Category: neck deep in the zeitgeist

photo lovingly yoinked from and © 2001 Red Snapper Photography

I spent the Christmas of 1984 and 1986 with my parents in Bainbridge, North Yorkshire at the Rose & Crown, a 500-year old hotel with lots of history, lots of drafts, and nary a plumb line in the place “and it totally wigs me out that I can link to it”. It was a beautiful way to spend Christmas. The hotel sat on the common in Bainbridge, and was also the village pub. The locals were very friendly and eager to buy a drink “contrary to the stereotype of Yorkshiremen: and possibly because my presence in the bar as a hotel guest allowed the staff to ignore licensing hours and stay open as late as they liked”. The hotel was very cold, but I think I prefer that to today’s not-very-Christmasy 64 degrees. Cold, after all, is the reason for fireplaces and whisky and big wooly sweaters, all of which help me get into the spirit of Christmas.

The Rose & Crown was full of people from the UK and US, and we gathered by the fireplace in the residents’ lounge at night. I came in on Christmas Eve to find that all the chairs were taken. One Englishman in his 70s saw me and leapt to his feet, and insisted I take his chair. “Keep in mind that I was 20.” I politely refused. He continued to insist. “I’m perfectly happy to sit on the floor” he intoned in the slow, deliberate drone of the office bore. “I often sit on the floor at home. You can ask my wife” He pressed it to the point where the only polite thing for me was to accept his offer. You can imagine the looks I got from other guests who came into the lounge afterward and saw me sitting cozily in an armchair while an arthritic senior citizen sat on the floor at my feet.

We ate “and drank” incredibly well while we were there. I especially remember a rack of local lamb encrusted with rosemary, which I will attempt to recreate for Christmas dinner 2003, but I don’t expect it to match up. Breakfast was a wonder as well: local eggs and local sausages and local toast with local homemade orange marmalade. One morning a large glob of marmalade fell off my toast and landed on my eggs and sausage. And it was good. I put another spoonful of marmalade on my sausage, and it was good, too. Then I realized that, no matter how good it is, you can’t just go around putting marmalade on everything. I became a man that day.

Bainbridge is in Wensleydale, home of the eponymous local cheese “which gets a prominent mention in the Python cheese shop sketch” and not far from the home of James Herriot, who kept office hours for fans of his books as well as for sick animals. We were on our way to see him “which required us to traverse the Buttertubs Pass” when a tractor blocking our lane caused us to suddenly and inadvertently make the acquaintance of John Allen of Hawes, and later an old couple who let us sit in their parlor while we awaited the police and tow truck. “Out of the blue the man announced, “We’ve been on the QE 2“” We were driven back to the Rose & Crown by Constable Jefferson, who maintained a steady 90 mph in his miniscule Ford panda car, much to the dismay of all of us who had recently been in a road accident. When we returned to the pub, my mother thought rightly that a brandy would be in order, to warm her up and calm her nerves “and her nose, which we didn’t know at the time was broken”. The bartender supplied her with a Courvoisier VS, which to this day she considers the finest brandy to be had.

One night the hotel staff took me on a pub crawl of Wensleydale. When we returned, the hotel was locked for the night. One of the cooks climbed in through the kitchen window and opened the back door. He then asked, “Did you see me go through that window? I was as graceful as a Thompson’s gazelle” Not just a gazelle: a Thompson’s gazelle.

On Christmas Day we ate our roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and popped our Christmas crackers and put on the silly hats, then watched the Queen’s address and went for a walk. As we stepped out of the hotel onto the village green and saw the inhabitants of Bainbridge stepping out of their front doors, we imagined our Christmas was more or less the same as 80 percent of the population of Great Britain. And it was pretty darn good.

Happy Christmas, everyone.

Gotta keep the crowd happy. Gotta get ’em up on their feet. I am a professional entertainer. I am a professional entertainer. I am a professional entertainer. And all this equipment ain’t gonna pay for itself.

What the hell is wrong with these people? I have never seen a crowd that didn’t react to “Who Let the Dogs Out” Is it time for “Born in the USA yet? Too soon. Gotta save that one.

Damn, my hair is looking good. I am so glad I didn’t listen to that dude at Supercuts. This never goes out of style. And I’ll bet nobody ever tells Tom Selleck that his mustache is “too ’70s” Up yours, Tammy. I was tired of her anyway. Let her keep the damn truck, see if I care. Once the karaoke takes off, I’m gonna quit my job at Radio Shack and buy me a PT Cruiser, put some flames on the side. It’ll be a business expense, too.

What do these two clowns think they’re doing? “Our Lips Are Sealed ain’t no damn Devo song. I hate it when people don’t respect the karaoke. I don’t want to get all “Karate Kid here, but if you don’t respect the karaoke, the karaoke will not respect you.

Oh, yeah. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” all right. I’ll bet you girls like to have some fun, don’t you? Oh, yeah. I don’t see no wedding rings, neither. Oh, yeah. These two will be perfect for singing backup for me on “Summer Lovin'” Dang, I wish I had a video camera. That short one’s kinda heavy, but she sure can move.

Okay, here we go, people. Let a master show you how it’s done.

Look at ’em. They can’t take their eyes off me. I know I shouldn’t do this, because lots of times guys don’t want to get up and sing after I’ve sung. Sometimes, after I do a Bob Seger number, people just stand there and stare. Sometimes it even kills the party. I’m a tough act to follow, I guess. But hell, I’m a professional entertainer.

Man, I hope there’s some meatballs left.

I don’t think I need to say anything clever here to establish that lots of little things tick me off, do I? Good. Here’s one that really frosts my oatmeal, or whatever. People don’t pay attention. Several months ago, after my car had been hit-and-ran from, I was spending a lot of time on the phone with various insurance company functionaries, and I was forced to learn a new style of communication: make some premonitory noise to let them know you’re about to impart information, then impart the information, then repeat it. For instance, I called my agent’s office once and said to the person who answered the phone, “Hi, I have my car insurance with you guys and I’m in the middle of a claim. The adjuster asked me to fax her some documents and I don’t have a fax machine at home. She suggested I come to your office to do that and I wanted to know if now would be a good time” From the response I got, you would have thought I had asked her to please make me a weasel sandwich with fries and deliver it to the White House.

I’m thinking about this now because I awoke this morning to a strange chemical smell in my house. I came downstairs to find my kitchen sink emitting a cloud of steam. I stood there thinking “Huh and “Whuh? and “Damn for a while, then I remembered that there was utility work going on in my neighborhood. I went outside and sure enough, a crew from the Orange Water and Sewer Authority were crouched in my parking lot, ministering to what was clearly an Acme Strange-Smelling Steam Generator. Still, I figured I’d make sure. As I crossed the parking lot toward the Head Walkie-Talkie In Charge, I was expecting this to be a fairly simple conversation. Surely by this point HWTIC had figured out why an unshaven homeowner in slippers was walking purposefully toward him. He awaited me with what I fancied to be a look of understanding, and I was confident that we would soon have one of those “Ha ha, yes indeed, nothing to worry about exchanges: one that might even end in a hearty holiday sentiment. I’m quite certain my matey face was already affixed when I said, “Are you guys doing anything that might cause funny-smelling steam to come out of my sink? His response?

“What?

What, what? What do you mean, what? You’re pumping steam into the ground that’s coming out in people’s houses, and you weren’t anticipating that question? What the hell did you think I was going to ask? “Those sure are some spiffy hard hats. Where did you get them? I think my mom would like one for Christmas”

I repeated the question verbatim, and the second time it sunk in. Yes, he responded, we’re checking the sewer lines for leaks. Run your faucet and it will keep the steam down. Okay, fine, and thank you, and we’ll leave aside for the time being any question of why you didn’t see fit to warn people that you were about to do something that could easily be misinterpreted as, oh, I don’t know, deadly.

On pondering the lack of attention phenomenon, it occurs to me that the first thing you say is not important. It’s just a throat-clearing, an “ahem” a way to attract attention. Maybe we could have some fun with it.

“Excuse me, would any of you like a back rub?
“What?”
“Are you making steam come out of my sink?

“I’m afraid. Will you hold me?
“What?
“I’d like to deposit this check”

“The voices have started again, and they’re very angry”
“What?
“Roll of stamps, please”

the Strutt Memorial on the Market Place, Belper