G is for Gigs

G is for Gigs

Most of them are brilliant. Like this one in Tuscany:-

I have sung at many, many weddings before – but this has to be a once in a lifetime experience!  I sang in the setting sun in the gardens of a hilltop villa in Tuscany, with rolling vineyards and olive trees as a backdrop.  A massive achievement for me.  More details under ‘T’ is for Titan and Tuscany!

Then there are the funny gigs:-

It was a comedy and music gig (stand-up comedy and sit down music).  Great audience.  Evening going really well.  Fortunately I was standing up and talking, and not sitting down and singing/playing piano. 

     I heard a little ‘pop’ and then my microphone died and I noticed that the lights on my stage piano had gone out.  My bloke, who was operating the PA desk, and I exchanged a ‘rabbit in headlights’ glance.  I was about to finish the observational humour story I was doing at the time, and then approach the piano for a silly song.

     This was obviously not going to happen.  So I did some more spoken comedy to ‘fill’.  Fortunately it was a village hall and my voice is capable of being heard without amplification.

     Meanwhile, after a bit of looking at gear and leads and checking things and thinking, my bloke assumed that our power distribution board had blown a fuse.  No problem.  We carry spares of everything – and (don’t be rude) verbal fluency has never been a problem for me!

     So I was, thankfully, still making people chuckle.  Out of the corner of my eye, I was aware of someone from the village hall having a quick chat with my chap, and then scuttling off ‘back stage’.

     So the power came back on and I was able to approach the piano, do some singing, and do some more ‘stand up’ and then finish the gig with a rendition of Victoria Wood’s ‘Let’s Do It’.

     I was then able to find out what went on when I was ‘filling’:-

John: Frantically replacing power supply and changing our extension lead.

Village Hall Person:  ‘Um. I’ll check the meter’.

John: ‘The meter?’

Village Hall Person: ‘The slot meter for electrics. I think it needs another 50p’

Oh you gotta laugh.  Rock n’ Roll eh?

And then there are the Gigs From Hell.  Memorable but, fortunately, rare:-

Had a typical ‘musicians – oh we hadn’t thought about them’ type gig with the comedy trio.

     A marquee – deep joy!  Admittedly it was a fundraising evening but they kept selling more and more tickets.  This meant they created more and more tables.  This meant that with each extra table for ten, our stage area got smaller.  We ended up with a tiny stage area, with the bit where I would normally put my piano stool completely missing!  Very scary evening for me and a big test of my 'available space' improvisation skills.

     Anyway, as part of our contract we request food, and somewhere to change, and three chairs backstage where we can sit when not on stage.  Backstage was actually outside the marquee behind the flap that was behind the – um – stage.  The changing area was a recently mucked out horse trailer parked behind (i.e. outside) the marquee and the three chairs were outside the horse trailer which was, of course, outside the marquee. Funnily enough, it was freezing cold and it was raining.

     We were ‘after dinner’ which would be 9pm.  We already knew that that wouldn’t happen (we’ve all done after dinner gigs haven’t we?!)  We went on at 10pm.  They had an auction of promises and had enlisted the services of a professional auctioneer.  He’d brought his own mini P.A system but, of course, there was nowhere to put it (because the stage had shrunk so much!).  Could he use our P.A? (oh deja flipping vu).

     The auction was after we had finished.  Say no more, apart from the fact that there were 16 items to auction in a marquee crammed full of 300 plus wealthy people with bank balances that allowed a certain degree of one-upmanship!

     Occasionally, very occasionally, I fantasise about getting a job filling shelves in a supermarket.  This was one of them.

Second One:-

So I was booked for a one hour after dinner cabaret.  As I had done a similar gig for the guy that booked me for this gig (for his village hall) for £120, and assuming that it was a one hour cabaret after dinner, I naturally quoted the same price.

     Turns out it is a black tie (wasn’t told that) fundraising evening for the Rotarians.

     It’s in a marquee (wasn’t told that either – and I’m getting too old for marquee gigs in November).

     It’s 7pm for 7.30pm – so we’ve obviously got to arrive, set up and sound check, before any guests arrive (they don’t get that one, do they?)

     Left home at 5pm (having loaded the car first – they don’t get that either!).  Longish drive to Cotswolds gig.  Set up and sound check before guests arrive at 7pm.  Discovered during the sound check (fortunately) that the turbo charged heater for the marquee kept blowing my music off my stand.  This is why musicians carry clothes pegs in their ‘other stuff’ gig bag!

     Then jolly posh head-of-everything in penguin suit asked if he could use our P.A. system for speeches (wasn’t told about speeches!).  This proved more complicated than it sounds.  Can they just use our on stage microphone as well for speeches?  Yeah – no problem.  Well it seems that one of the speeches comes with a video presentation.  The screen is not close to the stage.  So we have to move one of our speakers close to the screen – and a mic stand and mic – oh and an extension lead for the mic. Sorted. No – not sorted.  One of the presentations (the one that needs the screen) has her presentation on a laptop.  She had assumed that there would be a P.A. system that she could play her laptop through.  You must realise where this is going?

     Fortunately, as I do speaking, and also singing at the piano (for comedy cabaret gigs), I have two mic stands.  So in addition to the mic and mic stand that’s already in place (not near my stage), there is now my other mic (with another extension lead) ready to point at the laptop for the presentation.

     Dinner was running late, of course (performers will understand the irony and deja vu feeling) BUT we were going to be properly fed – and this is good.  What clients don’t always realise is that we would really rather be in a dingy corner on our own eating our dinner.  Not so on this occasion.  We were at the ‘top table’ and had to endure the most boring people possible for a very long time.

     Then came the two TWO (hadn’t been told that) long speeches and powerpoint presentations by the recipients of the money from the fund raising year.

     Then we had to re-assemble our equipment so that I can do my after dinner entertainment.  As everything was running late (what a surprise) and they still had the raffle (aaaaaaargh) to go – and the Casino thing – could I just do 45 mins instead of an hour?.  This is good news.  The bad news is that I had to be funny, and half the audience (and me) had lost the will to live.

     Then it’s de-rigging the gear and loading the car (slightly hampered by semi pissed audience).  Then long drive home.  Midnight 30 when we got home.  So that’s almost an 8 hour shift.  £120 for 8 hours.  You work out the maths!

     And one of the penquins asked me what my ‘proper’ job was.  Grrrrr.

H is for How The Other Half Live

H is for How the other half live

What a fabulous gig.  Very posh venue.  Hampton Manor, Hampton in Arden, near Solihull.  I was the after dinner entertainment for a Supper Club.  I’d already noticed lots of personalised number plates on very posh cars and 4x4s in the car park.  I thought ‘ah yes, this is the Beverly Hills of Birmingham’. Panicked a bit when I walked into reception and saw loads of black ties and ball gowns.  I was smartly dressed – but not for a black tie ‘do’.  A charming man opened the door for me and said ‘Are you here for the Marie Curie fundraising dinner?’  Relief!  I told him that I was entertaining the Lapworth Supper Group.  He indicated the location of the private dining room.  This involved going through the main reception area.  As I turned the corner, I came face to face with Torvill and Dean. Bloody Torvill and Dean!!  I resisted the temptation to be a sad git and managed a restrained (well not that restrained) ‘Oh Gosh!’ – and kept going!

     Dinner was one of those arty farty meals with drizzles of this and that in a small artistic pile in the middle of a fancy shaped large white plate.  It WAS delicious, but I couldn’t help thinking that I might need a couple of crumpets with marmite and cheese when I got home.

     As I’m not into puddings, I nipped out for a quick cig during the arrival of the small but beautifully formed Crème Brulee. Parked right in front of the entrance (and blocking quite a few relatively normal vehicles) was the biggest, most beautiful, most silver, Rolls Royce.  I do love cars and was frightened that I might dribble on it during my intimate perusal.

     Gig was lovely. Audience great fun.  I thought they might be one of those ‘too posh to laugh’ types.  They weren’t! 

     By the time I was loading up the car, four chauffeur-driven vehicles had arrived. A Daimler, two Bentleys, and another Rolls Royce.  Before I left, I couldn’t resist approaching the chauffeur of the black Daimler – parked nearest to my car.  He wound down the window (did you know that Daimler windows wind down with absolutely no noise at all?!) and a very well-spoken man (yes he had a chauffeur hat on) said ‘Oh I’m sorry, have I blocked you in?’  I said ‘No, not at all.  I just wanted to apologise for the fact that my Peugeot 406 estate is making your car look a little tatty’.  We both laughed.

Oh how the other half live!
Was I jealous? 
Honestly, hand on heart, I say ‘No’.

I is for Irony

I is for I Feel The Earth Move

If you’re of my vintage then I bet you’ve got that Carole King classic in your head right now.

     Every now and then, when I boot up the computer in the morning, AVG pops up and says ‘Did you feel that?’.  It’s usually on a morning after the night before – an overindulged night on the fruit juice.  As I never recall ‘feeling that’ I do wonder whether I left the bottle of wine unattended and it got spiked.  If something had happened, then I would really rather (at my age) have felt it.

     I was going to say something else which I can’t remember because (see previous paragraph!).

I is for Irony

It’s Tuesday today.  The bin men couldn’t make it up the drive yesterday to collect our rubbish.  Although the drive is sometimes impassable in the winter, it is actually fine at the moment.  The postman made it today.  He delivered our council tax bill.  I find it amusing (I have to otherwise I’d stab my eyeballs with a blunt knife) that the council manage to get my bill delivered but couldn’t manage to collect my rubbish – one of the things I pay my council tax for.  Just saying!!

J is for Just

J is for Just

If you’re of my vintage, then you will remember that you were either Cliff or Elvis, either Stones or Beatles, and in a similar vein you are either dog or cat.  I was Cliff and Beatles, and am definitely dog!  So I’m particularly proud of this poem.  When I had my horse training business, one of my clients bred foreign shorthair cats.  She had 25 of them.  They never went outside and there were litter trays everywhere in the house!  She asked me to write a poem about the stud cat. They called him Tut (short for Tutankhamen).

JUST ‘TUT’

He arrives

All talk ends

Honoured by his presence

We greet him with our silence

He stops

Long ears listen – green eyes glisten

And hypnotise

We are speechless.  No one moves

His head held high

He greets us one by one

In his own way – no delay –

A glance

His tall body arches – he moves

One- two- three- four-  such grace

Such elegance.  His face - alert, proud, King of this house

Ruler of all animals – his subjects know their place

His young son leaps from the chair.

For a moment he plays

For a moment a child himself

Pounce, ponder, pause – long pause

A thought in his mind

A moment to think

Then slink

To Her

She speaks to US

He is MAD

A great purr, roll, scratch

Catch attention

It works

She bends down to stroke him

His green eyes disappear

His young son leaps again

Playtime, he thinks

One final purr – then quick – no play

The King is back

The lounge is his jungle

The chairs his trees

What wild fantasies

Such rhythm and grace

What lovelier face

Independent, aloof.  The beauty of youth

Is his forever.

He stops

That look again to us all

Then one- two- three- four

He reaches the door – too soon.

The King has left us.

We silently play with fingers and thumbs

He is still in our minds

Gradually – very gradually – our conversation continues.

K is for Knowledge and Kale

K is for Kupfernickel

Yes, I thought that would get your attention and make you realise that I am a woman of importance and knowledge (yes, coming up next).  Anyway, I was temporarily stuck with K so I resorted to the dictionary for inspiration.  I did find another two Ks of which I can write from experience, but I couldn’t resist the wonderful Kupfernickel. Don’t bother googling because it’s very boring – but that’s not the point.  The point is

K is for Knowledge

I love Mastermind and University Challenge.  I manage a good score when the specialist subjects are something of which I have specialist knowledge (classical music, non-classical music, or something thespian),  and when the general knowledge questions include random things of which I also have specialist knowledge (dogs, horses, and, well, random things). You gather a lot of random knowledge over the years and you often think that these nuggets are a waste of brain cells, but when participating in Mastermind they come to the fore and you are SO glad when you can recall them.  When I used to watch Mastermind with my horribly intelligent daughter, it was one of the only times I could feel superior - unless, of course, the specialist subject or general knowledge questions were about something horribly intelligent. However, young people have hardly any random knowledge.  They also have acne and hormonal issues.

K is for Kale

Someone down the lane has rented a little plot of land from the farmer, and he’s turned it into a veg plot.  Took the dog for a stroll the other day and saw him tilling away.  Stopped for a chat over the gate to admire the results of his hard work and he dug up/chopped down some samples.  I staggered back up the lane looking like an opera singer with an end of performance bouquet. I had some curly kale (scrumptious), some carrots (oh the smell took me back to my childhood when vegetables actually smelt of something), and some beetroot.  Decided to boil some beetroot and serve as a veg.  Wonderful.  But I did look like I’d been up to no good with an offensive weapon.  Was due to go to the bank the following morning, but decided against it.  I already get ‘looks’ when I pop in with brown fingernails after a session in the garden.

L is for Letheridge

L is for Letheridge

Actually, this is my first and only bit of poetic licence.  You’ll read about an old teacher, Mrs Holl, under ‘R’ (you’ll see why when you get there).  Mrs Holl was her real name.  But although this is a true story, the surname here is fictional. 

     Mrs Letheridge was an awesome and frightening woman who taught Geography at my school.  It seemed to me, young though I was, that she had had a complete personality and sense of humour bypass.  She was extremely accurate with one of those blackboard rubbers that had half a tree’s worth of wood to support whatever it was that actually wiped the blackboard.  She terrified me.                            

     When my daughter was at Primary School in Great Malvern, I was horrified one day to see Mrs Letheridge striding manfully into the school.  I had assumed her to be long dead, as teachers always seem ancient, don’t they?   

     When she was my Geography teacher, I thought that she had to be at least fifty years old. She was probably in her early 30s.  Anyway, thinking that I had imagined it, or seen the Ghost of School Past, I let it go.  But, following several sightings, I realised that this was no ghost.

     I pointed her out (from a safe distance, of course) to my five year old daughter, and asked her who she was.

     “Oh that’s Mrs Letheridge,” she said, “She teaches us French.”

     I must mention here that, at the time, I was a mother in her late thirties and yet the sight of Mrs Letheridge had brought me out in palpitations and flash back anxiety syndrome.  I managed to avoid her for several months until she spotted me one day when I was dropping my daughter off at school

     “Ah.  Nonny Leetham,” she cried. (Leetham was my maiden name).  “Fancy that.  And now I am teaching your daughter!”  She smiled hugely.

     I froze. I was, literally, struck dumb.  Well not quite dumb.  I managed a few stutterings that made no sense whatsoever.  Eventually I managed,  “Oh, oh, um, Mrs Letheridge!”   I gushed. She laughed. Well sort of cackled.

     “Oh, my dear, you must call me Beryl.”. 

     I remember telling her, extremely politely of course, that I could NEVER call her Beryl, if that was OK, and that she’d always be Mrs Letheridge to me.

     I pushed my daughter violently towards the pupils’ door and rushed to the car and drove off before she could give me a detention or throw a heavy board rubber at me – or both!

M is for Missed and Motivated

M is for Missed Chances

I received this from my friend who is bravely and most humorously fighting cancer.  

You have to be grateful for all life’s missed chances

the chance to sleep outside when it’s bitterly cold

the chance to make newspaper your only blanket

the chance to queue two hours for one cup of hot soup

the chance never to wallow in a deep, hot bath

the chance to be afraid of violence every day you exist

the chance to weep over a lost child’s grave

All those missed chances

How lucky am I?

M is for Motivated

I’m probably showing my age here (am I bothered?) but I was thinking about that rather amusing character ‘Mr Motivator’.  Remember him?  He had a jolly smiley face and a jolly positive attitude and a jolly colourful Lycra outfit complete with a jolly revealing bulge.  Anyway, I used to find him a tad nauseating and a bit too jolly for the morning BUT where is he now when I really needed him?

     

I am writing this because I am meant to be at a Literary Festival this morning – and I’m not.  Why?  I’m not going to swear on this blog, but when I opened the bedroom curtains this morning, I noticed that the skies had dumped a load of the white stuff overnight and I said ‘****###**’.     

     The problem with our remote but delightful cottage is that even though the roads are ‘ok’ or ‘passable with care’, we can’t actually GET down the lane that leads to the road.

     So.  I’m cold again.  I’m snowed in again. I’m broke again.  The garden looks very sad again.  I fear for the lives of my daffodils again.  My knees and hands are purple again.

     I really would forgive Mr Motivator and his jolliness right now. I need motivating. Or do I? Actually I don’t think I can be bothered to get motivated.