Kudos
Snow fell relentlessly upon us – as it probably did upon you – and chaos ruled: tail-backed autobahns, jammed country roads, flightless airports, overcrowded, late-running trains…….The stupid sod who wrote: “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” must be first to go to the wall…no, no, no, hang about, I haveter reconsider that, get me priorities correct…change of plan… obviously politicians and bankers must go first, yep, quite defrably: them gits first, but then the stupid sod who wrote “I’m Dreaming…..” yeah, okay, I am aware it was Irving Berlin, but he was born in Russia, ferchrissdake and they’re used to snow there, even usually managing to keep their airports in full running order during their four-month deep Winter season.
Anyold, our parked-in-the-road mote-mote was covered, nay, buried, under the ‘orrid white stuff, and I needed to use it (the mote-mote, not the ‘orrid white stuff) no escaping the fact, no choice, gotter drive. Carefully I cleaned the jam-jar of all traces of snow (I really despise those lazy, utterly selfish drivers who merely scrape space on their windscreen through which to peer, leaving stacks of snow piled on their roofs, and the rest of their lah-dis, so that it gets blown off onto vehicles following behind ‘em, onto overtaken cyclists, bikers, and pedestrians, causing misery and accidents –they must also go to the wall, but after the politicians, the bankers, and Irv– I loathe them: and although it is double-wearisome work, make sure that our car, at least, is clean). Having finished that thankless job, I slides onto the chilly car seat, give the starter key a twist and the mighty engine goes: “huhmmm……. huhuhmmm……. huhhuhmmm…….. huhuhuhummmmm……….” then fades to silence. I wait, try again, once more the woeful moaning:”huhuhhumm…….huhuhmmm…” (in reality the “huhs”, “uhs”, and “mmms” were much, much longer lasting, much, much more nerve-wracking than I have indicated above, creating a coughy, cacophonic concerto which sounded approximately thuswise:
“huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuuhuhuhuhuhuhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm” but I’ve no wish to overdo it, to cover the page with wretched noises, just lay the general idea upon you) the motor dies again, a slowfade noise like an asthmatic crow collapsing from a fence. My astonishingly agile brain, at once, unhesitatingly, and immediately comprehending the situation, locks into Sherlockian mode instantly deducing ……. the car won’t start ! My astonishingly agile brain’s educated Holmesian deduction is that the battery is bleeding Hovis. I phone the ADAC (German motorist club) and after a (musically annoying) wait cop a young lady who enquires of my name, my club number, my area of abode, then the make of the jam-jar. ” It’s a Mercedes ” I answered.
“What model, sir?”
” A Mercedes,” I repeated, thinking the poor lass was perchance a wee bit Mutt and Jeff.
“No, not the make, sir, the model.”
Never having considered what model it is, nor cared about this, to me, irrelevant detail, I hesitated for a moment, then replied: “Erm…….Silver.”
“Not the colour, the model is it, for example a 200, 250, 280…”
“Ah, yes, that’s it, ” I said, plucking at a random number, wondering what the fuck difference it could make what the rotten model was ? All I needed was to get the sod started, and be orrff on me way.
About an hour later a warmly-jacketed ADAC geezer arrived. I threw open the bonnet with a cavalier gesture (my automotive knowledge is extremely limited, but I do know you have to open the bonnet in order to clock the battery, the engine, and an array of other mysterious objects) I peered inside, and exclaimed: ” Blimey, no wonder it won’t start, some bugger’s arf-inched me battery!”
The warmly-jacketed ADAC geezer shook his loaf : “The battery’s not under the bonnet in this model, it’s in the boot.” Which seems a daft place to put it, but who am I to question the wisdom of Messrs Daimler and Benz ? He lifted the floor in the boot, and there it was – one deceased as a Dodo block of storage cells. He hauled a new one from his ADAC vehicle, replaced my dead-‘un with the new one, and the motor roared into life first twist of the starter key.
It was a right bleeding nuisance, plus an unexpected bill (for the new battery, not the services of a warmly-jacketed ADAC geezer) nonetheless I did have the consolation of not having broken down somewhere out in the sticks, not having flagged down a passing motorist, not having suggested we could start my car with his battery and a coupler jump-leads, and not having flung up the bonnet to suffer the embarrassment of going into my “some-bugger’s-nicked-me-battery” routine……. gord I wouldnt’arfI’ve looked a proper Jeremy !
Back in the late 60s/ early 70s we met a young couple from New Zealand, Murray and Julie, and have been friends with them ever since, remaining in contact, initially per post, latterly per email. Both of them are very involved in the NZ Folkscene – which seems, from the reports of their activities, to be a flourishing one. Apart from playing excellently, Murray also makes all his own instruments. In a mail I once bemoaned my absolute wood-butchery to him, and he replied: “…If you were over here, I’d nurture you through building a dovetail jewellery box, and I bet you would manage….” Sorry, mate, I don’t think so. When I was at school, we had an evil, bad-tempered, chisel-chucking bleeder of a woodwork master known by the soubriquet of The Beast of Belsen. The first work he gave us was to take a piece of wood, glue a bit of sandpaper on it, and make a thing for keeping pencil points sharp. Even the biggest moron could do that …and, yea, I did, but the next, more complicated, task was to take six pieces of wood, cut a slit in one of ‘em, stick ‘em all together and construct a money box (never ever having been able to save money in my entire life, a total waste of my time) but I tried. Some years later when the rest of the Form were building cocktail cabinets, chests of drawers, and roll-top desks, I was still struggling to get the fucking money box together, having used umpteen nails, numerous jars of vile-smelling glue, about three trees–worth of wood, and brought the Beast to the frontier of death by apoplexy.
Had Christine been in our Form it would not only have been a novelty (it was a Boys’ School) she’d have more than likely been building a three piece suite or summat because she’s a dab-hand at the old woodworking game. When you lay down your weary head in Vincent and Christine’s gaff, you lay it down on a sturdy bed which she actually made herself – I don’t mean put on pillows, sheets and duvets, but made – as in built from scratch.
Whilst Christine runs her small, but very beautifully laid out, fragrant flower shop, flogging blooms, plants, self-created artistic festive wreaths, garlands and diverse whatnots; Vince continues to design great Websites, CD sleeves, flyers, still make music on the side, and has recently become a very keen photographer with a splendid eye for unusual, interesting themes. His instrument of choice being his iPod with an “Hipstamatic” app (Digital photography never looked so analog, proclaim the Ads) which produces vintage– camera– seeming, extremely atmospheric, sometimes weirdly coloured maybe even a little bizarre (which is not a small area of market stalls and shops) photos. Exceptionally difficult to explain, they have to be seen to be understood and appreciated, see:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/lichterkettenraucher/
There is an active, ever growing community of enthusiastic “Hipstas” who are devotedly dedicated to it with its “…unpredictable beauty, and fun of plastic toy cameras from the past…” its range of lenses, flashes and so on. One hell of a creative way to have fun, and Vince has been captivated by its variety of available possibilities.
Like the rest of the world, I was transfixed by the fate of the miners in Chile as I watched the days unfold, and amazed at their fortitude, heroic, disciplined attitude. Through constant television newscasts and broadcasts, I followed the efforts to save them. The courage of the rescue team that went down the shaft to organise freeing the miners, was unbelievable – the miners themselves had been trapped by accident, but the rescue team were volunteers. When the last man reached the surface there was, I think, a worldwide sigh of relief. It was an astoundingly brilliant performance, and a lesson to those who give up too soon saying: there’s no chance of anyone being left alive now.
I’ve always been fascinated, though at the same time horrified, by coal-mining. My sister Sue who has been researching our family tree, mainly the Scottish branch, apparently easier as the Scots keep better records (when she started she wrote
saying I’d no need to worry, as there had never been any bloody aristocrats in our
family) has unearthed some interesting and very surprising facts. One, to delight anyone fascinated by Folklore, is that we actually had a molecatcher in the family (dunno if he’s the bloke featured in the eponymous song), there were also dyers,
weavers, crofters (who spoke Gaelic) and, to my complete amazement:coalminers (maybe my interest is genetically informed). Sue and her, now retired husband Stuart (he was a civil servant so has undoubtedly swapped afternoon office –kips for afternoon home– kips) make frequent research trips to Scotland, photographing many of the localities previously inhabited by our forebears (poor old Goldilocks only had three! ) and checking carefully to ensure that details are accurate. My interest has led me to write several songs on the subject; the best one “You Won’t Get Me Down In Your Mine” conveys my feelings about the work. When I read of the disaster in Lengede (actually an iron mine, but the feelings are still applicable) I turned to Shirl. said: “You wouldn’t get me down a mine.” and a song-idea was born. After a gig in Kent, a great vast wardrobe of a bloke loomed over me and growled: “Did you write that song about mining?” As there was no way I could possibly get around him and run for the nearest exit, I nodded, wondering what I’d done to antagonise him. He gripped my shoulder with a hard, huge hand, said quietly: “Thank you. My father, grandfather, brother and an uncle all died in mine accidents.” He squeezed my shoulder again, and walked away.
See, sometimes being a songwriter has unexpected kudos like the one just mentioned, and, to stay with the mining songs theme, here’s another. I read about a miner who, having worked all his life down the pit, fell sick; so sick that he could no longer work, couldn’t earn money to feed his family, and to add to his troubles, the NCB promptly kicked him out of the mineworker’s house in which he’d lived for years. I was incensed that these unfeeling bastards could behave in such a despicable manner, wrote a song about the incident, and sang it everywhere we played, it was recorded for a compilation album, and printed a coupler times in books. Ken and Jeannie two of our American friends (yes, folks, we do have some friends across the great pond. Unlike the picture presented by news programmes, films and literature, not all our transatlantic cousins are teabaggers, rednecks, KKK supporters, serial killers or religious fanatics, there’s a fairly large sprinkling of musos, painters, writers, dancers, intellectuals, and a host of just ordinary, good, kind people) were touring Britain, had played in a club somewhere, were sitting talking to some people afterwards, and my name arose, I dunno in what context ‘twas being bandied about, mayhap: ” who’s the most conceited arse’ole amongst your acquaintances?” anyold my name got mentioned, and a woman at the table asked: “D’you know Colin Wilkie?” Ken and Jeannie, not knowing what to expect, but unable to hide their guilty looks, replied nervously in the affirmative: “Er, yes, we do.”
” He wrote a song about my father,” said the woman.
