Croak, Snuffle and Cough

A nasty thumping headache, a double–nasty nagging sore throat, a n’orrible ‘acking cough interspersed with violent nasal eruptions…….other than that, on his arrival, Wizz was essentially top–hole, tickety–boo, and fighting fit.

I drove up to Vince and Christine’s to spend some days with them before the aforementioned Mr. Jones flew in from Blighty, and we commenced our tour of the far–flung Northern towns (well, some of the far–flung Northern towns) of Germany. As Christine spent all day working in her gloriously scented, beautifully laid out flower shop, Vince and I managed to get in a load of what our cousins across the pond refer to as “quality time” at least I believe that is the naff expression they favour, alongside (maybe) “totally awesome quality time” and/or some other equally daft definition. Wotever, me and Vince, as usual, had a right old giggle, swigged gallons of tea; watched some Python DVDs, early “Avengers” DVDs, played some maniacal games, swigged gallons of tea; he inevitably taught me a few new computer tricks (if you’re extremely patient, old dogs can learn) swigged gallons of tea; he gave me a guided tour through parts of Hildesheim that were unknown to me, we delivered some flowers for Christine – discovering in the process some incredible begging-to-be-photographed interesting oddities, swigged gallons of rosie, and generally goofed–off:in real “quality time” ov kosst.

On Wednesday a croaky phone call announced the arrival at Hildesheim Bahnhof of my tour partner. Whilst Vince went off to help lug his baggage, I got the kettle going for a brew. The front door opened, a choking, bug–inhabited cough entered, followed by a none too healthy looking Wizz. He sank gratefully into a soft armchair: “Got it from Bonnie” he rasped, “she’s been sick with it for days. Lost her voice completely.”

“Lost her voice completely” oh, fucking hip-hip-hooray, just the sort of tidings one desires to hear before setting out to lay it on the punters for a coupler weeks. I’d always had a love of Vents, my favourite being the utterly amazing Dennis Spicer (who tragically died in a car crash at the age of 30) and began to have visions of me emulating him and his fellows by singing backstage while Wizz, at the mic, mouthed the words; how we were going to cope with duets I didn’t care to consider. We’d manage someway, I knew that, no doubt about it; the old Show Biz jazz somehow seems to overcome most problems. All of us have, at some time or another, performed while in pain, full of fever, deeply depressed, grieving, lovelorn, or suffering from (take your pick) any one, or more, of Life’s selected sorrows. Throughout one concert I had to wear a set of Vincent’s nappies (diapers to you, Yankee buddies) on stage – but that’s another story.

My suggestion that Jonesy go to bed at once, and allow himself to be nursed till we had to hit the road, was greeted with a shrug and a grimace which I correctly interpreted as meaning: no way.

Thursday we ran over the old numbers to refresh our memories, then worked on a few new songs which we intended doing together. All the while his throat gave him a lot of bother, his cold was developing, and he was coughing more frequently.

When we arrived in Heiligenhaus, he finally felt a visit to the nearest Apothecary wouldn’t come amiss. It was Saturday afternoon so naturally all the sods were shut and we had to drive to another town where the Chemist had emergency duty, join the queue of splutterers, and eventually confront the lady in charge. I translated his symptoms and medicine ideas for her, translated her comments for him, translated his answers for her, and we ended with a wee plastic baggie bulging with linctus, tablets, lemon-drink powder, and assorted throat sweeties. In the hotel, I laid my tea-making equipment – which our old friend Sheila had given me years ago so that I’d always be able to rustle up a drop of splosh no matter where I was – upon him, he boiled water, mixed it with the first of the lemon-drink powders, and I had it away for an hour of Egyptian PT.

We were doing good shows, and getting well received. You couldn’t tell Wizz was sick when he hit the stage, for the adrenalin kicked in, the “old trouper” syndrome took over, and he was as terrific as ever: a joy to hear, and play with.

Nevertheless, in the car, backstage, and in the hotels it was obvious that healthwise he was getting no better, despite the linctus, the tablets, packet after packet of hot lemon drink, and a quantity of throat sweets. I told him he should immediately go to bed when we reached Vince and Christine’s on our free day, take it easy and be waited upon, merely getting another shrug and a grimace, accompanied by a hacking cough and Stromboli-sneeze for my pains.

At one of the gigs, I forget which one, not that it matters anyway, I fell victim (not for the first time, I assure you) to a phenomena which occcasionally affects every muso, anyway it’s happened to all the performers I know. To anybody unconnected with our business it may sound like a load of old toffee, but, stand on me, despite its unbelievability, it’s perfectly true. Every so often, somebody, somewhere, informs you that he/she heard you on a record (which you’ve never made) saw you in a country (which you’ve never visited) remembers you playing an instrument (which you’ve never owned) or saw you on a TV show (which you’ve never done) and so on, and so on. It is a quite incredible, baffling experience, the appalling arrogance displayed by complete strangers who, no matter how firmly you tell them they are mistaken, are unshakeably convinced that actually it’s you who doesn’t know the correct facts about your own sodding life!

So this geezer tells me that, some 40 odd years ago, he made a recording of Shirley, at the Burg Waldeck Festival, singing “Silver Dagger” and “All My Trials” I politely assured him that these were two songs she’d never ever sung, and he must have confused her with another singer.

But…….

“Oh yes, she did sing them, I recorded them and wrote down her name at the time.”

“Sorry, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”

“Oh no I haven’t, I wrote down her name when she sang them.”

(Patiently): “No, sorry, you’ve made a mistake, she never sang either of those songs.”

“Oh yes she did. You see, I recorded her, on the Waldeck, and at the time wrote down…”

(Still politely,if rather more emphatically): “Hang about, tell me, did she sing them unaccompanied then ?”

“Oh no, you played guitar.”

(A bit irritably): “Sorry, you’re mistaken, I have never played either of those songs in my life, and Shirl’s never sung them.”

“Oh yes you have, and she did. You see, I recorded them, and at the same time wrote down…”

       Oh fuck off !

Back in Hildesheim after three excellent gigs, Wizz decided to change his strings. Now, if there’s one thing I really hate, it’s changing strings (so did Pearsey, one of the reasons the strings he developed are so good, and last so bloody long without requiring replacemment). Watching someone else re-string an instrument can be quite interesting. I know guitarists who, all edgy hustle and bustle, remove old strings in one go, and have a new set on within minutes. Me, I take ‘em off one at a time, wind the old one round itself, shove it in the, now empty, new string’s packet, drop the old stuff in the rubbish bin, bring the new one up to pitch; follow the same procedure for the next string…a slow, relaxed process that takes well over an hour; a bit longer if, at the same time, I’m watching a Cricket video, and get deeply involved in it. Wizz approaches the task in much the same slow manner as me, but whereas I hold the axe on me lap, virtually in the playing position, he holds it upright between his knees, facing him. Dunno why I bothered to tell you all that, probably no-one gives a shit, but the fact that on Monday afternoon he changed his strings is an integral part of the entire tale.

Monday morning, while Vince was in his office, trying to catch up on some website designs he’d abandoned in order to entertain his old man, and Wizz was coughing and sneezing in his bedroom, I decided – having already drunk several large mugs of char – to make a pot of breakfast coffee for the three of us. Having got the first filter filled and filtering, I moved to refill the kettle, somehow contrived to catch the top of the utensil, and next thing scalding coffee is all over me jeans, the dishwasher, the sink, the rug, the floor, the wall, the cupboard, and my startled yell of: “Oh goodness, dearie me!” (or summat similar) is echoing on the Monday morning air. I was already attempting to clear up the mess (brown water and coffee grains were everywhere) when Vince arrived, took one look and said: “Getcher jeans off.”

“They’ll be okay” I said, holding the wet material away from me legs. “It’ll dry.”

“Get ‘em off at once, ” he commanded, “and give ‘em to me , before the stain sets in.”

There was no future in arguing the toss, so next moment I’m bare-bummed in the kitchen, and Vince has whipped me Levi’s into the washing machine.

Back again, he took over the cleaning operation, gently shooing me out of the kitchen before getting well stuck in. By the time he’d finished everything was sparkling, nary a coffee ground nor brown blob to be seen…….

…….meanwhile, back at the ranch…….

…….At roughly the same time I was attempting to redecorate Vince and Christine’s kitchen with coffee, a large pumpkin, which our good friends Nudi and Bärbel had given us a coupler days before I left for the tour, and which I’d said I’d cook on my return, was attempting to redecorate one of our Pfaffenhofener rooms.

Shirl was sitting quietly watching the Telly, when she heard a loud crump. Thinking something had fallen from one of the shelves, she went to investigate…nothing. Out in the hall…nothing. She went through the house seeking the source of the sound…nothing. She opened the front door, maybe it had happened out in the street…nothing. Puzzled, she eventually opened the door of our downstairs bathroom which we use as a general purpose storage room, and saw the cause of the crump. The large pink member of the Cucurbitaceae Family which I’d intended cooking (for several meals) on my return, had been left standing in a cardboard box, and for some unknown reason (I later Googled gourds and gleaned this [albeit about growing competition: mine’s-bigger’n-yourn fruit] “If there is too much rain, some pumpkins overindulge…As the pumpkins expand, pressure builds on the weaker parts of the rind and suddenly they blow.” Our bugger had blown alright, the sod had exploded, hurling chunks, and miniscule bits of mushy squash all over the shop: walls, windows, sink, bath, bidet, files, folders, the sundry junk we store therein were covered with the mess.

Still, it gave her something to occupy her time whilst I was on the road, didn’t it ?

The day after the Hamburg gig, as no-one was gonner be around at the next venue until 16.00 and the journey itself was only slightly more than an hour, we had stacks of time before having to set off. Jörn – the organiser, and our host for the previous night – asked if we’d like a wee bit tour of Hamburg. I was up for it at once, but Wizz, having coughed and sneezed all night, wearily declined. It was a lovely, sunny, warm day, Jörn and I drove through his part of the big town, he pointed out some of the more interesting sights, and we ended our trip on the banks of the Elbe.

Arriving back at Jörn’s gaff, we discovered Wizz engaged in once more changing his strings, as he’d already (as we all know) put new ones on yesterday when we were in Hildeshim, I realised he must be feeling really bloody lousy. Despite the linctus, hot lemon drinks, and soothing sweets, he was still coughing and choking like a good ‘un, so Jörn suggested visiting a throat specialist. After giving him a cursory examination the doctor prescribed antibiotics. Mayhap she still held a grudge against the Brits for bombing her home town and was getting her own back, for the first antibiotic tablet poor old Jonesy swallowed did a Bikini Atoll in his intestines, and, combined with the quantities of hot lemon drinks, sweeties and linctus, ensured that the backdoor–trots added to his misery.

Despite the fact that we were doing good shows and having a lot of fun on stage: (the adrenalin always kicked in, the “old trouper” syndrome always took over, so the punters always remained oblivious to his plight) I knew Wizz would be glad when the tour ended, he could take a break from the constant travelling, and, importantly, give his throat a rest.

In the last town we were playing, we went, as was our wont, to a cafe for afternoon coffee and cakes. As we sat there, with me animatedly relating some anecdote or other, a woman walked up to our table, and, in very passable English, enquired: “Excuse me, are you English?”

“British” I answered.

“Oh” she said, probably not able to comprehend the subtle difference, “are you tourists?”

I shook me loaf: “No.”

“On holiday?”

“No.”

For a while she stared at me sitting there, examining me, taking me in from head to toe, then suddenly, seemingly enlightened, said something which caused Wizz (also Vince and Shirl when I told them) to dissolve into disbelieving laughter:

“Oh,” she beamed, “you’re a businessman”