As we embark upon this 4th Christmas blog – or
blessay as we dubbed it a few years past – you may be interested to know that
its inspiration hailed from a very different source to that of its predecessors. Usually, I start thinking about this piece roughly
a week after completing my November blog, and then I scrabble around for
fitting topics and subject matter, before trying to crowbar in some
contemporary references alongside a few historical festive staples. Not so this
year.
I’m sure many of you will know that the song “White
Christmas” is from the film Holiday Inn,
where Bing Crosby sings it longingly from a sun dripped Californian beach. Similarly, readers of blessay number 1 (http://badockshead.blogspot.co.uk/2011/12/whilst-heads-of-other-educational-or.html)
will recall my pub quiz fact that Noddy Holder wrote Slade’s festive smash on
John Lennon’s "Imagine" piano in the middle of a New York heatwave in July. The inspiration for this blog hit me on a
sunny Saturday in June, and I knew it the second it happened.
My family and I are devoted attendees of the 80s Let’s Rock
Bristol festival. I love a festival,
especially one where I can take my kids and teach them something important
(like the words to all of Go West’s hits).
We had arrived on the Friday, pitched camp and started rocking. Then on the Saturday, after a bleary eyed
start, we dragged our deck chairs and our illicit moonshine and set up our selves
for the day as we always do – strategically placed at the start of the second
bank so we’re easy for the kids to find and close to the amenities … by which I
mean bar.
The sun shone high in a sky of the deepest blue, and the
atmosphere was electric with anticipation.
We were moments away from the arrival of the first act, and we couldn’t
slap on the sun cream fast enough. The
place was abuzz with open hearted joy, and I for one couldn’t wait.
The first few acts came and went (Dr and the Medics, Jackie
Graham and Sonia, since you asked) and although I sang along word perfect to
“You’ll never stop me from loving you” I was gripped by something else
happening. Where we had chosen to make
our festival pitch was right next to a thoroughfare that split the festival in
two, and stretched from the entry points across the park to the amenities… by
which I mean the bar.
This thoroughfare took on an entirely new meaning as people
came in: it became a place of hugging. I
sat transfixed watching people running towards each other and hugging. There seemed to be no rules, no plan, no
holding back and no decorum whatsoever.
More than one couple did the whole “try to go to the side and headbutt
each other” manoeuvre, but no-one cared.
There was no ill will, no animosity, and not a single person refused
said hug.
There was just joy. A
bloke behind me said “It’s just like Christmas!” and I thought to myself,
there’s a blog in that…..
Because, you see, a hug at a festival is a strange but
magnificent beast. It transcends so many
things that it is an irresistible force all of its own design. I watched, open jawed, as I saw young and
old, tall and short, goth and go-go (I’ll explain in a second) practically
sprint up to one another, and envelope them in an embrace that could, in one or
two cases, have broken ribs.
A festival hug transcends age. It doesn’t matter how old or young you are;
you can still participate in any way.
A festival hug transcends time. Whether you were with that person this
morning for breakfast or you haven’t seen them in an age, a hug at a festival
confirms and reaffirms that deep felt friendship that has been there all along.
A festival hug transcends culture. You don’t have to be trendy or cutting edge,
and it isn’t just for the nerdy. It’s
about laying your feelings open and unashamedly on the line.
A festival hug, and here’s the real funny one, transcends
musical tastes. The apocryphal tale of
the Brighton beach fight between mods and rockers was all well and good, but
don’t the authorities normally take the brunt of festival go-ers combined
ire? I saw a bloke who was all of 6 foot
4, without his destroy platform heels, dressed head-to-toe in black leather,
complete with make up, hugged by a lady of about 4’11’’ (in both directions)
wearing a rara skirt, a glitter wig and a Frankie says t-shirt. Did he shy away? No, he reciprocated, and what a sight they
made.
The main thing, however, is what it conveys. In those many hugs, I saw a thousand messages
portrayed loud and clear. They said
things like:
·
I’ve missed you;
·
It’s great to see you;
·
It’s great to share this experience with you;
·
I can’t believe you’re here;
·
I can’t believe I’m here – in these shoes….and this hat….;
·
This place just got even better because you’re
here;
·
You mean so much to me.
And it continued. I
saw unashamed tears of happiness, and deeds of kindness that were unembarrassed
in their openness and sentiment. It was
as if, for a weekend in summer, the human race remembered that it is wired for
good. It was intrinsic engineering
(where have I heard that before?).
As the year has progressed, I have seen a number of
incidents and events, and indeed the individuals they concern, where I have
concluded that what the situation really needed was a big festival hug. Although I am not suggesting for a moment that
such an act would rid the world of all its ills, it would certainly go a long
way to make people, especially those who are in need, feel a whole lot better. I think it also serves as an award for those
who deserve it, but just don’t, for all sorts of invalid reasons, get the
recognition.
I am one of a million Englishmen who have that deep seated
hatred of the Aussie cricket team, based – I am convinced – on pure jealousy on
our behalf. My generation have seldom
seen such world dominance of any sport, and they managed it for a decade and more. I am, however, not too proud an Englishman to
say that Ricky Pontin will for me, along with Joost Van Der Westhuizen, Jonty
Rhodes and Franco Baresi, always be seen as a sporting colossus.
Whatever your sporting allegiance, you cannot be human and have
been unmoved by the sad and tragic death of Philip Hughes. A young man (and I am now of an age that I
qualify to say that about others) who died doing something he loved, and in a
complete accident. Amazingly, my wife
(never what you would call a sports pundit) made a fair point in the midst of
all of this: how sad for the poor bloke who bowled the delivery? Sean Abbott must have been subjected to a
tsunami of unmanageable turmoil over the last few weeks, for doing little more
than what his coach told him to. It has
been a number of saving graces that the cricketing world has managed this
situation so well, especially its support of Abbott. A massive festival hug to Sean Abbott please.
In addition to that, you must also raise a pair of clapping
hands to the amazing dignity displayed at a funeral which never once asked for pity
or sympathy, but instead celebrated the amazing gift that must have been Phil
Hughes’ life and work. I watched with a
little awe the bravery of those who had to speak, including his sister. Massive festival hug to her please.
Similarly, love him or hate him, the remarkable way in which
Michael Clarke handled himself, his team and his nation can only be
admired. I once remarked, in a former
blog, that the world needed its men to be leaders, but every so often it is
even more important for its leaders to be men.
In the dictionary, dignity should have a picture of Michael Clarke next
to it. Huge festival hug to Mr Clarke
please, followed by a highly deferential shake of his hand.
Operation Yewtree has loomed like a sad cloud not only over
this year, but it feels like a larger number of years than it probably is. I have taken no pleasure in reading the
recounts in the paper, nor in hearing the news; only a reserved satisfaction that
justice has, in some small but irretrievably late fashion, been served. My feelings about this whole affair come into
two categories really.
Firstly, I have nothing but the greatest sympathy for the
victims of these unspeakably terrible acts, and the deepest admiration for the
courage in stepping forward and speaking out.
Too little too late for them? I
rather suspect so, but I think that the passage of years and the public outing
of Neanderthal – like attitudes will portray these women and girls in a very
different light – an heroic one. A
polite, respectful and deserving hug to each of these people.
But I feel it goes deeper.
I can just about recall the radio on a Saturday morning hosted by
certain people, and the TV programmes I came to know as a child. Yet I was (I know you won’t believe it) too
young to have joined in the mass adoration of the 1970s. Some people may have had one of these
people’s posters on their teenage bedroom wall, or maybe even more. I feel bitterly sorry for people whose
teenage years now bear a stain of doubt and betrayal, because I’m sure that’s
how they must feel. A mug bearing a “fix
it” label that once graced our office has, quite rightly, disappeared for good. To these people, a massive festival hug.
Previous blessay riders will know I’m not one to shy away
from areas others may deem insensitive, but please consider for a moment the
devastating news in Bristol in recent weeks of a mother and child who went
missing from a hospital – the very hospital in which both my children entered
this world – and were subsequently found dead.
I heard the news of the mother’s body being discovered as I arrived at
school one morning; I had to stay in the car for a few more moments that
day. Later came the news we all hoped would
not come, but somehow knew to be inevitable.
How many of us, given the chance, would go back and give them the hug
they clearly so desperately needed?
But I don’t raise this with the rosey tint of
hindsight. My thoughts and festival hugs
go out to the mother who is no longer a grandmother, and the boyfriend who is
no longer a father. I cannot for a
second place myself in those shoes, but would do anything I could to erase the
pain.
Furthermore, I have experienced at first hand, twice, the
amazing care and dedication of the staff at that hospital, and will not for a
second condone the discussions or accusations bouncing around face(idiot)book
about “why did no-one stop them”. I
will not sanction for a second the idea that those wonderful professionals, who
saw my wife through two difficult births, didn’t do what they could. To the entire team, who I know will have – by
the very nature of their outstanding professionalism – done an enormous amount
of soul searching, an enormous group hug.
Indeed, I would also offer a future festival hug. Not to a future festival go-er (although the
two are not mutually exclusive) but to anyone who is, round about now, starting
to worry. Worry about ensuring that in
two weeks’ time, or thereabouts, they will have managed to pull off a dinner
that meets everyone’s not always realistic expectations, and which keeps the
pre-supper / post-monopoly arguments that little more soft around the
edges. Look at it like this: that master
of understatement Philip Larkin used the wonderful lines in “The Whitsun
Weddings” (another summer reference) about the ladies watching the happy couple
leaving on their train and had
Just time enough to settle hats and say
“I nearly died!”
Maybe your own version will read
Just time enough to steady paper crowns and say
“I nearly burst”
Yes, I agree, Larkin says it better. However, let us not forget the sentiment, for
that is what I would wish for yourselves.
As someone who is expected to cook for 11, you have my sympathies, and a
big, warm sherry fuelled hug.
If you can bear to stay with me for a moment or two more,
would you be so good as to indulge me in a personal moment? There are some hugs that I want to give out
in recognition of a more personal, Badock’s centred 12 months.
Firstly to the Buddies of Badock’s, our new PTA who have
come from nowhere to smash it out of the ball park, thank you, and a massive,
massive festival hug. As there are so
many of you (and you’re almost exclusively female) you can have Then Jericho,
Alexander O’Neal and Nathan from Brother Beyond … except for Chris and Steve; Belinda Carlisle and Kim
Wilde perhaps?
Next, to the parents who are helping push Badock’s even
further. Those who ensure their children
are “always” children – always there, always in uniform, always with homework
and always well supported. You know who
you are. You are all due a huge hug;
have level 42 and Bananarama.
To the children’s centre staff, who have at times this year
had to endure the most unpleasant of all working environments –
uncertainty. Your work has been noticed
and appreciated, and I know that, even though we’re not out of the woods by a
very long stretch, we are on a journey towards great things. Big, big hugs – for you all; you may have
Nick Kershaw.
I have been slapped around the face this year with the
realization I've now been at Badock’s almost 7 years. I have seen a number of staff join, move on
and, I’m pleased to say, stay with us for the journey. Working in such close proximity brings about
a certain camaraderie and we take an enormous interest in each other’s lives
and welfare, even after they have left.
This year, with current staff and former colleagues, we have had 8 Badock’s
babies. Cause enough for celebration. However, let’s throw in the fact that some of
these babies have been ill, and we have all, as a group, waited on those phone
calls and texts that no-one wants to make or receive. Yet we have done it, and we’ve done it
together. The biggest hug to my school
colleagues who never cease to amaze me in everything they do and put up with
from me: you can have Boney M, and sing Christmas songs until you know I’m back
in the building.
Almost finally, I should point out that the one thing you
never see in a festival hug is forgiveness.
It isn't needed. Festivals are
about spreading the joy and the love.
Therefore, as it’s Christmas, may I offer the biggest, sloppiest kiss of
a hug to the people who have been writing derogatory comments about the school
and yours truly on face(idiot)book. You
will all be pleased to know that you have not upset me, although I won’t be
showing my mum, and can you please spell my name right? To you, the amenities … by which I do not
mean the bar.
Finally, to the wife.
Yes, you can hug Rick Astley.
So, kind people, a big gold star on top of the tree if
you’ve made it this far. As ever, I
apologise humbly and profoundly for offence caused; none was ever
intended. I am far more hopeful that I
have posed a question or raised an idea or two.
Whatever the festive seasons holds for you, I wish you the merriest of
Christmases and the most successful of new years. To you and yours, may this time be safe,
special, and driven by the kind of hugs usually reserved for a balmy June day.
For an eventful 2014, that is all.
Except, may I offer one more hug? It will not involve wrapping my arms around
anyone, nor the offer of a faded popstar, but I would just like to prove that a
good turn is never forgotten.
On the Sunday of the festival, it rained. A lot.
My wife had “forgotten” to bring my coat from the car when she went to
retrieve waterproofs and warm stuff for her and the kids. So as the rain lashed down in the midst of
Matt Bianco, I was left in tshirt, shorts and a hat borrowed to try and keep my
shades clear. The rain came crashing
down on us for a good 20 minutes, and I was drenched, but my spirits
undeterred.
Halfway through, whilst I was dancing with my son, a
gentleman came to me in his coverall poncho.
I was expecting him to make rude comments about my lack of
preparation. Instead, he slapped me on
the back and said “fair play to you, son”, then offered me his hip flask. We then spent the rest of the rainstorm
talking and sharing children-at-festival stories. Never once, upon taking his own hit, did he not offer me the said flask, the
contents of which was a hug in itself… and a bit of a smack in the jaw. Once the sun was in the sky again and we had
reached what felt like a natural conclusion, he said “Well, if it hadn’t
rained, we’d never have got the chance to talk” another slap on my back “go
steady, mind.”
With that, he blended back into the crowd. It was a hug, of sorts, and I never got the
chance to say thank you for the hip flask, or, more importantly, for the
enormous hug of friendship that made me warm again on a cold day. A hug feels like a hug, however it may be
given. Wherever you are sir, thank you.
That, with a wish of a merry Christmas, is all.
