Speaking generally (which, as we all know, ranks higher than speaking colonely, majorly or captainly) people who organise festivals, and/or concerts – whether in clubs, pubs, village halls, or large theatres – are nice, friendly, helpful, compassionate folk; however, as with most things, there are a few, fortunately rare, exceptions…….
…….As a matter of course, we set off early enabling us to arrive at our destination before midday, allowing us plenty of time to have a butcher’s round the town. Due to our interest in history, local history, folklore and so on, Shirley and I remained eager tourists, whilst relishing the fact that whereas the average punter had to work and save in order to visit a country or town, we actually got paid for doing it –as long as we sang there.
We checked into our hotel, and, as always, the first thing we did was shove the plug guards we carried with us in every electrical socket, ensuring that tiny probing childish fingers wouldn’t come in contact with anything dangerous and get a nasty shock.
(I retained a horror of electricity dating from the War years.
When I was a little kid, me mum used to put a metal electric fire beside the bathtub during winter months trying to warm the room a bit, and when I was finished washing she’d come in and take it out. Possessing absolutely no knowledge whatsoever about the workings or hazards of electrical appliances, whether in dry or damp places, I hadn’t the faintest why she removed it, but she always did. One day Mum travelled to Norfolk to spend the weekend with Dad on Feltwell Bomber Command Station; leaving her mum in charge. As usual the electric fire stood beside the tub; so after I finished me ablutions, I stepped out of the bath, dripping wet, and, emulating Mum, picked up the fire to put it outside the room. Next instant I was in agony from head to foot [were I not already an almost lifelong opponent of every form of capital punishment, considering it to be only futile revenge, and certainly no deterrent, this experience would have caused my absolute condemnation of the barbaric North American electric chair] the pain that enveloped my soaking wet frame is indescribable, my right arm felt as if it had been whipped into a series of Zs, I screamed, flung the fire away, and for some reason leapt back into the bathtub. My poor old Nan, who was crippled with arthritis, hearing my pained and petrified yells, came hobbling into the room, picked up the discarded fire, carried it outside, then asked what had happened. Having the sheer luck that my hand didn’t close round the electric fire’s metal handle, and I was able to sling it from me, undoubtedly saved my life, but left me with a permanent terror of anything electrical: refusing to even change a lightbulb until I’d been assured that Battersea Power Station had been shut down for the duration of my task.
That original abject fear has diminished slowly over the years, though I remain somewhat leery even now. So you can imagine, when Vincent was a wee toddler I was double-scared that he might, out of curiosity, stick his finger in one of the wall sockets, which is why Shirl (who was equally worried by the thought) and I purchased a supply of safety covers for our gaff, and carried others with us when we were on the road, putting them in the sockets of every hotel room we occupied).
Having blocked the immediate dangers of electrocution, we found a comfy spot where Vincent could surround himself with his toys, picture books, colouring books, crayons and so on; assembled his folding bed, went for a scoff, then set off to view the places of interest armed with a brochure, and a few words of helpful advice from the bloke behind the reception desk.
We’d been ambling round town absorbing the local history, a chuckling Vincie swinging between us on our hands, when without warning the first grumblings, rumblings and unpleasant indications that deep within the Wilkie bod all was not as it should be began. I told Shirl I was going back to the hotel, and left her to follow slowly with Vincent, who was busily examining everything in that wonderful inquisitive, fearless way toddlers have.
Feeling horribly nauseous, I had it off smartish down the street, into the hotel, up to our room, and seconds later was on me knees calling for Huey down the great white telephone; having to change position as my large intestine commenced an impersonation of Vesuvius preparing to give the inhabitants of Pompeii a right old going over. After a deal of misery, I eventually I managed to vacate the toilet, and lie down on the bed, but seconds later was back in the bog repeating the entire ghastly performance. The bed… bog… bed… bog routine continued with unrelenting frequency.
This kind of vicious attack upon one’s intestines – not to mention one’s dignity –is known to English cricketers touring India as “Delhi-belly”. Laying miserably on the bed, I recalled reading about the great Surrey and England fast bowler: Alf Gover copping a dose of Delhi-belly when bowling in a Test Match; he came in off his long run-up, bowled, started his follow through but, instead of stopping as usual hallway down the pitch, carried on running past the batsman, past the startled wicketkeeper, past deep third man, and straight up the pavilion steps to the players’ dressing room.
When Shirley and Vincent arrived, I was stretched on the quilt covered in cold sweat, convinced the old bugger with the scythe and hourglass was hovering at me bedhead. “Don’t even ask,” I muttered weakly (but bravely) before staggering to me shaky legs, and tottering away once more to the waiting lavatory bowl.
I have no intention of belabouring or boring you with excessive descriptions of my sufferings, suffice it to say that my afternoon was fully engaged with the unremitting bed… bog… bed… bog sequence dragging me to the cusp of exhaustion. Montezuma was wreaking revenge alright, though what I personally had done to deserve his wrath was beyond my ken.
Shirl phoned room service for a large pot of strong black tea, which I sipped in between attacks.
At about five o’clock in the afternoon (after innumerable bouts of that with which I don’t intend to belabour or bore you) Shirley said: “It’s no good, Col. You can’t possibly play tonight, you’re far too ill. I’ll phone and explain the situation to the organiser.”
After a few attempts she finally got through to a secretary and said politely, but firmly: ” Aber ja, it is important, I must speak to him…..okay, I’ll hold on…danke…ah Herr (??) es tut mir leid aber…” (The reason I’ve named neither town, nor organiser, is because, not being au fait with German libel laws, I thought it best to leave them cloaked in anonymity, convinced that although the town (which was guiltless anyway) would probably say nowt, the unmitigated bastard who ran the gig – unless he’s by now pushing up the daisies –definitely would). Shirley explained our predicament to him, apologising profusely… listened… apologised once more, explained what had happened yet again, how sick and weak I was… listened…argued, explained, apologized…listened…finally yelled: “Thank you for being so fucking understanding!” and slammed down the receiver causing umpteen citizens in the vicinity to cry: “Erdbeben! erdbeben!” and race to stand foolishly in the nearest doorway.
“Rotten lousy, fucking arsehole!” she shouted.”You’ll never guess what he said,” then went on to tell me that he had told her that if I failed to appear, he would take us to court, and sue us for breach of contract.
Vincent, having sussed that something was rotten in the State of Denmark but uncertain as to what: aware only that his normally placid mum was thoroughly pissed off, and spitting gravel, sat quietly, undemandingly, with his toys and books; now and then visiting the bedside, trying to comfort, as best he could, his poor afflicted dad. On the occasions, ov kosst, that his poor afflicted dad happened to be on the bed and not in the bog.
” I told him how ill you are, Col,but he didn’t give a shit.” (under the circumstances an unhappy turn of phrase).”Just repeated that he’ll sue us if you don’t play.”
For a while we sat in gloomy silence, then I had to once again attend to that with which I don’t intend to belabour or bore you. On my staggery return I said: “I’ve got an idea.”
I would have said:”I’ve got a cunning plan,” but Baldrick had not yet sprung from the writer’s fertile minds, although the piece of equipment with the same pronunciation, despite missing a final “k,” did exist.
I was in no condition to drive, so we hired a Sandy to take us to the venue, did a soundcheck, then went to the arse’ole’s (sorry… organiser’s) wall-to-wall carpeted office, with it’s large desk, leather chairs, and beautiful Persian rug, which was to serve as our dressing room. I stretched out on a couch in the corner trying to cop a bit of kip, whilst Shirl sat, still fuming, at the desk – needless to say, our friendly organiser was not there in person, but had delegated one of his minions to “attend to our requirements.”
When it came time to start, I walked on stage wearing, inside me jeans, a set of Vincent’s nappies (diapers,Yankee buddies) hoping the Pampers’ produced bulge around me bum didn’t look as immensely bustle-big as it felt.
We were well received by a full-house, and once on the boards, under the lights, hearing the audience applause, the adrenalin flowed and we rocked into our first number. I managed to get through the entire evening without any regrettable incidents; and we were called back for several encores.
Finally we left the stage, walking the short distance to our “dressing room”. As we entered the office, everything I’d succeeded in constraining whilst singing and playing, broke for freedom, and, unable to control the inevitable any longer, I hurled the contents of my stomach onto the organiser’s beautiful Persian rug.
“Serves the fucker right,” said Shirl, not bothering to hide her gratification.
