I
was born in Warwickshire-in Meriden to be precise, the village claimed to be the
centre of England. I was raised in Warwickshire. Educated in
Warwickshire-Primary and Secondary school-The University of
Birmingham is my old Alma mater. I have lived in a Warwickshire
village since 1987. My paternal roots can be traced back in the
County nine generations, to at least 1650. So it has always rankled
with me that, despite having written (and recorded) (and performed)
songs about my home turf, in the 36 years it has been on, I have not
once been involved with the only Folk Festival that bears its name.
I'd played festivals in Oxfordshire. In Leicestershire. Indeed, in
Warwickshire, too. But never Warwick. The organisers ( I felt)
didn't want me. And I was too proud to beg. But today a minor
ambition has been fulfilled.
O.K.
It wasn't the Main Stage. It wasn't a warm up act for Billy Bragg. It
was a Fringe Event in a pub garden, so I sort of snuck in incognito,
under the radar. But for a few minutes at The Bowling Green, it felt like Glastonbury.
Amongst friends, with a decent audience and with the sun shining, it
was, finally, a box ticked on the Folk Bucket list.
Intrepid is the word which springs to
mind in describing the journey I made to sing two songs today. I
chose the bus, so that I could sample the beers on offer in The
Bowling Green, and not worry about parking. The down side of this
strategy was that the journey out and back took five hours. I could
have flown to Crete during this time. Or driven to Fort William.
Warwick (like most of the rest of the
county), had taken a damn good soaking during the previous 24 hours.
But the sun shone down today on the oddly titled X15 as it tootled,
Postman Pat style, along the country lanes. Presumably “X”
stands for Express-but that, the X19 is not. I live 19 miles from
Warwick. When I appear at Warwick Folk Club, the drive from home
takes just under half an hour.
Thirty five years of being the little
boy pressing his nose up against the Sweet Shop window evaporated. All put to
rest, as compere and legend Malc Gurnham introduced me, to polite
applause. It seemed a cheerful audience, well lubricated and with
several familiar faces. I felt safe to do “Albert Balls ” and “
Folking Liberty,” and the audience listened, tried the choruses,
and laughed in all the right places. I even had a little kazoo
orchestra strike up to my left:people I'd been talking to at the bar
beforehand.
The
pub itself I liked. I had my Invisibility Cloak on to begin with, so
it took a while to persuade them to part with the Youngs IPA on
offer, but once we'd broken the ice there, I thought the Hog Roast was delicious and the beers were well kept, with a good choice.
In
the pub garden, besides people I knew, a few others recognised me or
spotted the B.P.S. T-shirt I was wearing. All good when your
self-esteem is flatlining. I was recognised too, on the return bus and got
talking to someone else who'd seen us once at The Tump. When I got
home I saw that the Black Parrot Seaside Facebook page had taken
several more hits. What a shame it took the band finally and
terminally splitting up before I could get to go and experience all
that. What a pity we never got to play Warwick. Hopefully it won't be
another 36 years before I go back. I'll have had a telegram from the
Queen by then.
