I’ve just written the following, most of a bottle of white wine down and having watched The Verve piss all over Jay-Z…
“Wherever you are on the site, whatever or whomever you are doing, stop and breath the air. I am so jealous… J x”
Glastonbury 2008, I salute you…
It’s been a funny old week. Front pages, airplanes, falling over in the street and meeting Sinn Fein is not, even for me, run of the mill.
I spent an interesting 24 hours in Belfast at the beginning of the week, talking to people who work in the same industry and politicians. I established that my colleagues and I have a lot in common, whilst the politicians were very different to any I had previously experienced. I didn’t really get the chance to look around Belfast - something which I hope I will have the opportunity to rectify very soon. It was straight from a very bumpy plane journey to a hotel and then to a very nice dinner and meeting a lot of new people - many of whom I struggle to understand. Unlike the Southern Irish, with whom I have never had a problem, I found some of the accents I encountered much more troublesome. However, as the wine flowed, it was amazing how much easier it became!
The group I was with were treated to an after-dinner speech from a journalist for the Irish Times, Gerry Moriarty. He spoke movingly of his career in journalim, highlighting this through his encounters with the people and personalities we would all associate with “The Troubles”. He was one of the first journalists at the scene as Lord Mountbatten and his party were brought ashore following the IRA bombing of their boat. He was also present at the massacre at Milltown Cemetery, when the Loyalist Paramilitary Michael Stone, killed 3 people and left another 60 injured. He spoke both passionately and sometimes, perhaps surprisingly, amusingly about the changes in the North of Ireland. The speech gave many of us pause for thought.
However, what interested me more were the meetings we held with a number of MLA’s at the beautiful Stormont Estate the following day. I am used to dealing with Members of the Welsh Assembly and MP’s, when the focus of each meeting is on some piece of policy or area of work they are carrying out. The strange thing about my meetings in Belfast was the lack of discussion about policy and work being established on behalf of the MLA’s various constituencies. Each and every politician, to a greater or lesser extent, concentrated their words on The Troubles and the continuing issues in process that the Sectarian divide in the country had left for its politicians to wade through. Whilst their words were often interesting, it confirmed the suspicion I had begun to form the evening before, that many were looking back instead of forward.
We met, as a group, in the DUP room at Stormont. A little over a year ago, no-one outside that party - and certainly no-one from the other side of the Sectarian divide would have been allowed in that room. It made me wonder where that would have left me - as a confirmed Atheist.
The plane ride back was as bumpy as the one that I had endured on the way over - although without the interesting cross-wind skid on a rainy runway I’d endured as my welcome to Belfast. I’m not a fan of flying - and use it as a means to an end only when absoloutely necessary. This was a small plane and I almost kissed the tarmac when I arrived home again.
Other than the work, it’s been a quiet week, punctuated with much sleeping to make up for a 2.15am finish on Tuesday night. I’ve got a quiet weekend, by the looks of things, mostly spent in front of the television, catching the sights and sounds of Glastonbury, without enduring the mud. That will arrive on Monday, when I welcome My Dear Friend to my home, to perform a delousing exercise before he returns to Eire. I spoke to him briefly last night and he has already declared himself “too old” for the Festival. We’ll see how he feels by Monday.
The front page was of the National Newspaper on Monday - and a story that caused a bit of a stir, if you work in the NHS in Wales. Oh, and the falling over? The pavements in Belfast are very uneven. It had nothing at all to do with either my heels or the two bottles of wine I’d drunk…
The Gene Puddle has oft been maligned in this blog. Don’t get me wrong, it’s like a sibling - OK for me to batter, but God help the outsider who tries to do the same. However, in the absence of this Blog over the last year or so, something strange has happened. The Gene Puddle has become famous. And, not in a bad way.
Sure, it was the “Wild West of Wales” in the early 1990’s, but come the Millennium (well, plus a few years) and its suddenly back as a place of fun and high-jinks, rather than derision. I even have colleagues from the Big Smoke asking whether, on their next visit to our lovely offices in sunny Cardiff, I can arrange a tour of my home town.
It’s all down to one programme - Gavin and Stacey. I was sceptical, at first, that any show set in the Gene Puddle would be able to reflect the humour of the place, but its managed it. I know some Staceys - multiple engagements and then rushing down the aisle at lightening speed (although they tended to be on the way to the delivery suite at the time). I know some Bryn’s. To be honest, there are one or two on my fathers side of the family. Never married. Never out of the closet. Never quite hitting the right note at the right time. Then, of course, there is Nessa. Contrary to some rumours, she wasn’t based on me. Even I haven’t got quite that much mouth - well, at least, not unless seriously provoked.
Its a strange world when someone rings you, very excited, shouting “Nessa’s in my booth”. That’s what comes of living in the same town all your life - you recognise the places, not only where you’ve worked, but where you’ve drunk, eaten and done all sorts of unmentionable things. This isn’t a bad thing, although a show like this does have its down sides, not least when the Leader of the Opposition jumps on the “Tidy” bandwagon.
So, today, I read that a “tourist trail” is to be established. The worrying part is the involvement of the local council. By the time it gets through countless committees and they all adjourn for a fact finding trip around Beverley Hills, or similar, the show will be long over and the town won’t have made a penny. If you do fancy coming down this way, you’re looking for Trinity Hill (Stacey’s House), the Colcot Arms (Essex Pub) and, of course, the Barry Island Promenade - right at the west end - the site occupied by Dave the Bus.
For other hints, leave a comment!
There has been a lot of publicity this year about the Glastonbury Festival, much of it not good. There has been the Jay-Z row - the media expressing its belief that Glastonbury is a Festival inhabited by indie guitar bands made up of nice, white boys - and the fact that tickets didn’t sell out in 5.1 nano-seconds on the first day. The scramble in previous years, which saw people with finger-strain from pressing the re-dial button never materialised.
If you ask me, its all about the registration process - too early, too much hassle. You need to be able to pick up a ticket from a girl in a pub whose bought too many (face-price, of course) and not have to submit enough information, including the all important photo, to make the proposed ID Card look like a half-baked idea… Oh, you didn’t ask me. Sorry! Yes, I know the ID Card thing is half-baked. That’s for another day, though. Moving on…
A few years ago there was only Glastonbury. Other festivals paled into insignificance - yes they existed, but nothing was on the scale of Worthy Farm. What’s changed in the psyche of the festival going public I’m not sure - after all, my last visit to any festival was five years ago now - but to me Glastonbury will always hold a particularly special place. So, if I was going this year, which bands would have me trudging across the fields of mud? With the listings now out, I think I can say that the Pyramid stage wouldn’t be my first port of call.
Los Campesinos, Massive Attack and Elbow all play the Other Stage on Saturday, which would reduce the amount of energy needed to wade through the mud. As ever, however, it is the smaller stages that have the real wealth of talent - whether main-stream or off the wall. I’m not sure where else you would find the following line-up:
Yes, one stage, one night. There’s also the Leftfield (or The Peoples Republic of Billy Bragg). Always something to see there (and a conscience for a Festival built on ideals that are close to my heart - but now probably a little to 21st century to be able to say no to some of the larger multi-nationals). Lost Vagueness has gone but its been replaced by Shangri-La. I’ve got a feeling if you go into this area, you may never come out again.
So, next weekend, I’ll be sitting on my sofa, watching the BBC coverage. If its raining I’ll have a smug smile on my face. Good weather and I’ll be sobbing silently into my herbal tea.
I went out with an old work colleague the other night for a few drinks. We hadn’t seen each other in over 5 years, we realised. It had been far too long. He contacted me earlier this year, after reading some of the blacker posts on this Blog. It was a timely reminder not only of the extensive network of people I have come to know over the years, but also that they tend, in the main, to be incredibly lovely people.
During this little drinking session The Man Who Will Be God (or TMWWBG) told me a true story and said that when I was ready to get this Blog back up and running I should share it with the world. So, here goes.
A mother and father allow their 7-year old son to watch South Park (I know, my mouth was gaping as well). In one of the episodes a character goes onto a gameshow where he has to fill in the blanks in a word after being given certain clues. The word displayed read “n*gg*r” and the clue given by the host was “a person that everyone hates”. The character has a moment of indecision, knowing that there was a “bad word” that fitted the clue, but also having been told that he should never utter it. The prize was £10,000. As the countdown ticked to zero, he finally shouted “nigger”. There was a stunned silence and then uproar within the gameshow audience, as the host quickly told the youngster that the word being sought was actually “nagger”.
Later, the 7-year old, as is there want, started to use the “bad word” in front of his mother. She immediately reprimanded him, telling him firmly that it was the worst word that he could ever use. With childish ignorance he retorted “But I thought that was cunt..”.
What this story reminded me was that sometimes we tell children certain things that, in all honesty, we believe to be true at the time. In reality, however, the real world is full of shifts in construction and ethics. It also is a place where something that you believe can be turned on its head following experience of the reality, rather than the theory, upon which it is based. My last year has been filled with both.
A year ago, I had some very fixed views on certain sections of society, who, despite my liberal leanings I would have happily vilified (if not in a tabloid way) with little thought. This has changed. I also had complete confidence and belief in some of the tenants of the British way of life that have, in some fundamental ways, been rocked to their foundations. Some have been rebuilt with an even stronger mix of hardcore and muck at there base, whilst others lay in ruins around me. From some of these institutions I have experienced support, care and concern, whilst others have had no regard for either my safe-being or feelings. Its been a strange, strange time.
I am smiling more. The sun shines far more these days than it did, even six months ago. I am sliding into a new routine with surprising ease and enjoying the smaller things in life. I can now sheath a double duvet and no longer dread the evening routines of putting out bins and recycling. The weeks fly by, the weekends even quicker. There is great joy in spending time looking at the world though the eyes of an ever inquisitive four-year old. Today, life is good.
It’s been a while. To those of you who have been in touch, thank you. To those of you who have leant a shoulder, this will never be forgotten. To the rest. Welcome back.
