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		St Agnes Fountain Diary 2005
		PART ONE We were all sitting in Winchester Services, drinking coffee. There's not a huge amount at Winchester Services; a Wimpy, a mobile phone shop of course, a games arcade and a Coffee Costa. The "shop" shop which sold newspapers, sandwiches and "gifts" had already been scoured by the rest of the band by the time I'd got my newspaper. Unbelievably, it was the only retail opportunity they shunned on the whole tour. I actually think they hadn't bought anything. At all. It was just a pleasant hour, chatting underneath the musak. St Agnes Fountain, wherever they are, whatever they are doing, whatever they are talking about, have a hidden, highly efficient communal antenna permanently set to monitor musak and incidental sound. No song on a tannoy system in a public place is ever played without comment of some kind or another or Chris While joining in and singing it better. Chris While and Julie Matthews know the words of every pop song ever written, by the way. And Chris Leslie, for all his Morris Dancing tendencies, can tell you the key it's played in. Between them, they also know the entire history of a song from composer to the latest recorded version. Which reminds me of a gig, unrelated to St Agnes Fountain, when Chris and Julie were playing near me in Essex. After the gig they were staying in a pub B&B down the road. When they got there, they found the landlord had just had a karaoke night. The bar was empty except for the landlord with the microphone to his mouth, serenading his landlady wife. "Don't mind him," she said to Chris and Julie, "he's just soft in the head." "Ooh, karaoke!" said Chris. And without further ado, the landlady and his wife were given the karaoke night of all karaoke nights with Chris While and Julie Matthews on vocals! Anyway, we were commenting, as we sipped our coffee and I read the football, how we had been lucky this December, not to have encountered any recordings by Sir Cliff Richard. It was notable that not every retail establishment was playing the Christmas loops they normally assailed us with. Winchester Services was a case in point. Whatever it was they were playing (and I can't remember what is was) it wasn't Sir Cliff. It was however, something which could be traced back to Andy Fairweather Lowe according to Chris While. "Ooh, I used to love Andy Fairweather Lowe!" she said. "I had a poster of him on my wall when I was fifteen!" "I thought you had a poster of Stevie Marriott on your wall," said Julie. "I did! Stevie Marriott and Andy Fairweather Lowe!" "I had 'Wings' on my wall," said Julie. "Alright, what poster did you have on your wall at fifteen?" asked Chris While. It was a general question for everyone. "Kellie used to have Culture Club on her wall. She even wrote to Jimmy Saville asking him to fix it for her to sing with Culture Club on a barge! She addressed the letter 'Dear Jim'll'. She thought it was his name." "How sweet." "He never wrote back, the bastard!" "I also had the Bay City Rollers on my wall for a while," said Julie. "What was on your wall, Jil?" "David Bowie." "What was on your wall," asked Julie, looking at me. "A poster of Liverpool Football Club." "Should have known. What about you, Chris?" All eyes turned to Chris Leslie. "You won't believe this," he said. "Fairport Convention." PART TWO After the four-poster bed at my favourite hotel, the Castle and Ball in Marlborough, we set off for the south west. The A303 takes you past Stonehenge where we stopped for some serious smoking and coffee. I had a phone call on my mobile which meant I was the last to be served. By the time I had returned to the Ford Galaxy, the rest of the band (apart from Chris Leslie) had completed their smoking responsibilities and were back in their seats. I stood defiantly in front of the vehicle drinking my coffee slowly and enjoying a roll-up of the finest Old Holborn. The window whirred down on the passenger side as I surveyed the ancient rolling slopes of Salisbury Plain. "Hurry up, Hughes," came the voice of Julie Matthews. "I'm communing," I said, "with the druids from long ago. Feel the energy!" "Fuck off." I put my coffee down and, squinting with my roll-up between my lips, started hugging the sapling in front of the car like I was communing. You know, with nature and ley lines. Everyone in the car (apart from Chris Leslie) joined in a chorus of "fuck off, Hughes". I came round to the side of the car and the window whirred down again. "I'm at one with the ancients," I said. "I am smoking where they gathered to smoke druidically. We are at one. Oooooohhhh!" "Get in the car!" It was dark by the time we crossed into Somerset. Radio Four was on for the News. Apparently there was an outbreak in Somerset of something called "winter vomiting flu". Several schools had been closed and pupils were at home in large numbers, vomiting. The words of a kind of wassailing song came to my mind: "We are winter vomiting Vomiting, vomiting, We are winter vomiting Vomiting the flu." It turned out that such unpleasantries as winter vomiting were to precede us several times on the tour of 2005. Whilst we were doing the South West leg of the tour we stayed at the aforementioned Travelodge at Winchester, going there after the Friday concert in South Petherton at the charming St David's Hall and also the Abbotskerswell gig the following night. (I must tell you about Abbotskerswell later). Anyway, on the Sunday morning, I got up early, seven o'clock, because I wanted to watch Match Of The Day. It's one of the only downers about being in St Agnes (and I'm sure the others will all agree) you can very easily lose touch with the football results when you're on the road. I miss European matches and the weekend fixtures when the highlights are on whilst we're performing. Last year I missed Stevie Gerrard's goal against Panathinaikos in the Champion's League; still a source of great sorrow as you can well imagine. So, I switched on my Travelodge TV in plenty of time to see the repeat of Match Of The Day. This, I have to say, is the first time I'd actually woken up early enough to see the repeat. The News was still on. Apparently there'd been an explosion in Hertfordshire. Guess where we were travelling to that afternoon. OK, so I waited for the News to finish. After a few minutes I became anxious. The News was not stopping. It transpired that they were treating the explosion as a major event. There were no pictures, just the two gobshite presenters waffling on, repeating endlessly that there had been an explosion in Hertfordshire as though this was their "9/11" moment. Then they started interviewing people on their mobiles who were standing outside their houses watching the flames from about three miles away. People who knew nothing! Just making it up. "This looks like a terrorist attack!" No it bloody didn't. Nobody knew anything! "Get the football on you bastards! I haven't got up to watch you wittering about a fire you know absolutely nothing about!" The arseholes kept talking for half an hour! It was past the time when Match Of The Day should have started. And then they made the announcement that they wouldn't be showing the programme. "You bastards! Call this a News story! You haven't got enough to make it a bloody rumour!" I went back to sleep, desolate. When I eventually got up it was eleven o'clock. I walked over to the services and found the others gathered round in a cappuccino convention (which is when we had the conversation about childhood posters). Later, Simon, the sound engineer told me he'd watched the football when they showed it at ten o'clock. "The bastards! They had no news, no pictures, no information and yet they cut the football! The only useful thing they could have told us was that they had rearranged the time of the football. The one thing they could have done and they didn't!" We set off and later that afternoon, as we came over a brow on the M25 on our way to the gig at Hitchin, we saw the black cloud rising above Hertfordshire and spreading across the South East. Bastards! Thanks, Texaco! I got everyone in the car to give me their impression of shock and horror at the sight of millions of tons of petroleum disappearing into the stratosphere. They were quite good. Chris While was driving, she said, "Wait till the traffic lights on the slip road." I waited, poised with the camera. The car stopped for about three seconds at the junction, in which time she turned, put her hand to her open mouth and then continued driving. Good shot. Footnote: Abbottskerswell. When I got back home, I came across an email sent to me from Devon by a member of the audience at the Abbottskerswell gig. It said: "Went to the St Agnes concert last night. What have vegetarians done to deserve such a detrimental mention in your song.?I don't pay £12  for a ttcket to hear such rubbish. Think again, you are making a joke of some of your biggerst (sic) supporters." I must reply.