Grits and God - the perfect match

October 18^th – What would you take as a sign from God that you were required to do his works?

I’m not making assumptions about your religiousness or lack of it, just wondered. I mean, lets take a f’rinstance. Say it’s just coming on dusk and you’re strolling down a country lane, on the correct side of the road for oncoming traffic, wearing a day-glo jacket and pants. You’ve been…I dunno…you’ve been admiring the beautiful scenery, and as the sun sets on the end to a perfect day a BMW 5 Series comes hurtling round the corner, the driver loses control and is heading straight for you.

You try to dodge into the hedgerow but it’s too late, the two-and-a-half tons of hurtling metal is almost on you when a pig, that has been rudely awakened from a deep sleep by a hunting stoat and is in the first steps of its blind panic, sticks its head from out the hedge in its efforts to escape the attentions of the mustelid that is only one twentieth of the pig’s size and who isn’t really chasing the porker just enjoying the exercise of an late evening run and get the opportunity to scare the shit out of this portly porcine.

Catching you with a fair bit of force on the soft bits between knee and ankle, the pig squeals at the contact and swiftly whips its head away from your leg, flicking you up-and-over the hedgerow and out of the pathway of the still speeding BMW which plunges into the hedge and slowly crumples to a stop. No one in the car is hurt, the hedgerow gently braking the car to a standstill, the pig is still running but will soon find itself back into the herd and on some soft straw, the stoat has had second thoughts about the sensibility of pig-baiting and has moved along the hedgerow to seek out rabbits and you? You are miraculously unhurt apart from a sore ankle and a dirty day-glo jacket. Now, would you class this as a sign from God that you were destined for better things and a long life as long as you pay a little more attention?

I know what you’re thinking;

There’s a few incredulous things here, Peter’.

I know. I mean, in the above scenario, Jesus was a Jew, right? So it’s hard to believe he’d send some pork to rescue a sinner, I know, but let’s leave that go and concentrate on the bigger issues here. Is this a sign? You may think this all a bit left-field, but surely no left-fielder than the epiphany moment Al Green had on this day in 1974.

Al Green was a hugely popular soul singer of the ‘70’s’ and was well known by the R&B crowd for such seminal recordings as I’m Still in Love with You and Let’s Stay Together. After a gig in Memphis, Mr. Green found himself at home with just the company of a Mary Woodson. Mr. Green takes a bath and Miss Woodson enters the bathroom and pours a pot of boiling grits into the tub, badly burning Mr. Green. She then exits into the next room and commits suicide with Mr. Green’s gun.

Taking this as a sign to mend his ways, Al Green returns to his religious roots and focuses on his Gospel works and preaching.

Not gonna argue; whatever gets you through it and whatever is your guiding light and neon sign from above…but…boiling grits…?

John Cougar Mellen-camp coffee

October 17^th – How bad can it get?

John Inverdale at Wimbledon last summer; Janet Jackson at the Superbowl; Tiger Woods in the back of his car; Hugh Grant in the  back of his car; Alec Baldwin on the ’phone not in the back of his car…?

Rock ‘n’ roll is a manly business; sorry, ladies, but that’s just the way it is. It takes balls and furry-chested manliness to negotiate your way through the maelstrom of slings and arrows that come your way; no room for girlies here. The name-calling, back-biting and macho competition that goes on would fell lesser mortals and certainly leave any lady gasping for breath, it takes a tough cookie to handle it and that’s what men are, tough cookies…unless they get a cold, of course, then even they sometimes buckle, and who wouldn’t under such a strain and serious health-threat?

And when it does get to such a pitch what’s the answer? Well, I’ll tell you what it’s not. It’s not having a manicure, a hair-wash and buying a new pair of shoes; that’s real wuss behaviour, if I may say so. Nope, men rocksters take the manly route; they inhale a wheelbarrow full of cocaine, sink forty double malts and PARTY-ON BECAUSE WE’RE ROCK ‘N’ROLL MEN, THAT’S WHY! Never mind all the symptoms telling you otherwise, dismiss them, stop those girlie thoughts and roll another joint, you pussy!

John Cougar Mellencamp had an interesting if short career. Jack and Diane, voted one of the songs of the century by the RIAA, was the hit that established his credentials in the rock game with those busting power chords and tales of young love, shaggin’, contemporary American life… and the terror of growing up in a country devoid of morals. His political stance has been right-on throughout and he has tackled head-on what he considers to be inappropriate use of his music for social and political agendas.

When he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Billy Joel’s address to the assembled great and good went as follows:

Don’t let this club membership change you, John (Mellencamp). Stay ornery, stay mean. We need you to be pissed off, and restless, because no matter what they tell us—we know, this country is going to hell in a handcart. This country’s been hijacked. You know it and I know it…People need to hear a voice like yours that’s out there to echo the discontent that’s also out there in the heartland.

Tough instructions from a tough guy (Mr. Joel) to another tough guy (Mr. Mellencamp) and not a lassie in sight.

You have to be able to party hard, girls, to stay the course, and us guys know you’d wilt at the first obstacle to a high heel shoe or chipped nail. Hospitalisation is as nothing to us manly rock stars, we take it in our stride and gallop on to our next brush with death, like Mr. Mellencamp did on this day in 1991.

During a high-profile radio promo at a local radio station he suffered a series of dizzy spells and was rushed, amid sirens and an escort, to the local hospital. It was a touch and go thing, near the edge of human endeavour and endurance. When the analysis came back concerning the  drugs and nerve damage found in and to his system, my guess is everyone was amazed he’d survived; certainly no woman would have managed it. The doctors, on the steps of the hospital, announced that Mr. Mellencamp would be under constant surveillance for some time as he was suffering from, and I quote;

Too much coffee, stress and NOT ENOUGH BREAKFAST!

Phew, close call there, John…party-on!

Bob Dylan? What, him?! Na, never.......

October 16^th – How famous is famous? I am a firm believer in the fact that, if J.C. came back to this earth, apart from him saying WTF, and that would be to himself…unless he landed in Darlaston in which case he’d probably say;

Fuck this. Beam me up, Pappa

and we’d hear this reedy voice floating down to us as he ascended;

Your fuck-up; you’re on your own, suckers…

Apart from that less than appealing prospect, I figure no one would recognise Mr. Christ. He’d certainly pass as just another itinerant in any park in any major city; even his clothing would get him labelled as just another hippy…unless he decided to take a stroll across the boating lake in which case some compassionate citizen would dial 999 and the SWAT team would turn out to deal with this fruit-loop of a wizard and shoot him down as a threat to national security, the decision-making process behind the wasting of Jesus (for the second time) being subject to the 30-year rule and David Cameron taking the praise for making tough calls in tough times and saving the universe from a fate worse than Andrew Snowden… him or God.

So, with that as starter, who do you think you would recognise from the pantheon of those that render you star-struck? There’s a couple of things working against you on these sorts of things; firstly, seeing people out of context; let’s take a Dr. Who character as a starter. When you clock, say, Benedict Cumberbatch (I’d really like to believe that’s his EQUITY name and not the one he was christened with, otherwise I’d want to trade my folks in as soon as I came of age) when you clock Benedict Cumberbatch in his familiar garb of Dr. Who there’s an instant recognition factor that kicks in. It’s the same sort of thing that happens when we see words that are miss-spelt but the first and last letters are right. We can read such seeming gobbledegook almost at the same speed we could read it were it spelt correctly. Well, when we see a familiar figure on the TV but in a different role they are book-ended with the previous signs and signals (voice, manner, stature, facial features, well lit and advertised by the camera) that you’ve stored away to give you that immediate recognition and the phwoarr factor…if Benedict Cumberbatch is what floats y’ boat that is. But, take the star’out of that environment, put them in day-clothes, slightly rumpled, and in a Tesco and it’ll probably need a prolonged double-take for you to confirm your first impressions.

Now, I’d probably struggle to recognise Mr. Cumberbatch even if he was standing under a flashing neon sign which read;

This is Benedict Cumberbatch

together with a pulsating red arrow over his head, but I’d reckon on being able to recognise, say, Ava Gardner or Jane Russell (would be startling, really, considering they’re both long dead but I’d recognise them) and my guess is that it’s got something to do with what a woman feels it’s necessary to do before she goes out and what a man feels is necessary. There now, that surprised you didn’t it? There we are strolling together chatting then I throw in a curve-ball like that. So, pay attention.

In the majority of cases (the majority) and depending on age, I’d figure most women would want to put on a little light make-up, make the best of their hair, a decent set of clothes and some comfy but arresting footwear. Most men (most) would be satisfied if they were wearing a matching pair of slippers, the ‘T’ shirt hadn’t got too much in the way of ketchup down it and the coat covered their raggedy, Y-front arse: What’s that thing about what a woman looks for in a man? – That he be:

Tender, loving, strong, helpful, supportive, gentle, dedicated, honest, caring, sharing, kind, understanding, emotive, conversational, listening, patient, attentive, dependable, solicitous, considerate, vigilant, fastidious, loyal, courtly, playful, amorous, poetical, learned, intelligent, interesting, experienced, spoony, cherishing, gallant, gentlemanly, bedazzling, desirable, passionate, affectionate, wooing, romantic, sympathetic, empathetic, truthful, amiable, pleasant, well-mannered, honeying, cuddlesome, sentimental, devoted, demonstrative, ardent, amative, embraceable, appreciative, infatuated, enchanting, arousing, inflaming, endearing, doting, lusty, healthy, stimulating, erotic, willing, libidinous, alluring, titillating, tempting, unquenchable, welcoming, magnetic, dreamy, reputable, honourable, humble, self-effacing, admiring and reverential.

And

What a man looks for in a woman. – That she:

Show up naked. Bring beer.

Secondly, slebs ‘n’ stars look taller, more handsome/beautiful and so more alluring on the small/big screen. That’s because they’re always shown off to their best advantage; the continued employment of publicists and make-up artists, lighting and camera men, directors and costumiers depend on this. Remember Queen Victoria who insisted it was her best side that was photographed? It’s not unusual for actors to use a boob or bum double and copious amounts of air-brushing and texturing; its been around for years. So, given those alterations, it’s not so surprising we could  miss seeing a well known figure from the TV, particularly as we’re not of their sphere and so only see what the camera wants us to see…and believe me contrary to popular belief the camera does, indeed, lie.

However, if we take the music industry as a second case in point for this discussion and you’re actually working in the biz, you’d reckon it’d be harder to not recognise someone of a reasonably high profile, particularly if you are within spitting distance of them for several hours. But lets say it’s someone of world-wide fame, someone who’s been doing the gig for 40/50 years and they’re headlining a concert in their home country; what do you reckon the chances are of saying;

Who? No, didn’t see him/her?

Now, OK, when rock stars do a sly shimmy and appear in something left-field, say, a movie, then it’s supposedly excusable that they may not get recognised by all the staff; unlikely but possible. So, when Steve Vai did the movie, Crossroads, or when Jon Bon Jovi did the movie Vampires Los Muertos or Iggy Pop did the movie, The Crow – City of Angels, one could be forgiven for not putting past career and person together…and yes, you’d be able to tell very early on that their efforts and the movies they were in were going to be, and indeed were, crap, but as to the actual persona? Out of context, see? But what about someone who is synonymous with the genre?

Step forward Bob Dylan who, on this day in 2001, was turned away by the stage security people from his concert because he lacked ID and wasn’t in possession of a pass… Bouncers. Gotta luvem, eh…?

Oh, shit, they're playing our song.......

October 15^th – I’m not sure how it gets to that point but there are certain songs that become massively popular, sort of stratospheric in popularity, then transcend their original character and become almost a self-parody, totally passé, derided by the very people who made it so famous in the first place. It’s almost as if the child has grown too quickly and its tantrums and constant demands have overstepped the bounds of propriety to the point where it’s now shunned by all when, in actual fact, it’s not the fault of the song. It’s the media hype that surrounded it, caused it to be every second song played on the radio, in stores on their musak-playback, in lifts and in every other talent show and karaoke bar; Slade’s Merry Christmas is one-such. Once upon a time a jolly little sing-along ditty that would be the high-point of any and every get-together I don’t know of a person nowadays who, on hearing it every fuckin’ November doesn’t groan outwardly and have the word;

Humbug

rattling round their head (usually the first of November, although, this year I did here the dulcet tones of some Tamla Christmas song being played on October 3rd).

This happens with performers too but it’s usually because that particular performer has transgressed in some way and has swiftly moved from media darling to grade-one wanker in a series of well documented and highly public faux pas’…usually much easier than you think too. Such a recent one is Justin Bieber, who’s managed to alienate just about everyone but his mum, and three ants living on his patio but only because they were deaf…and his mum probably thinks he’s a little shit by now too.

Gene Wilder is one of my favourite favourites in the comedic-acting world. I’m a big film buff, love watching them, reading about the background of the people involved, the development of the screenplay, the stories and production difficulties, the re-writes and scene deletions… the whole ball of wax; love it. I’ve mentioned it before; I’m the guy sat mid-stalls as the end credits roll, sticking it out until the Dolby logo comes up as everyone else scuttles out as soon as the last word is spoken. I know, I know, Get out more, Peter! I know, but humour me; it’s just one of my endearing qualities. (As an aside, I went to see Woody Allen’s new movie last night, Blue Jasmine when it first came out. Excellent. Big Woody Allen fan, I am. I directed one of his short stories, ages ago, in a play festival, two-hander, made second place against some really stiff opposition… Death Knocks it was called; funny…anyway, enough; Gene Wilder.

Most folk will associate Mr. Wilder with Blazing Saddles, the Mel Brooks western parody and, yes, he’s very funny in that, plays the washed-up gunslinger to a ‘T’, and I still think he was superior to Mr. Depp as Willy Wonka in the original. I think Mr. Depp overplayed the character, typical of Tim Burton really, to over-egg the pud; the childhood trauma Willy Wonka went through, as envisioned by the Burton/Depp retelling, was totally out of context, superfluous to the already well-established plot. Back-story is all well and good in a screenplay, but I felt, IMHO, that they’d missed the point. Willy Wonka didn’t have a mistrust of children because he had been tortured by his father, that’s too easy, too convenient a reasoning bordering on the lazy. Far more subtle but well described through expressions and vocal delivery was the character through-line of Mr. Wilder’s. It wasn’t mistrust, it was sadness. Sadness because he was aware of the greed and avarice that was becoming an all too important part of childhood. That children were now no longer children, missing out that decisive part of character building so important in the making of an adult, and that they were in danger of becoming just early clones of their parents…and that, yes, the parents were to blame… sorry, off on one…again.

Want to see Mr. Wilder at his best? Young Frankenstein. That’s the one. Superb comedy superbly played with probably one of the finest slapstick scenes in any movie ever; the blind man serving soup to the monster. A tour de force by Gene Hackman as the blind man. The other movie that for me shows Mr. Wilder’s comedic talent off to its finest is, Woman in Red, which has, by coincidence, another blind man scene in it; very funny; super. That film has the delectable Kelly LeBrock as the leading lady in it and has some iconic footage that has been much parodied over the years and which itself was taken from another iconic photo; the one of Marilyn Monroe having her white pleated skirt lifted high by a blast of air from the underground piping on the streets of New York. This is the event the character Gene Wilder plays first sees the lady in red and is smitten…the film’s near-title and signature tune also being lifted from a single that achieved number one status in the charts of 25 countries, made number two in the States, has sold in excess of 8 million copies, has had six ASCAP awards given to it and is acknowledged as being in the top 20 songs most played…on the planet; Lady in Red.

Played at almost every wedding for years, theme song to a million proposals, backing track to every affair in the Western world and with lyrics that are as well known as our national anthem, it suffered from its own popularity and, over a decade became the bench mark for schmaltzy, syrupy, mawkish, sloppy love songs…that and Eric Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight.

The song’s creator, Chris De Burgh, born this day in 1948, also suffered from the fall-out of his monster hit and was the butt of many a mimic in all branches of the media…and I’d like to say that I think it’s a poor way to portray a very gifted and articulate song-smith who may not have the finest singing voice in the world but who knows how to formulate a tune. Say Goodbye to it All off’f the Into the Light album (from which Lady in Red also comes from) has to be one of his best, certainly a great favourite of mine. A fine tale and a vocal line that will have you singing the harmonies to after just one hearing. His weaving of the Normandy landings and its aftermath, using the beachheads of Juno, Omaha and Gold as a backdrop to his a love story of loss and rediscovery is a standalone short-story in its own right; good stuff.

I know there are parts of his personal life that don’t read well (stones and glass-houses come to mind) and his stage shows have lost a little in the timescale (his antics with the audience as Lady in Red is performed having been commented on by many) but it is us who have created this particular monster; best thing I can think of is to give it some hot soup, sit it in the corner and give a lot more time to it’s less well known but far better cousins; Spirit of Man or The Ballroom of Romance for instance.

Death becomes all of us...eventually, even Bing Crosby

October 14^th – How do you want to go? Not as in travel, as in go-go. Fast/sudden? Slow/prolonged? Those of you, like me, who’re dealing with or have dealt with elderly parents, will probably have considered this in greater depth than most. Watching the gradual decline of a one-time vibrant individual is not an easy option; I know every time period in one’s life is different but, with dementia and Alzheimer’s so prevalent nowadays, some are more degrading than others, y’know? With difficult decisions having to be made it doesn’t help when the final place of residence is settled upon and you discover the chosen place is full of people just like yours and that all these people, too, are someone’s mother, father, son, daughter; this isn’t the best bedtime story, I agree. All these people had hopes and dreams for their future…you can bet your bottom dollar this didn’t figure in their equations.

Fast or slow endings, both these options have a downside…well, yes, OK, more than a downside but you know what I mean…who was it said;

I know midwives tell us the first six minutes of life are crucial; I can say without fear of contradiction that the last six are not without their problems either”

Sounds like it should’ve been Woody Allen. Whatever, in the first scenario you don’t get any prep time and no opportunity to ready yourself and others, no time to organise and put in place those things thought important for the dignified, fair and inevitable outcome. That means those you leave behind lack complete closure because they too were denied the opportunity to have their say; one second you’re around, next you’re not, whoosh!

In the second scenario you run the risk of outstaying your welcome and dragging out a painful process for all. There’s only so many times you can say goodbye, only so many tears you can cry (I didn’t do that deliberately as a cue for a song, that’s just the way it came out…said the Art Mistress to the Gardener) and one runs the risk of suddenly snapping out with;

Oh, for fuck’s sake, are you gonna go or what?

and not meaning it, not really.

Thing is, it’s the folk left behind who have to cope. You? Well, you’re off on the ultimate road-trip so it’s as much as makes no diff so, although there’s really only two ways to go (fast-slow) maybe we can at least make the imposition of a swift end more palatable for the receiver.

With that in mind I give you your very own FaceBook guide to ten happier ways to swiftly meet your maker immediately after...

1) With the winning Lottery ticket in one hand, a glass of malt in the other and two ladies/gentlemen of your choice beckoning you to a night out.

2) For Men. Turning the rain – fairy – 12-inch pianist joke on its head and completing the outcome with the lady of your choice.

3)  For Women. Getting into that size 10 little black number for the first time in 25 years which makes you look 15 years younger and having the man of your dreams coming over to you with a bottle of Pol Roger in one hand, two champagne glasses in the other, and having him say;

Do you want to go out with me for the rest of your life?

4) On being told after a prolonged bout of illness;

There really is no need to worry; you’ve got another thirty years in you yet.

5) On being the only person on the scene of an incident, realising the patient needs mouth-to-mouth and then discovering the patient is a partially-clothed Patrick Swayze or Pamela Anderson.

6) On being told you’ve been left the majority of shares in the Balvenie Distillery or the Jimmy Choo empire.

7) On getting exactly what you wanted for Christmas.

8) At the cumulative relief after a long bout of constipation.

9) On completing the required discipline in the sport you’ve struggled in and loved for years.

10) On playing drums to perfection on a live recording of Technical Difficulties with the original guitarists in Racer X…oh, OK, that’ll be just me then will it?

On this day in 1977, after a full and highly interesting life, Bing Crosby chose a number 9 to close out his days, suffering a massive heart attack at the finish of a round of golf in Spain and bringing a new meaning to the phrase, going to the 19^th hole. After looking round the old folks home today where my mum is, I can think of worse ways to go…

Paul Simon's 'Ah, well...' moment

October 13^th – There’s something wistful about reminders of the one that got away. Not going into detail, just to say we’ve all probably got stuff in our past that we think back on with more than a little of the what if in our minds. And I’m not talking about regrets and things gotten wrong, that’s a whole new chapter; no, I’m just thinking about situations, events and/or people that we misread or made decisions about that just occur every now and then. You’re driving somewhere and, out the blue, a piece of music comes on the radio that whisks you back, sometimes years, to a time and place long stored, and the moments and conversations reverberate and cause a shrug, an;

Ah well’

moment in the day, nothing to be done, past now, just…

‘Ah, well.

Paul Simon has a stand-alone musical legacy that most if not all of us have knowledge of. I doubt there’s an individual in the Western world with even just a passing interest in music who won’t know of the album Graceland, and not many who don’t know at least one song from its tracks. Those of you that do have a slightly more intimate knowledge of that album; favourite track?

For me, hard to choose between Boy in the Bubble, Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes or Homeless. Probably Boy in the Bubble. Anyhow, that’s all by-the-by as is usual with these things I scribble. What I wanted to focus on was Mr. Simon’s love-life, not in a tabloid-y way, just as a way of measuring my opening statement.

Mr. Simon has been married three times. To Peggy Harper, in a marriage that lasted around six years and yielded a son, next to Carrie Fisher (yup, that Carrie Fisher…who, it turns out is also a highly respected script doctor in Hollywood, and I’d like to say, even from my own very humble  efforts at writing, that’s got to be one of the toughest writing assignments of all) Ms. Fisher and Mr. Simon were in a marriage that lasted just a year and then they rejoined again for several years a while after that, and then Mr. Simon was married to folk singer, Edie Brickell who, I believe is still his partner and who bore him three further children. Like many a self-searching poet he’s used these hook-ups to compose songs around, not how much I love you, dear Carrie or you make my heart stop, Peggy not schmaltz like that. No, he writes songs that question our involvement in relationships, which have a deeper resonance and gather in a greater understanding of the human condition than moon, June, spoon stuff. One name missing from here, however, is that of Kathy Chitty.

On his first tour of the Britain in 1964, he met the 17 year-old Kathy and they fell in love. On his return to the States she came with him and he wrote one of my favourites from his back-catalogue, Kathy’s Song. For me, it’s nothing short of brilliant, an almost perfect love song and through those lyrics it’s obvious of the depth of feeling they had for each other. As Mr. Simon’s success grew so the shy Kathy found it all very difficult to handle and, wanting no part of his success and the junk all that brings, they split up… Now, IMHO that’s the one he might, just might think back on and, like me and one of my very first loves, say;

Ah, well…

Jose Feliciano and the tale of two countries

October 12^th – How do you feel about your national anthem? If you’re a UK citizen does it fill your breast with pride and a longing to hug a picture of the Queen, or does it serve as a constant reminder of our arrogant colonial beliefs and brutal history?

One of my abiding memories of national anthem tomfoolery was when that chinless twerp, John Redwood, was made Secretary of State for Wales, probably in the John Major government…jeezzee, what an arse. It’s a never-ending saga of entertainment when heads of government promote a person into a position of authority for which they are entirely unsuited (think Michael Gove, Boris Johnson, Kenneth Clarke and Teresa May) ‘cos we then get the spectacle of watching these people flounder around on the rocks of stupidity like a seal in stilettos, and the endless laughs this promotes. The singlemost appalling tragedy of course is that, whilst they are highly entertaining they are actually in charge of the department they are single-handedly reducing to a shambles…and being paid mega-bucks for the privilege too.

John Redwood was like that. A man I consider was entirely unsuitable even for control of a laser pointing stick he was put out to grass in the wilderness that was Wales…can the person who just said;

Still is

go and stand in the corner for the rest of the lesson, please…thank you…right, where was I? Oh, right, well, was put out to grass in the wilderness that was Wales where it was figured he would do little harm and yet show the caring face on Conservatism; yeah, right. Come his first big conference, in Cardiff I think it was, and the strains of the opening to the Welsh national anthem, complete with orchestra and Welsh Male Voice Choir, filled the hearts and hall of the staunchly proud conference attendees…

Ever seen the Welsh rugby team sing these lines of national pride and suffering at the opening of an international? I had the good fortune to see them play South Africa at their national stadium in…2004/5, I think, and I can say, hand on heart (as they did when they sang) that apart from the noise the players let out when they either tackle each other and are tackled (which is as frightening as it is awe-inspiring) that vocal rendition of Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau was the loudest thing emanating from that collection of muscle. With that in your mind you may well be thinking, well, what’s the prob? Mr. Redwood’s reedy tenor (coming out of that slight frame so reminiscent of the character of Ichabod Crane in the original cartoon of Sleepy Hollow starring, if memory serves, Bing Crosby as chief vox…far superior to whatshisname’s remake… Mr. Burton, that’s him, with Johnny Depp; brave try, but…) so, Mr. Redwood’s reedy tenor would have been safely drowned amongst the lusty singing of the fully-committed and highly nationalistic Welsh… welll, yeeesss…except…

What it was, you see, what happened see was there was  a mischievous cameraman/woman (he/she must have known beforehand; must’ve) who thought it would be a good thing to dwell on Mr. Redwood’s face throughout the anthem singing, you know, as in throughout? It gets worse. Mr. Redwood knew the camera was on him. It gets worse. He didn’t know the anthem as in at all; not a line, not a word, not a syllable: nothing. It gets worse. Like a roller-coaster on Barri Island, once that anthem had started there was no way it was going to stop until it reached the end; once you were on you were on… And so it was we are treated to the sight of a government minister – a member of a group of people who posit themselves as all-seeing, all-knowing founts of expertise and knowledge who always know best and have an answer for everything – the sight of a government minister mouthing shapes that bore not a scintilla of a connection with the words being sung by the people he was supposedly the champion for. All that history, all that bravery, all those national aspirations wrapped into the words of a song so dear to the hearts of those countrymen and women bound together by a single bond of fellowship… minus one. WaTP.

My guess is that, in other countries, he may well have been hung by his scrotum from the nearest lamppost for having the temerity to wear the cloak of representation for a country that had such a claim on its own identity and history, that were hopeful of having someone represent them and their claims in Westminster when, all along, they had a clot. There was no great hue-and-cry after that footage but you’ll be pleased to hear, from that moment on, his card was marked in the land of sheep and song and he faded from grace and favour quickly as his opinions on how best to reorganise Wales were studiously ignored. He’s been trying to rebuild his political credentials ever since and, thank goodness, failing miserably but then, once a poorly miming idiot, always a poorly miming idiot. Now, if he’d done that in the States…?

There’s a nation that takes its national anthem very, very seriously…as in very. It would seem that it’s sung at the start of almost every function, meeting, gathering, grouping of two or more people, school, sports stadium, bridge game…OK, that last was a bit OTT but only just. The words are ambiguous and lack the ability to stand up to scrutiny but it’s what they are, and those of that nation take the learning and repeating of them very much to heart, and woe betide anyone who fools around with that venerable institution…step forward Jose Feliciano.

Blind from birth, Mr. Feliciano carved out a name for himself as a prodigious musical talent producing 68 albums and 60+ singles, top twenty charting with over half of them and doing what is classed as the definitive cover version of The Doors hit, Light My Fire, in fact I consider it to be superior to The Doors version, but that’s not saying much as I always thought The Doors were crap. His philanthropic work has improved the lives of thousands over the years and his success, in spite of his handicap, has moved the visually impaired debate in America forward by leaps and bounds.

On this day in 2003, Mr. Feliciano reprised his original performance of Star Spangled Banner (SSB) at the opening of a Marlins and Cubs playoff game. I say reprised advisedly because, back in 1968, when the Vietnam War was raging and body-shaped luggage was arriving back in the States in double figures every day, Jose Feliciano had been invited to sing SSB at a Tigers and Cardinals World Series Game. He did a slow, Latin/jazz rendition, mournful and echoing of lost hopes and dreams by a nation steeped in a war for all the wrong reasons…criticism and controversy followed immediately. Radio stations refused to play any of his work and his career stalled for many years as the vindictive, God-loving, citizens of the good ’ole US took their revenge on someone they considered an immigrant (what the border employers in Texas, who used the cheap labour coming over from Mexico to the US illegally, referred to as wet-backs) an immigrant messing with their ode to a democratic country made up of fair-minded people.

I’d like to think, in the year following this first anthem rendition (1969) and with the controversy still raging in the U.S. that Britain’s refusal to allow Mr. Feliciano’s guide dog into the country because of our quarantine laws when he came to do his first tour here really was the reason, not some extension of vindictiveness we extended to our friends across the pond.

Thing is, I can’t help thinking, if that person had been, say, Mr. Blunkett instead of a Puerto Rican folk singer who had seen fit to put a different slant on a national symbol would the same disservice have been done to him?

p.s. Jose Feliciano later wrote a song about this first visit to London titled, No Dogs Allowed which charted in the Netherlands, so, bit of payback there…