that anyone that has a pulse is fair game.
The only thing worse than them trying to pick you up is when they have a karaoke night.
It's on those nights that these ladies of a certain age get up and shake themselves into a frenzy while belting out songs old and new.
By some strange coincidence no matter what the song is they all end up sounding like something that was classed as country music in the seventies though.
They drink too much, they cry on stage, they yodel, they point the finger at you and beckon you closer while licking their shark thin lips.
Uuuuurgh. It's horrible
You haven't lived until a seventy year old woman has spat the words of 'The Old Rugged Cross' into your face with whiskey stale breath, and then whispered 'You're mine sonny-boy. What do you prefer. I keep my teeth in or take them out?'
I suppose you might be wondering what any of that has to do with Wanda Jackson's new album.
Well it sounds like a bootleg recording of one of those nights.
The party is certainly over.