Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Some days are harder than others when it comes to writing the daily Dollop. Today is one of those annoying ones where I feel really tired and devoid of any creative thought. I’ve been sitting at the computer for ages, having not written a single word.

Although I wasn’t feeling at all creatively inspired to write anything, my brain was having no problem being creative when it came to procrastination exercises. I think I must be one of the most creative procrastinators out there. Seriously. At one point I became aware that I was absent-mindedly reading my computer’s desktop icons and counting them. There were eleven. I decided that some of these weren’t necessary and so I went through them again and got rid of three of them. Then I decided to see how many files were in my various folders on the computer. In order to give this exercise a bit of added spice, I pretended that each folder was taking part in a competition, and the winning folder would be the one containing the most files.

First up, Documents vs Downloads – what an epic battle this was going to be between these two heavy -weight folders. As I clicked on to the computer icon, the proud roared excitedly as the list of folders presented themselves and the Downloads and Documents folders came into view. I clicked onto the documents folder, and a hush descended over the crowd as the counting commenced. 118 files.

“Well, it’s a good number, but is it enough,” intoned the commentator.

“Yes, Well, it’s very much a game of two folders, and we’ve currently only seen the one, so it’s not over yet,” added one of the expert pundits, who used to compete as a My Music folder in the days of Windows XP.

The roar of the crowd once again died down as the Downloads folder was opened and the counting commenced. It was evident that it was going to be close. The crowd held their breath. 110 files. The downloads folder lost out to the Documents folder by just eight files. The Documents folder’s supporters went wild.

“Well it was a close game, but at the end of the day, the Downloads folder just didn’t have enough files in it to win,” remarked the other expert pundit, a retired My Received Files folder from the days of MSN Messenger.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen, it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” came the voice over the PA, “it’s the battle of the file types. Ladies and gentlemen, introducing two heavy-weight contenders, it’s word documents versus MP3s.” Naturally, the crowd went crazy. Then came the walk-on music, which played as the two opposing file types came out into the ring. There was a bit of jiving from the MP3 supporters, who mocked the Word documents for the fact that their chosen walk-on music, which was playing over the PA, was an MP3 file. The MP3 brigade all thought that this was very funny indeed, and there was much taunting. This riled the supporters of the Word Documents, and a bit of a fight broke out among some of the fans. The Stewards waded in, and the fighting soon stopped. After all, no one wanted to be escorted off the premises, and miss such an epic battle as the great head-to-head between the MP3s and the word documents.

First up, MP3s. A hush descended over the crowd as the count commenced. The count took some time, due to the number of files, but then the results were in. 316.

“It’s a nice high number, but will it be enough? If there are more Word Documents, then the Word documents will win. It’s very much a game of two file types, so it’s not over yet” said the retired My Music folder.

Then came the count for the Word documents. 145. The MP3 supporters went wild, but there was dissension amongst the Word Documents, who were remonstrating with the officials about the rules of the game. The officials had only counted .doc and .docx files, and had failed to include .txt (plain text files) and .rtf (rich text files). The Word Document team were arguing that these were valid Word Documents, given that they are files that can be saved and read by Microsoft Word. But the officials weren’t having any of it, and refused to back down.

A massive fight began to break out between the Word documents and, the MP3 files and the officials. The Word Documents were coming off much worse in the fracas, until the Microsoft Office paperclip waded into the fray and began laying waste to all who came in its way. The MP3s and the officials lay sprawled on the floor, flat out and defeated. The Office paperclip then triumphantly popped up onto the stadium’s big screen, displaying the results of the game, which just so happened to be in a Word Document. The paperclip replaced the MP3 files’ score of 316 with a zero, put the word “winner” in a big bold font next to the Word Documents’ column, and then riled the MP3s’ supporters even more by writing “hahaha,” in a massive evil looking font. It then saved the file as a read-only document, to avoid the result being changed.

And then Ben walked in my room, handed me a cup of tea and asked me what I was doing, whichbrought me back to reality. I checked the time. I really needed to stop this ridiculous procrastinating exercise, and get on with actually writing something for this Dollop. So I did, and you’ve just read it. Whether you’ve enjoyed it is another matter altogether, but in fairness, this challenge was merely that I did a blog every day for this year; I never stipulated in the rules that what I wrote had to be any good, so I am still a winner.

If there is anyone who works in film and TV who is interested in turning my epic file types battle into a film or TV drama, then feel free to get in touch. Naturally, I don’t come cheep, but it’ll be worth it. I have some great ideas for a showdown between XL and PDF files. Let the bidding war commence.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

At the end of yesterday’s Dollop there was a reference to Christian rock. This reminded me of the first concert I ever went to. I was brought up a Catholic and the church youth group organised a trip to see a Christian rock concert. I was about ten-year-old, but even so I found the whole experience unsettling and cringe worthy.

We all travelled to the concert on a coach, and spent the journey singing happy clappy Jesus songs. I hated it. I used to really enjoy the music at church. We had the luxury of a talented organist in our congregation, and a sizeable, good quality church organ. He was able to play the organ properly, including all the pedals, and the sound was incredible. I used to go to church as a child making no fuss whatsoever, because I was spellbound by the music: the power of the organ, the soaring voices of the choir, complete with descants and layers of harmony. Our priest, Father Kennedy, was also a really good singer, and where other priests might have chosen to just say most of the mass with a dry delivery, he would take any opportunity possible to sing the various elements of the service, such as the offertory, and the bit where he tells you all to shake hands and wish each other peace.

But I wasn’t a fan of this kind of happy clappy stuff that we were singing on the coach. Someone had a guitar which they could play in a mediocre fashion, and there was nothing beautiful, mysterious or powerful about the music. No lingering discords, no low, resonant pedal notes, no soaring counter-melodies or spine-tingling choral harmonies; just clumsy guitar thrashing, people lacklustrely clapping their hands and belting out twee lyrics like, “rise and shine and give God his glory glory,” or “he’s got the whole world in his hands,” sang out-of-tune in slight American accents over dull and repetitious three chord guitar strumming.

I especially hated those happy clappy Jesus songs that were meant to be funny. Songs that tried desperately to say, “hey, look, we believe in Jesus but that doesn’t mean we don’t have a sense of humour,” although in actuality, they proved the very opposite point. I can’t remember any of these songs. I’ve racked my brain to try and dredge up an example of one of these songs, but I must have repressed the memories; that’s how hideously bad and painfully nauseating they were. I would try and wrack my brain harder, but I’m on a train, and I don’t want to have some kind of psychotic episode or breakdown by resurfacing such horrors.

Little did I know that the worst part of the evening was still yet to come, and that the happy clappy songs on the bus were nothing, compared to the misery that I was about to suffer. The concert was horrendous. I know I might be depicting myself as a really snobbish, pretentious child, but I don’t care. I loved music, music was my world. I loved the sound of the church organ and the choir. I also loved my dad’s record collection: Mike Oldfield, Cat Stevens, Leonard Cohen, Al Stewart, Harry Chapin, King Crimson … I loved listening to John Peel at night and the incredible array of sounds and styles. But this concert was the most middle-of-the-road, uninspiring drivel I’d ever heard. I don’t remember any of the songs obviously, but they were essentially three chords all the way through, electric guitar, bass, a keyboard playing an uninspiring string pad, and very simplistic drum accompaniment, while the frontman sang things like, “Jesus is great, yeah yeah yeah, Jesus is great , yeah yeah yeah yeah,” and got everyone in the audience to join in and clap along. In fact, three quarters of every song seemed to be him getting the audience to join in with the mind-numbingly repetitious hook, while clapping along. There was nothing of interest or substance at all.

Towards the end of the concert, the frontman shouted to the audience, “OK, are you ready to show Jesus that you love him?” There was a loud and enthusiastic “yeah” from the audience. “OK, everybody stand up. Stand up for Jesus. Let’s show Jesus just how much we love him.”

I was confused by the logic of this idea. Did the man really think that Jesus would be watching and would be thrilled that some people in a concert hall in Newcastle were standing up for him. Baring in mind that Jesus’ father is all-knowing, surely his dad already knew if you really loved his son, and could easily pass the knowledge on to his son. So I think the act of standing up is a bit redundant, but I might be wrong, maybe God and Jesus are up in heaven looking down and getting all excited by what’s happening.

“Oo, Come over here Jesus, there’s a few hundred people in a concert hall in Newcastle who are about to stand up to show their love for us.”

“Oh great. Tell me more father. Who have we got?”

“well there’s Brian Jackson, the welder from Sunderland, he’s just stood up.”

“Good old Brian. He’s a pretty solid candidate for heaven.”

“Yep, and we’ve got Joan Taylor, the baker from Billingham. She’s just stood up. Er, Cliff Bailey, the landlord in Darlington…”

“Ah, so old Cliff’s finally come around to believing in us, has he? Interesting.”

“Well he’s got a lot of catching up to do if he wants to get into heaven, after the whole adultery episode, not to mention that time I caught him coveting his neighbours’ oxen. And you know that’s one of my pet hates, the ox coveting. I’ll be reminding him about that when he gets to the gates.”

I very much doubt Jesus or God are in the least bit bothered whether a few hundred people stand up in a middle-of-the-road Christian rock concert in Newcastle to clap, sway and sing, “Jesus we love you, yeah yeah yeah yeah,” over and over again.

Off course I stood up. Everyone else around me was standing up. So I stood and I half-heartedly swayed and clapped. After another thirty repeats of the “Jesus we love you, yeah yeah yeah yeah” hook, the frontman once again addressed the audience.

“OK, There are a small handful of people in this hall tonight, just a small handful of people, who are not standing up. Now, don’t look round, we don’t want to embarrass them. But I want to repeat my invitation to stand up. Join us, stand up, and show the Lord Jesus that you love him. Come on, stand up for Jesus.”

He then recommenced his singing. “Jesus we love you, yeah yeah yeah yeah,” over and over again, and the audience all joined in, whilst no doubt trying to subtly turn their heads to take a peak at the remaining few people who hadn’t stood up. After another minute of “Jesus we love you, yeah yeah yeah yeah,” the front man’s voice came again.

“OK, bless you my friends for choosing to join us in standing up to show the Lord Jesus that we love him. But, there are still three people in this hall tonight – and please don’t look round, we don’t want them to be embarrassed – but I want to extend my invitation to them one more time. Come, join us, stand up, and show the Lord Jesus that you love him tonight. Come on. Let’s encourage them everybody, clap your hands, raise your voices and let’s sing: Stand up for Jesus, yeah yeah yeah yeah, stand up for Jesus, yeah yeah yeah yeah …”

A minute or so later, the front man shouted to the audience that there were now only two people who weren’t standing up to show the Lord Jesus that they loved him. After another two minutes of this weird and pointless hectoring, the two remaining people stood up. The front man was triumphant and the audience whooped and cheered this apparent victory, and everyone sang over and over again, with even more vigour: “Jesus we love you, yeah yeah yeah yeah …”

My dad also thought it was a bit much and fortunately he never took me to another Christian rock concert. I continued going to church, until the organist left the church to become a priest. They never did manage to replace the organist; instead, they just had someone who would play the starting note, and we would lacklustrely join in, drifting more and more out of tune as the song progressed. But then, a couple of weeks later, the priest announced the good news that we would shortly be getting a replacement musician to accompany the singing. “I am happy to say that as of next week, we will have guitar accompaniment from a member of the church youth team.” I knew it was time to leave, and I had to break the news to my dad that I wouldn’t be going to church any more.

“Jesus, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news son. We’ve lost David Eagle.”

“What?! Really?! Damn! But he stood up for me in Newcastle only a couple of years ago. Oh, that is a disappointment.”

“And I’m afraid we’ve lost Cliff Bailey, the pub landlord from Darlington. He’s just coveted his neighbour’s oxen again. I won’t tolerate it Jesus.”

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

So, I am now over two thirds of the way through this daily blogging challenge. A part of me is wondering weather I should start preparing for next year by implementing a fazed retirement scheme, meaning that these blog posts would get progressively shorter, in order to acquaint me with my new life next year away from the rigours of daily blogging. Of course, there was a time that retired bloggers could rely on their state pension, but sadly those days are gone, so I might have to do a few odd jobs to keep the wolf from the door, such as washing neighbour’s cars or a bit of prostitution. Or I suppose I could start up a zoo in my garden and charge people for entry. Obviously I’d make sure that my zoo contained a few lions, tigers and coyotes which should prove a formidable defence in the event that the wolf did come to my door. I could do a special deal whereby you can come and look at the animals while I wash your car, and then we have sex. What a quality deal. Obviously I’d charge extra if you wanted to involve any of the animals in the sex. Hmm, I’m getting a good business model together here I think. So that’s my retirement plan all sorted then.

When I got in today’s taxi, the driver was playing a song on the car stereo. The only words I caught were “so don’t talk to me about Muhammad.” The rest of the song was cut off by an incoming phone call. I couldn’t understand the phone conversation because he wasn’t speaking English, so my mind began to wonder back to the song. I assumed there was more to the song, although I suppose he might have had a special feature installed in his car that plays a little jingle/song whenever the passenger opens the door to get in. And for some reason, this particular driver had chosen “so don’t talk to me about Muhammad.” Maybe this was an instruction to his passengers. The passengers would get in the taxi, here the little jingle and then know that this particular driver doesn’t want to have a conversation about Muhammad, which as we all know is a common conversation topic among passengers and drivers of taxis. Maybe other taxi drivers have their own chosen jingles installed, such as, “so don’t ask me whether it’s been a busy one, or what time I’m on til. Do you really think I want to spend my life answering the same inane questions over and over again?”

To be honest, I was glad that this driver spent the entire journey on the phone, because I wasn’t sure what I’d talk to him about, given that he didn’t want to talk about Muhammad, which is generally my go-to conversation topic with taxi drivers. While the driver chatted away, presumably about something none-Muhammad related – I hope his friend knew the rule – , I did an Internet search on my phone for “so don’t talk to me about Muhammad song lyrics,” and discovered the words to a song by an artist called Dawud Wharnsby. As well as the lyrics, there was a link to the song on Youtube, and when the chorus kicked in I knew that it was the same song that I’d heard a few minutes earlier over the car speakers. So it seems as if it was just chance that I happened to get into the car, just as an impassioned voice warned me not to talk about Muhammad, before being cut off by a phone call. So it wasn’t a custom-made jingle designed to warn passenger’s of taboo conversation topics; that cleared that up then. But then, as I looked further down the webpage, I noticed the title of another of Dawud Wharnsby’s songs: “So Don’t Ask Me If It’s Been a busy One Or What Time I’m On Til.”

The song Don’t Talk To Me About Muhammad has some rather interesting lyrics.

“It would be such a pleasure to have you come along with me,
I accept your gracious offer of kindness and company.
But as we walk along young man and as you help me with my load,
I’ve only one request as we travel down this road,
Don’t talk to me about Muhammad.
Because of him there is no peace and I have trouble in my mind,
so don’t talk to me about Muhammad
and as we walk along together we will get along just fine.”

So this person has made it pretty clear to his companion that he doesn’t want to talk about Muhammad, but rather than just simply saying, “oh by the way, I know it’s a bit of a strange request, but while we walk together I’d appreciate it if we’d avoid talking about Muhammad if that’s OK with you?” The companion might be a bit taken aback by this odd request, but would probably oblige and they’d spend a pleasant walk together chatting about none-Muhammad related stuff. But I would argue that this man has gone a very unusual roundabout way of asking someone not to talk to him about Muhammad. He’s asked his companion not to talk to him about Muhammad, before proceeding to go off on a bit of a rant about Muhammad. Still, he’s made his point very clear, and presumably now they can get on with their walk and chat about the weather or something. But no. The man continues blabbering on about the very thing he doesn’t want his companion to talk to him about. It’s becoming clear that this person doesn’t have a problem talking about Muhammad himself, he just seemingly doesn’t want someone else to talk about Muhammad to him.

“That man upsets me so, and so much more than you could know,
I hear of his name and reputation everywhere I go.
Though his family and his clan once knew him as an honest man,
he’s dividing everyone with his claim that “God is One”
So don’t talk to me about Muhammad.”

The man is seemingly unaware of the irony of what he’s doing, chattering away ten to the dozen to his companion about the very thing he’s telling his companion not to talk to him about. But as I say, he’s clearly not appreciated the irony of his behaviour, because he continues to whitter away about Muhammad some more.

“He’s misled all the weak ones and the poor ones and the slaves,
They think they’ve all found wealth and freedom following his ways.
He’s corrupted all the youth with his twisted brand of truth
convinced them they all are strong, given them somewhere to belong.
So don’t talk to me about Muhammad.”

I’m not even sure that there was any indication that this man’s companion even had any plans or desire to talk about Muhammad. The man is clearly mad. By this point the companion is presumably trying to interrupt the insane man’s Muhammad-based blabber, but he is having none of it. He continues.

“Let me give you some advice, since you’ve been so very nice,
From Muhammad stay away, don’t heed his words or emulate his way.
And don’t talk about Muhammad.”

By this point the man’s companion is probably losing the will to live. He had no intention of talking about Muhammad, although he’s now so sick of this weird man’s incessant chatter about not talking about Muhammad, that he’s tempted to start talking to him about Muhammad, just to antagonise the deranged idiot. Eventually the man stops his Muhammad-based diatribe and says to his companion, “Now before we part and go, if it’s alright just the same,
may I ask, my dear young man, who you are? What is your name?”

This man has presumably talked about Mohammed for so long that they’ve reached the end of their walk and he hasn’t even managed to let his companion introduce himself. The last few lines of the song are, “It is truly rather funny, though I’m sure I must be wrong,
but I thought I heard you said that your name is Muhammad……
Muhammad? Oh talk to me Muhammad!
Upon you I pray for peace for you have eased my troubled mind!
Oh talk to me Muhammad
and as we walk along together we will get along just fine,
and as I travel down life’s road I will get along just fine.”

What the bloody hell has just happened there. The companion has presumably told the man that he is called Muhammad, either that or the man is so deranged and so completely Muhammad obsessed that he has just misheard the man’s name as Muhammad, even though the man clearly said that it was John. Or maybe the companion has said he is called Muhammad in order to wined the man up, although surprisingly we discover that, rather than being annoyed or upset at this revelation, the man instead is jubilant and then jumps to the wild conclusion that the companion is actually The Muhammad, the very Muhammad that he has been ranting about all this time. He then begins profusely praising him

So, it seems as if Islamic music is just as stupid and risible as Christian music. Religions really do have more in common than they have in contrast. If only more religious people thought, “look, our music is nonsensical claptrap, yours is clearly incongruous bilge. We essentially like the same thing, only you’re lyrics are frequently peppered with the word Muhammad and ours with Jesus, but essentially it’s the same shit. Let’s be friends.” This realisation could save our planet and increase tolerance amongst the religions. You see, there was a kind of moral to this blog, wasn’t there. Oh, these Dollops work on so many levels.

The Young’uns Podcast is back! Our first podcast of 2016 comes live from the Folk East Festival in Suffolk, where we are joined by an enthusiastic audience, guests John Spiers, O’hooley & Tidow, and Sam Kelly. As well as songs and tunes, we play a game of Jenga, have a competition to see who can do the best impression of the characters from the children’s TV show Rainbow, play a geordie drinking game, and discuss all manner of miscellaneous claptrap. And even more exciting than all of that … It’s the return of Herbal Tea Of The week!!!

Download it here

You can freely subscribe to the podcast to recieve episodes automatically in your chosen podcasts programme, and download previous episodes at the Young’uns Podcast page here

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

I opened the taxi door, and asked the driver whether the car was a taxi. This isn’t some kind of weird smart-arse philosophical question about the nature of vehicular identity: can this car really be said to be a taxi, or should we really be saying that the car is merely serving the function of being a taxi? For what is the taxi when it is not taxiing? Is it then still a taxi? But I was not trying to make a philosophical statement, I was merely enquiring as to whether the car door I had just opened was in fact a taxi, because, being blind, there have been times that I have made an assumption about a car being a taxi, opened the door, got in and sat on a bewildered passenger’s knee. Still, I ended up in a two year relationship with one of those bewildered passengers, so it’s not always a bad thing.

The driver responded to my question with a “yes,” but it was such a world-weary yes. I was genuinely taken aback by his “yes,” by the “fact that he’d somehow managed to convey so much misery in just one single syllable. The despairing nature of his “yes” was so intense that it caught me completely off-guard and I gave an involuntary chuckle.

I got in the taxi, feeling embarrassed by my inappropriate chuckle. I felt guilty that I’d responded to his misery-laden “yes” in such a way. I decided to try and redeem the situation, to attempt to take back my chuckle and disguise it as something else, maybe a cough. I began to venture a chuckly cough. I’ve never tried a chuckly cough before, and I wasn’t at all convinced by it. I think it just sounded like a very weird chuckle, almost as if I was trying to make a statement with the chuckle, a statement like, “yes, that’s right my friend, I am chuckling at your misery, and I want you to know it.” I needed to employ more cough and less chuckle. But my next attempt was even worse. I abandoned the chucle altogether, and just opted for the coughing. Normally when I cough, it’s because I feel a need to cough. I’ve never really coughed before deliberately. I assumed that it would be easy and sound perfectly natural, just like a regular cough, but I was surprised by how unusual it sounded. To me, it sounded like a man deliberately coughing in the most ridicullous way he could muster. It’s difficult to explain the sound in writing – perhaps in the audio version I will attempt the cough – but it sounded like someone with a really bad sore throat having very noisy sex. I am using artistic licence here, choosing to use this description in order to give you an effective comparison, rather than drawing on my lexicon of sounds.

I stopped my absurd coughing, and then said “sorry.” I’m not sure what I was saying sorry for, nor what he would assume I was apologising about. I was sorry that I had laughed at his despairing yes, but I also was apologising out of embarrassment for the weird chuckly coughing charade, although I couldn’t be sure that he’d registered my chuckle, or had been aware of my subsequent attempts of a cover-up. The taxi driver did not respond, and I too fell quiet.

As the journey went on, the only sound he made was very heavy sighing. I didn’t know whether his sighs were a sort of cry for help, as if begging me to ask him if he was OK, so that he could unburden himself to someone. Not being able to see his facial expressions, I wasn’t able to get any visual clues about what he might be thinking. Plus, after my odd behaviour earlier, I didn’t really trust myself to speak, as I’d probably say something embarrassing that would make the situation worse. I’d probably saysomething like, “what’s wrong with you?” intending for it to come across as caring and friendly, but it would probably come out sounding like an accusation, as if I was telling him to shut up with the bloody heavy sighing. So I continued keeping quiet. But then I became aware of my breathing, and started to worry that I might be breathing a bit too deeply, and that it might sound as if I am imitating his sighing. Normally I wouldn’t be so self-conscious – well, OK I do overthink a lot – but because of my chuckle earlier, I was concerned that he might be thinking that I am taking the piss out of him, chuckling at his misery and then mimicking his sighing.

“sorry,” I said again. Why the bloody hell had I just apologised? I’d overthought my breathing so much, that I’d convinced myself that he thought I was taking the piss, and so I apologised. It was an involuntary apology. I began to feel even more self-conscious. I sighed in exasperation at my stupid self-conscious behaviour. Oh for goodness sake, I’d just sighed. I resisted the urge to apologise.

Eventually, the journey ended, the driver muttered the price, sounding utterly depressed, and I handed over the money, tipping him heavily out of guilt.

It may be the case that all of this was in my imagination. It is unlikely that he thought I was taking the piss out of him; he was probably too caught up in his own doom-ridden world to be aware or care about what I was doing, but my brain had gone into a weird self-conscious fluster. I shouldn’t be admitting my stupid weirdness in these blogs so readily, but I need to publish today’s blog in the next hour, and this is the first subject that sprung to mind. This is the problem of doing a daily blog; I end up revealing a lot of stuff. If I’m not careful I’m going to have psychology students basing their PHDs on these blogs. Or maybe I’m just being a bit too self-conscious, again.

Today’s audio Dollop is usurped by a Japanese film crew. We also get up-close with a horse, and we meet some angry workmen.

Download it here

Today’s audio Dollop contains an anecdote from Towersey Festival which we played this evening, where we received an unusual request.

Download it here

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

If you listened to yesterday’s Dollop including the phone conversation with my friend about plumbs, I want to point out that I don’t normally record my phone conversations and archive them, the recording only existed because I was recording the Dollop when she called. I don’t record every conversation I have just in case it comes in handy for a Dollop. If I did do that then it would be a bit tragic that in the space of 240 days, I have only deemed a single three minute conversation about plumbs worthy of inclusion in these Dollops, although, let’s be honest, it was a quality three minutes.

Most of the time I am not recording, including right now, unless you’re listening to the audio version in which case obviously I am recording, but only the sound of my own voice reading this out, which doesn’t count. What I mean is that I’m not recording what is going on as I write this Dollop, which is a discussion about van insurance. I am in The Young’uns van, and we need to renew the insurance in a couple of weeks. Sorry, I’ve reeled you in and got you all interested, haven’t I? But alas, you shall never get to hear the conversation, because I’m not recording it. Anyway, I won’t cruelly keep you in suspense any longer; we are going to renew it with the same insurance company we’re currently using. You can rest easy now.

Tomorrow we play Towersey Festival. I am looking forward to finding out whether they published my contribution to their festival programme. If you remember from Dollop 188 a couple of months ago (what am I saying? of course you remember) I was asked by the person putting the written programme together for Towersey festival to write something “quirky” for the programme. So I wrote them a very lengthy and elaborate pun laden joke about computer fonts, which I included in Dollop 188. For some unfathomable reason, I did not receive an email back from them. If they haven’t included it in the programme, then I have a good mind to get my own back on the festival by taking up a considerable amount of our performance delivering an extra long version of the joke. If, for some incomprehensible reason, the font routine fails to get the hysterical reaction it warrants, then I can just read out Ben’s text about plumbs on top of the fridge which seems to be a sure-fire hit.

Last week, I received another unusual request from a folk festival. The person responsible for compiling the written programme for Bromyard festival emailed some questions for me to answer. Normally, questions are along the lines of “how did you meet?” “How did you get into folk music?” questions about our festival appearance, upcoming tour or album, or they try to be quirky, “if you could be any animal, what animal would you be?” although they don’t like it when I out-quirk them with a lengthy and elaborate joke about computer fonts. I’m coming to you, Towersey festival, and there will be repercussions if my amazing font joke isn’t in your programme.

The person compiling the programme for Bromyard festival however has managed to enter uncharted territory with his line of questioning. Although he’s putting his questions to The Young’uns, I don’t think he’s particularly bothered about us; I think he’d much rather be interviewing Mumford And Sons. Here are the list of questions he’s sent me to answer for the programme.

1. Between 2012-14, the likes of Mumford and Sons brought folk stylings right into the middle of popular culture. Why do you think that this happened, and what was the impression among traditional folk musicians and fans?

2. Do you like the Mumfords?

3. Did you notice a change in the people who were interested in your music, due to the rise of the Mumfords?

4. The mumfords seemed to assume the role of pop/rock poster boys during that period on both sides of the Atlantic. Their 2015 follow-up seemed to fall flat, but pop music seemed to have moved on as quickly as it had adopted them and pop folk. Why do you think this happened? And why do you think it happened so quickly?

5. Do you look back on that time as a period that you miss? Or one that was always destined to come and go?

6. What has that brief window of popularity had on the folk scene?

7. If you could be any animal, what animal would you be?

Obviously that last question wasn’t genuine; it was yet another example of my amazing comedy skills. Their last question was actually: “what’s next for folk music?”

I don’t know who this person thinks I am. It’s as if he really wanted to get an interview with Mumford and Sons but wasn’t able to, so he just asked us the Mumford and Sons’ questions instead.

Or it’s as if he thinks I’m some kind of musicologist or cultural soothsayer, asking such broad questions as “what’s next for folk music.” He also seems to be under the impression that I owe my folk music career to Mumford and Sons, as it’s clearly thanks to them that I have an audience.

He also seems to imagine that me, and all the other folk artists on the scene, all look back wistfully at 2012 to 2014, nostalgically remembering those glory years of folk, where we all got helicoptered into gigs, and every folk artist had at least three groupies each every gig; before the Mumfords, we generally had to settle with just one groupy a night. But, even while we were in the middle of it all – eating caviar, having sex with beautiful fans who, let’s face it, only slept with us because they thought it might bring them closer to Mr Mumford or one of his sexy sons – we knew that it could never last. When we heard the Mumfords follow-up album, we knew the fun was over. The fans began to lose interest in the Mumfords and consequently us, the caviar ran out, the helicopters stopped coming and we had to go back to travel around in vans,, and we were back where we started, playing to old men with beards once again. Oh, how we yearn for those years.

Something tells me that I’m probably not going to be in the Bromyard festival programme either.

We travel even further back in time today as I introduce you to my seven-year-old self. I taste cashew nut milk for the very first time. We discover some rather unusual names for ladies genitals, and there’s much merriment over the subject of plumbs.

Download it all here

Today’s audio Dollop comes from my kitchen, where I chat whilst creating a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel, about Jeremy Corbyn, trains, and the media, plus I tell my own train story from a couple of days ago.

Download it here.