Sod It; DO Talk to Strangers!

“You can put a bit of Neil Diamond on for me – 'Crackling Rosie', magic”. He grinned winningly at me and adjusted his elbow-position. He was not so much leaning on the jukebox as trying to fuse it and himself as one. He had been cosying up to it all night, making me think that this was the kind of dash my dear father must have cut mere hours before he came home in the middle of the night fifteen years ago, several sheets to the wind, and woke everyone up with his jolly but tuneless renditions of Neil Diamond and Gilbert O'Sullivan ditties sung at the top of is lungs. This present day Diamond fan winked at no-one in particular and made an unjustifiably confident swing for the table with his drinking arm. His hand, like a champion homing pigeon, alighted triumphantly on his pint of IPA. He'd just given me 50p for the jukebox. I was with Al and our mates Ant and June – up for a couple of quality days on board – in a great pub called the Crown in Stockton, south of Leamington Spa, which is just south of Lapworth where, the nice man at the train station had assured me (after telling me a colourful potted history of the Birmingham Mafia clans), Tony Iommi from Black Sabbath lives. And Jasper Carrott. It was incredibly nice of jukebox-man, a be-denimed local in his late 30s who sported the kind of grin that will have got him out of a lot of trouble as a wee-un, to give me 50p. I was a total stranger. Grateful though I was for this kind donation, it kind of defeated my purpose, which was to put my last 50p in change into the machine and select a few minutes music that would provide as much of a contrast as possible from the Neil Diamond and Bryan Adams that had been rumbling out of it for the past hour.

“Hee-yar,” he said to me as I looked through the fug of one shot of whiskey (that's all it takes to fuzz the edges for me) at the printed note Sellotaped thickly to the machine detailing the number of plays you got or your money – two for 50p - “Hee-yar, I've got 50p, you'll get five plays for a pound.” He handed me the coin with a nonchalant gesture; not threatening, not over-familiar, just well, just very nicely. “You can choose. You can put a bit of Neil Diamond on for me – 'Crackling Rosie', magic”. I had a little chat with him as I punched in the numbers for Mr Diamond, Mr Stewart, Messrs Jagger and Richards and all the Iseralites (Mr Desmond Dekker). I went back to my table conflicted by the feeling that I had just found a jukebox-chum whom I was now quite keen to leave since he was air-guitaring ather athletically to 'Cracklin' Rosie'.

I have surely been defying the recommendations of some 1970s public information film or other recently by talking to a lot of strangers. More than usual, in fact, and that is saying something. Maybe the change in weather – that most British of chinwag-openers – has eroded a little inlet into people's inhibitions. Whatever it is, I welcome it. In the past ten days I have been entertained by, amongst other things, tales of a conspiracy theory to get us to burn less coal (not, claimed the theorist in question, because CO2 emissions have anything to do with global warming – they don't, he insisted – but because the government do not want to re-open our collieries because that will give power to Arthur Scargill, who will stage a government coup). Today I encountered an impassioned monologue-er in the shape of an elderly British-Asian corner shop owner in Stockton who told me at length about her 25 year struggle to run her business and raise her children in the face of persistent racial harassment from local youths. This week I also met a father who confided misgivings about his daughter's chosen career as a tattoo artist in Kent and a local horsewoman who swears by chilli topped with rice, chips and cheese in that order as a post-winter-morning-ride-pick-me-up. I have been told jokes, given pub recommendations, weather reports and, in the last week alone, have also been given a shiny new ballpoint pen, some firewood, a lolly, 50p for the jukebox and an air filter for my engine. All given to me, unasked for, by strangers.

Some strangers have also provided me with oodles of entertainment entirely unwittingly. A couple of months ago while we were in Ellesmere we overheard two pale looking young men in slim-fitting sports casual wear chatting on the corner about the previous night out on the lash: “You should've seen you last night, pal!” guffawed the first bloke, remembering last night's drunken hilarity. “Yeah, I know,” agreed his mate “I was fuckin' paraplegic!”

Seriously, you cannot make this stuff up.

More recently, the other night in fact, I overheard the following conversation in a pub called The Bluebell (I urge you to bear in mind that it was after 10pm and this pub sold six types of cider):

Bloke A: Blowy out there tonight. Bloke B: Yea, its a wind alright. Bloke A: The grass moves, its a breeze you get.

Bloke B: (Silence)

Bloke A: When the grass moves, you only get a breeze, when the bigger grass - the bushes move, they move and you get a wind, if the trees move they cause a gale and when houses start blowing about you get a hurricane. (Pause) Still...

(Presumably he takes a swig of his beer here, but I am only surmising...I was earwigging, not staring)

Bloke A: There's some wind fanning them flames in California.

Bloke B: Conspiracy.

They then fell silent for fully five minutes. Presumably they were musing knowledgeably on this wind-conspiracy. Perhaps they were, chiefly to make some more room for beer, busy silently breaking some. I really wanted to go up and talk to them but they were quite scary looking. All solid beer-belly frontage and a sullen, disillusioned look. Massive ham fists. Besides, I didn't want to risk getting caught in a miasma of digestion-gasses.

But I should've spoken to them. I have rarely had an encounter in the five months of this trip that has been unpleasant. We don't chat enough to each other, I think, so lets get jaw-ing. Sod this culture of fear. Strangers, on the whole, are fairly entertaining and bloody nice. This is something I have learned.

Comments

[Ant]

Keep talking to strangers when you get back dahn sarf. If your state of mind is right, people are friendly just about everywhere*. We metropolitans aren't all c**ts. Just most of us.

Cheers for a top weekend and for sniffing out a couple of qualidy boozers. I'll be back...

* excludes Picadilly Circus and Camden.

[Ant]

ps have you been back to the olive tree?

[Little More]

Ah, Ant, a quality establishment indeed. Went Back to the Old Olive Bush (In Flecknoe, Pub Fans) the other night. They had a pub skittles match on so we were surrounded by portly men chucking stuff at the wall and eating sausage casserole, you would have loved it, mate. I must write a post dedicated to that boozer...in fact I might do a Top Five Boozers entry. Better do a bit more research first. Now where's me coat?

[Ant]

here's a link to the photos. what a q weekend - missing life on the ocean wave already

http://www.flickr.com/photos/7713383@N05/sets/72157603036997501/show/