Another year

Now you see me, now you don't
You say you will but I know you won't
You nearly had me in your hands but now I'm gone
But not complaining 'bout my life again
No siree, and what I've got belongs to me entirely
I look left and I look right and I cross this road alone
'cos I'm feeling my way
I may go up, I may go down but wherever I may roam
I keep feeling my way home

Kirsty MacColl 10 October 1959 - 18 December 2000

Cheap, Lousy Faggots - An Archdruid Chunters on

It struck me, a propos  last night's comments on "Fairytale of New York", that it could be suitably used as a vehicle to advertise Cheap Faggots. Or at least reasonably priced ones, which are definitely in Tesco's assortment. However, I'm sure they wouldn't describe them, or want them described, as "lousy". And I'm sure they're not, I should add for legal reasons.

Although not written by Kirsty MacColl, Fairytale has many of her distinctive traits. The defiance is trademark. That rounded, slightly-husky voice - topped off with a not-quite-fake hint of an Irish accent (her dad being a well-known Irishman)  It's a brilliant performance. And Shane MacGowan has the mixture of defensiveness, bravado and self-pity to play the part to perfection. The Pogues provide their wonderful blend of punk and folk. What a song this is.

What a way to use it.

A remembrance of maggots

In these sensitive days, the word "maggot" is the only one from that most glorious of the glorious lines in "Fairytale of New York" that I could include in the title of a blogpost.

I was reminded of Shane and Kirsty's finest moment when watching a Tesco advert that happily adopts the merry tune, while making sure we can't hear the words.

You can understand why. "Fairytale" starts in a NYPD drunk tank, where a dying alcoholic reflects that he won't make another Christmas. Which reminds me that, the other day in Tesco, I saw an advert for a confidential helpline for erectile disfunction right next to the one advertising 24 cans of Stella for £12. Know your market, I suppose.

The song goes on to mention maggots - not a great association for a food retailer, I'd suggest, and ends in a litany of hate between the two antagonists. The song is about the break-up of a disfunctional, drink and drug-addled relationship during the jollity of Christmas Eve in New York. Which, as a way to celebrate the Festive Season, seems very appropriate to me - after all, it was to redeem the brokenness in our lives that Jesus came. I'm not sure that's the association Tesco were thinking of, though.

Liturgy for the Nativity of Kirsty MacColl (1959)

Beaker People may wear Punk or 1980s Ra-ra wear, or "these shoes". A certain trepidation may hover over Beaker heads, as they worry that the Archdruid may come over all "Titanic Days".


Lament


All: Seven times in seven days
I've sat and wished my life away
I know the greyness comes and goes
But the sun don't shine
And the snow don't snow


Call to confession


Archdruid: Say sorry to the boys and girls
you’re sorry for this bloody world
Sorry for the sick and old
And sorry for the lies you told
Sorry for the things I did
The things we should have left unsaid
And walked away instead of
Rubbing salt on all those open sores and wounds
We should have left to heal.


All: Don't be sorry. I don't need your pity, baby.

Archdruid: Oh innocence has passed you by
A long long time ago

The Grand Gesture of Defiance

But one day you'll be waiting there
no empty bench in Soho Square
And I'll be painting stars up in the sky
Before I get too old to cry
before my birthday.

Dismissal

Archdruid: For you and me baby
This is journey's end

Beaker folk leave - Dancing in Limbo

---

And don't forget, kids - it's wrong to wish on space hardware.

The Eve of St Kirsty

Our Beaker celebration of St Kirsty's birthday will not be dragged down by wistfulness and despairing glumness at the thought of what might have been. She was a bright, strong, articulate, lovely woman. And we're going to celebrate that.

H.A.P.P.Y.

I'm trying to educate the Beaker Folk, after a long period when they seem to have believed that life is basically good and the world - against all available evidence - is in a perfect state, to realising that there is sadness and darkness in this world. These things have to be faced if you want to be a grown-up.

Clearly one way of allowing them to realise that there is darkness to be faced is to make them watch "The Apprentice". But that would be a form of mental cruelty. So instead I've been playing them the "bonus track re-mix with additional tracks" version of Kirsty MacColl's Kite album. Not the "divorce album" - Titanic Days - I'm not sure they are up to such strong meat. No, Kite has its light moments as well as the bitterness of What do Pretty Girls do  - but it should bring them up sharp on their current frivolous trajectory. This is real life - separation, anger, bitterness and that haunting fore-echo of death. But they look at me, their happy eyes glowing, and sing La Fôret de Mimosas as if it's a happy little French ditty.

If ignorance is bliss, should I really want them to be wise?

10 years

Shall I explain away my life again? 
Well it seems to me it's too far gone
To wonder where it all went wrong
I get up and I get down but I get there on my own
And I'm feeling my way
I look left and I look right and I cross this road alone
'cos I'm feeling my way home

Kirsty MacColl 

10 October 1959 – 18 December 2000

Single-artist meme thing

Yet another music meme but then hey it's Yule. This is from that notorious Man Utd supporter, Phil Ritchie, and the rules are:

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, answer these questions. Be as clever as you can. You can't use the band I used. Try not to repeat a song title. It's a lot harder than you think...

Needless to say, just a short week before the 10th anniversary of her untimely death, I choose Kirsty MacColl.

Pick your Artist Kirsty
Describe yourself  In these shoes?
How do you feel England 2, Colombia 0
If you could go anywhere, where would you go  Soho Square
Your favourite form of transportation Walking Down Madison
Your best friend is  A guy walks down the chip shop, swears he's Elvis
You and your best friends are Us Amazonians
If your life was a TV show, what would it be called Can't stop killing you
What is life to you Titanic Days 
Your current relationship   Don't run away from me now
Your fear "Darling, let's have another baby"
What is the best advice you have to give Don't come the cowboy with me, Sonny Jim
I would like to die... My way home
Time of day  The end of a perfect day
My motto  Tomorrow never comes




Those with ears to be tagged, let them be tagged...

Soho Square 10/10/10

Some wally still claims he's Elvis. Sunny Jim's still a cowboy. And he's a big boy on a Saturday night. Celestine's still a temptress, leading dodgy Dutchmen on.

But growing old is not what all Pretty Girls do.  There's an Autumn Girl flying over London.

Happy birthday, Kirsty MacColl.  That bench won't be empty today.  And tomorrow never comes.

Electric Rentbook - 10 years on

To mark 10 years since her tragic, incredibly premature death - the Freeworld website are running electronic versions of the "Electric Rentbook" fanzine.
Well worth a read, for Kirsty fans.

What do Pretty Girls do?

"I’m always described as a ‘female singer-songwriter’. You don't see all these other singer-songwriters described as male singer-songwriters. I mean, what’s your genitalia got to do with it? You're either a singer-songwriter or you're not.”- Kirsty MacColl

Tomorrow Never Comes

And about all the pain well, you know it was worth it
You could do it again but I just don't deserve it.
Let us part in the rain so the clouds hide
the despair and the sorrow I feel on the inside and
let my tears dry by the light of a setting sun.
And tomorrow....

Burton goes to London

Dear Readers, such excitement as I feel, even now, as I write to you. I was really too tired last night after our big day in the Capital. But now - it all seems a wonderful blur.
The Archdruid being of the Liverpool-supporting faction, while I am of the Gooner persuasion, she very kindly organised what she referred to as "Corporate Hostility" for their annual meeting at the Arsenal home ground. I was sure she meant "Corporate Hospitality", but she assured me that she was right.
We went down early, and paid our respects to the Kirsty MacColl memorial bench in Soho Square.
At this point, the Archdruid said she was going to "pop in" to the General Synod, which by a remarkable co-incidence was also happening in London yesterday. What a truly wonderful place it must be, to have two events of such excitement on the same day!
So the Archdruid left me on Kirsty's bench, requesting that I keep notes of whether the pigeons, "shivering in the naked trees", decided to fly.
I'll be honest. Soho Square is a beautiful oasis in the Metropolis. But three hours was a long time to sit on a bench watching pigeons.
When the Archdruid returned, and we set off on the magical Picadilly Line (they have trains that run underground in London - can you imagine?), she was kind enough to explain to me the events at the Synod. But unaccountably, as she was telling me about how people had to walk through doors to vote on whether to vote on an amendment to the amendment of an amendment, I blacked out. Must have been a chill on the brain as a result of all that pigeon-watching.
Of the first half of the game I will say little, for indeed there is little to say. But in the second -oh, the Arsenal came alive! A wonderful cross for the winning goal! But I have to say that the reminder of the game proved that it was indeed "Hostility" that was Corporate. I wouldn't say someone as spiritual as the Archdruid sulked, but she did accidentally bruise my shins with her steel toe-caps once or twice, while jumping around trying to keep warm.
The evening ended in terror, as I cycled down the snow-covered back roads of Bedford on my way back to Husborne Crawley. The Archdruid said she didn't want to risk steering or braking problems with me in the car, so she drove to and from the station alone. Which I suppose was considerate of her - not wanting any harm to come to me - but she doesn't actually drive a Toyota. Still, better safe than sorry.

A Clash of Ideologies

It's been a disappointing weekend for our latest group of pilgrims, as they pack their weekend bags into their Shoguns and head off in the rain for Junction 13.

This was our fourth "Encountering the Silence of the Night" weekend.  Friday night they were to be standing in awe in the Orchard, feeling the quiet and the darkness and receiving them as balm to the soul.  This was ruined by the sound of wailing from the Gibbon Moon people as they mourned the possible death of their god in the landing of the NASA moonshot.  It's hard to feel that the universe is beneficent and friendly when all you can hear are cries of "It's so unfair!  He was only 4 billion years old!"

By 3am the Gibbon Moon people had finally gone off for some sleep.  Silence fell, I am told, for 5 minutes.  Then the place started to resound to the sounds of the Wiccan Drum Ensemble, trying to scare off evil spirits.  Not a good first night all round.  And not the best double-booking we could have made, in retrospect.

The following day, our pilgrims should have had the chance to get some sleep after their long night.  Instead they were kept awake by a worshop* that Hnaef had organised - "The Spirituality of Brass Bands for the Tone Deaf".

Last night, a group of sleep-deprived and generally grumpy pilgrims headed out to the Moot House for what they hoped would be a quiet yet challenging meditation on "listening to your inner owl".  And what did they get?  Drayton Parslow and Siousie doing a three-hour set with their Kirsty MacColl tribute concert, "Electric Landmine".

We are in favour of respect between religions, mutual discourse and learning from one another.  But maybe in future we'll keep everybody apart instead. 

* Worshop - a Worship Workshop.

Liturgy for the Nativity of Kirsty MacColl (10/10/59)

Kirsty is among the premier rank of Beaker saints.  Just for being so feisty, and her singing voice, and the brilliant lyrics.  And the cleverness.  And "Chipshop".  And we miss her.

The Beaker Folk have various honorary titles for Kirsty, including "Queen of New York City", "Electric Landlady" and, of course, "Celestine".

 

We call to mind the mystical presence with us of the Community of Former Folk

Archdruid: There's an angel floating round my house.  Floating round my house.

All: There's an angel floating round this house.  Floating round this heart.  Round this head.

A Commination, calling to mind the divisions in our society

Archdruid: From an uptown apartment to a knife on the A-Train

All: It's not that far.

Archdruid: From the sharks in the penthouse to the rats in the basement

All: It's not that far.

Archdruid: To the bag-lady frozen asleep on the church steps

All: It's not that far.

Lapse into pre-Reformation theology regarding forgiveness

Archdruid: You just haven't earned it yet, baby.

Rejection of the hierarchy's attempt to control the dispensation of grace

All: It's my affair, it's up to me and not to you.  It's my affair.  Oh Yeah.

The Archdruid's response to such rebellion

Archdruid: You scumbags, you maggots, you cheap lousy faggots.

All: And also with you.

The Traditional Beaker Hymn: Mambo de la Luna

Meditation on the apparent pointlessness of social action

Archdruid: I don't want to change the world

All: I'm not looking for a New England.

Dismissal

Archdruid: I look to the future and see a thousand setting suns.

All: And tomorrow never comes.

Happy 50th, Kirsty.  There's still an empty bench in Soho Square.

Justice for Kirsty                                                Kirstymaccoll.com