A FLY ON THE WALL

In 1993 the Living Tradition magazine asked Sid to write a piece for them describing the life of a megostar.  At first he was reluctant, since he'd recently had an unfortunate experience with Goodbye! magazine, who had published very intrusive pictures of his bedroom.  Eventually he was persuaded, however, by the usual means of a fiver and immunity from prosecution.

Friday October 15th.

At home in St Just-near-Trunch I got a letter from my manager, this bloke called Chris Sugden.  He says I have to do Fly On The Wall for the Loving Tradition, but I decided not to.  We had a fly-on-the-wall documentary once on Trunch Wireless, and it was boring as a coot.  For twenty minutes they described the wall, and then they found the fly was dead!

Instead I decided to do a week's diary instead, and let them lump it.

Today I went up to the big city of Norwich.  I had to do some wireless for the Radio 2 Arts Programme.  This was recorded at 6.30, and went out live from 10.00 to 12.00, which is blooming clever.  Still, that's how it is with the Arts.  Now, us folk megostars don't often have much to do with the Arts, and I reckon that's because they're jealous.  Take opera - they have to shout to get anyone to listen.  Or chestral music - they can't play nothing unless they have dots before their eyes.  Or if you can't take either of them take ballet - the blokes can't even remember to put their trousers on before they dance.  I mean, even morris dancers can manage to remember that.

I went home and listened to the programme live in the Old Goat Inn.  Cyril Cockle said it was rubbish, and he might be right.  He's an expert on rubbish.

Saturday October 16th.

Went to Falmouth to do a show.  To get there you go to Bristol and then keep going a lot longer.  When I got there a bloke called John The Fish asked me some questions for Radio Cornwall (I wonder if he's related to Roger The Sheep in 'Sleeping Beauty and the Beast').  Megostars like me get this all the time, and it's easy once you work out that you don't have to tell them the truth.  You just tell them that everything is wonderful and successful and they go away happy.

Often they want a free Compacted Disc, but I never give them one.  I tell them to go to the shops and buy one.  They never do, of course.  They can't!  The shops never have them.  It's what they call supply and demand.  No matter how much you demand they won't supply it.

Show went alright.

Sunday October 17th.

Day off.  Mind you, if I was a driver instead of a folk megostar I'd have done a full day's work, 'cos it's eight hours from Falmouth to St Just.  Then again, if I was a driver instead of a megostar I'd have no reason to go to Falmouth in the first place, so I'd be unemployed!  It's a funny old world when you think about it, so it's best not to.

In the Old Goat Inn tonight there was some playing and step dancing and so on.  It's a nuisance having to put up with folk music on my day off.  I didn't join in - I played darts with Ernie Spratt.  That annoyed them, because he's the landlord so they couldn't get served - although he kept me and him supplied of course.  In the end they agreed to stop playing if he did, so I finally got a bit of piece and quiet.  On the way home I took a short cut through Demon's Wood.  Actually, it's quicker to go by the road, but you don't get pheasants on the road, do you?  Well yes, you do as a matter of fact, but I can never manage to blow them up again.

Monday October 18th.

This evening I had to go for a jig in Beverley.  This was important because it was run by my agent, so I had to up to scratch.  Actually I had to up to scratch in the morning - those pheasants must have had fleas.

My agent always tell me to give people their number.  I say, don't worry, I've got your number.  It's 15% plus VAT.  VAT means a % on the first %, but I don't know why.  What's it got to do with folk singing?

Anyway, the jig went alright, except for the place it was in.  It's called Nelly's, and I reckon it's about time Nelly sorted it out.  It's a really old place lit by gas and candles, with all old fixtures and fittings, just like years ago.  I reckon if they got some nice lino, and fluorescent light, and fablon on the old wooden tables they'd find it was twice as popular - even if it was full.

Tuesday October 19th.

Back home to do a bit for Angular TV.  I was late, due to heavy traffic on the Trans-Norfolk Highway (a sugarbeet lorry), but eventually I got the Crown, in Trunch.  Normally, of course, I'm barred.  Not that I've done anything in particular - it's just tradition.  My family has been barred from the Crown for as long as anyone can remember - although nobody can remember how long that is.  But with it being the telly they let me in.

These telly people have terrible memories.  First we decided exactly what we were going to do.  Then they put a microphone on me and I went up the road.  Then, when I came back, like we'd agreed, they'd already forgotten who I was!  They seemed surprised to see me, and asked me all the things I'd told them about in the pub.  But that's not all.  Then the camera bloke said it was no good for him, so I had to walk up the road a second time and blow me if when I came back they hadn't forgotten me again!  All I can say is it's lucky they had the camera there so they can watch the film to remind them what happened.

Wednesday October 20th.

My manager came to see me, which I always hate.  At least now he's moved to Yorkshire I don't have to see him so much.  When he lived down here he was always dropping in unaccepted and telling me what to do.  That was when I was working with my old father, so his manager used to come too, and they'd both want us to do different things.  In the end we used to leave them arguing amongst themselves and go off down the pub.

I decided some traditions are worth keeping up, so I went down the Old Goat and left him talking to himself.

Thursday October 21st.

Tonight I went to Kings Lynn Arts Enter with my Partner In Crime, Mr Burland.  He was quite good, but I showed him up as usual by being multi-instrumental.  I keep telling him that if he hasn't got the hang of the guitar by now he never will, so why not try something else?  He refuses.  I reckon it must be because he's got the words stuck on the top of the guitar, which you can't do with the stylophone because the sound won't come out.

After the do they wanted me to fill in a form for the Performing Writes Society.  I said what for, and they said so they'll know who the songs belong to.  I said if it's any business of their they all belong to me, thank you, and I don't need to fill no forms to prove it.  But it turned out I did.

I got back to the Old Goat just before lock-in, because Arts Enters are more civilised than folk clubs and don't go on half the night as if people had no pubs to go to.

So that was the end of another busy week.  Mind you, next week will be a bit easier - mainly because I won't have to write this bloody diary every day.