...will I
play the wild rover
no, never,
no more...until the next time(*).
It's no
secret that I don't travel well. I rarely sleep, my dietary habits are worse
than normal and I am cursed with a mild form of OCD brought on by the stresses
of packing, navigating and timekeeping. I prefer to avoid anxiety, so I tend to
stay at home and listen to the traditional sounds of the weekend: lawnmowers,
trail bikes and drunks roaming the streets at all hours of the day and night.
This way, the ironing gets done, the cupboards and fridge are fully-stocked and
I'm up to date with my favourite TV and radio programmes. God's in his heaven,
all's right with the world.
Apart from
financial considerations, there is a definite downside to my having been away
12 times in the last 53 weeks, and the closer one trip is to another, the worse
it all becomes. When I set out last Friday, I hadn't tidied up after Brighton,
I was ill, I was two hours behind schedule and had to call in at the local
supermarket to buy some items I'd forgotten about the night before. The last
thing I needed was to be confronted by a queue of traffic on the M8 that took
45 minutes to clear. Oh well, no harm done. On to Southwaite, and don't spare
the horses!
I've
always believed that it's best to live with reduced expectations then you'll
never be disappointed. Sadly, life always finds a way of slapping you in the
chops, even when you think that things can't get any worse. Someone, I don't
know who (probably some big corporate fat cat), had, since my last visit,
replaced the Little Chef at Southwaite with a Marks and Spencer Simply Food! As
much as I love M&S, what use is a shop selling uncooked food at a motorway
service station? I had to settle for a piece of Burger King corrugated
cardboard masquerading as chicken. It's not good enough, I tell you! This
country is going to the dogs!
I trudged
back to my car and set off down the road at full pelt. I was running a little
late, but why worry? I was on holiday, and the car was still working. One has
to be thankful for small mercies. Cumbria soon gave way to Lancashire and the
sun poked its head out from behind some ominous black clouds. Things were
looking good...until I passed the sign for Haigh Hall. The overhead warning
lights were flashing "40" and the traffic came to a standstill. For
the next 25 miles and 90 minutes, I didn't seem to get above 5mph and noticed
that, for the first time in its 10-year life, the car was in grave danger of
overheating. I passed numerous vehicles that had met the same fate, their
drivers and passengers on the verge, awaiting the knights of the road. It was
getting late, and I had to modify my route to the Peak District. By hook or by
crook (and a lot of luck), I reached Junction 17 and headed for Congleton. The
temperature gauge returned to normal and I continued, tired and hungry and
resigned to the fact that I was only going to see the National Park through a
car windscreen.
Of course,
tiredness and hunger make me do silly things. When I looked at the map, I
decided that I didn't like the idea of the A54, as it was steep in places, but
it seemed like the most direct route to Buxton, so I followed it. Again, the
car performed heroically, in spite of a couple of nervous moments (including a
near miss with a slow-moving furniture removal van). Buxton was negotiated
without incident and it proved to be easier to find Miller's Dale than I had
anticipated. I arrived at the hostel, a former mill owner's house, just before
8, with barely enough energy to unpack and eat. I forced myself to consume the
mini pork pies I had brought with me (what a strain!) then I sat in the lounge
until bedtime.
I got up
early and decided to spend the morning in Buxton. I'd not been there for a long
time and wanted to see the Pavilion again and wander round the gardens. I
discovered a wonderful record shop specialising in vinyl but the owner told me
he would soon be shutting up shop to sell solely on-line. I walked up past the
opera house and into the Pavilion Gardens. I saw some ducks and geese and a
miniature train and, to kill time, went to family history fair. I ate ice
cream. The rigours of the previous day's journey were all but forgotten, but
soon it was time to get back on the road and find my way to South Yorkshire.
Sheffield,
the place where knives and forks came from before they invented Taiwan, looks
like a bomb has hit it and, when the bomb fell, it must have destroyed all of
the road signs. The city, which I am assured will look nice when it's finished,
only has one railway station, and it's undergoing modernisation and looks
lovely, so you think they'd be proud of it and provide visitors with
directions. After what seemed like an eternity, I came to a halt in the
station's multi-storey car park (free for the first 40 minutes!) and collected
my associates. The journey to the Travelodge was relatively trouble-free, which
is more than can be said for a night in an hotel with those two (only joking!).
If you're going to throw stones at my bedroom window, the least you can do is
serenade me afterwards!
Supporting
at the Plug (Live, Earth and Neutral, geddit?) were those three nice young men
from Sunderland who go by the name of Field Music. I have all their singles
and, one day, will get around to buying their album, but I hope never to see
them live ever again. They are so boring on stage that I am compelled to do
what I never do at a gig - talk to someone! I wish that were not the case. I
feel so guilty about not enjoying their performances that I may have to subject
myself to public flogging with a wet copy of the Radio Times.
Speaking
of public flogging, British Sea Power aren't quite ready to be dragged out into
the Market Square on a Bank Holiday Monday to be pelted with coconuts but, if
they have another night like Saturday night, they may have to consider a career
change, perhaps into comedy improv? I am blessed to have a friend who is
capable of both forming and expressing an objective opinion and equally blessed
that we both attended this event. Although our after-match analyses were
somewhat different, particularly in respect of the bands new material, it's
refreshing to know that, as neither of us has a hidden agenda (which may or may
not involve trademark blue underpants) or delusions of elitism, we needn't
worry about having to rely on second-hand hyperbole and sycophancy. I can't
recall the last time I saw a band so beset by technical problems on stage (and
that includes the Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks "hey, is that amp on
fire?" incident from last year), or so seemingly incapable of reading set
lists and starting and ending songs together. It was like a bad hair day only with
musical instruments. I'd have been tempted to do a Townshend and Moon and
destroy everything in sight, but not BSP. They're kind to animals and
malfunctioning equipment. They carried on regardless with their mammoth 17-song
extravaganza which, at times, resembled amateur hour at the local pub and the
rest of the time, [private joke alert] a dream involving cheese and a whoopee
cushion. There was even a crazy guy in the audience playing an harmonica! I
couldn't stop laughing (on the inside). I know I was watching the same band I'd
seen 7 days previously, and know exactly what they're capable of, so I wasn't
too bothered by it. Shit happens. Its only pop music. I wasnt in Glasgow, so I
was having a great time. Some people threw their toys out of their prams (some
of which were retrieved later), some gushed like the entire future of the world
as we know it depended upon such responses and some danced like loons.
Different strokes for different folks, eh, Jimmy? As if that weren't surreal
enough, I found myself being talked into going to some club in a dangerous
building, during which time I saw a friend of mine and one of my heroes conduct
a conversation in a chimney; I tried to promote the merits of GBH with a
cricket bat; I saw a great man held aloft for the second time in one evening; I
went a bit deaf and I played pat-a-cake with a guitarist of great repute who
later slapped me on the ear. Of course, none of this happened. It says so on
the Internet, and everything on the web is gospel.
I actually
slept, though only for about 4 hours. Sunday was shaping up to be as crazy as
Saturday. I saw someone have their first ever cup of coffee (!) and I stood
idly by whilst two budding bass players pretended to trash an hotel room. Their
efforts at hiding from me were pathetic, though (I thought I heard the door
close at one point!). After this bout of high jinks, we headed to the Little
Chef, where one of the party obtained his sizeable breakfast at no cost to any
of us. Result! We set sail for Nottingham and arrived in plenty of time for the
evening's entertainment. I had nearly 90 minutes to spare before I could get
into my accommodation, so I walked to the local supermarket to acquire more
junk food before settling into my room and falling asleep during "Sister
Act 2". That's what I call a Sunday afternoon.
I only
went to Dot-To-Dot for BSP so it was a bonus to find out that Mystery Jets were
also playing. They always seem so joyful on stage, and that joy can't help find
its way into the hearts of the audience. Well, into my heart, such as it is.
Having staked out a location from which to watch BSP, I had to leave Mystery
Jets for a brief period to use the facilities. I had forgotten that there was a
strange woman in the Rock City toilets who was, effectively, selling toilet
paper, soap and paper towels. As each customer entered the room, she greeted
them with the cry "freshen up sexy ladies". I added this to the
weekend's "bizarre" list.
Thankfully,
BSP had a better night of it, which was just as well, as they were following
the band that has supplanted them as great British indie eccentrics.
Considerably tighter than in Sheffield, and lacking that cursed Hohner
semi-acoustic, they played most of the same songs as the night before (but not
necessarily in the same order). Near the end of the set, Nobby disappeared.
After a short interval, the Harold Lloyd of rock emerged looking like a
demented Frank Sidebottom in a duffle coat. Climbing, swinging from the
rafters, mock physical violence - I guess it's not really about the music,
after all. I just go to see what that man is going to do next. All hail BSP!
Huzzah! As the night drew to a close, I was invited to spend the early hours in
the company of total strangers and slide downstairs on a mattress, but I wimped
out and returned to my hotel to try and get some sleep.
I took
things a little easier in the morning and left at noon to go back to the
supermarket for provisions for the journey then I headed for the M1. I'd wanted
to visit Chatsworth on this trip so, when the rain came, followed by hail and a
thunderstorm, I thought I was going to have to give in and make for home. In
the end, I decided to continue with my original plan, against my better
judgement, as there was more bad weather, an horrendous admission fee and
grumpy staff waiting for me at the end of my journey from Nottingham. I took a
few obligatory photos in the grounds, looked round the building with my
"oh, that's nice" look on my face then got back in my car. I drove up
via Stockport, the M60 and M61. I stopped off at Annandale Water to see how the
ducks were getting along, and found two of them asleep in the middle of the car
park. I did not bat an eyelid. Six and a half hours after leaving Derbyshire, I
was in my own bed. It was like I'd never been away.
Things I
learned this weekend:
-If you
want Pizza Hut in Sheffield, turn right, not left.
-Some
people are unaware of what the phrase "in the scud" means.
-Every bed
in the world is more comfortable than mine.
-Cheap
props can be put to good use.
-Wildfowl
will sleep anywhere.
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