The brave face of a broken hearted country

"What you had to understand about people at that time was that they had suffered the most terrible grief. They were broken hearted." W.F.Deedes explaining that Evelyn Waugh wasn't just writing about youth and callow decadence but that he was writing about Britain's recovery from World War I.

When the longed-for Armistice arrived, there was frantic celebration. Flags were looted from department stores, and the streets were filled with ecstatic drunks.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle watched a woman, with a Union Flag in both hands, dancing a solemn solo waltz through the lobby of the Grosvenor Hotel. The novelist Arnold Bennett recalled a woman standing on the street in Oxford, naked from the waist down, waving a flag at army cadets.

But there were already counter currents. Siegfried Sassoon was disgusted by the 'mob patriotism'. D H Lawrence raged, presciently: 'The hate and evil is greater now than ever ... It makes me sick to see you rejoicing like a butterfly in the last rays of sun before the winter ... hate will be dammed up in men's hearts and will show itself in all sorts of ways which will be worse than the war.'

The Countess of Fingal, a society hostess, described a sense of numbness: 'One felt nothing. We took up our lives again or tried to take them up. The world we had known was vanished. We hunted again, but ghosts rode with us. We sat at table and there were absent faces.'

Some had lost their wives. And many of the wives had lost their husbands - finding in his place a shell-shocked and disfigured stranger.

Horrific facial injuries were covered by masks of copper - agonising on the raw skin underneath - painted to resemble the face. Still they were better than nothing. 'The woman I love no longer finds me repulsive.' wrote one veteran.

The Savoy hotel fixed a row of nailbrushes to the wall above the basins in the Gents', so guests who were missing an arm could clean their nails. Disabled veterans hawked matches on street corners. Meanwhile, the post war pandemic of Spanish flu - spread through the continent by the mass movements of already tired and weakened soldiers going home - was to kill, worldwide, three times as many people as had died in the war. It was almost too much to take.

The two minute silence marked that meaningful shift from celebration to remembrance. It first took place in 1919. Everywhere fell silent. All that could be heard in Piccadilly Circus was the water in the fountain under Eros - the silence was broken by the sharp sound of a woman's sob.

Afterwards people didn't clatter back into action like at the end of an exam - it extended itself with perfect acuity; a living silence.

Heart rending, isn't it ? I suppose this is why I took train drivers to task on the Railchat forum over their refusal to work remembrance Sunday. I was shocked and disappointed that virtually ALL of the support was in favour of the refusenics and their claim to more money. I offered to pay two days pay to any driver involved to wear a board at the next Wooton Bassett repatriation ceremony declaring "I refused to work remembrance Sunday because I am not paid enough." As you can imagine, there were no takers.

Take 2

I've been doing quite a few gigs of late. Just me and my guitar - instrumentals only. I've been loving it. Coffee house/restaurant venues are perfect for finding appreciative audiences and from one of these audiences came a lead into the classy Take 2 restaurant on the sea front - a punter had kindly put a word in for me with the owner. By the time I'd got home an unsolicited ansa-phone message was waiting for me inviting me to audition. I did the audition during one lunch time a few weeks ago in front of diners and the owner (Russell) asked me to just carry on - I was rewarded with lunch and as much beer as I wanted. (Russell is fed up with paying bands £300 when he's only taking £250 from the customers during the downturn.)

I'd played three hours at The Coffee Trading House on Sunday and was exhausted when I stepped out on to the street with my guitar case and bag in hand. I almost knocked Julian off his feet - I hadn't seen him coming, "What have you been doing, Kev ?" so I told him.

Julian is a lovely fella and an in-your-face, happy-clappy Christian. He plays all sorts of instruments but none of them particularly well. Though he's a lovely chap what he does musically is crude and rudimentary and works in all but a few settings - a toddler's class (he's a primary teacher) or a clappy church service perhaps. His enthusiasm blinds him to what music performance is about; he's a bit like a kid with a toy drum - lots of energy, no concept of what fits and what doesn't but he wants to play it everywhere. I told him that I'd be playing Take 2 on Tuesday night if he wanted to come and listen to what I do ... at least I think that's what I told him.

Tuesday comes around soon enough and I've set myself up a nice little spot (out of the way of the waitresses) in the Take 2 restaurant - only ten people are dining but I like it that way. I prefer the low noise levels to the loudness of busy pubs. My music is perfect in this setting. I'm into my second number when Julian walks in - the largest guitar case I've ever seen in my life is strapped to his back. I'm aghast but start thinking Ah. He must be going on to the Devon Arms open mic session afterwards - phew ! I carry on playing - Wandering Tulip (Chet Atkins)
Next thing I look up and Julian's got his guitar out and starts bashing away at it (almost literally) There is no finesse to this guy - and in any case, even if it were any good, it's the height of rudeness to just jump in whilst someone is playing. The sound is awful - he's not even bothered to tune up. The Manager (and some of the punters) are looking at me as if to ask what the hell is happening.

I bluff it out and show Julian my hands so at least he can get in the right key. I bring it all to an end as best as possible (Julian doesn't take the hint and tries to drag the number out) I end up saying to him "Cut cut cut !" It's just awful. AWFUL ! By this time I'm a tad testy, "Julian. I'm sorry mate. This is a paid solo gig - not an open mic session."

"But you said I could."

"I did ? Well I'm sorry if I gave that impression, Julian ..." I'm doing my best to remain pleasant. Wifey - who was at the original discussion - confirms I most definitely did not say anything that could have been misconstrued, "... I'll buy you a pint and you can sit and listen by all means if ..."

"We can do some numbers together anyway, can't we ?" No, no thrice NO !

"Julian. Does it look like that type of gig ?" I motion my hand magisterially around the swanky surroundings and glammed-up customers like a weather presenter announcing a cold front. I'm grinning - a grin that says piss off !

"I know where I'm not wanted !" he mutters tartly as he picks up his gear and storms out through the swing doors leaving them flapping like a western saloon bar. What am I to do but gloss over the incident with a showbiz grin and an appropriate quip to all in the room - I then perform a rendition of Postman Pat to lighten the mood. (Mine is a jazzed up version which always goes down really well. Here is something very similar which I found on YouTube)

Just a shrug to Russell - no explanation needed.

(From this gig another booking and another lead - The Ness Hotel Shaldon. I'm on a roll !)

A - Muse

My good lady and I visited the O2 Arena in London Docklands yesterday to see the latest Muse concert. We arrived in London early and had a bimble around Covent Garden where we bumped into Kirsty Allsop - quite lush in real life. She was about to start filming and so I went up to her and said "Where's Phil ?" Phil is her co-presenter on television property shows. She said,

"We've sent him to Southampton on assignment because his farts were getting really bad."

I told her I thought she was "Out-raaage-eous !" and bade her farewell. She and the camera crew were laughing their heads off.

Muse were utterly utterly superb and we were very close to them indeed. They are consistently awarded the best live performers awards in all surveys and I have never seen a 50k arena crowd rock throughout a gig like that before(O2 is a fantastic venue - with regret it's well done to Peter Mandelson.) If ever you get the chance to see Muse play live then do - you can't fail to be impressed. By the end the new comers around us were converts too, "My God ! Oh my God !!! It's the best gig I've ever seen in my LIFE !"

For those of you who don't know, Muse come from our town. I play my guitar at the bassist's (Chris Wilstenholme's) Mum's pub. I know that the 'headless' bass he plays on stage actually belongs to a chap called Tom who runs the open mic sessions at the Devon Arms. Chris borrowed Tom's bass and 'forgot' to give it back (Tom now holds Dominic's electronic drum kit to ransom.) I picked quiet moments to get Wilstenholme's attention by shouting, "Teignmouth !" he looked over, a big question mark forming above his head. A bit later I shouted, "Stormin' Norman !" more looks (he couldn't see me in the darkness) - anyone who hails from Teignmouth knows who Stormin' Norman is. A bit later I shouted, "TOM WANTS HIS BASS BACK !" Well that cut through the mix - he gave a look in our general direction as if to say WTF ???

This reminds me of the time wifey and I went to see the Jerry Springer opera and Gerry Halliwell of the Spice Girls was sitting a few rows in front of us. One of our group started chanting, "Jerr-ry, Jerr-ry, Jerr-ry ..." clearly irked she looked around and shot daggers at him and he said to her, "No ! Not yew, silly !!!"

(Mrs E-K was at all three incidents and reads my blog - for anyone who doubts.)

The Daily Wail

An elderly neighbour of mine used to complain that The Daily Mail was full of pornography. It wasn't until she explained that I realised that it often published quite lewd photographs in the guise of indignant reportage. I had to laugh at page 11 of today's edition. It had this picture of Britney Spears and the caption with regard to her Australian tour ...

Lip syncing Britney disappoints down under !

I suppose it was a big ask to expect her to get the timing right whilst wearing knickers in public ... for once !

On the same page was an article on cervical cancer and an article (with picture) of a furry toy hamster. Such wags at the Daily Mail, eh ???

For IB

http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/video/article307898.ece?channel=Sun+Exclusive&clipID=1347_SUN27343

This 12 minute recording has to be heard to be believed. The British PM gets ripped to shreds by a well briefed mother of a young fallen soldier. The closing 3 minutes after Brown says that he knows how angry she is is especially devastating - and I mean devastating.

I believe the letter sent to the grieving mother (littered with errors and misspellings) was an attempt by our PM to redress criticism that he was able to find time to write letters of commiseration to X Factor contestants but not our military families. It's backfired on him big time.

The serious message here is that the PM deprived our troops of funds whilst claiming to support them to the hilt. The rest is circumstantial evidence of what he really thinks deep down about British troops.

I said in a previous post that I felt compelled to 'kill, maim and ridicule' in that order. This chap clearly is not human - so the sequence of unpleasantness is the order in which vampires are dealt with. And here's the photo again - The man really doesn't deserve any better. He who lives by smear must die by it.

And thank you, Scrobs, for this comment of Cherie Blair's lary coat, "They just love their statements, these lefties. Michael Foot even wore a donkey jacket to the Cenotaph once." These people simply have no sense of dignity or occasion and shouldn't be allowed anywhere near great office.

I invite anyone who thinks that Brown (or Blair) has done a good job to write a guest post here explaining why. Because it's my view that they've utterly wrecked Britain.

Remembrance Service

Cherie Blair has a purple moment ...

Brown shows no respect...

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Teignmouth Scouts get it just right.

I was especially moved at the local Service of Remembrance when the old SAS man got up to lay a wreath on behalf of his association. He had to be assisted to the monument - he lay his wreath and bowed his head (unlike our Prime Minister at the Cenotaph) he then stood bolt upright and gave the sharpest salute I've seen in my life. (White gloves and beige beret - I counted 9 medals) The salute seemed to have sapped his energy completely and he forgot how to get back to his wheelchair. He was 87, extremely frail, and this was probably his last visit. I could see other people were choked up as much as I was - a real tear jerker.

A great turn-out and my boys did me proud in the scout parade. Such a shame that the Beachcomber Cafe overlooking the service did not close for the hour. It seemed odd to see people eating and drinking during the minute's silence.

Then at the end - after nearly 90 minutes standing in the freezing cold in just their shirts - the Mayor wanted to meet each group of youngsters involved in the parade; and so the kids had to stand to attention shivering for a further twenty minutes whilst this knob (wearing a heavy Crombie coat) decides that he's going to do an inspection - with leisurely chit-chat - like he's the Queen or something. He was taking his bloody time so as soon as he got past the scouts - who were half way along - I told Akela to dismiss them otherwise they would have been there for ages. This buggered things up for the rest of the parade because of the gap left behind and so other group leaders decided to give up and follow suit.

What on earth was this man thinking of ? The kids were there for the fallen - not to glad-hand with politicians ! HOW COME SO MANY ARSEHOLES GAIN OFFICE IN POLITICS ??? I DIDN'T VOTE FOR THESE TWATS !!! DID YOU ???

(A letter to the Teignmouth Post about the Cafe and the parade inspection is in order)

Painting a thousand words (H/T Lakelander)

Millions made on US dinner circuits. Tidy ! That's the rather cheap cost of Blair for the American people. What was the cost of Blair for us though ?