Of Dovedale 2

Somehow I managed to turn up up seventeen hours early. This is definitely contrary to my normal style. Since I arrived at night I wasn't sure I was in the right place. There had been discussion on the web forum about using another of the farmer's three camping fields, so I simply headed for the field in which we gathered last year. I patrolled occasionally to see if anyone else had arrived and set up in one of the other two fields I could see. Not knowing our final settlement, setting up, at the moment for me, simply meant parking. I couldn't set up in the "comfort" sense, because I did not want to have to dismantle my pavilion (it's hardly a "pavilion"  in the sporting sens though. It's more of a medieval concept, I suspect, being no more than a free-standing shelter with detachable walls) and kitchen arrangement to move elsewhere. As with the night, the rain continued on and off throughout the day.

Having time to myself was very pleasant. I went into Ashbourne to find somewhere to have a cooked breakfast, buy some supplies and find the wi-if I used to post the previous two blog entries. On returning to the field I chose the spot I thought would suit me best should that be the place to stay. I had a lot of choice. There had been five or six other parties when I arrived on Saturday night. By the time I got back from town the "not-one-of-us" van had left. Unfortunately they also left a stack of refuse by the wall, which spoiled rather the view of the otherwise attractive bubbling river. Eventually everyone else left too, so I was actually alone for several hours. I chose a spot in the corner leaving space to set up the pavilion should that turn out to be where we were going to stay. This time I made sure that, although I was next to the river along with bushes and trees, there were no overhanging branches or telephone wires or power cables to allow maximum guano targeting by the local wildlife. 

I took out my folding chair and settled to read some more of Robert Tressell's harrowing "The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists". I couldn't settle. Out of the corner of my eye I began to see flashes of unnatural colours in the grass. Previous campers had managed to leave a lot of rubbish. It was mainly, sweet wrappers, crisp packets, bits of cellophane wrappings and lots of soggy tissue, but I couldn't leave it looking like that. I have a compulsion to pick up litter. That's why I bought a litter picker and have it permanently available, clipped to the inside wall of the van. Unfortunately this was a cheap plastic one I bought last year and a few months ago I managed to snap the handle so that it now flops about rather unhelpfully. I leave it in the van in the hope that it will remind me to buy another of a more robust variety - or, of course, mend itself, but so far I haven't and it hasn't and, armed with the plastic refuse sack I had bought for my own use and donning my working gloves, I set about the area round the van. Inevitably the area increased as I laboured to removed the offending flashes of colour from the grass. Given all the recent rain, the tissue was disgusting and had to be drawn out of the grass in disintegrating clumps rather than simply picked up. There were several bottle tops, empty beer bottles and cans, a used disposable barbecue, tea bags, plastic straws, a broken bucket, discarded plastic drinks containers in those garish colours that manufacturers think children find attractive ... I could make a long list. The great British public can be disgusting. My stomach churned on several occasions and I was glad of the gloves, even though they quickly became very soggy. A couple of hours later I had nearly filled my sack, but my quarter of the field looked much better. I did consider donning wellingtons so I could wade into the river to get the stuff that was stuck there too, but without my pavilion I wouldn't have somewhere I could comfortably leave them to dry out. That would have to wait. 

The sun put in an appearance and in the distance I could just about make out the specks on top of the hills in front of me that were the people who had spent hours getting to the top, presumably so they could come back down again. I briefly thought about trying it for myself and dismissed it. The trek would take several hours and I'm not the fittest of people. Mañana. I had packed a guitar so I thought I would do some much-needed practice. This guitar is an Ovation Celebration made in Korea. It's one I take into schools and it is often the cause of much concern and many questions, the main comment being, "Your guitar is cracked!" I wonder why children think I may not have noticed this. It is indeed very cracked. It carries the scars of the accident that explained how the instrument came into my possession in the first place. I had gone into a small village school one day and after my workshop the head asked me if I knew anyone who could make use of a broken guitar. 'How broken?" I asked. She showed me. It was the Celebration which was indeed in a sad state. During a Christmas service in the parish church it had fallen over from the pillar it was leaning against. Landing string side down it sustained the damage that was so sadly evident. "I can't keep it," she explained. "I claimed it on my insurance and I have bought another guitar. Do you have any use for it?" I didn't need to think hard about it. I had been considering buying another guitar for a while. I was uncomfortable about carting my vintage Guild around Norfolk's schools, but I had no other guitar that was anywhere near suitable as an accompanying instrument. Although the strings had all slipped on the Ovation and were slack I wasn't sure the cracks had gone through the layers of very shiny varnish and into the belly. I took the guitar with the intention of taking it to a local luthier to see what he thought. At worst I would have another addition to my resources for recycled sounds. At best I would have a jobbing guitar. Some days and £140 later I had a jobbing guitar that would have cost me two or three times that amount had I bought it for myself from a shop. The cracks turned out to be cosmetic. To be honest, I would have been unlikely to have chosen this guitar, but I can't deny it has given me service well beyond the price I paid for repair. Although rather quiet and unexpressive it plays, and generally stays, in tune. It actually comes into its own when plugged in and amplified, but I never use it that way. I took the guitar out of its case and started to play. It sounded horrible. I knew it would, but I couldn't continue. That was the reason I had brought with me a new set of D'Adarrio phosphor-bronze 12s and my string winder/clipper tool. Annual maintenance was required. Considering the love and replacement strings I lavish on the Guild the Celebration had every right to feel hard-done-by ... had it feelings, of course. 

I started to play guitar when I was fourteen. One day, my father came home with a Zenith 6-string cello guitar my uncle had loaned him. He never learned how to play, although many years later he asked me to show him some chords. He never actually got a look-in with that guitar at all. It found its way into my bedroom and never left. It was a total pig to play, having an action as high as St Paul's Cathedral, but I persisted. At some point I acquired an Eko Ranger 12 before my father took me to Guitar Village in London's Shaftsbury Avenue for my seventeenth birthday to buy my first "proper" guitar. I tried Gibsons, Martins and others, but it was the Guild that called out to me. It was the start of a beautiful relationship that flourishes to this day. Considering I have been playing for nearly half a century I have never felt I understood how best to change a set of strings. Obviously over the years I have acquired a technique, but it had always been a bit hit and miss. For instance, I was never sure whether it would do any harm to remove all the strings simultaneously or how many winds round the post was best. YouTube recently came to my assistance when I stumbled over a YouTube video which I may add later. 

I took all the strings off and began to clean the nut and around the frets as advised in the video. I replaced the strings with the new set, tuned it up and in a mere couple of hours I was practising. I am the master of displacement activity. Having left so much time since my last foray into practice I was horribly rusty and forgot some of the words and my fingers were getting sore. However, I was really enjoying playing and singing quietly to myself. That zone is a great place to be. Some of my songs are much harder to remember than others. I am sure I have practiced some of them hundreds of times and still they slip and slide in my memory. I could probably have gone on for at least a couple more hours, but a familiar van turned into the field. It was Shorny. We hugged and greeted each other and began to catch up on the news since last year. An hour after Shorny arrived, FireTree turned up in her Transit, which I also recognized from last year. Practice was over. We chatted round a small and welcome off-ground fire until the rain began to pour with persistence. FireTree had no wet weather clothes, but she did appear with an amazing black, full-length witch's cape with a pointy hood. She seemed intrigued that I had more than one coat with me. She also seemed a little affronted that I see her pixie cape as a witch's one. No harm or insult meant, Fire Tree. 

So here we are. 3am and I'm writing a blog entry. Apparently we are due to move into the pagans' field later today when the last of them has left. I suppose that will be when I finally make myself at home here. Raw food it shall be until then. 

Of A Night In A Chilling Field (Or Dovedale 1)

I am experiencing a brief silence along with the almost welcome familiarity of just my tinnitus. Waves of rain have swept across Dovedale since just after I arrived at eleven p.m. and have been pounding on the van all night. It hasn't kept me awake, but the sound is very different from the quality of rain that hits the thicker steel of the boat. This is more trebly, scratchier, somehow more insidious and definitely less soothing. It penetrates the ear and the consciousness and during my frequent periods of wakefulness I find myself lying on my camp bed waiting for the next wave to arrive. 

This is my second time here. I came here last year to meet some fellow travellers who inhabit their vans, boats and tents as they travel the roads or waterways and life in general. Some of them have made this pilgrimage for many years. I expect that some will arrive this year for the first time. We have all come to put some reality on to our impressions of the each other as we have contributed to discussions on UK Hippy, an internet discussion forum. The forum has become my destination of choice for learning how others live, sharing triumphs and disappointments, ranting, telling daft jokes, building and sharing a support network with others who also don't quite fit in. When I was fifteen a friend and I caught the midnight ferry to Ostend. Sitting on the beach the following day we were approached by a journalist who asked if "you are a 'ippy or in any other way connected wi' ze movement?" I didn't know what to say then and I still don't know that I qualify as a hippy, but last year I felt immediately at home with people who felt like members of the same tribe. We clearly share something that communicates and resonates. It's not that I am short of friends otherwise, because I have a great group of friends who make my life a rich and vibrant one. I would feel great sorrow if I lost a single one of them. My virtual-but-now-real friends however come from a broader range of backgrounds than the artists and creatives who make up so many of my associations and that is not only interesting but also very rewarding. I enjoy learning about and from others and last year I was quite shocked to discover that in some senses my life could be seen to be quite narrow. So this year, I am hoping to catch up with the lives of Wandering Gypsy, Alice's Wonderland, Enigma Rising, Enigma's Mum, Trap, Shorny (the keeper of the trivet) and others. I am sad that Mrs P has had to drop out this year - we have a number of unfinished discussions to further. I am very much looking forward to meeting OldKeith, Julian The Gypsy and others and I wonder if the troubled Darrren will accept a hug of friendship. Danann will not be here I think. If her writing truly reflects her personality she must be a wonder. It gushes and bubbles in a stream of consciousness. Each word begins with a capital letter and there is little pause for sentence structure, but her exhausting, flowing prose hints at a love of life and a compassion for her fellow men and women that is very rare in these times. This is the second time she has not shown up.

So, Sunday morning and the rain appears to have abated, even if only temporarily. I am sitting up in my bed to write this and have opened, just a crack, one of the side doors of the van to let in light, air, and the sounds of lowing cattle, bleating sheep, a lone tractor and the occasional passing vehicle. I am kissed by the air each time the gentle breeze breathes on me. Last evening I was met by a UK Pagan who opened a gate to a field further into the farm and invited me to join their gathering. In a gentle voice, he promised alcohol, drumming round the fire and association, but his eyes kept their distance. His words needed an accompanying smile. He did not smile at all, not even in response. Perhaps he has not yet learned to reflect expressions offered by others? He gave the impression of a degree of Asperger's, but I appreciated his welcome. I turned down his offer and decided to see if anyone from my tribe had arrived yet. Wandering Gypsy was planning to be here first ... Or maybe Alice's Wonderland, Enigma Rising and the children. I stumbled in the dark around the main field and between fields and spoke to other people. One group of men, including Rob from Sweden, had arrived and pitched up for one night only. They offered company, friendship, a share of the booze and music from a playlist on a huge laptop computer. Simon told me he made a point of learning one song from the sixties or seventies every year. He had not made his mind up what this year's song would be. He spoke for the rest of the group and said that his friendly approaches had been rejected by some people in the van that had set up across the road and where I had noticed a small fire burning. "You are not part of our group," he had been told. I wonder what group that might have been. I hope it wasn't ours.

A view from my bed

The cows are making a lot of noise and a motorbike has arrived. Maybe I should get up and see what's happening.

Of Old Boats In New Skins

I thought I would add a few photographs to this page to show the metamorphosis of Timeless.

 

I was in France for a funeral when the undercoat was applied, so I missed getting a photograph of that. I think it was a blueish-grey - maybe like this?

Hmm, let me see. I wonder what the next job should be?

More to come as the work progresses ...

Of Nearaway Places - My June Adventure

Setting out on my first epic adventure

I like to see new places. Mostly that has not been possible by boat because of the years of engine problems. Back in June, and during the three months I didn't add anything to this blog, I had a little adventure and took the boat to give my books to the accountant. It's a good 6 or 7 hour run from my home mooring although only about 25 minutes in the van. I prefer the long version. 

The journey was long enough to test out the bread-making clout of the inverter

The journey also gave me the opportunity to negotiate solo my first lock. I have been through many locks over the past decades, but never one completely by myself. Unlike the great lock fiasco of April 2015, I had the proper keys with me for both entering the compound and for operating the penstocks (a Fenland term for the paddles). Everything I have read about going through locks reinforces the "slow and steady" rule. Problems are far more likely to occur when the user is in a hurry. Sadly, there have been several incidents in recent weeks of boats sinking in locks including at least a couple of fatalities.  It was good to be able to go through the whole procedure without being under pressure. There were no gongoozlers to watch me make a pig's ear of it and no one around to offer physical assistance or unhelpful advice. I have often offered help to solo boaters negotiating locks and I may have to think again about doing it. Recent discussion on a narrowboating web forum concluded that offers of help should be refused. The reasoning behind this was in response to one of the fatal incidents. One never knows the extent to which the well-meaning helper understands the dangers of, for example, filling the lock too quickly. I have seen boats take on water when the penstocks are opened too vigorously. Even at a modest depth the water is under great pressure and can flood over the bow and down inside the boat. At the very least it can make a nasty mess that takes a lot of mopping. At worst such an event can be fatal. I am concerned when I see boat hirers, out for a jolly time in one of the day boats, sit a child on the front of the boat as they go through the lock. The child may be wearing a life jacket, but should they fall or be washed into the water they are still in a limited space with an uncontrolled boat weighing many tons dancing about in the water for company. A crushing injury is but one possible horror. To me the thing to do should something so awful happen would be to lower the penstock and stop the flow of water, but we don't always manage to think logically under stress. As to what one should do if the victim actually goes under the water ... I dread to think of possible outcomes. But, thankfully, there were no horrible emergencies this time. Slow and steady won the day. I am pretty sure no one could have been slower. By lock standards this one was tiny, but it took me an hour from first mooring up below the lock to setting off again at the top end. I think the job would have been done more quickly had someone been waiting to come down, but I would have had nothing like the same sense of satisfaction. That was a good adventure. Less good was arriving at my destination and finding the visitor moorings all taken. I knew from last year that the water is very shallow close to the bank and that running aground was probable. I pulled in as close to the bank as I dared, hurled my three spikes and club hammer on to the bank and leapt into the nettles with the centre line. Once I'd secured the boat I set up a gangplank to make boarding and alighting easier. 

Dressed for the June weather

I stayed overnight and, finishing my business with the accountant, I decided I had time to go home the long way round. This is the journey with which I had planned to treat myself before my daughter called for help at Easter. I had only a couple of days to do the trip, so I would not be able to take my time over it. Naturally the wind had picked up and was blowing pretty hard. I dressed for the occasion and set off anyway. 

I had remodeled my chimney the weekend before I set off. That was when I took the boat up to a neighbouring village to attend one friend's housewarming party and watch some of my daughter's pals play their first gig at the village's annual fête which this year was going to include a music festival. The journey to the riverside festival site was pretty straightforward. Even turning in the basin was not too troublesome, specially considering my new neighbour's boat was there too. I had a grandstand view of the show and my friend's housewarming was next door. Going back home on the Sunday was a different matter though. I made the false assumption that bridge heights on Saturday stay the same on Sunday. They don't. Someone had left a sluice gate open at the pumping station further along the system and the river's height had risen sufficiently to bend my cast iron chimney as I jammed the boat under the lowest bridge. This was, of course, in full view of festival goers who were presented with hysterical manoeuvres as a bonus to the published programme of events. I wasn't entirely unaware of the possibility, but my reasoning went something like:

* that bridge looks lower today

* don't be stupid, it can't be

* I'm sure I am higher in the water and I am going to hit that bridge

* don't be ridiculous, you got through easily yesterday 

* I'm going to hit that bridge

* it's your kerataconus playing tricks on you

* I'm too close to stop in time

* oh dear, oh dear, oh dear

* better keep going forward because the chimney is now bent and reversing risks snapping the top off completely!

It was all completely rational. It wasn't the sort of accident that happens in slow motion, because I was travelling in slow motion anyway. 

On the way home an overnight stop in the dead centre of a Fenland village

Meanwhile back on the journey home from the accountant I had developed a healthier respect for bridges. By this time I was on a pretty exposed part of the river with a strong tailwind and being pushed towards another bridge at speed.  With my newly honed internal low bridge detector pinging madly in my head I decided that caution was required. Stopping just short (it was immediately just short) of the bridge I put the boat into reverse to pull it back. This was a plan to give me time to scramble up on to the roof, run most of the fifty feet length, grab the chimney and rest it down somewhere. However reversing into a wind is not particularly easy and I had to perform a number of forward bursts to correct my heading, which of course swept me very close to the bridge again. I still finished up on the wrong side of the river, but eventually I judged I had backed up far enough to make a go of it. Leaving the boat in reverse gear on tickover I climbed gingerly on to the roof. Standing on the roof of a freewheeling narrowboat wearing protective over clothing that possessed very similar properties to sails, I ran, staggered and was blown the length of the boat to remove the chimney. The chimney was hot because the day was cold (this was the beginning of June and we were in the icy and howling grip of a British summer) and beneath it was the stove I had felt the need to light the previous day. I had to find somewhere to set it down and run back to the tiller to try and correct my heading. I found a good horizontal chimney rest against the gangplank and made it back to the tiller just in time to avoid crashing into the bank. After that most things were bound to be simple, surely?

I want to explore this drain one day, but that bridge always looks too low

Cormorants sitting on a telephone wire - there's a song somewhere

This rare and spooky phenomenon is known as "The Sun" I believe

Of Songwriters, Poets And The Unceasing Search For Meaningful Expression

Songwriters and Poets

in The Stables behind The Pub

Norfolk

Last Friday of the month

I thought I would add a little ad. I generally write a newsletter before each "folk night" and send it to over a hundred people who, for better or worse, have signed up to the mailing list. There has been a folk club of sorts in the area for decades. There was also a period of several years when there was nothing in particular. Several years ago, a couple of friends were talking and decided it was time for the town to host acoustic music and spoken word events regularly again.

The venue chosen was a café in the town centre specialising in simple food from locally sourced produce. It proved to be a great success and the monthly sessions were filled with performers and audience members and food was available throughout the evening for those who wanted it. Home brew was also available, although I guess I should give it its due and refer to its micro-brew origins. Sadly, the business fell on hard times and no one seems to know what happened to the owner. The café is now a tattoo parlour.

We relocated to a wheat mill in a nearby village. It all started out very well. Once more food was available from locally sourced produce and I enjoyed being able to come before the evening's performances began and have something delicious to eat that I hadn't had to make for myself. The mill was actually a working mill, producing flour for bread-making as well as bread-making workshops. In a storm one night the sails fell off and the owners never found the money for replacing them. There were differences between the trust that owned the mill and the occupants. Whereas our music and poetry nights were initially held in the cafeteria area, the owner decided he would rather we used to "school" for bakers situated at the top of the mill accessible by some rather iffy stairs. He wanted to be able to shut the café and set the alarm. He gave me instructions as to how to turn off the electricity and lock the mill. We had some great nights there. However the discussions between trustees and untrusted broke down. The business failed and the mill was closed.

Next I approached the landlady of a pub back in town. She welcomed the idea of potential customers. It wasn't ideal holding our nights in the public bar (the only public space the pub had).  We were there for a couple of years and once more enjoyed some really good nights, even though the performers regularly outnumbered those who came purely to listen. We did have some uncomfortable moments with locals who only wanted to use the bar for a drink and a natter, but most people eventually got the idea that listening was a more appropriate response to performance. 

Then came the EU referendum. The day the results came in was our final folk n poetry night at this pub. Whichever way we had voted, five of us gathered at the start of the evening were all in a state of shock. As good friends of long standing we were sensitive to the differences in opinions and were trying to act as though nothing had happened. Going over it again at that point would not have been productive. If the evening began strangely it soon became downright weird. The evidence that the referendum had unleashed something unpleasant in the British public had been snowballing for weeks. During the day news had been coming in of local immigrants being abused, indigenous ethnic minorities being told to go home and before the evening was out we had experienced not only a reading of some very racist poetry, but had also been on the receiving end of a tirade by the vicar who came in for a drink and and (as normal) a natter in his rather loud voice. Between songs and in the middle of someone's set he felt it appropriate to lecture us on the indolence of lefty artsy types. He accused us of never having done a proper day's work in our lives (being accused of not working by a vicar?!) and he knew what hard work was because he had worked in the steel mills. That must have been a good few decades ago then. I have never had the opportunity to ask a vicar to leave the room before. In some ways it was satisfying, but it still left me feeling really uncomfortable.

So, with many thanks to the landlady who has accommodated us for the past few years we are very excited about our new move to our fourth venue. The landlord at the new venue back in the town centre, has generously agreed to let us use The Stables at the back of the pub. We think this is going to offer us the chance to keep the best of what we have (i.e. some very talented local artists) while offering us a lovely room for our monthly acoustic music and poetry nights. The room will be a space of our own where we'll not have to worry about disturbing the drinking and social life of the good people of the town and I think we shall have some flexibility to explore expanding what we do. The idea of having guest performers is gathering some momentum.

Given the extraordinary number of venues for live music that have sprung up around the region in recent years there are already opportunities for people to get together to perform and sing in sessions and in the round. We hope that we shall be able to offer something rather special by becoming a place where songwriters, composers and poets will want to share their work with others who recognise the drive to create and a space where all those who are interested in seeing and hearing original work will want to gather. The quality of creativity in this part of the Fens has long been a source of amazement. At the moment we intend to stick to the acoustic ideal and try to avoid the temptation to install a p.a. system for our regular nights, which is a route many performer sessions around the area have felt inclined to explore. We'll be keeping an eye on this and see how things go. It may be that we shall review this decision for some events, but not yet.

Of course, tis pub is no stranger to folk music. Many of our long time agitators have performed here in the past. For my part, as a member of local morris and molly dance groups in years gone by, I have pranced, stamped and shouted my stuff in the yard and the bar many times while, before the upstairs function room was converted into accommodation, my ceilidh band played a few ceilidhs here too.

So, I hope that this move is a good opportunity for regular, live acoustic performance in an easily accessible place in town and we are really looking forward to starting up on 26th August. I guess we have to watch this space. I'd hate for us to close down yet another business, but I have a good feeling about this. After all, there are hanging baskets of geraniums either side of The Stables' porch.

Referendum Blues

It could have been all over. If only that were true. Perhaps the worst of it all is that the referendum was completely unnecessary in the first place. Parliament is the place for decisions on such a scale as this. However imperfect our electoral system (and I am one of those who questions the democratic value in simple majorities and the results of our first-past-the-post elections) at least discussions take place in a debating chamber where some of those debating are well informed and briefed on the issues and where their decisions and processes offer opportunity for scrutiny by us all. 

In contrast to the recent referendum experience, I watched the debates when Equal Marriage legislation was progressing through both houses. I spent a lot of time in London, outside Parliament, speaking to and adding to the noise in support of change to the law to allow fairness for all. I faced and talked to many people who were engaged in counter demonstrations and personally received a lot of abuse from some of those conservative Christians who seemed to make up a majority of those who were campaigning for the status quo at the time.

The remain in or leave the European Union debate has not allowed for the same degree of thoroughness to be exercised. Instead we were forced to watch a very bad circus with remarkably little information readily available. I had to look hard for the kinds of information that would help me make up my mind as to which way I should vote. I also watched a number of YouTube videos from obscure corners of the web where arguments for and against were presented by people in possession of deep and broad knowledge. Above anything else, searching for information on such a potentially vital subject was hugely time-consuming. MPs, on the other hand are theoretically skilled in negotiation and debate and are paid to spend time in discussing legislation. Yes, of course, there are frequent shows of intellectual underdevelopment but, in the main, debate is rigorous, informed and mostly healthy. 

My instinct was that we should stay in the EU although there was a part of me that was drawn to a notion of “independence”. I was not, however, entirely sure that an “out” vote would make the Disunited Kingdom any more independent given a world dominated by multi-national and corporate interests. I felt I needed to find out what had informed these points of view, because I found the “why” difficult to articulate. I was also prepared to encounter and give due consideration to ideas and arguments that told me a different story. Instead, the loudest noises seemed to emanate from a lot of very empty vessels. The main weapons on both sides appeared to be fear of what might happen and lies about the perceived problems. 

Very late in the process I encountered arguments for leaving that were being made from a socialist perspective and these needed far greater consideration than I had the time to invest. By the end of the process I felt angry that the whole deal had been a waste of time and effort on a macro scale. It had generated much more heat than light. The simplicity of the process was a poorly judged exercise in vanity by David Cameron who took a massive gamble with all our futures for the sake of proving how out of touch he really was with popular mood, contrary to his own apparent beliefs.

Inevitably the referendum inspired responses from artists across a number of disciplines. My song, "Referendum Blues”, is one of them.

The lyrics began to take shape as I tried to explore, unravel and articulate my personal points of view. The phrase, “In or out, in or out”, in the first part of the chorus became a hook and suggested a shape for a melody. In the verses the rhythm of the lyrics spilled out in the manner of some mid-sixties protest songs. It didn’t take long to realise that I was channeling Country Joe and The Fish’s “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixing-To-Die Rag”. I used the shape of the opening to inform my own melody and, in effect, “fix” the song as a type of protest. Before I had written the tune for the verses I also felt that the coda should use the English folk song, “The Vicar of Bray”. Roy Harper had, in the 70s, used the tune for the opening of his song, “Kangaroo Blues”. I wanted something that was stereotypically English and I contrasted this with the European anthem, the “Ode To Joy” from the fourth movement of Beethoven’s ninth symphony. Part of this crops up in all the choruses and in full in the final chorus. 

To me, the ultimate compliment was from a fellow songwriter who claimed after a first performance that he had no idea which way I was going to vote. Quite enough of my songs are streams of invective. Here my emotions were aimed at what was going on while our backs were turned and we were distracted by this whole sorry process.

Referendum Blues

Marshlander

       

In June of 1975

Two things happened, changing lives.

Unto us was born a son

Two lives changed by adding one.

The other thing was just as mad,

First referendum we'd ever had.

In or out, in or out,

Do you want to stay in the club?

Out or in, out or in,

Screw the lamb, Le vin is in.

Wilson, Thatcher, Edward Heath

All said, "Oui", to great relief.

Enoch Powell, Tony Benn,

Noes joined, won't see that again. 

Common Market, EEC

Land of opportunity. 

Coal and steel, iron ore and scrap

Put the treaties on the map

Paris, Rome, Maastricht and Lisbon

Brought us into closer union. 

No lire, guilders, marks or francs.

For ECUs, Euros, all give thanks.

In or out, in or out,

Do you want to stay in the club?

Out or in, out or in,

Screw the lamb, Le vin is in.

Wilson, Thatcher, Edward Heath

All said, "Oui", to great relief.

Enoch Powell, Tony Benn,

Noes joined, won't see that again. 

Common Market, EEC

Land of opportunity. 

Here in twenty ... sixteen

Once again the old routine.

Some say yes and some say no,

Some say the Brits have got to go.

Apply distraction, no attempt

To cure the causes of dissent. 

In or out, in or out

Marginal issues abound

Out or in, out or in,

Tear it all up and start again. 

Blame the victims, blame the poor,

Hear the one-percenters roar. 

Fundamentalists and bankers

Multi-national, corporate arms dealers, chemical and energy conglomerates, food manufacturers and pharmaceutical companies.

Tony, Dave and all their mates

Pull up the ladder, lock the gates

Selling England by the pound

We acquiesce without a sound. 

Services we thought we owned

Are gradually being boned. 

Isn't there a cause to riot?

Why is it so bleeding quiet?

The time has come to make a mark

But does it really matter?

I feel I'm stumbling in the dark. 

I'm deaf from all this chatter.

This sideshow, now the main event,

No thoughts of taking action. 

The silver's sold without consent

How clever this distraction.