FESTIVAL FERMENT

I was ‘back amoang ma ain fowk’ on Saturday when I drove down from Scotland to Wallsend-on-Tyne. The ubiquitous rain relented from about Alnwick on, so the day was simply surly, rather than wet.

I discovered that Saturday was the day of the Wallsend Festival.  I had no idea that Wallsend had a festival, nor what it had to celebrate since the shipyards closed and all the cranes were carted off to India.

I downloaded a brochure from the web and decided to take a look for myself. I set off on foot. The town is barely prepossessing on a bright, clear day, and on a day comprising thirty shades of grey, it wears the air of a mortician’s assistant in a fifty-shilling suit.

The brochure promised ‘fun on four wheels’ in the Alexandra Street car park.  There was the promise of ‘British vintage cars and American hot-rods’.  ‘Vintage’ means the period between 1919 and 1930.  When I got there, there were eight cars and certainly no American hot-rods, or even warm-rods.  The nearest to ‘vintage’ was a 1948 Triumph Roadster.  The remainder were more prosaic – a Rover P6, a Morris Minor pick-up and a Ford Escort Mexico. 

I ploughed on.  Much of the High Street had been cordoned off and was occupied by a number of ‘rides’ upon which a few grim-faced children were seated, expecting rather greater action for their money. 

There were also a number of game stalls.  In one of these, the goal was to whack the base of the game with a mallet, causing a weight to shoot up and ring a bell. The trick is all in accuracy and technique, rather than strength.  The short, spindly man who was wielding the mallet certainly had no strength and not much accuracy either, as he missed the target altogether, hit the ground instead and yelled out in pain as the rubber mallet bounced back up and struck him firmly in the chest. ‘Ah ought to sue you, mate,’ he yelled at the proprietor, a little bald chap as round as a potato.  The proprietor pointed at the exclusion notice on the stall, absolving himself of all liabilities from any activities whatsoever.  The unfortunate mallet-wielder was led away by his wife. ‘Ah’ve got a decent lawyer, mate, mebbe ye’ll be hearin’ from him.’ The proprietor lifted an eyebrow and continued to chew his gum. 

I walked up to the Forum, Wallsend’s main shopping-centre. It was packed with people of all shapes and sizes, and that was only their tattoos.  Many were eating fried potato chips covered in tomato sauce, a revolting concoction which soured the air for a hundred yards around.  The waste bins were overflowing, and much of the detritus had fallen onto the ground, where the seagulls and pigeons were showing a great liking for red ketchup. 

At one end of the Forum, a marquee had been erected.  The master of ceremonies sang a full and unexpurgated version of ‘the Blaydon Races’, which I hadn’t heard in many a year, including the wonderful verse:  “We flew past Airmstrang's factory, and up to the "Robin Adair"/Just gannin' doon te the railway bridge, the 'bus wheel flew off there/The lasses lost their crinolines, an' the veils that hide their faces/An' ah got two black eyes an' a broken nose in gannin’ te Blaydon Races”.

He then introduced the Stragglers, a middle-aged bluegrass/Cajun cowboy quintet, who gave us ‘Old Dan Tucker,’ that eponymous toe-tapping  American folk anthem from the early 1800s that Bruce Springsteen surprisingly covered, as well as a clutch of obscure songs I’d never heard in my life.

The lady violinist was very authentic, holding her instrument out in front, rather than at the side in the classical manner, and scraping away gaily whilst the mass audience stamped its feet enthusiastically.  The double-bass twanged, the banjo plunked and the slide guitar slid, whilst the moustachio’d singer occasionally climbed into the right key. 

To my regret, I had to come away before the performance was finished.  As I walked back, I watched several army personnel fold up a huge red canvas sheet for some indeterminate purpose.  I took a photograph of their gigantic vehicle, paradoxically parked across the road from the Salvation Army’s charity shop.  I hoped I hadn’t breached some anti-terrorist legislation. 

Unfortunately, I missed the Festival Walk, the Felting Workshop, the Face-painting by Glitterati, the Archeosoup Workshop and the Library Entertainment, but as I said to myself as I tramped back past the Crazy Cottage and the Waltzer, there is always next year.  Or, I might adopt the same attitude as Charles Lamb did about festivals, and say that ‘the red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.’