This time last week we were in Cardiff for the BBC Radio 2 Folk Awards. Well, in actuality, this time last week – a quarter to seven is when I’m writing this – we were in a restaurant ten minutes away from the Millennium Centre where the awards were taking place, waiting with growing concern for our food to arrive. We were meant to be in our seats in half an hour, but, despite having ordered our food over an hour ago, no food had arrived, and we were beginning to contemplate leaving without eating, for tonight we were more hungry for success than repast, and we didn’t want to potentially miss the opportunity to accept the award for best group because of an unpunctual mediocre risotto.
After a couple of minutes of gesturing, and attempts to make eye contact (something which I decided to leave to the others, feeling that they would be more qualified in the art) we eventually attracted the attention of the waitress. We tried to explain the situation, that we would need to leave the restaurant in ten minutes, and that our food, which we’d ordered over an hour ago, had still not arrived. If the meals were going to take longer than five minutes to arrive then we would have to cancel our order and leave without eating.
The waitress sauntered back to the kitchen to check the progress of our order. Five minutes later, she ambled back to our table and cheerily informed us that there was no need to worry, as our food would indeed be out in five minutes, and so everything would be fine. Sadly, we had to burst the waitress’s bubble by explaining the basic principle of time, that given that five minutes had already elapsed since we’d specified the five minute cut off point, another five minutes on top of that would actually be ten minutes.
What should we do? After a minute of umming and a good few seconds of ahing, it was decided that we should leave. We rose to our feet and put on our coats, but then the waitress pointed towards the kitchen and announced that our food was arriving. What to do? The food was now being laid on our table, just as we were turning to leave. We looked at each other, and after a bit of discussion we decided that if we ate our meals in one minute then we’d make the awards ceremony in time, provided that we ran.
So we jumped back into our seats, grabbed the cutlery and began to veraciously attack our meals. I was over halfway through my food by the time the waitress had lolloped back to our table to ask us whether we’d like parmesan cheese or black pepper. My mouth was too encumbered by rice to speak so I shook my head and grunted in what probably appeared to be quite a terse and abrupt manner, although, in fairness, I did have a lot on my plate. However, within one minute our plates had been finished and we rose to our feet and ran to the Millennium Centre, clutching our stomachs which bristled with indigestion pain. We made it just in the nick of time. Oh, what crazy and exciting lives we lead.
Fortunately, we discovered that our category wasn’t until the end of the night, so there was plenty of time for our food to digest. Therefore, if we won, our acceptance speech wouldn’t consist of the three of us belching uncontrollably, although, I’m sure if that had have happened then we’d have made sure that our belching was in three part harmony and we’d probably be given a lifetime achievement award there and then.
As you presumably know by now, we did win the folk award for best group. We had no idea before hand that we were going to win so it was a big surprise when it was announced.
It was strange afterwards to be approached by people like Loudon Wainwright III,
Ruth Jones and Cerys Matthews, and have them start a conversation with us. It was even stranger for me, given that not being able to see I wasn’t entirely sure who I was actually speaking to until they’d gone, when someone would inform me who it was. So I was unable to tell Loudon Wainwright that I was a fan and remembered being a teenager and hearing him in session on the John Peel show. Instead I just spoke to them as if they were just a normal humdrum member of the public, like you. Still, it probably made me look a bit cooler than if I started jabbering at them about how much I liked them, which also just so happens to be my flirting technique, which generally doesn’t
prove effective. Well actually there was one occasion where the girl was a massive star Trek nerd and thought that I was trying to chat her up in klingon. The next thing I knew I was back at her place and she was whispering in my ear, “beam me up hotty.” Well, I’ll spare you the details, except to say that it was very difficult to perform the act, given her insistence that I only went forward and didn’t reverse, which was quite painful and awkward. If you’ve never heard the Star Trek song, then you’ll probably be a little confused and likely more than a little disturbed by the image that I may have given you. I’m sorry, shall we move on? No? You dirty animals. I’m moving on.
It’s been awhile since I last blogged or podcasted. Well done to you for managing to keep it together. Next month we start touring with a vengeance, and so we’ll be back with new Young’uns Podcasts starting from next week. I’m finally starting work on the next Pick and Mix and aim to have it released for the end of June. And I should be back with a new blog post by the end of the week.
In the meantime, stay true blud. Tara!