I've discovered a wooden bench by a dusty crossroads in the country some fields away from where I live. It's always been there, but for some reason I just haven't noticed it before. The crossroads is really a footpath crossing a farm track – the farm track comes to an abrupt end just after the crossing, by an ancient and somewhat ominous set of farm buildings and houses, all painted black with dark red roofs, the barns wooden. On a morning of shimmering heat the farm buildings remind me of scary Edward Hopper paintings of houses by the sea- how the world might look just before you died of an inexplicable seizure at the height of a troubling LSD episode.
I'm probably exaggerating (or, as I've noticed younger people insist on saying – 'over-exaggerating') because I've been managing to sit with my two terriers on this bench quite happily in mid-morning sun, gazing around, occasionally taking out my notebook to write verses to new songs:
'and I see trouble
at the end of every rainbow
a bar of worried men
with slow death at their elbow
and at a hotel
wedding guests smoke in the car park
and later on
the ashes gather in the deep dark'
Thought that would cheer you up! It's the Leven Effect – a verse from a song called 'Rove On Wraith Of Raith' about me and Ian Rankin having a wander and blether through the streets of Kirkcaldy in Fife when we played there a couple of years ago .At one point we decided to go and have a drink in The Station Hotel which we both remembered as being a bit 'grown-up.' Sadly it had been turned into an old folk's home – you can't get more grown up than that.
'and Ian Rankin
stands beside me like a ghost
we see the coal dust
In the waves along the coast
an interviewer asks us
how it feels to be here
it's a melancholy mix
of love and low fear'
Meanwhile, back on the bench, I'm positioned so that the nettles coming up through the wooden slats don't sting the backs of my knees. It's a hot day, the hottest of the year, and the terriers, Basil (white one) and Ronnie (brown one) go over and sit in the shade of a huge pile of logs. There's a scrabbling sound of a small animal or a very big insect amongst the logs which intrigues the dogs, so they decide to investigate but quickly change their mind when the logs start to shift around with a menacing rumble under their weight. They jump off, look at me for some sort of re-assurance and continue to listen, heads cocked to one side as the' krrr – krrrr – krrr' noise continues. Suddenly, to everyone's astonishment, a full-grown brown deer comes bounding through the farmyard and clears the furthest end of the log pile in a single leap, then clatters through the tangled dark woods and out onto the path that leads eventually to The Farmer's Home pub.
It's a big moment in a small dog's life, and the terriers stand, a leg at every corner, looking aghast at the swishing branches left in the wake of the departing beast. I look to see if anything is pursuing the deer, but it seems it just needed to get past us and decided the best way to do so was to rampage through like bloody fuck. I know that the deer won't be coming back, but the terriers don't know this and start darting plaintively between me sitting on the bench and the path home. I can see their point – if the deer had hit me at that speed it would have probably killed me outright- presumably I would have come round in the next life, in a bar in the Hebrides, with Jimi Hendrix saying 'Man you're gonna be okay now – here's some opium' and Greta Garbo saying 'Vood you laik some venison sausage?' But if you're terrier-size the deer must have been like a block of flats from Hackney, full of zombie Labradors (I'm feeling a little strange today – I had a curry last night in London with Robert Fisher from Willard Grant Conspiracy and noticed afterwards as I lay in my hotel room that my thoughts were a little phantasmagorical).
On the other hand, I'm quite pleased with myself at the moment because I'm coping in a Zen-like fashion with the loss of a notebook which contained half an album's worth of lyrics and attendant arrangement notes. First I left this notebook with my friends Mark and Jan Keable in Barton Upon Humber, then finally roused myself to get it sent back to me: I then took it to Scotland, frantically filling it with good stuff, and finally left it on a plane. I usually never mention losing things like notebooks because there is always someone in your life who will say 'well, it must have happened for a reason'. That's exactly what happened on this occasion, and I seriously considered calling Flybe (the airline) to see if they had found it. The trouble was, being a professional, I had deliberately shunned looking at the notebook for a few days when I got home as I had other, more pressing matters with which to concern myself, like getting the artwork done for my next album (out August 18th). So by the time i felt I was on top of things to the extent that it would be acceptable to gloat over my lyrical genius, common sense seemed to tell me that there was no way Flybe would STILL have the notebook. I then had a convoluted and deeply satisfying fantasy about calling Flybe and agreeing with them on a story about how they had found the notebook, because they were such a conscientious outfit that even their cleaners would have noticed that a little red notebook left on a seat may have intrinsic value for its owner, and how we could do a story with pictures of me in their in-flight magazine smiling and holding up the notebook whilst a flight attendant licked my ear. And maybe a heading like 'MAVERICK DARKNESS BOFFIN'S CAREER SAVED BY DESPAIRING MEMBER OF THE UNDERCLASS'.
Airlines. The flight I left the notebook on was the last Flybe flight home from Edinburgh to Southampton on a Sunday night. The flight was two hours late, then it transpired we weren't going straight home – no, we were going to Glasgow first' to drop off some people who had hitched a lift with us' as the captain cheerily put it 'and pick up some folk at Glasgow who are stuck there because of operational difficulties'. In other words, they're saving themselves an entire flight by using the same plane for both jobs and they think we can't work this out, or, if we can, what are we gonna do abaht it? Everybody just sullenly accepted it – well, what are you gonna do abaht it? They offered us free Maltesers – some people accepted them – some didn't – it was all happening...
I really like Flybe as an airline but they do lots of daft things that only people who run airlines would think was a good idea. Like having really loud and bad 'pop music' playing as you sit on the plane before take-off. NOBODY – not even their mothers, wants to hear 'Fernando' by White Plains as you try to explain to a drunk and annoyed Scots geezer that you're NOT sitting in his seat because seat allocation has been abandoned as the plane is also going to Glasgow where other people will have the same seat reservation because they were originally going to be on their own dedicated plane but now they're not because the two flights have been combined into one.
Scots geezer, leaning into my face meaningfully – 'And who told you THIS?'
'The flight attendant told me when I got on board and showed her my reservation ticket'.
'So why do ye think she didn't tell ME this?'
'She probably decided we'd all have to work it out together once she got fed up telling every single person getting on board.'
'Ah STILL want to sit in this seat mate – you'll have to move'.
Look mate, if I do move, I'll just have to go through all this again with someone else who hasn't been told there's no seat reservations anymore – can't you just accept it and sit anywhere you like?'(Note in this last sentence, that I did not say 'look PAL', thereby putting the conversation on a war footing with dangerous and unknowable consequences).
'FUCK'S SAKE!'- Very angry Scotsman now- I open my palms in the universal gesture of 'what can you do?' and hope this will be good enough for him- I'm pissed off myself, and l let him see this carefully in my twisted but resigned facial expression. I'm really wary though – I once saw a proper fist fight between Rangers and Celtic supporters on a British Airways flight from London to Glasgow – there's a very special fear that goes with authentic feral violence on a plane full of shrieking old people, and I never want to go there again.
The guy sits down in front of me shaking his head, and is immediately challenged by an old lady who accuses him in no uncertain terms of sitting in her seat. Later in the flight, when finally offered the free Maltesers – a big packet incidentally, he accepts them, opens them up and empties them all down the central aisle with an elaborate wave of the hand, like a priest scattering spiders on sacrificed children in a voodoo ceremony. This is noted by quite a few passengers who exchange looks but decide to continue reading an article in the in-flight magazine on how much Robbie Williams likes a particular restaurant in Exeter.
Airlines. Once, flying with Flybe from Southampton to Glasgow with Michael Palin, Michael decided to buy a sandwich.
'Mmmm – the Brian Turner signature range' he said, studying the laminated card- 'Well, at least they've made an effort'.
Brian Turner is a kind of TV chef in the UK, a big cheerful northern bloke who is always laughing as he makes bubble and squeak 'with a twist'. He used to own a restaurant in London called Turner's where I once saw Madonna get thrown out for repeatedly farting whilst shouting 'this one's for Britney' etc. Brian's Flybe 'Signature Range' of sandwiches is absolutely terrible, though not as bad as his non-signature range, also sold on the same flights.
'You fly with Flybe a lot – which of these sandwiches do you recommend?' asked Michael.
'I recommend that you wait till you get to Glasgow and find some real food.'
Michael laughed- 'They can't be THAT bad, or Brian wouldn't have put his signature to them!'
'In that case, why not try the BLT?'
He ordered the BLT, opened it up and started looking at it
'It just looks like a normal soggy old BLT to me' he mused- 'the signature bit must come in with the sheer quality of the ingredients'...
'Mmm – only one way to find out.'
A few minutes into chewing his sandwich, slowing down and staring at what he had yet to eat, Michael said 'I just don't get this – it's supposed to be a 'Signature Range' sandwich but it just tastes like the usual old rubbish you might expect anywhere, like at a station'.
'Michael, you're not the first to have commented upon this small but significant in-flight sandwich mystery'.
He called the flight attendant – 'Excuse me – I bought this sandwich as being in the 'Brian Turner Signature Range' but it seems to be just a very boring old sandwich like you'd get anywhere' – at this point Michael showed her the plastic box with a picture on it of Brian smiling.
'Yes, that's the 'Signature Range sir!' she said, as if she was being asked to confirm that it was a Signature Range sandwich.
'Yes, so it would seem, but is it a mistake or something? – I mean, I just can't see why he'd put his signature to a sandwich as mediocre as this'...
Now the flight attendant was looking at Michael as if he'd brought his own crap sandwich on the flight and swapped it deliberately just so he could make a fuss, as a kind of 'jape'.
'I'm sorry if you don't like your sandwich sir' she said, her voice firming and business-like - 'the 'Signature Range' has proved to be popular with most of our customers'.
I glanced at Michael, who seemed to have finally accepted that his mental picture of Brian standing in a big hotel-like kitchen surrounded by thoughtful young sandwich makers, saying 'SO, boys and girls, THIS is the quality of sandwich I expect to see leaving this kitchen every single time, or I won't be putting my signature to them' was possibly wide of the mark.
'Could you take it from me please?' he asked of the flight attendant, politely proffering the remains of the 'Signature'.
'I'll be doing a rubbish collection later in the service sir' she replied, moving on with a coffee pot.
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