“Aston Martin, Mercedes something or other, is that a Bentley? Er, another Aston Martin, a golf cart, Porsche, Porsche, BMW, ah! There we go - unwashed Ford Focus with a bit of trim trapped in the door, plus an empty packet of Skittles, a bottle of water and a phone charger on the passenger seat...”
Ever feel ridiculously out of place, knowing that you probably just won’t ever fit in? That’s exactly how I felt, standing in the lobby of the golf course hotel with my keyboard stand. It was proper fancy. High chandeliers, delicate uplighting, stylish art, fountains with sculpted horses, long mahogany panels behind an enormous bar of shiny gold taps and optics. An enormous mirror ball hung from the ceiling, glittering like the posh sun.
A handsome wedding party bustled through a door as though they’d just tumbled out of a magazine. One of them looked at me. I caught myself in the giant gold-framed mirror at the end of the lobby. I was wearing jeans, trainers, a lumberjack shirt and a baseball cap. Beneath my tired grubby face, my beard bristled out like a chimney brush.
We were there for our next barn dance gig - this time, a couple’s golden wedding. I didn’t know it would be here; typically these things are in dusty village halls or social clubs: the kind of places with tea urns and avocado crockery, and maybe a picture of the Queen (circa 1977) above the door. There’s often a tattered stage curtain covering old bits of cardboard am-dram scenery and a locked and scuffed upright piano. This was not that. This was a fancy posh do. And we, the barn dance band for the evening, were out of place, in every way.
I was tired too. I’d been away in Kidderminster for a conference, had had two nights of not sleeping, and had already driven over a hundred miles to get to the gig. I was skittled out.
By the way, I think I’ve worked out how Skittles work (I thought about it a lot on the motorway). They’re double-flavoured aren’t they, like bait and switch sweets: the first flavour is juicy, sweet and refreshing; the second (presumably when you get into the middle of a Skittle) is hidden, tangy, sour, and makes you believe that only the first flavour will relieve it. Clever, isn’t it? The one thing you need after a handful of Skittles is another handful of Skittles. There are probably a lot more sugary things in the world that work exactly like that.
So anyway, I’d eaten a family of bag of Skittles. By myself. On the M5. And I’d arrived at the fancy hotel looking like a bedraggled sort of grizzly woodcutter... with a keyboard.
Thankfully, I had my band shirt with me (we always wear plain black shirts) and I was able to make myself look reasonably presentable. I still felt out of place though. I think it’s a class thing - I could dress up and act the part, maybe even learn the way to talk, but I will probably always be an outsider. I will probably be the guy who ends up using the wrong spoon, pouring water into a wine glass, or eating a consommé with a dessert fork or something. It’s intellect too - I remember feeling so outwitted by laser scientists that they would simply ignore me as though I wasn’t clever enough to keep up. They were right of course, but then, as now, the loss was completely theirs. I’m afraid I have no time for snobs these days.
Well. The gig was good. I went off-score a few times, missed an ending, very nearly hit the transpose button, and also very nearly offended a partially sighted man, but apart from that it was good. Waltzes, jigs and reels, and a little bluesy at times. Even the dancing was okay.
I drove home, exhausted, the road twisting and turning in the headlamps. I might not always be classy, but I’d hope at least that I find myself avoiding unkindnesses. Spoons, forks, cruise ships, golf stories, holiday-envy, coffee-talk and cuisine-etiquette all come second to enjoying someone’s company, I reckon. Though, at that point I was on my own, listening to late night talk radio and trying to stay awake. My eyes were all over the place too. And I was out of Skittles.
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