There is something special about the Rousdon Estate. Located in East Devon, with 350 acres and 104 residences, it has a colourful mix of people hailing from all parts and from all walks of life. It provides a permanent home for some of us and peaceful respite from the pressures of normal life for others. However…
The team consisted of two old gits and a couple of youngsters. The plan was to take part in a banger-rally across Europe in a beat-up old Citroen, dressed as the cast from ‘The Young Ones.’ Jeff took the part of Mike (cool dude), Young Graham was Vyvyan (psycho), Matt played Rick (attention seeking anarchist) which left me ‘Old Graham’ as Neil (the henpecked housewife).
We met at Jeff’s in Milton Keynes and then went for a few beers. The atmosphere was a bit tense; the endeavour was going to be challenging, and although Jeff and Young Graham were well acquainted, the four of us needed to gel, otherwise the trip was going to be a trial.
We decided that I should drive the first leg to Dover as I needed to relearn how to use a clutch and forget how to left-foot brake; a challenge that would be best addressed whilst driving on a familiar side of the road. We got as far as the first roundabout before the engine management light came on (it stayed on for the rest of the trip), which caused me to have a lack of concentration on the gear front, so with my left foot ‘pushed to the boards’, we coasted out into the traffic. Full credit to the Milton Keynes rush-hour drivers who swerved expertly around us. And, full credit to my co-drivers; we escaped unhurt and no one uttered a word, although a nasty smell did emanate from the vicinity of Matt.
The trip went according to plan. We completed all sections of the rally via prescribed routes, undertook various mental challenges along the way and arrived in Prague feeling fairly fresh and ready to party. It was a great trip; the team gelled… all good then? So far so boring… well, stay with me.
One of Jeff’s many preparatory tasks had been to work out how we were going to get rid of the car. Dumping it was out of the question on both ethical grounds (honestly!) and the fact that we were almost certain to get found out and fined. Matt had suggested parking it overnight with the doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition, but this plan would fail on two counts. The car was a bloody eyesore; Jeff had done his best to make it look attractive and although I have a lot of admiration for his abilities, artistic flair isn’t one of them; no one was going to steal the car for keeps. No, the Shitroen was only likely to be stolen by a joyrider who would dump it somewhere in Prague and we’d still get found out and fined. We elected to do the right thing. Jeff contacted a scrap dealer located on the outskirts of Prague who agreed to take the vehicle off our hands and then drive us to the airport. It sounded too good to be true, and you know what they say about something that sounds too good to be true…
The final night of celebration in Prague was a joyous and noisy affair. The ‘Young Ones’ had concentrated on the tasks set by the rally organisers well enough to earn them second place and one hundred euros. We drank the prize money in less than an hour and emerged into the warm evening, slightly unsteady on our feet. We were immediately accosted by a dubious looking character clutching a mobile phone in one hand and a fist full of euros in the other; he was offering to buy the cars. Jeff explained that we had already made arrangements and that this involved a lift to the airport. As Jeff politely declined and the man turned to leave, I asked him for his phone number just in case.
During breakfast the next morning, Jeff received a call from his ‘scrappage’ contact. Evidently the venue needed to change; the car would be processed separately from their usual wrecks as it was registered in the UK. This sounded a bit odd, but plausible, so Young Graham programmed the new location into his phone and off we headed, out of town, to find the scrap dealer.
I envisaged a typical scrapyard on the edge of town, but in the event, we drove into the countryside and ended up at what looked like a derelict barn. During the previous evenings celebration I had drunk the least and so was once again behind the wheel. As I drove towards a pair of large derelict barn doors I became very uneasy; this just didn’t feel right. There didn’t appear to be any vehicles, scrap or otherwise, and no sign of life.
As I glanced up at the rear-view mirror I could see dust kicking up from a vehicle following us at speed down the track… uneasy quickly turned into shit-scared. “We’ve got company”, I intoned, trying to sound calm and failing miserably, “and it looks as though they’re in a hurry”.
We were getting close to the barn doors now, close enough to slow down, so I shoved my left foot on the first pedal that presented itself and crashed straight through the doors with my co-drivers screaming “BRAKES” in unison. My right foot eventually found the brake and the Shitroen stalled about ten yards inside the empty barn. The following vehicle, a black Merc with blacked out windows, executed a near perfect handbrake turn and came to a halt blocking any hope of a quick exit. Three Slavic looking blokes jumped out and one of them was carrying a rusty AK47… I noticed that smell again.
As they approached, Matt wound down his window and threw out a general question, “hey mate, how are you going to get all four of us plus luggage into that?” Matt had a good, but given the current set of circumstances, entirely superfluous point.
The bloke with the gun waved it at us, clearly indicating that we were to get out of the car. We complied and I asked “what the hell is going on here? We were supposed to meet a scrap dealer; who are you and what do you want?”
The bloke with the gun was slightly built, in his mid-thirties, fairly fit looking, but only properly scary due to the AK. His companions however looked bloody evil, over six foot with the physiques of body builders. All three of them were adorned with various tattoos that looked as though they meant something.
The bloke with the gun was probably the brains of the outfit. From an inside pocket he dragged a pristine looking book. I could make out Cyrillic script on the cover and the words ‘INGLISCH/FRANCHE/JERMON’ in bold capitals; a phrasebook, and from the look of it, not a very good one.
Mr Gun cleared his throat and spoke clearly “ve av her grand batteau commink” he paused and flicked a couple of pages “yous await or me shoot yous”.
I said “oh fuck!”
Mr Gun said “does whas weez says or weeez fucks yous.”
I smelt that smell again.
Jeff’s phone rang. Mr Gun walked quickly over, drove the muzzle of the gun into Jeff’s midriff and as my mate slumped forward, he brought the gun smartly up under his chin. Jeff fell backwards, clearly hurting and clearly shocked. Mr Gun held out his hand for the phone. Jeff handed it to him.
Mr Gun answered the phone but said nothing; he just nodded a couple of times and It became clear that someone was giving him instructions. He walked up to each of us in turn, looked us over and then spoke. Although we didn’t have a clue what was being said, it seemed clear enough that Mr Gun was describing us to whoever was on the other end of the call. After he had completed his explanations, he handed the phone back to Jeff, indicating that Jeff should listen.
Give him his due, Jeff tried to reason with the caller, but after a while he just fell silent and listened. Then he handed his phone back to Mr Gun who terminated the call and trousered the phone.
Muscles One produced some cable ties which he used to bind our wrists. The three of them walked away out of earshot and went into a huddle.
We needed a plan and we needed it quick. Even though these gangsters didn’t understand any English, we kept our voices down as Jeff filled us in on some details.
“We’re seriously in the shit. It was the same bloke on the phone who phoned me earlier with the change of venue.” Jeff turned to me “they’re not interested in us… too old. If we go along with them, they’ll tie us up and leave us here for someone to find. It’s the lads they’re interested in. Evidently Young Graham has the boyish good looks favoured by a particular type of ‘client’, which is the main reason for the kidnapping. Matt here isn’t suitable for the KY jelly assignment, but he’s strong enough to work in a diamond mine… this is a nightmare.”
Young Graham started whimpering.
My mouth moved up and down, but nothing came out. And then I smelt the smell again “Matt mate, how are you doing that?”
You meet some interesting characters over sixty odd years and a yarn told to me by a double-glazing salesman sprang to mind. Evidently while this particular double-glazing salesman was fulfilling a peace-keeping role in Kosovo (in the British army, not selling double glazing… keep up!), he was confronted in a basement by an AK47 wielding local. The local fired one-handed from point blank range and missed. He shot several more rounds, all of which missed, although by this time he was trying to hit a moving target. The double-glazing salesmen reasoned that one handed, the AK was useless.
An idea occurred to me.
In his youth, Jeff did karate. He told me that he was good at it; reactions of a whippet and technique to match. Jeff had also mentioned a method he once practised to prepare him in the event of a serious street fight. This involved a sheet of plywood, super-glue and large grapes. The exercise required great accuracy, both in terms of hitting pairs of grapes with index and middle finger and also applying the correct amount of force to split the grapes but avoid breaking fingers against plywood. Jeff’s right-hand index and middle finger have distinct kinks; he didn’t always get it right.
I outlined the plan. We needed to disable Mr Gun and Jeff and I would take him on.
We also needed to slow down Muscles One and Two. I’d only known Matt and Young Graham for a short time. Young Graham had a sharp mind; he was physically fit, but to be honest, when he agreed to take on the slightly smaller of the big blokes, I was seriously impressed by how readily he agreed to act as a human sacrifice.
Matt was a different ‘kettle-of-fish’. He was clearly capable of waging solo chemical warfare, but for this exercise we’d need speed and brute force. I suggested that he may wish to take on the big fella. From the tenderness of a kiss in Switzerland (what happens in Switzerland stays in Switzerland!), I knew that Matt had a sensitive side, but with a lopsided wry smile, he looked down at his tethered wrists and twisted, the bindings dug into his wrists, which started to bleed. His smile turned into a grin. The binding snapped. Matt said “just tell me when.”
Matt must have been in the boy-scouts, because he carefully unbuttoned his shirt and ripped out a small knife that he’d gaffer taped to his chest. He glanced over to the group of gangsters who were by now in heated debate about something and paying us no attention whatsoever. Matt cut our bindings.
I muttered quietly, setting out the plan.
Jeff and I had considered taking the ‘tied-up-and-left’ option and leaving the lads to a life of KY jelly and servitude, but we agreed that the story about leaving us to be found was bullshit. They were going to kill us. This high-risk plan was all we had.
We sat quietly and tried to calm ourselves. Eventually the gangster conference came to an end. They came over. We got to our feet; not an easy task pretending that your hands are still tied.
Mr Gun reached inside his jacket and pulled out his little book. Timing was going to be crucial. I watched as he crooked the gun under his right armpit and moved his finger away from the trigger. I got eye contact with him and then looked slightly to his right; OK, this sounds a bit hackneyed, but this opponent wasn’t the brightest star in the firmament, so it worked, he turned his head towards where I was looking – the barn doors. I set off at a lick towards him, shouting “now!” as I went. It was like a sprint race, with me just jumping the gun (literally!). I ignored everything going on around me and concentrated on the muzzle of the AK which was swinging up to meet me.
Mr Gun took a step back and fired one handed. The recoil threw his aim back down and to my left, just missing my left foot.
I grabbed the muzzle just before the next round exited, wrenching the AK from Mr Guns grip. My momentum carried me forward and to his right. I completed a forward roll and came up still clutching the gun just in time to see Jeff deliver his signature blow. Jeff instinctively emitted a kungfu shriek, which was swiftly followed by a sickening squelch and then a blood curdling scream as Mr Gun reacted to being blinded.
Mr Gun was disabled. Matt was kneeling on Muscles One, pounding his fists into a face which was fast turning into a bloodied mess. Young Graham was standing guard over his target, who was on his back nursing his bollocks.
The four of us looked at each other with ‘what next’ expressions. Young Graham took charge.
Young Graham snatched the AK from me and ran over to Muscles Two who was still clutching his balls; Graham rammed the butt of the gun into the stricken gangster’s neck, who reacted by releasing his balls and using his hands to protect his head, thus affording an open goal, which Young Graham promptly took, smashing the butt of the gun into Muscles Two’s groin. Then Young Graham ran over to the Merc, shot out three of its tyres, grabbed the ignition key and then ran for the Shitroen. “Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.” Good plan. Matt and I ran for the back doors. Jeff retrieved his phone from Mr Gun and then jumped into the front passenger seat, wiping vitreous fluid from his fingers onto his trousers as he went.
The Merc was blocking the exit so Young Graham drove through the wall and away up the track. As he was driving, Young Graham suggested that the sensible option was to say nothing and get on a plane as soon as possible. I phoned the bloke who’d approached us the evening before and told him that if he was still interested the car would be parked in the airport car park with the keys on the nearside front tyre. We took a chance on the documentation.
So that was that. As we stood in the departure queue, it occurred to me that we must have looked a sorry sight. Jeff had taped his re-broken fingers together and Matt was nursing broken knuckles. The Graham’s were in pretty good shape, just a bit dishevelled.
Young Graham broke the silence “anyone fancy doing Monte Carlo next year?”
I smelt that smell again.
I was recently having a heated debate with my very good friend, Dr Phyllis Stein. We were arguing about the validity of some ‘sculptural installations’ that were springing up in an East Devon wood. Phyllis asserted that in order to create art, you needed to set out to create art. And, even if the end result was a pile of pretentious junk, Phyllis was adamant that art was art and therefore worth what someone was prepared to pay for it. Indeed, the higher the price tag, the better the art.
Anyway, this is what led to the argument…
…and in my opinion, the photo definitely depicts an example of modern art; it’s easy on the eye and since it is a recent installation, it is… well… modern… isn’t it (?). And, having made several visits to Tate Modern, I am well qualified to express an opinion on the subject of what constitutes art. Indeed, Tate Modern has over the years offered a unique service, located, as it is, in exactly the right place to provide a therapeutic break during a demanding pub-crawl. I did (only once) make the mistake of visiting this ‘temple of modern art’ prior to tucking away a few pints and the experience was, to say the least, unsettling. Do it in the correct order though and a visit to Tate Modern after first visiting several inns, followed by a philosophical debate at a few more watering holes is a thoroughly enjoyable way to waste a day in London.
A proper painter (you can tell what his paintings are supposed to be) recently attempted to explain modern art to me, maintaining that understanding the back-story leading to a particular installation, daub, unmade bed, pickled shark, added immensely to one’s appreciation of the form, which brings me back to Phyllis’ point; to qualify as art, must the perpetrator actually set out to produce art, or, can a fortuitous accident qualify? I only pose this question because when asked, the artless individual responsible for the woodland sculptures shown in the photograph said that he was constructing log stores off of the ground to assist seasoning prior to burning. Furthermore, when it was mooted that what he had actually produced was worthy of the Turner Prize, he retorted with “stop taking the pxxx!”. Anyway, someone did (innocently by the way; they thought it was firewood!) remove part of an ‘installation’. They were however quickly advised of their mistake and asked to put it back.
So, although I already know the answer, I’ll throw the question open. Yes, the random log stores are indeed things of beauty and they demonstrate the dedication and hard work that is going into restoring an area of woodland, BUT…
…is it art?
Geoff and Cyril were neighbours. Geoff completed National Service after the war. As a POW Cyril took part in the infamous ‘Death March’ across Europe. Nothing phased Cyril.
When Cyril’s wife died, Geoff comforted and looked out for him. Cyril recovered.
When Geoff’s wife died he was inconsolable; dementia soon followed. Cyril looked out for Geoff and kept him safe.
Geoff moved to a care home and as Cyril’s health deteriorated Jenny moved into Geoff’s old home. Jenny looked out for Cyril; she smartened him up, prettied his home, gave him hot food and became his friend.
Cherish your neighbour.
Forty years or so ago, it would be true to say that I had nothing to do with holiday planning. Indeed, I could best be described as my wife’s ‘excess baggage.’ On this occasion, she’d seen an advert for the little island of Gozo off of Malta. There must’ve been some debate, but the reality was that I didn’t care where I went as long as it wasn’t to work, so she booked it.
The problems started on the way to Gatwick when the brakes on our old MGB failed. We made it to the airport on the handbrake. I recall someone in the check-in queue asking me if it was the flight to Malta; I didn’t have a clue.
The plan was to fly into Malta and get a taxi to the ferry. We arrived at the ferry five minutes after the last sailing but noticed a little boat bobbing on the rolling sea, making its way towards the dock. Father Brown informed us that he would take us, together with another British couple and a local with a dog to Gozo. The dog threw up on my young wife before we’d left the dock; it was a rough crossing.
We were holidaying on a shoestring, so I was unnerved when the local mafioso was waiting by the dock on Gozo with a set of car keys. I protested; he insisted; I asked how much; he said “don’t worry about it, we’ll sort it out before you leave.” I protested; he ignored me, explained where our hovel was, hopped into his black Merc and drove off.
Dr Robbie (we didn’t discover what he was doctor of) latched onto us soon after we arrived. Robbie, an Indian gentleman carted us around his regular haunts introducing us as “my very good friends from London.” The last time we saw him was in a bar where he had asked us to meet him for dinner. We’d finished the meal and I asked Robbie about paying; his response… “I never have to pay here; these are my very good friends” … came just before a couple of nautical looking men took him away. We were then joined by another couple of matelots. It transpired that Robbie liked to gamble and that their ‘associates’ were ‘helping’ him to pay what he owed. My wife asked what they did for a living and was informed that they owned a fast boat. We tried to pay the bar owner for the meal before leaving; an offer that he flatly refused.
It was day three when we bumped into the other British couple. We went for a coffee and related our story so far. Ron and Betty decided to adopt us and we were delighted to be their ‘kids’ for the week. We remained friends, although sadly, Betty has been a widow now for many years. It transpired that both Ron and I worked for BT at the time; Ron was a field manager based in Reading.
There are two odd elements in this tale.
Added to the fear of the local mafioso/pirates/smugglers, was the unease about how we were going to get home from Gatwick. One night I dreamt that I’d walked into a house full of car-spares and emerged with a set of 1972 MGB brake pads. Next morning, I was relating this dream to my wife as we strolled along a residential street when a door opened and a couple of blokes came out lugging a back axle. I peered into the room and saw all sorts of bits piled all over the place. In I went, and sure enough, emerged with a set of dusty MGB brake pads. A few days later, back at Gatwick, the carpark watchman fixed up a couple of spotlights for me, I changed the brake pads and we drove home.
Years later one of my engineering field managers happened to mention that he’d worked in Reading. I asked him if he’d known Ron and was astounded to learn that Ron had indeed been his guv’nor many years previous… it’s a small world full of bizarre coincidences and I’ve only just started on my list!
When I first heard Mark Knopfler’s ‘Mighty Man (click this link and you’ll get the context)’ I was transported back fifty-five years or so into my late aunts pub…
Dave was an itinerant Irishman and a force of nature. Everyone loved him; he charmed all the women, found well paid, but very hard work for those who wanted it and when he was in the pub, nobody else needed to put their hands in their pockets. Physically, he was typical of the breed; put a shovel in his hands, fuel him with Guinness and he could pretty much carry on indefinitely, doing what he did best… “digging trenches in the cold and wet weather and laying half the roadways in England as well”.
Dave would turn up from nobody-knew-where, put a team together, work hard for a few weeks and then disappear for months. When he was in lodgings, close to my aunts pub, we were all enriched by his presence.
Yer man became quite fond of me. On one of his visits he turned up with boxing gloves, got down on his knees, laced the gloves onto my little hands (I was about eight at the time), and told me to hit him as hard as I could, wherever I liked. This ritual went on for some weeks and I never did get a punch through his guard. During these boxing lessons Dave would try to impart some combat knowledge. He explained that the gloves were for his benefit, just in case I landed a lucky blow, but that bare knuckles was the proper way. Although he taught me how to punch with my whole body and what to aim for, he also stressed that fighting for the sake of it was wrong… unless there was enough money involved and it looked as though the odds on winning were considerably better than evens. A couple of years later, during the summer holidays, I was with a girlfriend called Trish when we got picked on by a group of secondary school kids. Dave had once said to me that there would definitely be times when I’d need to stick up for myself, or someone I cared about, so I picked my spot and decked the mouthy ringleader.
Yes, Dave was a hard man. One of the locals had been pestering my aunt for some while. I knew something was going on, but mum didn’t enlighten me other than ‘things were getting a bit nasty’. This particular evening, Dave was sitting quietly in the corner trying to make sense of a pile of receipts and IOU’s, while the particularly unpleasant looking and sounding regular continued to make smutty remarks to my aunt, who started to cry. Dave got up and just stared at the offensive regular who then left the pub. Dave followed him out. I can’t remember the blokes name now, but I can remember the other regulars asking what had happened to him; apparently he just disappeared and my guess is that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, he came back as a pothole in the bypass.
And of Dave’s pile of receipts and IOU’s? One day he turned up at our house with a large brown paper bag, an exercise book and some pens and pencils. He thrust a couple of tenners into my hand, told me to see that my mum and dad were OK and then informed me that I was to become his accountant, which basically meant sorting out who he owed money to and who he should be collecting it from. It was a simple enough task that was repeated every time he turned up for a stint of work in the area. We were struggling at the time and in truth Dave was just trying to help us out without embarrassing dad.
Christmas and New-year were riotous affairs in the pub. The adults would entertain themselves thoroughly and as long as us kids made a reasonable effort to remain unnoticed, we too could make the best of the festivities. Uncle Ern would be on the accordion and together with my stepfather, Dave would be on hand for bouncer duties.
One day Dave vanished, never to be seen again. And to be honest, until I heard ‘Mighty Man’, I hadn’t really given him a thought. Listening to the lyrics now though makes me smile with renewed affection. And, if one of Dave’s progeny (and I’m guessing that there were a few), ever caught up with him, then yer man may well have sung this song to him.
Apart from the copyright issue, posting my own version of Mighty Man would be inappropriate on aesthetic grounds. However, on a similar subject, Mountains of Mourne c. 1896 has been covered by just about everyone, including Dave, in the public bar of the Monument Canterbury, some fifty odd years ago, so here goes!
It’s well over a year since I wrote ‘Bloke Dancing’ and to be honest, despite some positive feedback and a decent amount of views via various social media platforms it’s been a total failure; I’m still just as lonely, craving some male company.
It’s not all bad news though. A few of us ‘blokes’ adjourn to the pub after salsa. A couple of us are out on ‘long leads’ and one of us is gaining the reputation for having a girl on every dance floor, which may or may not be the case so I’m sticking the word ‘allegedly’ in at this point for legal reasons.
Anyway, I’m going to try a different tack this time. It’s all about the music.
You know that foot tapping feeling you get when you listen to music? And then there are the times when you’re sitting about at a wedding, beer in hand, trying to avoid eye contact so that you can dodge a humiliating excursion onto the dance floor, but with a nagging feeling that if you could just find the right moves, then you could let yourself go and have some fun.
The foregoing is particularly pertinent when you are listening to music that you like. Randy Newman’s Falling-in-love always did it for us; didn’t matter where we were (Tesco was a bit embarrassing), we’d get up and give it a crack.
I’m probably not alone in this, but despite thoroughly enjoying the dancing, I don’t necessarily enjoy the ‘proper’ music that goes with it. Also, I’ve concluded that I don’t really want to get serious enough about it to worry too much about style. And it gets worse. Going to a Milonga (an event where Argentine tango is danced) or indeed any other formal dancing fills me with dread. That’s enough to be getting on with, so if you haven’t screamed a rude word at your screen, ticked the ‘thumbs down’ box and then cut me off in disgust, please let me try to explain.
A lot of ‘proper’ dance music associated with a particular style isn’t that easy for a novice to dance to (well, this novice at any rate) and to be honest, if I don’t like the music, then I ain’t much interested in dancing to it. But then it’s the same with anything; some people love heavy metal, whilst others consider it useful only as part of a torture regime. So the key point here is that it doesn’t really matter. If you have a go at dancing then there will be music that you may not initially like dancing to, but it will grow on you. And there will be music that you will never come to appreciate; so what? There is also however the music that you love and you will be surprised at what you can dance to once you have mastered a few basic steps and learnt how to let the music take control. I’ve recently rediscovered Fleetwood Mac’s Gold Dust Woman… which just makes me want to tango… and then there’s the image of Stevie Nicks to go with it… hang on a mo, I’m going off on one.
You don’t have to be that fussed about doing it properly
I bet there are a lot of people like me who just want to learn a few steps and dance with a broad grin on their face. Take this stuff too seriously and you’ll break one of the the fundamental rules of life… ‘dance like nobody’s watching’. Do a bit of googling about the Argentine tango though and you’ll come across the etiquette associated with this beautiful dance, which for a novice can seem intimidating, but is in my view unnecessary for those of us who don’t want to get involved in ‘the scene’ or indeed take it too seriously.
The current Mrs O’Neill and I stayed at Yaiza on Lanzarote last year. Yaiza has a very large town square and so armed with (in)appropriate music loaded onto my phone, each night we strolled to the square, fired up the music in my shirt pocket and tangoed badly to our hearts content. A few locals wandered by, stopped, looked perplexed, and then, when they realised what was going on, smiled appreciatively at a couple enjoying themselves…
…which explains why going to a milonga would fill me with dread.
So I guess it’s street dancing for us. We love this video. Forget the fact that this pair can really, and I mean really dance; that’s not the point; just look at the expressions on their faces and the fun that they are having. Contrived? Over edited? Most certainly, but who cares, the joy that this video communicates is, I believe, what dancing is about. And look out for the old boy with the backpack… infectious!
And my point is…
If you enjoy music, then the act of turning the rhythm in your head into movement will fire up your endorphins, titillate your pleasure zones and with a few basic moves give you and your partner a lot of fun. One totally unexpected element of learning to dance has been that I now listen to music differently; my first reaction while swaying from side to side or counting (uno dos tres, cinco seis siete…) is to consider how to dance to it.
And now for the plug. In this effort to persuade a few more blokes to give it a try I’m majoring on the musicality; my point being that if you can dance to the music you love, then you’ll enjoy the music that you love even more. The place we go to learn uses all types of music to suit a style of dance, both traditional and contemporary. So if you live in the Seaton/Bridport area, I can thoroughly recommend Dance Sabai
And, I could do with the company.
When we’re not knocking down trees, unbunging sewers or generally fixing up our Victorian estate, we take to the sea in boats. And once the final cast has gone ‘splosh’, our hope is to end up at Fiddlers Green; a legendary afterlife filled with perpetual mirth, a fiddle that never stops playing and dancers who never tire.
The Rousdon ‘in-house-team’ have been involved in some challenging endeavours. On one occasion a helicopter was needed…
…and that didn’t work out too well; so in the hope of keeping our highly valued, hard working and skilful residents safe, both at work and at play, we’ve compiled a safety brief…
A lot of songs about the sea have lyrics that tell a story and Shoals of Herring is one such song. When I first sang it with the Jurassix shanty group it reminded me of a geography lesson (could’ve been history) back when I was a lad. The east coast fishing industry was already in decline; people were losing their taste for salted herring, in favour of Cap’n Birdseye fish-fingers. But in the late 19th, early 20th century, Great Yarmouth catered for a thousand drifters (fishing boats), ten thousand fisherman and five thousand fisher-girls (mainly responsible for the gutting and preserving the ‘silver darlings’). Many of these workers and boats were Scottish and just there for the season.
The song mentions ‘a hundred cran of the silver darlings’. A cran is thirty-seven and a half imperial gallons and the fisherman on the left is loading a creel basket that would hold roughly a quarter cran of fish. Herring fishing was hard dangerous work; a fact conveyed in the lyrics of Ewan MacColl’s evocative song.
Anyway, to the song. Some while ago I rewrote the lyrics and recorded ‘Shoals of Pouting’ about a seasick grockle on a day charter out of Lyme Bay. I feel guilty about this, but not guilty enough to delete it. Never mind, this is my version of the proper song, which, if I can get the technology to work, will be replaced in due course by the Jurassix shanty version…