(Written 20th August 2013)
It's back! One of my favourite comedy shows is having an Australian run, and episodes are being screened on TLC on Monday nights.
For anyone who hasn't seen it, the idea is simple, as are many of the contestants. Twelve women and twelve men are set up in a mansion, yoked together in twelve teams, and set two challenges each episode. The winners of each challenge nominate another couple to face elimination. Each episode ends with the two chosen couples answering four questions each, with the lowest-scoring couple being sent home. The couple who make it through to the end win A$100,000.
What makes it such a laugh is that the women have been chosen for their beauty and lack of intelligence, while the men have been chosen for their brains and lack of social skills. So the women are mostly talking about make-up and celebrities, while the men are mostly talking about string theory and Daleks. The challenges they are set are their worst nightmares - for the men it's usually about behaving properly in public, or being confident in some way, while the women are asked to learn some facts and apply them logically, or do something that will cause them to get slightly grubby and snag their tights. ON TV, oh the shame of it!
The men's challenge this week was "Go out in a public place, approach a woman you don't know and strike up a conversation", with points awarded by the approached women later when they were interviewed. And reassured that dribble can be removed from suede shoes with a stiff brushing after it dries. (I may have made the last bit up.) This task was sheer horror for most of the men, despite them being briefed on "What women like to talk about" by their partners. "No, don't talk about the weather!" screeched the professional cheerleader to her partner - who promptly initiated social intercourse by pointing out what a lovely day it was, but that rain was expected later.
As for the women, their task was "Put your hand in these five boxes and identify the Australian animal within". To minimise responses like "Dodo" and "Unicorn", they were given a dozen cards with potential animals on them, and had to pick the right card. The animals were a rabbit, a huge millipede, a python (and that would have seen me out with a fit of the vapours), really quite a lot of mealworms and an extraordinary bird that rejoiced in the name "toad-faced owl". The women put their trembling hands into the boxes and screamed like the smoke-alarms of Hell when they touched... well, anything. Shrieking, having touched a remarkably docile rabbit with droopy ears, one woman identified it as a beaver. "Despite", her sad-faced partner later lamented "Beavers not living in Australia." Another woman half grabbed the owl, which obligingly jumped onto her arm, thus giving her an idea of weight and size, also talons. And feathers. In her mind, though, it was a bat. The feathered, standing upright Australian bat, I assume.
And so to the elimination, where the two selected couples have a few hours to study prepared material about their subjects, from which the questions they will answer will have been taken. For the women, it was "Animals", for the men "Animal Magnetism". Even when studying, the laughs don't stop. Testing his partner, one of the men asked "The koala is what kind of mammal?" After a long pause, the answer came - "A.... placenta?"
For those who have the chance to watch again, I urge you to do so. If you can't, TLC Monday nights, rather late. I promise you, you won't regret it.
Wednesday 21 August 2013
Saturday 17 August 2013
Cropredy diary 2013
(Written during a few days in August 2013)
It's been too long in the writing to be topical, but I hope you enjoy my thoughts and impressions of Cropredy. For those who don't know what a Cropredy is, it's a very special music festival. You can find out more here: http://www.fairportconvention.com/cropredy.php
Fairport Convention are a popular folk/rock combo.
Weds
After the usual disaster-prone lead-up to Cropredy (unknown driver smashed the number plate off Mr Jaguar, had to buy a tent in a hurry - more later - and a day with all the symptoms of a dental abcess), I drove into the Aldi car park in Banbury almost on the dot of three to meet Widds and Jo and to pick up supplies. Heavily laden, we left for the hallowed fields an hour later.
Why is it that we always get the awkward steward? "Why are you on the disabled field, you don't have a blue badge? "Well, it's because this is also the caravan field, and we'd like to park over there, please." "You can't, we're not parking there at the moment." Fine, let's get our wristbands, then, we'll shove the van and the cars over to the side. Wristbands got, also a new steward... "Yeah, we'll get you parked - OY, MATE, LOOK AFTER THESE TWO, WILLYA?"
Parked up, Widds and Jo start doing arcane things with the van that involve making the floor spirit-level perfect, while I erect my new "pop-up" tent by throwing it in the air. It lands, erected, on its roof, proving that the "Easy as this!" illustration in the instructions is the first of the lies I have been sold. Now to inflate the new double airbed. My, it's quite large, isn't it? So large, in fact, that when inflated it won't fit into the two-man tent, not even with energetic pushing and shoving. Hmmm... well, Millets returns policy will be getting some severe exercise next week*. Meanwhile, do I sleep in the open under the cold starlight on the airbed? Or in the tent, but on Cropredy's unyielding fields? Neither prospect pleases.
Jo Widdows supplies the answer - "Come and sleep in our awning." The airbed is moved in, covered with my bedsheet and my duvet, gosh, this'll be cosy!
After an interval composed of caravanny stuff, deemed too technical for Babba, who sits reading a Wodehouse omnibus in the sunshine, coffee appears, together with the announcement that "Dinner will be about an hour." Gosh, dinner too! I'd been resigned to something indifferent from the Red Lion barbecue, dinner prepared by the fair hand of Jo is bound to be better than that. She's already apologised for not having time before Croppers to bake, "So there's only a walnut cake and an Irish Whiskey cake." An hour, eh? Plenty of time to nip down backstage and say hello to Andy and Stevie at the Iconic cabin. (Iconic handle the PR for the festival.)
Stevie, of course, is rushed off her feet, but has time to accept my "thank you" offering (for it is Iconic who send us the guest/backstage invitations) of mushroom, egg and roasted red pepper filo parcels before returning to the phones. Capt. Gibberish (Andy) claims to be as busy, but stops to chat for a minute or two. He's given up smoking, and pooh-poohs my electro-snout. "You're still addicted to something", he insists, revealing all the evangelism of the newly converted. He also shreds any hopes I have of meeting Alice Cooper - "He'll arrive in his tour bus, leave it to go on stage, then come straight off and back into the bus, which will then leave for Heathrow." Bugger.
And so to dinner, roast chicken with gratin dauphinois (sliced potato in a cream sauce with cheese) and french beans, under an Oxfordshire sky, in an Oxfordshire field. The addition of white wine turns enjoyment into perfection. "If anyone would like some pud, I have watermelon", I offer, just as Jo returns with apple pie and creme fraiche. By general agreement, the watermelon remains untouched.
Widds and I offer to wash up, but there's no hot water. "Go to the pub" recommends Jo, "I want to do some clearing up, anyway."
We return a little after eleven, refreshed by a couple of pints of Hooky, for coffee and music. I take a spot of French rum before retiring to my bed in the awning. Peace descends. I wake, a few hours later... by the cringe, it's cold! Under the duvet I'm very snug, but my face is freezing. I duck it under the covers and drift off again...
Thursday
RING, RING! It's 06:45, and Chris is calling on behalf of The Convoy. (Many of my friends meet in the car park of a nearby hotel and try to keep together on the short journey to the festival campsite, so that they can camp together.) "I hate you" is my cheery greeting, but I obediently set off to see if Field 2 is open, sans coffee, sans Marlboro, it's a wonder I'm functioning at all. On the way, I pass any number of stewards, and each one without fail wishes me a good morning. Isn't this a lovely place to be?
Field 2 is open, but only just, given that there's just one line of cars on it. I ring Chris to pass on the news and walk back to the van, realising that a glorious morning has set in. A cloudless blue sky, adorned by a sun that already has some heat flooding around and the site is coming alive... good-humoured folk are standing outside their temporary habitations sipping steaming mugs, four-wheeled utility vehicles are zipping up and down the temporary roads, people are emerging from tents with thorax-rattling coughs that suggest Black Lung is endemic in these parts, the BEER tankers are arriving, other deliveries follow, Leon's crew are already about their chopping and mixing and loud clonks and hums are coming from the stage area. It seems daft to go back to bed, so it's out with the chair and the Wodehouse.
Widds appears around 9 a.m. with coffee, the wonder fluid. He's shortly joined by Jo, bearing brioche rolls, marmalade, jam and French pastries. We eat and chat until just after ten, when I judge that The Convoy will have had enough time to get the tents up and surely some enterprising person will have made a jug of Pimms? Ten minutes later, I'm on Field 2, pouring some of contents of that jug into a glass and continuing a Convoy tradition of the hefty mid-morning snorter. So good to see all my old friends again, Paul, Janey, les deux Richards, Carys, Cerne, Laura, AP and TQ plus many more. Richard C, bless him, has brought my shopping list of French rum and buckwheat flour. The flour is for gluten-allergic pal Franceska, and need not concern us further. The rum, however, is wonderful, a blend of spirits from Reunion and Martinique. The label claims that it is "Rhum Brun", but it's a pale tawny colour, and the reckless participants of an impromptu tasting session declare that it's of better quality than my usual rotgut. There are three bottles, each costing a few pennies over £7. Hooray for Richard!
Many, many glasses of Pimms later, I'm called upon to play "Matty Groves" on a borrowed guitar. My inability to remember one chord prompts the idea that maybe the cocktail is having an effect, so with one last large swallow from someone's bottle of malt whisky, I stroll back to the van for a lunch of cheese, pork pie, grape chutney, bread rolls and wine. "There's watermelon, if anyone wants some." Nobody does.
Well, this has all been fun, but we're here for the music, so after a little sunlit relaxation, the van is secured and we arrive on the field in time for Fairport's acoustic set. I really like the idea of Cropredy kicking off with the ringing of the Festival bell in the church tower down the road, and Fairport Acoustic, it's such a good way of easing into the weekend.
I had the pleasure of chatting to John Watterson/Fake Thackray at Butlins in December, so I know exactly where he's coming from. He's emphatically not an impressionist or a "tribute" act, just a guy who loves Jake Thackray's superb and technically difficult songs. The reason he sounds just like Jake is that many of the rhymes only work in a strong Yorkshire accent, and the words have to be delivered in Jake's unique way to make the metre and rhythm work. I enjoyed John's set, and he included my favourite of the songs he performs, "On Again, On Again", a gloriously sexist and irreligious rant. "I love a good bum on a woman, it makes my day..."
Romeo's Daughter - a pub band masquerading as Heart. That's not to say that I disliked them, it's just that they were terribly derivative.
Edward II - I really don't care for reggae. I enjoyed a few songs, and I can see how innovative their arrangements are, but I've heard better sets from them. Overall, good band, wasted on me.
Dinner! I'm hungry again, and my first choice is the same as every year - a doner kebab from the Indian stall on the right of the field. Masses of mutton, lots of salad, a good fiery chilli sauce and a minty yogurt dressing for the salad, wrapped in a flatbread, a bargain at a fiver.
And so to the one act I'd have come to Cropredy for even if I'd never been before and the weather was set for continuous rain. Alice Cooper was the first band that drew me into rock music. "School's Out" was my "Blue Suede Shoes" or "She Loves You" experience - the moment when you realise the awesome power of rock'n'roll, the needle in the vein that makes you a junkie all your life, your first French kiss with your best girl, the crack cocaine of kamikaze dizzbuster adrenaline. And I'd only had to wait forty-one years to see him live. Well, folks, he didn't disappoint. Appearing through a curtain of sparks, he launched into "Hello, Hooray" and then it was a case of strap yourself in and enjoy the ride. I found myself singing along to songs that I hadn't played for thirty years, and remembering all the words. Musical highlights were all the ancient numbers I doubted I'd ever hear live, like "No More Mr Nice Guy", "Under My Wheels", "Eighteen", "Ballad of Dwight Frye" and "I Love The Dead". Theatrical highlights were almost too numerous to mention: Alice electrocuted (leaving just a skeleton) and the appearance of Frankenstein's monster, the entire insane asylum sequence complete with evilly erotic nurse, ending with Alice's guillotining, him throwing "money" and "diamond" necklaces into the audience, and the finale of "School's Out/We Don't Need No Education" with streamer cannons and massive balloons bounced into the crowd ("Let's play!"). Just to see him, though, strutting the stage, owning the audience, and backed by a kick-ass overkill band was enough. He is a master at what he does. It's not rock'n'roll, it's pantomime, but it's pantomime with a truly marvellous soundtrack.
As for all the cynics I heard saying "You only have to see Alice Cooper once, he does the same show every time" - they can piss right off. I want to see him again, and I want it right now!
Sated, I head back to the van for coffee, cake and rum, followed by undisturbed sleep.
Friday
I'm woken by Widds bearing coffee, also the news that Jo is sunburned and dehydrated, so "Best to make your own arrangements for breakfast". Well, that would be the Canoe Club, then. It's my preferred venue - not only do they offer the full English of fried egg, bacon, sausage and beans with a couple of slices of bread so that I can make the perfect Cropredy breakfast of a bacon and tomato ketchup sandwich dipped into a fried egg yolk, they also have orange juice, toast and marmalade. What's more, if you don't want something included in the full English (I don't like baked beans for breakfast), they ask if you'd prefer more of another component. ("Bacon, please.")
Arriving in the queue, I find myself just one punter away from Carys, Louise and Cerne. Order given, I'm waved over to their table and an enjoyable time ensues.
Then it's over the road to the Wharf and the stalls, selling everything you'd expect at a festival at, frankly, "hopeful" prices. I have better luck at a doggy charity stall further down the road, where I snag an illustrated guide to France and a Penguin edition of "The First Rumpole Omnibus" for 25p each. The bargains continue at the stalls in the Jensen garage yard, where I pick up a framed Cropredy 99 poster for £3. It will join the other three Cropredy posters on my bathroom wall, together with an autographed copy of Swarb's obituary (Dave Swarbrick, ex-violin player with Fairport, mistakenly reported dead some years ago), 35bn Zimbabwean dollars (in three notes, 20, 10 and 5bn) and a rare photo of Agnetha out of Abba's bottom that gets my heart started every morning.
Back at the field, I've missed Greg Russell and Ciaran Algar, also Widds and Jo, as the van is empty and locked. Dammit, I've got a Quiche Lorraine in there! Also, watermelon to foist on pud-hungry caravanners. No matter, "Plum" and I will enjoy the sunshine with Danny and The Champions of The World. They're vaguely entertaining, but then so is the pint of cider and box of cheesy chips that forms my lunch. Kathryn Roberts and Sean Lakeman follow, but I have something of a tin ear as far as traditional folk is concerned. They're very good, if you like that sort of thing.
Moulettes - despite Widds' strong recommendation, I found them rather forgettable. Good to see a bassoon in the line-up, though!
Lunasa - another band I'd looked forward to seeing, having enjoyed the eight albums of theirs that I have. Like Alice Cooper, they lived up to expectations. Great musicians, and in the right spot, too, when the lunchtime pub crowd are returning and the folks at the bar have had enough to appreciate some mellowness.
Martin Barre - oh dear.. Awful engineering, self-indulgent guitar noodling, and displaying the same discernment when choosing a vocalist as Rick Wakeman does. The low point of the weekend. As was dinner, an 8oz cheeseburger from the cheesy chips caravan. Burger too soft, needed cooking for longer to get a get a decent crust on it, no salad, too little cheese, barely-cooked onions and only tomato ketchup and mustard available as optional extras. At £6.50, it was overpriced.
Levellers - much more entertaining than I'd expected. Terrific energy, great lyrics.
10cc - no, sorry, but this was a step too far for me. Didn't like them then, why would I like them now? They're what I call a "heritage" band, so close to a tribute act that it's difficult to tell them apart. Still a couple of original members, no new songs, just churning out the hits from a couple of decades ago. The British equivalent of Steely Dan, and I can't see the point of Steely Dan, either. I walk away, to visit friends at The Convoy camp. That turns out to be more entertaining, no music happening, but malt whisky is. More than 10ccs of it, too. Friendly companionship and good whisky, you can't beat it. Mind, I know how these things go, if I stay for too long I'll end up playing Led Zeppelin on a borrowed acoustic guitar, suddenly realising it's 3 a.m. and I have a long walk back to my bed in Field 6a - then finding that it's the hardest thing in the world to put one foot in front of the other, or even vaguely where I want it to go. I take another long pull at someones Balvenie (stop that sniggering, it's a malt whisky!), make my excuses, bid goodnight to all and walk back to the caravan. Due to clever parking, we're able to see and hear the end of 10cc's set. They fail to move me.
Coffee, rum, zzzzzz....
Saturday
Canoe Club breakfast for Jo, Widds and self, again we're waved over to Carys, Cerne and Laura's table. Just as much fun. From there, to the Sports Field for the car boot sale. Do you know, people collect loads of tat all year round just to stock these tables? It's mostly Godawful junk, old videos and old vinyl albums. By law, all stalls selling old vinyl must have copies of Leo Sayer's "Endless Flight" and that Paul Young album, just like all video stalls must have at least one boxed set of "Coronation Street", an exercise video performed by someone you have a feeling is now dead and a corporation video from the 70's promoting a town in the Midlands with an encouraging title like "Crewe - A Town On The Move!", narrated by Telly Savalas in a Hollywood recording studio, who is failing to disguise his bemusement.
Half way round, I have to leave because another of the bands I want to see is due on stage shortly. I'm exactly on time, as the Medieval Baebes are walking on stage as I arrive back. Now, I know they were not the most appreciated act of the weekend, but I thoroughly enjoyed their performance. OK, the dancing was a little unnecessary, but boy, could they sing! I don't want to come across as some snooty musical snob (I will, though), but it seemed to me that I was one of the few who knew anything about the genre they were working in. As I remarked at the time, they were damned good - but you probably had to start with a liking for 14th century madrigals. I have such liking, and to be blunt, those who don't are the poorer for it. As courageous a choice of act as Alice Cooper had been, and a perfect contrast. More like this, please! Next year, Deep Purple and Harry Christopher's The Sixteen, I say.
More cheesy chips, more Wodehouse for Brooks Williams. He made a good noise, but didn't capture me, I'm afraid.
The Dunwells - I have no clear recollection of them.
Peatbog Faeries - more varied than other commentators have given them credit for, in my view. I'm something of a sucker for techno and trance, so the Peatbog's beats were right up my street.
Nick Kershaw - so much better than his last appearance.
Time for dinner, though, and I'm taking up Jo's recommendation of the fish and chip place across the field - especially as, when I get there, I find that they are offering curry sauce, also battered sausages. But the queue seems hundreds long, word has got round, it's the busiest stall on the field! I settle for a chicken tikka masala with rice from the stall next door, where there are so few diners that I can walk up and be served immediately. It's very good indeed, just the right amount of spice on chicken that has been so well-cooked it falls apart. Rice slightly too salty, but there's a big naan to soak up all the gravy. Tasty, good portions, and well priced at £6.
Blimey, it's Jasper Carrot! He's got no better.
So to FC, who play many of my favourites, the new one (which suggests that Chris Leslie got some balls for his birthday, well done that man), it's good to hear "Farewell, Farewell" and "Doctor of Physic" once more, fun to sing along to "2-4-6-8 Motorway", great to see and hear Maart again and "Meet On The Ledge" arrives far too soon. Right across the field I see groups of friends with their arms around each other, others phoning people who can't be here so that they can be part of the whole thing, there's so much love in this place; and it's a wonderful, supportive, always humbling experience. I think of Colin, ten years gone this year, and of his ashes spread across the arena... we all miss you, pal... but you're still here, you never really left, and if God won't let you go to Cropredy, hi-jack an angel and fly down anyway. Alongside the hugging friends, there are many spirits, hugging just as hard. Because if you really mean it - it all comes round again.
"Same time next year?" asks Simon as he leaves the stage, and is rewarded by a great shout of "Yes!"
Rum, coffee, cake, THUD.
Sunday
My car is packed a little earlier than usual, what with having no tent to take down. Coffee arrives from the caravan, drunk, then it's all hands to clearing out. Can I dump the rubbish and the recycling? I can. The trip takes me close to backstage, so I take the opportunity to visit Iconic. The good Captain is there, alone, we chat for a few minutes. It's been a good weekend, he thinks, FC and Festival Director Gareth are very happy.
Well... that's it. Jo and Widds need no further help, the omnibus edition of "The Archers" is shortly starting on Radio 4, time to make a move. Except that Mr Jaguar has a flat battery, goodness knows how that happened, maybe I left a door open for some hours? (The Jag has a warning light in the door.) Just as they have been all weekend, Jo and Widds are my saviours. They have a rugged 4x4 (I think it's a Canyonero) with a working battery and jump leads. The Jag roars into life, I exit the campsite at 10:30 and arrive home two hours later for The Great Unpacking. It's as I unpack, though, that I make a startling discovery.
Look, does anyone want a slice of this sodding watermelon?
*Millets, bless 'em, refunded my money after I explained that the only two people who could get into the supposed "two man" tent would have to be two very friendly dwarves.
It's been too long in the writing to be topical, but I hope you enjoy my thoughts and impressions of Cropredy. For those who don't know what a Cropredy is, it's a very special music festival. You can find out more here: http://www.fairportconvention.com/cropredy.php
Fairport Convention are a popular folk/rock combo.
Weds
After the usual disaster-prone lead-up to Cropredy (unknown driver smashed the number plate off Mr Jaguar, had to buy a tent in a hurry - more later - and a day with all the symptoms of a dental abcess), I drove into the Aldi car park in Banbury almost on the dot of three to meet Widds and Jo and to pick up supplies. Heavily laden, we left for the hallowed fields an hour later.
Why is it that we always get the awkward steward? "Why are you on the disabled field, you don't have a blue badge? "Well, it's because this is also the caravan field, and we'd like to park over there, please." "You can't, we're not parking there at the moment." Fine, let's get our wristbands, then, we'll shove the van and the cars over to the side. Wristbands got, also a new steward... "Yeah, we'll get you parked - OY, MATE, LOOK AFTER THESE TWO, WILLYA?"
Parked up, Widds and Jo start doing arcane things with the van that involve making the floor spirit-level perfect, while I erect my new "pop-up" tent by throwing it in the air. It lands, erected, on its roof, proving that the "Easy as this!" illustration in the instructions is the first of the lies I have been sold. Now to inflate the new double airbed. My, it's quite large, isn't it? So large, in fact, that when inflated it won't fit into the two-man tent, not even with energetic pushing and shoving. Hmmm... well, Millets returns policy will be getting some severe exercise next week*. Meanwhile, do I sleep in the open under the cold starlight on the airbed? Or in the tent, but on Cropredy's unyielding fields? Neither prospect pleases.
Jo Widdows supplies the answer - "Come and sleep in our awning." The airbed is moved in, covered with my bedsheet and my duvet, gosh, this'll be cosy!
After an interval composed of caravanny stuff, deemed too technical for Babba, who sits reading a Wodehouse omnibus in the sunshine, coffee appears, together with the announcement that "Dinner will be about an hour." Gosh, dinner too! I'd been resigned to something indifferent from the Red Lion barbecue, dinner prepared by the fair hand of Jo is bound to be better than that. She's already apologised for not having time before Croppers to bake, "So there's only a walnut cake and an Irish Whiskey cake." An hour, eh? Plenty of time to nip down backstage and say hello to Andy and Stevie at the Iconic cabin. (Iconic handle the PR for the festival.)
Stevie, of course, is rushed off her feet, but has time to accept my "thank you" offering (for it is Iconic who send us the guest/backstage invitations) of mushroom, egg and roasted red pepper filo parcels before returning to the phones. Capt. Gibberish (Andy) claims to be as busy, but stops to chat for a minute or two. He's given up smoking, and pooh-poohs my electro-snout. "You're still addicted to something", he insists, revealing all the evangelism of the newly converted. He also shreds any hopes I have of meeting Alice Cooper - "He'll arrive in his tour bus, leave it to go on stage, then come straight off and back into the bus, which will then leave for Heathrow." Bugger.
And so to dinner, roast chicken with gratin dauphinois (sliced potato in a cream sauce with cheese) and french beans, under an Oxfordshire sky, in an Oxfordshire field. The addition of white wine turns enjoyment into perfection. "If anyone would like some pud, I have watermelon", I offer, just as Jo returns with apple pie and creme fraiche. By general agreement, the watermelon remains untouched.
Widds and I offer to wash up, but there's no hot water. "Go to the pub" recommends Jo, "I want to do some clearing up, anyway."
We return a little after eleven, refreshed by a couple of pints of Hooky, for coffee and music. I take a spot of French rum before retiring to my bed in the awning. Peace descends. I wake, a few hours later... by the cringe, it's cold! Under the duvet I'm very snug, but my face is freezing. I duck it under the covers and drift off again...
Thursday
RING, RING! It's 06:45, and Chris is calling on behalf of The Convoy. (Many of my friends meet in the car park of a nearby hotel and try to keep together on the short journey to the festival campsite, so that they can camp together.) "I hate you" is my cheery greeting, but I obediently set off to see if Field 2 is open, sans coffee, sans Marlboro, it's a wonder I'm functioning at all. On the way, I pass any number of stewards, and each one without fail wishes me a good morning. Isn't this a lovely place to be?
Field 2 is open, but only just, given that there's just one line of cars on it. I ring Chris to pass on the news and walk back to the van, realising that a glorious morning has set in. A cloudless blue sky, adorned by a sun that already has some heat flooding around and the site is coming alive... good-humoured folk are standing outside their temporary habitations sipping steaming mugs, four-wheeled utility vehicles are zipping up and down the temporary roads, people are emerging from tents with thorax-rattling coughs that suggest Black Lung is endemic in these parts, the BEER tankers are arriving, other deliveries follow, Leon's crew are already about their chopping and mixing and loud clonks and hums are coming from the stage area. It seems daft to go back to bed, so it's out with the chair and the Wodehouse.
Widds appears around 9 a.m. with coffee, the wonder fluid. He's shortly joined by Jo, bearing brioche rolls, marmalade, jam and French pastries. We eat and chat until just after ten, when I judge that The Convoy will have had enough time to get the tents up and surely some enterprising person will have made a jug of Pimms? Ten minutes later, I'm on Field 2, pouring some of contents of that jug into a glass and continuing a Convoy tradition of the hefty mid-morning snorter. So good to see all my old friends again, Paul, Janey, les deux Richards, Carys, Cerne, Laura, AP and TQ plus many more. Richard C, bless him, has brought my shopping list of French rum and buckwheat flour. The flour is for gluten-allergic pal Franceska, and need not concern us further. The rum, however, is wonderful, a blend of spirits from Reunion and Martinique. The label claims that it is "Rhum Brun", but it's a pale tawny colour, and the reckless participants of an impromptu tasting session declare that it's of better quality than my usual rotgut. There are three bottles, each costing a few pennies over £7. Hooray for Richard!
Many, many glasses of Pimms later, I'm called upon to play "Matty Groves" on a borrowed guitar. My inability to remember one chord prompts the idea that maybe the cocktail is having an effect, so with one last large swallow from someone's bottle of malt whisky, I stroll back to the van for a lunch of cheese, pork pie, grape chutney, bread rolls and wine. "There's watermelon, if anyone wants some." Nobody does.
Well, this has all been fun, but we're here for the music, so after a little sunlit relaxation, the van is secured and we arrive on the field in time for Fairport's acoustic set. I really like the idea of Cropredy kicking off with the ringing of the Festival bell in the church tower down the road, and Fairport Acoustic, it's such a good way of easing into the weekend.
I had the pleasure of chatting to John Watterson/Fake Thackray at Butlins in December, so I know exactly where he's coming from. He's emphatically not an impressionist or a "tribute" act, just a guy who loves Jake Thackray's superb and technically difficult songs. The reason he sounds just like Jake is that many of the rhymes only work in a strong Yorkshire accent, and the words have to be delivered in Jake's unique way to make the metre and rhythm work. I enjoyed John's set, and he included my favourite of the songs he performs, "On Again, On Again", a gloriously sexist and irreligious rant. "I love a good bum on a woman, it makes my day..."
Romeo's Daughter - a pub band masquerading as Heart. That's not to say that I disliked them, it's just that they were terribly derivative.
Edward II - I really don't care for reggae. I enjoyed a few songs, and I can see how innovative their arrangements are, but I've heard better sets from them. Overall, good band, wasted on me.
Dinner! I'm hungry again, and my first choice is the same as every year - a doner kebab from the Indian stall on the right of the field. Masses of mutton, lots of salad, a good fiery chilli sauce and a minty yogurt dressing for the salad, wrapped in a flatbread, a bargain at a fiver.
And so to the one act I'd have come to Cropredy for even if I'd never been before and the weather was set for continuous rain. Alice Cooper was the first band that drew me into rock music. "School's Out" was my "Blue Suede Shoes" or "She Loves You" experience - the moment when you realise the awesome power of rock'n'roll, the needle in the vein that makes you a junkie all your life, your first French kiss with your best girl, the crack cocaine of kamikaze dizzbuster adrenaline. And I'd only had to wait forty-one years to see him live. Well, folks, he didn't disappoint. Appearing through a curtain of sparks, he launched into "Hello, Hooray" and then it was a case of strap yourself in and enjoy the ride. I found myself singing along to songs that I hadn't played for thirty years, and remembering all the words. Musical highlights were all the ancient numbers I doubted I'd ever hear live, like "No More Mr Nice Guy", "Under My Wheels", "Eighteen", "Ballad of Dwight Frye" and "I Love The Dead". Theatrical highlights were almost too numerous to mention: Alice electrocuted (leaving just a skeleton) and the appearance of Frankenstein's monster, the entire insane asylum sequence complete with evilly erotic nurse, ending with Alice's guillotining, him throwing "money" and "diamond" necklaces into the audience, and the finale of "School's Out/We Don't Need No Education" with streamer cannons and massive balloons bounced into the crowd ("Let's play!"). Just to see him, though, strutting the stage, owning the audience, and backed by a kick-ass overkill band was enough. He is a master at what he does. It's not rock'n'roll, it's pantomime, but it's pantomime with a truly marvellous soundtrack.
As for all the cynics I heard saying "You only have to see Alice Cooper once, he does the same show every time" - they can piss right off. I want to see him again, and I want it right now!
Sated, I head back to the van for coffee, cake and rum, followed by undisturbed sleep.
Friday
I'm woken by Widds bearing coffee, also the news that Jo is sunburned and dehydrated, so "Best to make your own arrangements for breakfast". Well, that would be the Canoe Club, then. It's my preferred venue - not only do they offer the full English of fried egg, bacon, sausage and beans with a couple of slices of bread so that I can make the perfect Cropredy breakfast of a bacon and tomato ketchup sandwich dipped into a fried egg yolk, they also have orange juice, toast and marmalade. What's more, if you don't want something included in the full English (I don't like baked beans for breakfast), they ask if you'd prefer more of another component. ("Bacon, please.")
Arriving in the queue, I find myself just one punter away from Carys, Louise and Cerne. Order given, I'm waved over to their table and an enjoyable time ensues.
Then it's over the road to the Wharf and the stalls, selling everything you'd expect at a festival at, frankly, "hopeful" prices. I have better luck at a doggy charity stall further down the road, where I snag an illustrated guide to France and a Penguin edition of "The First Rumpole Omnibus" for 25p each. The bargains continue at the stalls in the Jensen garage yard, where I pick up a framed Cropredy 99 poster for £3. It will join the other three Cropredy posters on my bathroom wall, together with an autographed copy of Swarb's obituary (Dave Swarbrick, ex-violin player with Fairport, mistakenly reported dead some years ago), 35bn Zimbabwean dollars (in three notes, 20, 10 and 5bn) and a rare photo of Agnetha out of Abba's bottom that gets my heart started every morning.
Back at the field, I've missed Greg Russell and Ciaran Algar, also Widds and Jo, as the van is empty and locked. Dammit, I've got a Quiche Lorraine in there! Also, watermelon to foist on pud-hungry caravanners. No matter, "Plum" and I will enjoy the sunshine with Danny and The Champions of The World. They're vaguely entertaining, but then so is the pint of cider and box of cheesy chips that forms my lunch. Kathryn Roberts and Sean Lakeman follow, but I have something of a tin ear as far as traditional folk is concerned. They're very good, if you like that sort of thing.
Moulettes - despite Widds' strong recommendation, I found them rather forgettable. Good to see a bassoon in the line-up, though!
Lunasa - another band I'd looked forward to seeing, having enjoyed the eight albums of theirs that I have. Like Alice Cooper, they lived up to expectations. Great musicians, and in the right spot, too, when the lunchtime pub crowd are returning and the folks at the bar have had enough to appreciate some mellowness.
Martin Barre - oh dear.. Awful engineering, self-indulgent guitar noodling, and displaying the same discernment when choosing a vocalist as Rick Wakeman does. The low point of the weekend. As was dinner, an 8oz cheeseburger from the cheesy chips caravan. Burger too soft, needed cooking for longer to get a get a decent crust on it, no salad, too little cheese, barely-cooked onions and only tomato ketchup and mustard available as optional extras. At £6.50, it was overpriced.
Levellers - much more entertaining than I'd expected. Terrific energy, great lyrics.
10cc - no, sorry, but this was a step too far for me. Didn't like them then, why would I like them now? They're what I call a "heritage" band, so close to a tribute act that it's difficult to tell them apart. Still a couple of original members, no new songs, just churning out the hits from a couple of decades ago. The British equivalent of Steely Dan, and I can't see the point of Steely Dan, either. I walk away, to visit friends at The Convoy camp. That turns out to be more entertaining, no music happening, but malt whisky is. More than 10ccs of it, too. Friendly companionship and good whisky, you can't beat it. Mind, I know how these things go, if I stay for too long I'll end up playing Led Zeppelin on a borrowed acoustic guitar, suddenly realising it's 3 a.m. and I have a long walk back to my bed in Field 6a - then finding that it's the hardest thing in the world to put one foot in front of the other, or even vaguely where I want it to go. I take another long pull at someones Balvenie (stop that sniggering, it's a malt whisky!), make my excuses, bid goodnight to all and walk back to the caravan. Due to clever parking, we're able to see and hear the end of 10cc's set. They fail to move me.
Coffee, rum, zzzzzz....
Saturday
Canoe Club breakfast for Jo, Widds and self, again we're waved over to Carys, Cerne and Laura's table. Just as much fun. From there, to the Sports Field for the car boot sale. Do you know, people collect loads of tat all year round just to stock these tables? It's mostly Godawful junk, old videos and old vinyl albums. By law, all stalls selling old vinyl must have copies of Leo Sayer's "Endless Flight" and that Paul Young album, just like all video stalls must have at least one boxed set of "Coronation Street", an exercise video performed by someone you have a feeling is now dead and a corporation video from the 70's promoting a town in the Midlands with an encouraging title like "Crewe - A Town On The Move!", narrated by Telly Savalas in a Hollywood recording studio, who is failing to disguise his bemusement.
Half way round, I have to leave because another of the bands I want to see is due on stage shortly. I'm exactly on time, as the Medieval Baebes are walking on stage as I arrive back. Now, I know they were not the most appreciated act of the weekend, but I thoroughly enjoyed their performance. OK, the dancing was a little unnecessary, but boy, could they sing! I don't want to come across as some snooty musical snob (I will, though), but it seemed to me that I was one of the few who knew anything about the genre they were working in. As I remarked at the time, they were damned good - but you probably had to start with a liking for 14th century madrigals. I have such liking, and to be blunt, those who don't are the poorer for it. As courageous a choice of act as Alice Cooper had been, and a perfect contrast. More like this, please! Next year, Deep Purple and Harry Christopher's The Sixteen, I say.
More cheesy chips, more Wodehouse for Brooks Williams. He made a good noise, but didn't capture me, I'm afraid.
The Dunwells - I have no clear recollection of them.
Peatbog Faeries - more varied than other commentators have given them credit for, in my view. I'm something of a sucker for techno and trance, so the Peatbog's beats were right up my street.
Nick Kershaw - so much better than his last appearance.
Time for dinner, though, and I'm taking up Jo's recommendation of the fish and chip place across the field - especially as, when I get there, I find that they are offering curry sauce, also battered sausages. But the queue seems hundreds long, word has got round, it's the busiest stall on the field! I settle for a chicken tikka masala with rice from the stall next door, where there are so few diners that I can walk up and be served immediately. It's very good indeed, just the right amount of spice on chicken that has been so well-cooked it falls apart. Rice slightly too salty, but there's a big naan to soak up all the gravy. Tasty, good portions, and well priced at £6.
Blimey, it's Jasper Carrot! He's got no better.
So to FC, who play many of my favourites, the new one (which suggests that Chris Leslie got some balls for his birthday, well done that man), it's good to hear "Farewell, Farewell" and "Doctor of Physic" once more, fun to sing along to "2-4-6-8 Motorway", great to see and hear Maart again and "Meet On The Ledge" arrives far too soon. Right across the field I see groups of friends with their arms around each other, others phoning people who can't be here so that they can be part of the whole thing, there's so much love in this place; and it's a wonderful, supportive, always humbling experience. I think of Colin, ten years gone this year, and of his ashes spread across the arena... we all miss you, pal... but you're still here, you never really left, and if God won't let you go to Cropredy, hi-jack an angel and fly down anyway. Alongside the hugging friends, there are many spirits, hugging just as hard. Because if you really mean it - it all comes round again.
"Same time next year?" asks Simon as he leaves the stage, and is rewarded by a great shout of "Yes!"
Rum, coffee, cake, THUD.
Sunday
My car is packed a little earlier than usual, what with having no tent to take down. Coffee arrives from the caravan, drunk, then it's all hands to clearing out. Can I dump the rubbish and the recycling? I can. The trip takes me close to backstage, so I take the opportunity to visit Iconic. The good Captain is there, alone, we chat for a few minutes. It's been a good weekend, he thinks, FC and Festival Director Gareth are very happy.
Well... that's it. Jo and Widds need no further help, the omnibus edition of "The Archers" is shortly starting on Radio 4, time to make a move. Except that Mr Jaguar has a flat battery, goodness knows how that happened, maybe I left a door open for some hours? (The Jag has a warning light in the door.) Just as they have been all weekend, Jo and Widds are my saviours. They have a rugged 4x4 (I think it's a Canyonero) with a working battery and jump leads. The Jag roars into life, I exit the campsite at 10:30 and arrive home two hours later for The Great Unpacking. It's as I unpack, though, that I make a startling discovery.
Look, does anyone want a slice of this sodding watermelon?
*Millets, bless 'em, refunded my money after I explained that the only two people who could get into the supposed "two man" tent would have to be two very friendly dwarves.
Thursday 1 August 2013
Ding Dong, The Witch Is Dead
(Written on 9th April 2013)
I thought I'd be happier, really. Welcome news, though. The political pundits on the news channels are saying that Thatcher changed the country, and by golly, she did. But not for the better. Many are saying that she "took on the unions and won". She didn't, she took on the hated working class - and won.
Margaret Thatcher is the reason why there isn't enough council housing. She's the reason that one person can't support a family, and why working-class families need an income top-up to keep going. She's the reason why some families are now seeing a third generation relying on benefits. She's the reason why your utilities are now owned by foreign concerns. And her legacy means that we now have a bunch of posh boys cutting ever heavier into services and benefits, diverting Govt monies into the hands of their friends, to a degree she could only have dreamed of.
I saw privatisation of the electricity industry from first hand, and it was horrible. The first casualty was the coal used for firing generation. Pre-privatisation, it was British deep-mined coal. Afterwards, it was Columbian open-cast coal, mined by children with minimal health and safety protection. The next casualty were the employees, who were disposed of in large numbers. I think the worst moment of my trade union career was when a police officer arrived on my doorstep, asking if I knew a certain person. I did, I was fighting hard to keep his job, and losing. He'd committed suicide, and my phone
number was in his pocket.
I hated Thatcher with deep-mined bile. I hated the way she defended apartheid, I hated the way that she sheltered Pinochet (killer of folkie and beautiful artist Victor Jara), I hated her opposition and destruction of communities, and, goodness, I hated her children - Mark, the arms dealer and mercenary recruiter, and Carol, the ingrained racist.
I hated how she allowed US Cruise nuclear missiles to be sited less than 60 miles away from my house, making Newbury a target for ICBMs.
But most of all, I hated how she deprived the poorest and the most defenceless from the protection any citizen should expect from their Govt - and made people think it was *their* fault.
So now, she's dead. I salute that with the glass of Laphroig I've just poured. Good!
I thought I'd be happier, though. I was happy that dementia claimed her, happy that she ended her days as a dribbling, incontinent idiot - just the kind of person who lost out during her administration. But now, I find that she'll be given a State funeral, and that's so wrong. The Sainted Margaret despised State handouts, preferring free market economics. Her funeral should be put out to tender, with the highest bidder being allowed to put their brand on her coffin, or their corporate uniform on her corpse. She'd respect that.
But... if there's going to be a funeral, there'll be a grave. Now I'm happy! I have dancing shoes and a full bladder!
Babba (reading memo from Satan - "She's only been here for half a day and she's already shut down six pits and two furnaces!")
P.S. And in late-breaking news, ATOS have declared her fit for work.
I thought I'd be happier, really. Welcome news, though. The political pundits on the news channels are saying that Thatcher changed the country, and by golly, she did. But not for the better. Many are saying that she "took on the unions and won". She didn't, she took on the hated working class - and won.
Margaret Thatcher is the reason why there isn't enough council housing. She's the reason that one person can't support a family, and why working-class families need an income top-up to keep going. She's the reason why some families are now seeing a third generation relying on benefits. She's the reason why your utilities are now owned by foreign concerns. And her legacy means that we now have a bunch of posh boys cutting ever heavier into services and benefits, diverting Govt monies into the hands of their friends, to a degree she could only have dreamed of.
I saw privatisation of the electricity industry from first hand, and it was horrible. The first casualty was the coal used for firing generation. Pre-privatisation, it was British deep-mined coal. Afterwards, it was Columbian open-cast coal, mined by children with minimal health and safety protection. The next casualty were the employees, who were disposed of in large numbers. I think the worst moment of my trade union career was when a police officer arrived on my doorstep, asking if I knew a certain person. I did, I was fighting hard to keep his job, and losing. He'd committed suicide, and my phone
number was in his pocket.
I hated Thatcher with deep-mined bile. I hated the way she defended apartheid, I hated the way that she sheltered Pinochet (killer of folkie and beautiful artist Victor Jara), I hated her opposition and destruction of communities, and, goodness, I hated her children - Mark, the arms dealer and mercenary recruiter, and Carol, the ingrained racist.
I hated how she allowed US Cruise nuclear missiles to be sited less than 60 miles away from my house, making Newbury a target for ICBMs.
But most of all, I hated how she deprived the poorest and the most defenceless from the protection any citizen should expect from their Govt - and made people think it was *their* fault.
So now, she's dead. I salute that with the glass of Laphroig I've just poured. Good!
I thought I'd be happier, though. I was happy that dementia claimed her, happy that she ended her days as a dribbling, incontinent idiot - just the kind of person who lost out during her administration. But now, I find that she'll be given a State funeral, and that's so wrong. The Sainted Margaret despised State handouts, preferring free market economics. Her funeral should be put out to tender, with the highest bidder being allowed to put their brand on her coffin, or their corporate uniform on her corpse. She'd respect that.
But... if there's going to be a funeral, there'll be a grave. Now I'm happy! I have dancing shoes and a full bladder!
Babba (reading memo from Satan - "She's only been here for half a day and she's already shut down six pits and two furnaces!")
P.S. And in late-breaking news, ATOS have declared her fit for work.
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