The Ned Wood Archive

Sam

Sam’s standing at the back of the Pyramid Field next to Ron and Jane and Ade and Linda listening to probably the loudest, most expletive laden rant he’s heard since those two engineers were trying to fix the water leak outside his place the year before last.

Only it’s not that the leak is spewing water everywhere and it’s not that the engineers have clearly been sent to do the job with the wrong equipment and an impossible deadline.  What’s driving Ron’s language is the latest announcement from one of our right honourable members.  Sam’s not seen the news. He wouldn’t have, would he? But Ron has.  Sam doesn’t find out whether it’s a Reformer like Philby or Burgess or Maclean or one of the few remaining Tories or even a member of the government.  Ron doesn’t say.  Only what they’ve said.  Apparently someone, some actual voted for member of parliament, has proposed that in future NHS patients will have a right to demand treatment by someone from their own race.  That’s right. Some goon is saying that NHS patients should be able to demand treatment by a white doctor and or a white nurse.  Ron is broadcasting to the whole Pyramid Field and probably the rest of Pilton, Pylle, Evercreech, Shepton Mallet, and beyond.  He’s telling everyone whether they want to know or not about his absolute disgust at what’s happening to his country.  About his total condemnation of those who think they speak for him.  About his total condemnation of anyone who votes for these racist scumbags, because they’ve only proved that they too are just as racist, just as scummy, and just as baggy.  About his complete rejection of the racism that’s seeping through the world like a leak from one of those orange disco tent sprayers that he’s so fond of.

Sam, Ade and the rest of them usually let this sort of fire burn itself out.  However, this time, the fuel is particularly strong, so they’ll need to be more proactive.  Sam’s just arrived from watching Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark up at the Park, so he tries to distract Ron by reeling off all of the hits that they played.  Ade’s not that into Orchestral Manoeuvres, but he joins in as best he can. It’s only on the third attempt that Ron hears what they are saying, finally calms down a notch or five, and tells them, because Sam and Ade weren’t already aware, that Enola Gay is an absolute banger.

It’s true.  And they’d played the popular hits like Electricity and Joan of Arc and Tesla Girls.  They’d also played some of the slower, more subtle tracks like Almost and Stanlow.  Sam had been sat on the bank at the Park, in the sun, listening to the dreamy numbers and thought that those were more suitable for lazin’ on a sunny afternoon.  An ideal way to turn off your mind, relax and float downstream.

Then Ron asks him whether he’s heard all of the furore about the concert up at the Park the night before.  Apparently it’s all been kicking off online today.  Something else Ron has come across on his daily surf of all things Glastonbury.  The Daily Mail (who else) is reporting the ‘outrage at pro-Russian concert performed at Glastonbury’ he tells Sam, quoting from the headline.  Then he goes on to tell Sam that there was a classical concert up at the Park that consisted of over an hour of Russian propaganda.

“Really,” says Sam.  “I was there.  That’s not what I heard.”

“Apparently it was all Russian military music.”

“Let’s see what I can remember.  They did bits from the Heroes symphony.  The same one they did ten years ago.  They did Prokofiev – Romeo and Juliet.  They did the 1812.  They did the Great Gates of Kiev.  So there’s your Russian stuff.”  

“All about Russian military victories.”

“1812 is about the defeat of a military dictator, so I can’t be upset about them playing it.  And they also did Fanfare for the Common Man, Greensleeves, and Hoedown, so those aren’t exactly fascist songs are they?”  

“Hasn’t stopped the Mail from calling for them all to be arrested and locked up,” says Ron.

“I thought the mail was pro-Putin now.”

“You’re over estimating the Mail’s ability to hold a consistent position on anything except their hatred of all things progressive.”

Then, jackknifing the conversation with the speed of a populist changing their position on an unpopular topic they’ve previously supported, Ron refocuses his mind on the stage in front of him and instantly switches his discourse to what is actually the burning question of the day.  Who will play drums for the Thamesmen?

“It’s make your mind up time.  They’ll be on in five minutes.”

“Zak Starkey,” says Ade.

“Maybe Ringo on Cups and Cakes.”  

“Dave Grohl,” says Jane.

“Probably will be.  You can’t keep him away from Glastonbury, can you?”

“There’s a reasonable chance that the Great Paul Thompson is around for Ferry’s set tomorrow,” says Sam.

“Meg White.”

“No, Jack White, more likely.”

“What will you give me for Stewart Copeland?” asks Ron.

“10 to 1”

The Thamesmen come on and start with Hell Hole.  Sam can’t really see much of the stage from where he is, so he’s watching the screens along with everyone else near him.  No-one can tell who’s on drums until they announce Zak Starkey.  Ron and Sam shake Ade’s hand and slap him on the back.  

Then the band go through this pantomime of sacking Zak Starkey and bringing on a new drum kit.  This time it’s Jack White.  Then Starkey comes back.  This turns into a running joke as he gets fired after almost every number that he plays on.  A new drummer comes on for one song and then Starkey comes back.  Dave Grohl makes an appearance.  Well, you can’t keep him away from Glastonbury, can you.  The surprise is Mick Fleetwood for Big Bottom.  No-one saw that coming.    

They run through the expected set list.  They repeat the expected jokes.  For Stonehenge, a correctly sized model of a Carhenge trilithon descends from above.  For Bitch School, there’s a preamble featuring film of a dog called Dolly going through the paces at a dog training school.  For Cups and Cakes, there’s a cardboard cut out of Paul McCartney, and a long winded story of trying to get Macca to appear.  It’s all obvious, but it’s still a great deal of fun.  It always will be, no matter how often you wheel it out.