Birthday Bash at The Barn

Saturday June 1st, 2024

"Ecclesiastes assures us... that there is a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to laugh... and a time to weep. A time to mourn... and there is a time to dance. See, this is our time to dance. It is our way of celebrating life. It's the way it was in the beginning. It's the way it's always been. It's the way it should be now"

Ren McCormack (Kevin Bacon, Footloose 1984)

I’ve always wondered why the expression ‘you’ve missed the boat’ doesn’t apply to any other mode of transport: You’ve missed the plane, you’ve missed the bus and so on. Perhaps it’s because in ye olden days of yore if you missed said boat, you might die waiting for the next one, or perhaps the boat in question was a lifeboat?

These are the questions that often swirl through my mind.

Seeing a train pull out of the station when you’re not on it is one of life’s bitter experiences, but I’m sure it would have been far sadder watching it chug away with the plume of coal-fired steam rising from its magnificent chimney, as you stood on the platform with your suitcase.

Last Friday, I sprinted, then jogged, then sauntered my way across London to Paddington station as I eventually realised I was going to miss my train to Ledbury. There was a time when I might have been more pissed off, but after the last five years of gut-pummeling grief (including the ongoing Shit Show™️), I am far more sanguine about life’s vagaries.

Just an hour later, I was sitting on the train to Ledbury.

My newly found sanguinity was tested at one point when three Americans got on. I would have described them as loud, but that’s a tautology of sorts. I overheard them say to the people next to them that they were from Texas. Yee-hah! They were on their way to a wedding at Stow-on-the-Wold. Very Four Weddings. At one point the loudest of the three drawled: ‘It’s called Paddington station, after the bear'.

I stifled a snort as I imagined an elaborate coat of arms emblazoned with marmalade sandwiches and tiny red wellington boots.

I looked up and smiled as the ticket collector appeared next to me. ‘This is a very nice train’, I remarked. ‘Oh no,’ he replied, ‘its design is terrible, its not a patch on the old rolling stock.’ I made a quip about not being a trainspotter and he chuckled. Awkward exchange crisis averted. Life is full of these sorts of exchanges because real conversations are not a script in a film. Human interaction is based on at least one person reading the room, or in this case, the carriage. If both people involved in the exchange are intransigent, it will go another way. That’s not to say that if I’d been in another frame of mind I might have said ‘oh for fuck’s sake, lighten up mate’, but my default position is usually to defuse, not exacerbate. Unless the stakes are really high, like outside the Covid Inquiry for example, or sitting next to John Gaunt while he advocates for Covid ‘vaccine’ mandates for care home workers and children on GB News.

Then I’ll get all Valkyrie on yo ass, and its all out fucking war.

When I got to Ledbury, Jules was waiting at the station in the sunshine. She’d flown from Dundee in the morning and got the train from Birmingham and I really love her for that. We asked directions from a nice man walking his dog, and strolled into town. Within 15 minutes we’d got to the lovely Talbot Hotel, and dropped our stuff off. We ordered a bottle of Malbec and sat in the sunny courtyard. Bliss. Later on we went for a stroll to get something to eat at a great little Italian place, The Olive Tree. To our delight, our mate Andy Booth who lives nearby, joined us and we all headed back for a cheeky nightcap at the hotel. I got to sleep around 5am.

YOLO.

I’ve always dreaded my birthday, but last year I decided to throw the first Abi Daily Birthday Bash and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I’ve seen comments in various places on social media that it’s only for a chosen ‘clique’. Let me assure you that it was, and always will be, open to all who listen to the pod. There’s no wanky roped-off VIP area. Even if you’re a bit of a cunt, I’ll still probably invite you. This year there were several young people there, including Will – who you can see me with in the photos. Will is thirteen-years-old and he listens to the pod. I spoke to him and his brilliant mum Jen for quite a long time. During our conversation he said ‘I shit you not’ which is one of my phrases and he made a joke about ‘Convid’. I told him he was a star, and he should be proud of his individual, critical thinking.

As I said in my little birthday speech, the mission that mostly drives me now is showing the younger generation that meeting, talking, exchanging ideas, laughing, dancing, hugging, kissing and holding each other in person is like oxygen; without it, we pale and wither. Like E.T. when he’s dead in that sealed tank at the end of the film, Elliott revives him with the strength of his love.

E.T. is of course an allegory of Christ’s life, death and resurrection, but I don’t think Jesus with a glowing finger would have had quite the same spiritual impact. And The Sermon on the Mount would have been really weird in that squeaky voice.

Verily, I say unto thee: Phooooone hooooome.

I woke up on Saturday morning with a head that felt like a prize boar had shat in it. Shades firmly on, Jules and I headed down to breakfast and a bit later Jules headed off to meet a few people who were already at The Barn. As I hadn’t slept that well, and I knew I’d need to be on my mettle meeting lots of people later, I decided to chill out in my room. I had a long soak in the bath and an extended disco nap. It’s my birthday, and I can soak if I want to.

At around 5pm, dressed and ready for the night, we walked the 3 minute walk to The Barn. Helen Delingpole and her partner David (aka Bear) were there, as well as Andy and his sister Christine. Dick Delingpole was there looking resplendent in his trademark, groove-sexy festival shirt that immediately cheers everybody up. It was a bit cloudy during the day, but the sun came out on cue as people started arriving: Bobster and his wife Sal, our Charlotte, Baroness of Burnley and her partner Wayne, Keith – videographer extraordinaire, Dave and Jenka, Sue and Steve (Rebels on Roundabouts), Catherine and Clodagh, ‘our’ Graham and his wife Jenny, Jen and her son William, Lisa, aka Shouty Mum, and her great pal Anna, Maria and her pal, Maxine and her husband David, Martin (aka Martino), John Hoyte (the fascinating, brave whistleblower pilot), Jonny Woodrow, his wife Ruth, and their children, Josiah, Miriam and Hope.

Please let me know if I’ve forgotten anyone!

At some point in the evening, I could hear a distant, tuneful Happy Birthday starting up inside. Christine appeared like a beautiful auburn-haired angel leading a small procession comprised of Dick and Andy carrying Tarta de Santiago cakes with the cross of St James carved in sugar on its surface. I’m ashamed to say that in my slightly intoxicated excitement, I hadn’t made the connection, but once I’d realised I was overcome with a surge of emotions that are hard to name. I’ll try though: gratitude, humility, joy, love, optimism, and sadness for those not able to be there.

Those feelings are still running through my fifty-four year old veins nearly a week later. As Bryan Ferry sang: Love is the drug; and this, my friends, is the mother of all comedowns.

At around 8pm, we all gravitated inside to listen to Andy playing guitar and singing a couple of original songs accompanied brilliantly on the saxophone by his friend Emily. What a bloody treat it was. I’ll post the lyrics to one of his songs ‘Everything they tell you is a lie’ in a separate post. Then the usual late-night randomness started as Robin, the owner, jokingly suggested me and Dick should each sing a song without knowing what the song was beforehand. I found myself riffing over a Gary Glitter track that I didn’t realise was Gary Glitter, and Dick found himself singing along to Two Little Boys by Rolf Harris. Like Vietnam, you had to be there, man. Although, in fairness, I think ‘Nam would probably have been a bit less awkward. Thank God for Charlotte who suggested Rotterdam by The Beautiful South which she sang beautifully. I was proud to be her backing singer, slipping in some harmonies. Matron. That was a highlight, for sure.

Then the playlist went on and the dancing started in earnest. Some of us went completely mental on the little dance floor. It was bloody joyous. I have a vivid memory of pogoing with Sue Roundabouts to Let Me Entertain You by Robbie Williams, and there was such a sweet moment when a group of us, directed by Charlotte’s partner Wayno, crouched down in a circle and put our hands in the middle on the floor. I think it was to Groove Armada’s Superstylin’ which is about 6 minutes long. You can see it in all its glory in the photo selection.

To me this photograph encapsulates something sacred. Every time I look at it I see something that cannot be bettered.

On Sunday, the skies were a trail-less bright blue. Despite my slightly fuzzy head, I had breakfast then went to Matins at the sublime Hereford Cathedral with Dick, Andy, Christine, Emily and John H. During one of the prayers, I opened one bleary eye and welled up as I looked down the line of good people I was fortunate enough to be alongside on this glorious June morning.

I spent the rest of the day and most of Monday with Christine and Andy in and around Ledbury where they grew up, and it was absolutely magical.

Thank you all so much for coming to my birthday weekend in Ledbury and in particular Andy and Dick for making it happen! I’ll treasure it for the rest of my days.

Here’s to next year… 🙏

A selection of pix taken by Kerry Murray at the Abi Daily Birthday Bash, Saturday June 1st 2024

I was lucky to have the brilliant Kerry and Keith taking photos and filming all the action. Thank you both from the bottom of my heart for documenting these important get-togethers.

Click to see all of Kerry’s brilliant photos here