Long time standing

I’ve been on  a nice holiday in the Cotswolds with my sister, Wendy. We went on a coach trip;  I know, we got all the jokes when we foolishly told people we’d booked it but it was great. We thoroughly enjoyed every single moment of it, so there!

I always fancied a coach trip; when you’re a driver you go to these lovely places but never get to see anything of the actual journey apart from the road straight ahead, so just the thought of sitting back, not worrying about traffic jams and letting someone else deal with the inevitable (when I’m driving) road-rage while I sat serenely gazing at the scenery, was great.  Don’t let anyone ever tell you coach trips are for fuddy-duddys: we met some truly mad and remarkable people, we stayed in a wonderful hotel, had fantastic food and astonishing entertainment, but more of the entertainment in a minute.

I know the Cotswolds quite well, having taken my Aunt down there half a dozen times to see a  friend whom she knew as a young girl in 1942-43 in India. That’s a story in itself, but not for just now. I particularly love Bourton-on-the-water and beautiful Broadway and we got to go to these places on the day trips. Not having to worry about finding somewhere to park or stressing that I’d get fined for overstaying parking time was just wonderful.  The villages and market towns we visited were lovely, the weather was fantastic and we had a great time; I’d recommend it to anyone.  We met some great people too; fellow passengers who were mad as moles and well up for a laugh.

Anyway, the entertainment. Friday night, pissed off with that own goal in that football match, Wendy and I decided to doll ourselves up and go down to the bar for a drink. We’re both usually teetotal by the way, although that may not be apparent by the end of this post!  Now, this wasn’t a big deal for me: I hate football, always have and always will, but Wendy has a house full of soccer fanatics and is, in fact, a fully qualified referee: there, you weren’t expecting that were you?  She’d been quite looking forward to the football and I’d planned on a leisurely bathe while she watched the match in our room.  The bar was packed with disgruntled soccer fans, so,  feeling adventurous,  we got half a lager and lime each and wandered out into the foyer to see if there was anyone interesting to talk to.  Wendy peeked into the dining room to see if there was anything going on, as we’d heard a rumour at dinner that there may be a band playing that evening.  She quickly closed the door, said, “You gotta see this!” and shoved me at the door. There was a band on; the rumour was true: hurrah! 

I only wish you could have been there with us. We entered the dining room and sat at a table by the window; I couldn’t look at Wendy for fear of bursting into maniacal laughter and hurting the feelings of the ‘band’.

The singer would have been lucky to come last in a ‘Vera Lynn’ look-alike contest, the keyboard player was obviously used to playing solo organ in church, as she took not a blind bit of notice what the other two members were doing and never played the same tune as the guitarist, and the guitarist… I know about guitarers; my son, son-in-law and nephew are all guitarers, my son-in-law plays in 2 bands and my nephew is lead guitar with NYK, so I have a pretty good idea of what guitaring should sound like. This one didn’t sound like any I’d heard before. He played tunes known only to himself, but heavily influenced by Iron Maiden and John Denver, sometimes in the same song. 

If their combined ages were less than 180 then I’ll never let alcohol touch my lips again.   

I have never seen a performance like it. Ever. And I’ve seen plenty of strange performances. 

Vera was resplendent in a little off-the-shoulder baby-pink shift dress, it wasn’t designed to be off-the-shoulder, it just ended up that way.  She sported a Veronica Lake suicide blonde (dyed by her own hand) hairstyle, and wore the sweetest silver open-toed, backless, kitten-heeled shoes, which were obviously causing her some problems, as she frequently walked in front of the organ and the guitar to sit on a chair, remove the shoes and rub her feet: while the band played on.  Then she placed something around her neck which can only be described as a kipper-tie-shaped washboard, you know, of the type favoured by Lonnie Donnegan in his skiffle days.  She attempted to play this by running her now thimble-clad fingers up and down it, at least, she did until the string broke. 

Now, I was at the bar getting our glasses re-filled with more of this alcohol stuff that we don’t normally drink, and maybe that had something to do with our lack of control later.  Wendy described the incident in detail when I got back. 

Vera was mid-skiffle, not in time to the rest of the band of course, when the kipper-tie thing took on a life of its own.  Perhaps in a bid to escape her atrocious vocals it  began to slide down her chest until it became hooked on the neckline of her dress.  Unnoticed by Vera, but to the delight of the audience, her neckline plunged deeper and deeper, showing off her décolletage, encased in a pretty black and white polka-dot bra, to its finest advantage until it became too heavy for the frock and crashed to the floor, amid howls of laughter.  Unperturbed and ever the trooper, Vera simply kicked it behind her and carried on singing as though nothing untoward had happened. 

I returned to the room at this point. 

Vera  must have thought the music then lacked a certain something because she  produced  two wooden eggs from somewhere and commenced to shake them, but not in time to the music, at least, not in time to any music we could hear.   Meanwhile, the organist was having a problem with her mic.  It wasn’t the mic’s fault, I’m sure it would have been perfectly fine for anyone else, but she was in the  habit of nodding her head vigorously in time to some beat or other and often caught the mic with her forehead on the upswing and sent it spinning round on its boom stand, well away from her mouth, but as she wasn’t actually singing anything it didn’t make a great deal of difference to be honest, although she dutifully pulled it back round when time, and music, allowed. 

She was also having a bit of a problem with her left leg.  She was using both her feet on the pedals, as a good organist surely should, but occasionally the left leg found itself with nothing to do for a couple of beats, so it would amuse itself, and the audience, by flying up into the air to a point perpendicular to the floor, hovering there for a moment, and then dropping heavily back onto its pedal.  The guitarist, who’d introduced himself as Johnny No-Cash, played on irregardless.  He was a serious guitarist, you could tell this by the way he kept his eyes closed throughout each song (although that may have been the only way he could get through without breaking down)  To be fair, he wasn’t that bad: I suppose I’ve heard worse somewhere, but I can’t really remember.  He played mostly recognisable songs but with lots of little twiddly bits that the original composers would surely have written in to the final drafts if they’d thought about it. 

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in the situation where you know it would be so, so wrong to laugh out loud?

I have: often. This was worse. 

I really couldn’t decide whether they took themselves to be serious musicians.  Perhaps they did.  Perhaps this was just a stopping-off place on their road to stardom, it had just  stretched out a bit longer than they’d probably thought it would when they were fresh-faced teenagers, anxious to make their mark on the musical map.

So I tried not to laugh, really I did. I couldn’t look at Wendy, although I knew she was desperate to catch my eye; she told me later that for a moment she thought I was on the verge of crying, as my eyes were full of tears.  I held on as long as I could.  I mean over and beyond the call, I almost strangled myself in my attempts to keep rising hysteria under control, but I just couldn’t go on. 

As Vera and Johnny No-cash began a duet of ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ my resolve cracked; I went; big time. 

I laughed until I could barely breathe. 

My back ached, my throat hurt and all my carefully applied eye-make-up washed away in the torrents of tears which flowed down my cheeks.  

We had been joined at the table by a couple of late-comers.  The chap was a bit po-faced and serious looking, the wife looked like she could do with a good laugh too.  She got it. And so, surprisingly, did he. A lesson in not judging a book, etc.  Across the room from us, to the left of the performance area, sat another po-faced man.  On one of this po-faced man’s frequent trips to the bar, during which he had no choice but to pass in front of the band, Vera caught his eye.  It was the  chance she’d obviously been waiting for.  She sang her little heart out at him, opening her arms, ready to receive his congratulatory embrace, but it wasn’t to be.  Poor Vera.  Her face fell as he sidled past her and out the door, but she hardly dropped a note; not that we’d have been able to tell.   As the evening wore on,  the po-faced man (not the one at our table, the other one) began to get caught up in all the magic.  He sang along with Vera.  Vera noticed, crossed to his table and stuck the mic in front of him; he mumbled a few words which may very well have been the correct ones for the song Vera was supposed to be singing, but we’ll never know.  He took a coughing fit and she had to retreat.  He then proceeded to act out managerial comments and instructions to the band.  He mimed winding them up with a key;  he exaggeratingly conducted them with all the aplomb of James Last on ‘Sunday Night at the London Palladium’.  We truly didn’t know where to look for the best entertainment.  The po-faced man sitting across from us did though.  He watched the other po-faced man’s antics until he himself was crying with laughter, while his wife tried unsuccessfully to stop him.  In the end she subscribed to the “can’t beat ‘em” brigade and laughed along with Wendy and I.

It has to be said: a good time was had by all, at least it was up until 11pm, when the organist announced it was getting late: well, she probably had to be up at dawn to play vespers or something.

So we ended the night, waving cheap plastic St George’s flags, placed there by the optimistic management in anticipation of England’s glorious victory in the World cup (shnur shnur) while the band played,  and we all stood up,  joined hands and sang along to ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’: a finer rendition was never heard, it would have brought tears to the eyes; if they weren’t already there from laughter.

It was astonishing.  Really.  Astonishing. You had to be there.  I am so,  so very glad that I was!

To be continued…

Next time:  What did the coach driver overhear which caused him to take a wrong turning?

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