Copyright © 2005 Martin Newell
Pepys 0.1 Blogware © Steve Dix
It had to happen of course. Into the boozer straight after work at 6.00 and an innocent discussion with the bar-staff on the subject of how much Genito-Urinary clinics had changed since the mid-Seventies. As a young rock singer, I had occasional need to go in and check that everything was alright with the old 'heated handrail'. Everything usually tickety-boo in fact. A fascinating discourse on how whenever I sat in the waiting room there always seemed to be four soldiers, three building labourers and a nervous university professor reading an old copy of Readers Digest, upside down and trembling slightly.
I had another drink. Then another. It was busking night again. I swore I'd go home and have some food ....but kind of didn't. A man who looked strikingly like Captain Birdseye came into the pub with a guitar case. Tai Chi Dave came in. Alec didn't come in because he was 'a bit sniffly' said his son Matt. Dave, Matt and I took up positions and began playing. It was going great. Then, for the second week running. the folkies came in. The female flautist, the harmonica player, and others. Now, the folkies have their own club upstairs for the purposes of whatever it is they do. In the folk world everybody plays and warbles along, with every song, all the way through, with scant regard to what's being played or their ability to play it. I hate folk music. Not Irish folk music but insipid whiney mentalist English folk music. I had another drink. We played some rock and roll. I was considerably animated by this time. A mixture of drink and tiredness from the fact that I'd played for two or three hours on both of the preceding nights as well as doing my day-job made for some lively music.
Captain Birdseye, in his yachting blazer, peaked cap and distinguished white beard was actually a very nice chap and related to a lovely * village family. I liked him. He played slightly stiffly, as a fellow of his vintage might, but he was a game old lad. Tai Chi Dave and I began another number. The harmonica player was playing in one ear, the flute player right in my face. Then it happened. I blew a gasket. Playing stopped as I shouted. " Do you have to play that bloody flute all the way through the whole effing tune?" Thus began a rant about how much I hated folk, hadn't they got their own club to go to and this was the rock and roll session and what the feck did they think they were doing.? The flute player said we'd turned the music session into a 'boys club'. She was right about this. Rosie: Irish does good Irish and country songs and bangs a bodhran piped up that she's started the sessions four years ago, which is true. Ah, but I had a head of steam now and ranted and raved about folk music and how shit it was. The whole table silent now and the whole pub listening. Tai Chi Dave trying not to laugh . I was just about to pick up my tools and march out when..." Oh fuck it. Look. It's not you. It's me. It's my fault. It's only music innit? I apologise." I looked at the flute player, who was being entirely reasonable, considering the drunken rant she'd just been subjected to. The folk players all looked sympathetic. Rather like long-term patients in a psycho-therapy unit might do at a newer and madder inmate who wasn't doing quite as well as them. Captain Birdseye looked sympathetic. Everybody was being so nice. I began laughing.
"Alright then." I said. "Sod it! Play that bloody flute then." We began playing folk music. They were right and I was wrong. It's supposed to be a music session. That means all music. Not just rock and roll. I should feel ashamed of myself. I'm not. I think it's really funny. So did Dave. But now I've done it, I won't need do do it again. Full moon. Too much to drink. Mental. Disgraceful. I still hate folk music though.
I've got a bit of a hangover today.
Folkies yesterday, composing a protest song about Newell