The Cropredy Tales
OK, that's our piss-poor Chaucer reference for the day.
It seems an eternity since that almost completely stress free weekend. In fact, it seemed like an eternity a day or so after it, but we know the reasons for that now. What's a Cropredy? To be precise, the "Fairport Cropredy Convention". Croppers is a village in Oxfordshire where the thing's been held for years; and the "convention" bit refers to the fact that it's a big folk festival, run by the band "Fairport Convention". Aha. Makes sense now, doesn't it. Now, I'm not a big folky (whaddayamean, I'm eighteen stone) - but a whole bunch of my best mates ARE and it's always a jolly trip down for big beer, a lovely venue, a nice festival atmosphere without a lot of the old toss that goes on at other places, pleasant musak to fill the time with and did I mention the beer?
So.... one rubbish journey. Loaded the Kwakker up for bear and headed south, but the roads were rubbish; the M1 appalling. Unusually, this one starts on a Thursday but I was pushing it to get there in time to see anything. Luckily the roads opened up enough for me to give it a certain amount of beans towards the end of the journey and make up jolly time, but as I arrived I noticed the engine was running rough. Hmmm, a bit of a concern, this. BUT.... probably the rest would do it good over the next couple of days, clear the fuel out of the carbs and it'd all be fine for the trip back. More of this later....
Got in touch via the joys of SMS with the long established beer buddy, good buddy and all 'round good egg Mr Ginger Chris who came out of the gig (a nice friendly "in out" security policy here, no hassles or oppressive security) and sorted me out with the important business of the day, somewhere to place my tent in a crowded field and something brown and nice to put in my tankard. To my shame, I can't actually remember what this was, mainly due to the fact that once we ran out of the stuff, they were selling Hook Norton Old Hooky in the cricket club at £2.50 a pint, and the festival organisers don't mind you taking your own beer into the arena. Delayed as I was, I arrived in good time to get a tent up, get a couple down my neck, change out of sweaty riding clobber and stroll into the arena just in time to see the headline act. Yay! And what an act. Jools Holland and full entourage. How cool is he? The answer to that is very. I'll forgive him monopolising new year television since Pontious was a pilot; I'll forgive him trying to look hard in RayBan Aviators, leather jacket and cigarette in the Cool for Cats video and I'll even forgive him the one bum note all night. Hell, he can play. And his band are no slackers; Lulu on solo vocals; Ruby Turner defying physics and gravity... I've never seen a woman with so much knockers in comparison to the size of her body, must have got depleted uranium heels on her shoes to handle the balance. Ahem. Good singer too.... Incredible brass section, didn't realise they made so many kinds of sax and trombone; speaking of trombone, he's got Jamaican legend Rico Rodriguez playing, and incredible he is too. Anyway, cheers for the heads up information that he's a fine night out to where cheers are due; a very fine set was played and we adjourned back to the camp for beer, schnapps, silllibitch and discomfort. This is where Millets of this town get a minor bum note, as the battery powered air pump they sold me for the airbed that I bought turned out to be totally duff - literally a non starter - so hunker down on the flood distorted fields of Cropredy I did, comfortable they are not.
FRIDAY... So the morning arrived. I couldn't stop it. You'd call it waking, if you'd call that sleep. I didn't. More like dozing and turning over every fifteen minutes when you get sick of the ground poking in bits of you. Not fun in any way shape or form. Neither is the fact that I'm camping fifteen yards away from the camp bogs, but they are in far far far better state than most festival karsey's you'll ever see, regularly maintained and the smell you get is only one of chemicals if the wind's blowing in the right direction. Resisted getting up until I heard familiar voices; SouthernSophie had dragged herself over from her tent and was chinwagging with the ever lovely Sal; GC's lovely other half and another all 'round good egg. Pulled on a vintage Corps T-shirt and dragged myself out of my pit and made my morning greetings; GC was moving too which was quite amazing considering he used to be hangover king in my social group... was great to drink with, because you knew when you saw him in the morning, you'd feel better about yourself 'coz there's not any way on earth you could ever replicate the walking dead look that he had. Clearly a settled life is good for him! Bacon brekkie, cups of tea and first degree burns from kettle splash for a couple of people courtesy of the hospitable camp, and then off to the cricket club for the first beer of the day, and a mass flagon refill before we strolled in for more of the jolly stuff, which duly kicked off with an American trio called Mad Agnes... I find it hard to hold any prejudice against three folks who kick off by saying "Hi, we're from America but please don't hold that against us". Possibly a little over gushing of their new found love of England - they've been here a month to stay, and are based up in the Yorkshire countryside - but then, if they love Yorkie' they're fine by me, let's be honest, I'm not completely unbiased about that place myself. Wobbled over and picked up a couple of their CD's; which to my shame as Mr Far-Too-Cool-For-Such-Nonsense. I duly got signed by the band. Oh well, nobody need know. Except my mates. And the entire Internet. Oh damn. Is it too late to stop this post? Ah.
Other highlights of Friday... Viva Santana; difficult to get excited about what's basically a tribute band but credit where it is due, they really are excellent, exciting and get a crowd up. That's a tick in the box for a band to go and see if they're ever in the neighbourhood. It would appear that Hispanic guitar rock is just what the doctor orders to make fat women shake their arses in sunlight.
Oh, and onstage, Onslow was the the compere for the day. Weirdness. No, really. The ac-TOR from Keeping Up Appearances. Does it every year, the man's a fan.
And then Show of Hands. Pretty much regarded as gods in the British folk world, and very excellent they are too; two guys, the multi-instrumentalist Phil Beer who is by all accounts a grounded and excellent geezer, and has far more ability than it's fair for one man to have; and a chap called Steve Knightly who managed to get on my tits very quickly in this set by being over-preachy, over political, over-liberal and then had me grumbling for the rest of the set... the dual position of "shite, these songs are excellent" with " I don't give a TOSS what your opinions are, jam them down my throat NOT, sir !!". Duality of approach, don't you love it. "An artist is a bloke who can hold two fundamentally opposing views and still function." Scott Fitzgerald, was it? Plagiarised via John Le Carre of course :o). To demonstrate the fundamental hypocrisy of my position, loved "cousin Jack"; "country life" and the one about the tin miners..... while "Santiago" and "Britannia" made my teeth grind. And the one they encored with? Something about roots? Need to know what that one is too. Damn, the duality of it all. And more "little bit of politics" from Richard Thompson, origional Fairport member and left flank radical; but he's a total guitar god and I spent most of the set filling my face anyway. Remember the Dave's Insanity Sauce reference? Think that was today. Anyhow, the good news is that thanks to the strange bloke called James who moved in to the patch of grass next to me - a very odd chap with a goatee and a banjo who also had an air pump; I now had a fully functional airbed and no longer had to make combat with the undulations of the Cotswold countryside if I wanted to get any rest....
SATURDAY... Who left that dinosaur roaming loose in the campsite that crapped in my mouth in the small hours? Distinctly unhealthy start to the day, basically woke up dead. Revived significantly on the promise of tea, and once sat down was fed raspberries for brekkie and Private Eye to read so that's an improvement than the cat's arse in my face and works coffee to start the morning with. A visit to the karsey's made me wish I hadn't, then returned to the village shop where they were queueing twenty minutes to obtain mineral water, orange juice and bog roll. Back in via the cricket club bar to raid the last barrel of Old Hooky... another flagon full and another tankard to get the first drink of the day down my neck. Hooky's one of the better ones for that; overstrong as it is, it's always fresh enough to taste and always pleasant to drink, no matter how many tyrannosaurus dangleberries are stuck in between your teeth.
The thing with croppers is that it's full of old hippies, new hippies, wannabe types and alternatives without making it as in your face as say, Glastonbury. It doesn't feel forced. Where else do I get chilled / drunk enough to lay on my back in the middle of a grassy field, lay back and and simply think and say "I like that cloud"?....
It seems an eternity since that almost completely stress free weekend. In fact, it seemed like an eternity a day or so after it, but we know the reasons for that now. What's a Cropredy? To be precise, the "Fairport Cropredy Convention". Croppers is a village in Oxfordshire where the thing's been held for years; and the "convention" bit refers to the fact that it's a big folk festival, run by the band "Fairport Convention". Aha. Makes sense now, doesn't it. Now, I'm not a big folky (whaddayamean, I'm eighteen stone) - but a whole bunch of my best mates ARE and it's always a jolly trip down for big beer, a lovely venue, a nice festival atmosphere without a lot of the old toss that goes on at other places, pleasant musak to fill the time with and did I mention the beer?
So.... one rubbish journey. Loaded the Kwakker up for bear and headed south, but the roads were rubbish; the M1 appalling. Unusually, this one starts on a Thursday but I was pushing it to get there in time to see anything. Luckily the roads opened up enough for me to give it a certain amount of beans towards the end of the journey and make up jolly time, but as I arrived I noticed the engine was running rough. Hmmm, a bit of a concern, this. BUT.... probably the rest would do it good over the next couple of days, clear the fuel out of the carbs and it'd all be fine for the trip back. More of this later....
Got in touch via the joys of SMS with the long established beer buddy, good buddy and all 'round good egg Mr Ginger Chris who came out of the gig (a nice friendly "in out" security policy here, no hassles or oppressive security) and sorted me out with the important business of the day, somewhere to place my tent in a crowded field and something brown and nice to put in my tankard. To my shame, I can't actually remember what this was, mainly due to the fact that once we ran out of the stuff, they were selling Hook Norton Old Hooky in the cricket club at £2.50 a pint, and the festival organisers don't mind you taking your own beer into the arena. Delayed as I was, I arrived in good time to get a tent up, get a couple down my neck, change out of sweaty riding clobber and stroll into the arena just in time to see the headline act. Yay! And what an act. Jools Holland and full entourage. How cool is he? The answer to that is very. I'll forgive him monopolising new year television since Pontious was a pilot; I'll forgive him trying to look hard in RayBan Aviators, leather jacket and cigarette in the Cool for Cats video and I'll even forgive him the one bum note all night. Hell, he can play. And his band are no slackers; Lulu on solo vocals; Ruby Turner defying physics and gravity... I've never seen a woman with so much knockers in comparison to the size of her body, must have got depleted uranium heels on her shoes to handle the balance. Ahem. Good singer too.... Incredible brass section, didn't realise they made so many kinds of sax and trombone; speaking of trombone, he's got Jamaican legend Rico Rodriguez playing, and incredible he is too. Anyway, cheers for the heads up information that he's a fine night out to where cheers are due; a very fine set was played and we adjourned back to the camp for beer, schnapps, silllibitch and discomfort. This is where Millets of this town get a minor bum note, as the battery powered air pump they sold me for the airbed that I bought turned out to be totally duff - literally a non starter - so hunker down on the flood distorted fields of Cropredy I did, comfortable they are not.
FRIDAY... So the morning arrived. I couldn't stop it. You'd call it waking, if you'd call that sleep. I didn't. More like dozing and turning over every fifteen minutes when you get sick of the ground poking in bits of you. Not fun in any way shape or form. Neither is the fact that I'm camping fifteen yards away from the camp bogs, but they are in far far far better state than most festival karsey's you'll ever see, regularly maintained and the smell you get is only one of chemicals if the wind's blowing in the right direction. Resisted getting up until I heard familiar voices; SouthernSophie had dragged herself over from her tent and was chinwagging with the ever lovely Sal; GC's lovely other half and another all 'round good egg. Pulled on a vintage Corps T-shirt and dragged myself out of my pit and made my morning greetings; GC was moving too which was quite amazing considering he used to be hangover king in my social group... was great to drink with, because you knew when you saw him in the morning, you'd feel better about yourself 'coz there's not any way on earth you could ever replicate the walking dead look that he had. Clearly a settled life is good for him! Bacon brekkie, cups of tea and first degree burns from kettle splash for a couple of people courtesy of the hospitable camp, and then off to the cricket club for the first beer of the day, and a mass flagon refill before we strolled in for more of the jolly stuff, which duly kicked off with an American trio called Mad Agnes... I find it hard to hold any prejudice against three folks who kick off by saying "Hi, we're from America but please don't hold that against us". Possibly a little over gushing of their new found love of England - they've been here a month to stay, and are based up in the Yorkshire countryside - but then, if they love Yorkie' they're fine by me, let's be honest, I'm not completely unbiased about that place myself. Wobbled over and picked up a couple of their CD's; which to my shame as Mr Far-Too-Cool-For-Such-Nonsense. I duly got signed by the band. Oh well, nobody need know. Except my mates. And the entire Internet. Oh damn. Is it too late to stop this post? Ah.
Other highlights of Friday... Viva Santana; difficult to get excited about what's basically a tribute band but credit where it is due, they really are excellent, exciting and get a crowd up. That's a tick in the box for a band to go and see if they're ever in the neighbourhood. It would appear that Hispanic guitar rock is just what the doctor orders to make fat women shake their arses in sunlight.
Oh, and onstage, Onslow was the the compere for the day. Weirdness. No, really. The ac-TOR from Keeping Up Appearances. Does it every year, the man's a fan.
And then Show of Hands. Pretty much regarded as gods in the British folk world, and very excellent they are too; two guys, the multi-instrumentalist Phil Beer who is by all accounts a grounded and excellent geezer, and has far more ability than it's fair for one man to have; and a chap called Steve Knightly who managed to get on my tits very quickly in this set by being over-preachy, over political, over-liberal and then had me grumbling for the rest of the set... the dual position of "shite, these songs are excellent" with " I don't give a TOSS what your opinions are, jam them down my throat NOT, sir !!". Duality of approach, don't you love it. "An artist is a bloke who can hold two fundamentally opposing views and still function." Scott Fitzgerald, was it? Plagiarised via John Le Carre of course :o). To demonstrate the fundamental hypocrisy of my position, loved "cousin Jack"; "country life" and the one about the tin miners..... while "Santiago" and "Britannia" made my teeth grind. And the one they encored with? Something about roots? Need to know what that one is too. Damn, the duality of it all. And more "little bit of politics" from Richard Thompson, origional Fairport member and left flank radical; but he's a total guitar god and I spent most of the set filling my face anyway. Remember the Dave's Insanity Sauce reference? Think that was today. Anyhow, the good news is that thanks to the strange bloke called James who moved in to the patch of grass next to me - a very odd chap with a goatee and a banjo who also had an air pump; I now had a fully functional airbed and no longer had to make combat with the undulations of the Cotswold countryside if I wanted to get any rest....
SATURDAY... Who left that dinosaur roaming loose in the campsite that crapped in my mouth in the small hours? Distinctly unhealthy start to the day, basically woke up dead. Revived significantly on the promise of tea, and once sat down was fed raspberries for brekkie and Private Eye to read so that's an improvement than the cat's arse in my face and works coffee to start the morning with. A visit to the karsey's made me wish I hadn't, then returned to the village shop where they were queueing twenty minutes to obtain mineral water, orange juice and bog roll. Back in via the cricket club bar to raid the last barrel of Old Hooky... another flagon full and another tankard to get the first drink of the day down my neck. Hooky's one of the better ones for that; overstrong as it is, it's always fresh enough to taste and always pleasant to drink, no matter how many tyrannosaurus dangleberries are stuck in between your teeth.
The thing with croppers is that it's full of old hippies, new hippies, wannabe types and alternatives without making it as in your face as say, Glastonbury. It doesn't feel forced. Where else do I get chilled / drunk enough to lay on my back in the middle of a grassy field, lay back and and simply think and say "I like that cloud"?....
..... (that one actually)
.... and get away with it? Where else could I get away with such appalling punctuation? And where else could I be still on my feet after drinking this much beer in two days?
Highlights of the day; running into the Saints mob in the crowd and playing the "pegging game" with them and having all kinds of strange wines and spirits forced down my neck; "Giveway", a new Scottish folk band made up entirely of nubile young sisters, mmmmm; The Strawbs... massive "old hippy" rating for this bunch and a massive bit of North Easterness quality and fun from Billy Mitchell (former Lindesfarne bloke) and Bob Fox (all round folk singing god) who've duo'd up for a couple of summers now, before the traditional Fairport Convention headline spot. Yeah, I know it's a bit samey to have the same band every year but it's their festival and they'll star if they want to. It's a very together experince for the regular Fairportisti of which there are thousands, and it predictably finshes up with the finale of "Meet on the Ledge", a gratuatously sentimental folk anthem about the solidity of old friendships, and lets face it, everyone likes that sort of song, especially those folks who've got old friends who are just brilliant.
Wouldn't catch me singing along to that while holding hands with a big bunch of mates in a big ring, oh no.
posted by Fred the Singing Bandit at 4:14 pm
1 Comments:
Ah but we know you did and baked the fairy cakes on the magic campfire.
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