Today I have mostly been experimenting with Death Metal reworkings of Unthanks songs, and holding a ladder. What’s that you’re saying? You’ve spent your day doing that too? Really? Or are you just trying to be funny? OK, you’re just trying to be funny. Hmm, no disrespect but how about leaving the jokes to me? You’re only embarrassing yourself, or at least you would be if anyone else could read your thoughts. Fortunately for you it is unlikely that they can. It’s just a weird gift that I seem to have which manifests itself from time-to-time when I’m writing these blogs. Suddenly a funny feeling comes over me – I won’t go into detail about that, in case there are children present – and then I gain an insight into the thought process of one or a few of my blog readers. Yes, I know it’s a bit weird, you’re right, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Oh, and yes, your bum does look big in that, by the way.
The reason I was doing death metal re-workings of Unthanks songs was for The Young’uns In the Mix, a musical experiment combining folk with pop, taking place on Saturday 20th August at the Folk East Festival in Suffolk. It shall also be available as a podcast in August.
The reason I was holding a ladder was for my housemate Ben. Now, given that I know what some of you are thinking, I want to point out that the ladder holding was purely utilitarian; it wasn’t some kind of kinky pastime. Ben doesn’t get turned on by seeing me hold a ladder, OK? I just wanted to quash that idea right there. Now if it had been me supervising some scaffolding, then granted, that might be different. But scaffolding ain’t cheep, plus if Ben’s girlfriend Elsa found out then we’d be for it again. Fortunately, Ben is ambivalent when it comes to me holding ladders, so he was able to concentrate on the task at hand, which was painting the upstairs window sills. The ladder is rather tall but very narrow with not much room for manoeuvre, and a bit unstable, so I was making sure that he didn’t fall.
After half an hour, I heard Ben shout to me from the roof, “David, I’m ready to go down, pull it out and get ready to take me.”
Oh dear, maybe I was wrong about Ben and ladders after all. He clearly had been aroused by seeing me with a ladder, and now he was asking me to pull it out while he went down. I felt guilty for leading him on. I hadn’t meant to, but I clearly had given him ideas. I began to think about how I could break his heart gently. I’d have to be careful about rejecting him too abruptly. After all, he was standing on the roof; he might jump. I carefully considered my words, but my cogitations were interrupted by Ben shouting at me once again. My god, he is insatiable.
“David, did you hear me? Can you pull the ladder out, I want to climb down. Get ready to take my weight”
Ah, I see, he wasn’t making a sexual declaration after all. I got the ladder and positioned it ready for Ben to clamber down, while I let out a big sigh of relief.
“Stop the heavy breathing David,” said Ben, as he touched the ground, “I’m not turned on.” What an absolute cheek, imagining that I’d be interested; sometimes Ben’s arrogance astounds me.
Just then, we realised the time. Elsa would be back from work soon. We better put the ladder away quickly before she came back. I know that what happened between us before was scaffolding based, but it’s not worth risking Elsa’s suspicions; I’m not sure she’d really appreciate the distinction.
I am now in The Young’uns van, heading to Broadstairs in Kent, where we are performing tomorrow. The distinctive thing about Broadstairs Folk festival, in contrast with many other folk festivals, is that everything takes place in locations within the town, rather than on a separate site. This means that on the Friday and Saturday nights, the streets are alive with an unlikely combination of drunken teenagers and twenty-somethings out clubbing, and old morris dancers, jingling their way to one of the pubs. I imagine as the night goes on and alcohol consumption increases, the night will take a very peculiar turn for some of these revellers, leading to some rather interesting morning after conversations.
“Oh my god, I pulled a geriatric morris dancer. This better not get out. I’ll be the laughing stock of the college.”
I have a friend who got really drunk and slept with a morris dancer. She doesn’t remember much about it, but reckons that if she saw him again then bells would start ringing. Can you believe I’m giving all this away completely for free?