Fourth series, episode 17
All 149 episodes are available here on the HebWeb.
There's fell runners at a fete, two choirs meeting, duvets and sofa sagas, a night without JOY, memories of funerals, Natural Endings and Johnny Cash.
Blackshawhead Fete
At the end of a sodden summer, it was sunshine all day at this traditional English Fete. I photographed the fell runners after their race.
Two choirs reunion
One Monday morning, I was setting off for a wake up coffee in town, when I met my friend Beryl Riley, returning from her weekly yoga session and told her about Jan, a homely looking domestic goddess in LA with quid zillion online followers who has improved the speed of my duvet covering. I described Jan's tips for best practice.
Beryl patiently heard me out, then revealed she'd been covering duvets all week at a friend's B&B in town, in advance of the arrival of Bulgarian and Georgian choirs. She gave me some leaflets for their gigs.
When I got in, PW reminded me that North Europeans – especially women – have efficiently covered duvets for many decades, probably long before Jan in sunny LA.
One week later, after the choirs had run dance and choir workshops in venues on the tops and in the valley, they gathered at Hope Chapel, and sang their mesmeric melodies. Beryl was part of the Georgian choir, which was formed in Cambridge and has in recent years travelled to southern Europe to organise get-togethers of singers from both countries. Now they'd come to entertain us.
It's a shame our friend Steve is arriving next week, rather than last. He was the World Service Bulgarian Correspondent for years, and could have transcribed the Bulgarian songs for me. Failing which, here's an old English folksong, sung by a Georgian and Bulgarian combo at Hope Chapel.
Sofa saga
I imagine the designer of the, let's call it … Singsong … channel hopper, won an award for the beauty of its sleek device. But recently, ours flashed a warning on our 42 inch wall hung telly that its long-life batteries were dying. We tried in vain to wrestle the black plastic box apart during the ad breaks.
Fortunately, Brad, a Singsong man, has provided a YouTube video for hapless customers, in which he nonchalantly sloughs off the channel hopper casing with a dexterous two handed Push Me Pull You technique.
Unfortunately, since his online demo, Brad has received hate mail from customers who can't repeat his trick, and some have threatened to track him down and shove his gadget where it will never channel hop again.
Seeing a gap in the market, Wee Jimmy from Inverclyde, leapt up the Google listings by recommending his special non-slip (reasonably priced!) glove to prise the jet black channel hopper apart. But wary of shopping online, I bought a pair of garden gloves instead. They didn't work, but at least they are a pair.
Darling Daughter came to our rescue. Leah drove over and showed us a video by Sofa Sid from Salford, who attacked his elderly mother's dying device with a butterknife and prised the battery drawer open. When Sid's trick was repeated by Leah we loudly applauded. PW installed new long life batteries, whilst I opened a bottle of Malbec and raised a glass to Salford Sid, the Singsong kid.
No Joy night
After a tip off from Catherine Shaw, charity organiser extraordinaire, poet and masseuse, I strolled along the towpath to an inner sanctum of the Trades Club, where I bought a ticket for £13 from a part-time standup comedian, to watch Luke Wright perform JOY at The Trades Club. The show rated 5 stars in The Telegraph and The Scotsman ('Breathtaking – with a sharpness and wisdom that lifts the soul, and soothes the battered heart.'). So I was right looking forward to it.
On the night, I arrived early. I wasn't even checked for my ticket at the door. I sipped a pint and waited patiently in a seat near the stage, remembering that in my rock band career it was cool to keep the customers champing at the bit, thinking "the quality of Murphy is never strained," until a friend in the audience told me she'd only booked her babysitter till ten. But after forty minutes or so of waiting for JOY, I checked at the bar.
The bar lass said, "Sorry, JOY's been cancelled."
The Trades does a great job, and the volunteer workers no doubt warned all their online customers in good time, but not me, with an actual printed ticket in my mitt. So I finished my pint and strolled back into the night, wondering whether to use PayPal next time, like everyone else, despite its former billionaire owner being a Trump supporter.
Holding it together
A few years back, on Desert Island Discs, actress Helen McCrory was asked how she managed to control her emotions when playing sad roles. She said it was a technique taught in drama schools. When disaster strikes, actors can communicate their emotional turmoil more clearly than distraught real life people can. I didn't know that Helen had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and was sad and surprised when she died later that year.
The most difficult speech I've ever made was in a funeral after the death of our much loved nephew Thomas, aged 16. I was one of the coffin bearers and was also on as first speaker. I walked out to the front in my black suit, turned and saw the faces of Tom's classmates. At some place in the speech, I took a deep breath and told them when Tom was told that he was going to die, he quietly said, "I'll never have a girlfriend."
After which, I stumbled on, with long pauses, trying to staunch my tears, feeling an abject failure. Thankfully, I was followed mainly by more controlled, perhaps more god believing speakers, close family who calmed the young mourners by sharing amusing anecdotes about Tom in his early years. I felt I'd let people down as we filed out of the church, until my daughter took my arm and said, "Dad, I was pleased that you showed your grief. Someone had to."
The other speaker who struggled, and kept pausing and dabbing his eyes, was Tom's drama teacher. But he made us laugh when he told of the time diminutive Tom played Bugsy Malone, and brought the house down when he stood on a chair to kiss his leading lady.
Natural Endings
PW has been on at me to put some money aside for my own funeral expenses. But not too much mind, because she's got her eye on a new bathroom suite next year.
The other day, I noticed a timely article on death in The Guardian which lauded Rosie Grant's award winning funeral business in Tod. So I booked a meeting. Rosie came to Hebden Bridge to meet me for a coffee and we talked over my requirements and later sent a helpful task sheet of items to think about. I jotted down my initial responses.
Type of funeral service. Close friends and family only. No need to pay a professional reader, I know enough people with the gift of the gab.
Choose 3 songs for the service … It ain't necessarily so might be one … perhaps bit of Debussy and Satie as background. Kate suggested Lark Ascending, I'm a non-believer and I'm not expecting to ascend to the heavens in a puff of smoke, so probably not.
Jude asked, "Would you like to be shot up in the sky, like Hunter S Thompson?"
I said the idea is to go for a cheaper, more ecologically sound option.
Choice of coffin … A cardboard one. Reinforced (I don't want to fall out the bottom), so that people can write something - or draw a doodle. Lid shut, to allow space for more graffiti.
Choose a crematorium: Rosie suggested Oakworth, as it's got nicer scenery than Elland and it's just as near to Hebden Bridge. So be it, as long as the Keighley Road isn't too icy. I made a note: "Die in summer, if possible." If my granddaughter has her own kids by then she can take them to the steam railway afterwards.
Choose a Funeral Vehicle. Rosie suggested a hearse, followed by a people carrier. Some people pay thousands for stretch limos, but £200 per vehicle would be quite sufficient. I said, "At least, I'll be able to slow down a queue of tail-gating drivers as I glide along in style on my final journey.""
I was warned that if a driver thinks they might miss their slot at the crematorium they sometimes put their foot down.
The Reception. Somewhere in Hebden Bridge with good nosh and just enough drink for people to get merry but not sloshed. Not a sombre affair, but I don't want people cartwheeling down the street, thank you very much. Mind you, I won't be there, so what do I care?
What to do with my remains: I've had a donor card in my wallet for years.
Perhaps for a brain transplant? That's what Einstein bequeathed.
So I asked Rosie, "Are organs more useful if a young person has donated them?"
She said, "In a word… yes!"
Breaking news: at the Good Funeral awards on 14th September, Natural Endings won the award for Funeral Director of 2024.
Hurt
Out of the blue, I've found myself remembering strands of a Johnny Cash song. Finally, I searched on YouTube, knowing that the song was from his last album. When I put the video on Facebook, Paul Walsh from Luddenden Foot explained that the song was written by a young guy (24 at the time) in a 90s band called Nine Inch Nails. Never heard of them.
So I watched the original, in a live stage performance, and that was powerful too. But Cash and his team had transformed the song by linking it to their own remarkable video.
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