Driveway

There was only one way in and out of our place. A single-track driveway over a third of a mile long – or 565 of my long paces – with metal fencing along each side painted dark green and an impressive row of ancient oaks flanking that. A true avenue. Leaving the house it'd feel like a lifetime of walking to get away from the place, and arriving seemed to be constantly prolonged as you could see the house but didn't get any closer any faster. On occasion you'd get caught in a side-wind and find yourself huddled over, walking sideways, shielding yourself from the beating. Other times the rain would just lash horizontally straight at you. Either way you were totally exposed to the elements on the driveway, with the trees offering no shelter but rather larger and larger drops of rain. The decision always had to be made; go across the grass and get wet feet, or stay on the driveway and get a wet head?

I stayed on the driveway always. I'd rather have a wet head than wet feet. That back-and-forth I must have made once or twice a day everyday I was living there, amounting to a thousand times. Often it was late and dark and on some nights the blue moon light would push through the trees and project patterns onto the dark tarmac. They looked incredible, of course, being totally unique, but riding the bike and looking down at them could create a very disorientating effect. The flicker and flash of dark shapes amongst dark shapes was just as powerful as any light-show. It wouldn't help that I would be busting up the driveway on the bike, feeling paranoid and wanting to get safely inside. These patterns only confused you more, making you think someone hiding behind the trees could jump out and send you flying at any moment. Truth be told, anyone else would probably have been even more paranoid than me. This was my territory, after all. I was used to the driveway.

On occasion I'd pass people on the driveway in the pitch black. Passing like ships in the night, literally; in complete silence. Only a dark figure and the quiet sound of boots in the darkness. You wouldn't even be able to see them until they were three feet from you. Then darkness again and silence except for your own boots or bike tyres. Understandably it would shock me to pass anyone. A light or two would be on at the far end, making the house a shimmering beacon in an otherwise scary landscape. By the time I approached the house, and hit the gravelled patch in front, my heart would be racing. The noise of the gravel in the dark was hardly comforting either, only serving to make me really paranoid at my own front door. But, the mornings could be really beautiful; standing with the first coffee and first cigarette of the day, looking out at the green fields and down the long driveway towards the rest of the world; a world I tried desperately to block out, but couldn't help but be part of.

It was one morning that I had to get to Brussells. As soon as I set off I noticed something blocking the driveway. I drove down towards it and pulled up. One of the trees had come down during the windy night. On any other day I could have walked around, but today I was driving. One or two dog walkers stood around looking a little bemused, talking but formulating no plans. I dragged the branches and broken bits from the tarmac and threw them aside in vain. More people started arriving, including a group of joggers, half of whom pulled out their phones and rang friends to bring chainsaws as the other half discussed what to do. I joined in. “The council will have enough fallen trees to deal with this morning,” said one guy in lycra. “They won't come out here for hours,” someone else said. And so it was agreed we'd tackle the problem ourselves. Lucky we all had our gloves on. Roger, a character around and about, showed up in his battered wax jacket mumbling, walked off calmly and soon returned with a huge crosscut saw. “Never got the chance to use it 'til now,” he told us, as he took first turn. We all took a turn, choosing carefully which branch to cut and clear so we could methodically work through the gigantic trunk. It felt like a daunting task, seeing the size of this fallen tree, but many hands make light work, as they say.

More and more people arrived, and all got involved pulling things out of the way and kicking aside the little bits. There was a great spirit of people taking things into their own hands and dealing with the problem as a group. When this big guy turned up with a chainsaw in both hands you could feel the excitement. He handed the smaller of the two (of course!) to another guy and everyone spoke up as to where exactly they both should start cutting and why. They fired up the two chainsaws and went at it, cutting V-shapes into the trunk. Others arrived to carry off the firewood. Between us all we could literally make the tree disappear! It'd be like it never fell, except for a gap in the row of trees, forth from the front on the south side of the driveway. In fifteen minutes it was totally cleared. Off I went to Brussels.

The drive was endless and for a lot of the journey I thought about the fallen tree. It was a mini-miracle, in that the locals here will generally keep themselves to themselves, often neglecting even the pleasantries. For the town that was packaged and sold as London overspill and the place “where everyone says hello” there are very few of them. Even I, stepping out early, may only be able to musty a smoky, hushed “hey.” But it's no reflection really, as the group effort to clear the fallen tree proved. I'd only met Roger before and that was a quick introduction with no handshake. The fallen tree proved that yes other people do use the driveway too. I dare not even think how many people use it on a daily basis, and for how many hundreds of years the track has been used. Part of the Battle of the Roses was literally played out with the Yorkists coming along the driveway before attacking the Lancastrians who were camped out below my window. That was 1460!

And that's exactly what I need to remember; it's not private property – my private property - it's a public park. 500 acres of public park at that! Something for all to share and enjoy. The rest of the world may have been a way away – the driveway and beyond – but that didn't mean they wouldn't come past. I saw the same regulars and that alone eased my day and made me happy. Old couple, the guy chain-smoking, walking old dog in a pram. Lady with two boxer dogs who makes the same double lap of the woods at 4.30 everyday. Or petrol remote control car guy on Sunday afternoons. They were as regular as regular could be. Cigarette and jeans mug-carrying guy, they probably called me. “He's forever traipsing up and down that driveway. One wonders whether he ever arrives anywhere!”

168 Hours

I'd never sat still for so long. It had always struck me as unproductive and lazy, and that would permeate my thoughts with a sense of time wasted, existence literally draining away; of things being undone and things being unseen and unlived. I made to-do lists on a daily basis and would find myself lost and aimless once I'd crossed all the items off. But this time I had license to do nothing, recovering from an operation. Take it all as part of the experience.

For the first day as the anaesthetic wore off I seemed to be growing quite fond of watching TV. For maybe the first time I didn't feel guilty about wasting my time. It was at around the 72-hour mark when a flash of genius came to me; that I'd stay put for 168-hours, one whole week. That was the target, and I didn't know I could even achieve it, having itchy feet and a vagabondish tendency that had been a blessing and a curse for my adult life so far. I find it hard to sit still, there's that certain something forever stirring. But I am an achiever and once I've got a scheme in mind, I'll follow it all the way through.

Once I did leave the house it was the little things that came right to the fore. The breeze that blows natural and washes across your bare arms, the sunlight burning the retinas, the rumble of the double-deckers buses rattling by and the noise of life fumbling all around. Such a simple thing as walking along to the shop became a big event and felt like so, or moreso. I'd wanted nothing to do with the outside world during my self-imposed exile, going so far as to keep the curtains drawn at all times, and I hadn't given a second thought to what was going on out there at all. Why bother? It became me versus them; me in my ivory tower relaxing, catching up on TV and having a wail of a time as friends stopped in to say hello and wish well; and them, rushing and crushed by the bustling of the street and the noise. My world, and the rest of the world. Just the sound of it all I wanted to avoid. I worried it'd drive me mad, and more mad than spending 168 straight hours on the soft red sofa.

I like soft fabric sofas but that sagging sofa sagged more. The level of comfort was off the chart. I settled down into it and the sides came up around me. Like a birth in reverse with fabric. My eyes burnt out from the combination of screen and white paper anyway. The sounds from the town centre streets were unavoidable. The smell of alcohol crept off the night people and up into the windows along with their incessant drunk bullshit talk of meaninglessness. Only the red cushions to comfort me for long stretches of time, no women coming by or much conversation with working housemates. The giant factory-floor clock behind the sofa loud, but louder and louder on silent Sundays at 3am. It provided the heartbeat I never felt...

Hours stacked upon hours. The screen fizzled and buzzed and so did I. My mind and the TV became one, and we shared our knowledge. I pointed and shouted when the time came. Cabin fever crept up like ivy and it all seemed so impossible. I was compelled to move, but didn't, and then it got easier then from there. I found a second wind, much stronger than the first, and faced forward. Once the thought had passed through my mind it disappeared on the other side, as a car passing by and sliding away in the rear view mirror would. And going downhill with no accelerator, but a clear view all the way to the 168 mark. An open road.

At the Routemasters Cafe

On the channel ferry crossing and our driver has given me the golden ticket; a voucher which provides entrance to the exclusive drivers cafe and lounge. “Cheap breakfast, free tea...” he sells it to me. An opportunity to go deep undercover so naturally I'm skeptical; however will I pass for a truck driver? I'm slim and I've got mud on my jeans. They are all wearing shorts with a podge about them. I'm quite clearly a roadie, not a driver.

Up at the lounge I nervously stroll in and find no resistance, which eases my worry. 'Adopt the long-drive vibe,' I'm telling myself and hand over the ticket for a meal. Magic words stream from the counter guys mouth: “how many hash browns?” Don't mind if I do! The meal is less than half the price than that in the public cafe downstairs.

Upon taking a seat at one of the many formica tables and settling into a couple of bites of an early warm breakfast, I find the scene to be sullen and silent. All the drivers are practically asleep with their faces hung low towards their plates and both their elbows resting on the tables. They sit on their own, or in the occasional pair, and they do not converse. It's a strange world, being on the road; a world of long, late nights and long, late drives; endless stops at awful service stations with a collection of smelly socks burning a hole in the backpack. These guys understand that pain. We're all desperately trying to hold onto humanity, but are moving too much and too quickly to keep a tight enough grip. Our main concerns; where is the next laundrette and how many hours of sleep can I manage today?

In fact, the drivers lounge is less exciting than I'd thought it would be. What about it had enraptured me so anyway? I meet no-one and am offered no road stories by other creepy loners, much to my dissappointment. Here we all are, living out our private lives in public, and waiting for the next stint to take us that little bit closer (or further away?) from where we are headed. Destination is everything, and destination changes constantly, almost daily. How are we to cope with life on the road? I worry that I'll become to aquainted with this life and then staying home will become impossible; that the bug will develop into an itch and home-life will never be quite the same again. A first world problem, I know, but a problem nonetheless.

At The Market

At the market and it’s raining an annoying and thin rain. Through the rusty, battered stalls I wander slowly, humming to myself and feeling good. Why let rain ruin my shopping trip for nothing? From the butcher’s van I hear the guy with the microphone up-selling his wares: “There’s eight, there’s ten, twelve, fourteen, there’s sixteen pounds worth for a fiver.”

“That sounds good. I’ll take it.”

“I don’t blame ya.”

There’s not actually anything on my shopping list. I’m just scraping around a stall of second hand nonsense and stumble upon the figure of a white ghost. It’s plastic and it’s total trash. I turn on the switch and watch as it morphs from one colour shade to another. Yep, it’s another piece of useless junk that I want. I lean over to ask the stall holder how much it’s gonna cost.

“Don’t worry about it. You can have it. Things like that I just...I give them away.”

I’m going to get it for free, but can’t accept that straight off. “How does that work for business then?” I ask him, wanting to know how he pays rent on the stall if he doesn’t accept money as payment.

He laughs. “Well, consider it my good deed for the day.” I’ve not seen that guy and his stall of general tat since, so I guess he did one too many good deeds, and gave away one too many items for free. Generally, the market is made up of the same twenty stalls, all of which I recognise as regulars. There is something to say for the generosity of complete strangers; when small acts of kindness are performed simply because they can be.

The idea of doing a good deed everyday stuck with me, and I actively tried to do the same for weeks afterwards. I’d pushed wheelchair users along, handed out liberated food at a festival, bought rounds, shared dope, given out guitar strings, returned a lost passport and caught a lady when she fell backwards down the stairs at the train station – and that was all in the first week of consciously trying to do good deeds. To do these things – totally selflessly – had actually left me with a sense of pride and made life seem so much more worthwhile, considering the tininess of some of the acts I’d performed.

So, don’t seek to do good deeds, but let them come to you, and follow them through. It’ll be good for you; for the soul and the mind and your place on this planet living this life.

At The Cafe

In the Cafe at the end of my road and I’m jet-lagged to hell. I can barely comprehend what time it is, how tired I am or even where I am. Peace and quiet seem so appealing as I huddle over breakfast at the corner table. Elvis’ ‘Suspicious Minds’ comes over the stereo, sounding through the luminous jackets and elderly guys arguing amongst themselves. The counter lady, Cathy, dressed in a green and white striped apron, joins as Elvis sings the first line: “We’re caught in a trap.”

She looks over at a big guy tucking into a fresh omelette. He smiles, still chewing, and sings the next line back to her: “We can’t walk out.” She smiles. Maybe something is going on between the two?

Suddenly, on Cathy’s ok-go, half the cafe sings the next line, all jovial and gleeful: “Because I love you too much baby!” I can’t help but grin, which eases the pain I’m in. Soon enough – a couple of lines later – the whole place is singing and tapping their cutlery out-of-time on the tables. It’s quite the change from the usual blank stares and slurping from tea cups in-between the grating silence, and it’s more than welcomed by the clientele.

The singing isn’t exactly harmonious, but it sure makes the day feel more in harmony. A little comfort through humour and the world seems back up the right way.

Busy Busy

For two long years I was totally unemployed, and unemployable. I spent most of my time at home alone pondering existence, wondering why life seemed to be passing me by so quickly, ignoring any action or interest to be found outside of my four small walls. I was probably depressed. I hardly exercised. I smoked too much. I had hit a rut.

      Then came the invite to start driving my friends band on tour. I'd always wanted to tour, and had gotten a couple of short trips under my belt before accepting their offer. I had always thought that my life would come to life once I got on the road and started chewing up some miles, meeting some people, staying out late and seeing some places I'd never seen before. It was like my whole life was on pause, ready and waiting to go out on the road. I adapted quickly to the sporadic touring the band was doing, retiring home every few days or weeks to rest up and contemplate my experience. I had that time to let it sink in, and to deal with this new everything in my own way; by writing it down and by thinking it over.

      That band now seems to be doing more and more successfully. We just got back from a six-day trip round Germany where every gig was sold out and every audience member there to hear them. We're just wrapping up a two-week UK tour which has been pretty much the same. It seems there is no bounds to their meteoric rise to being a successful indie band. I think back fondly to those first few shows, where we'd arrive early and visit a couple of sights in the city before calmly heading over to the gig. Trying to sleep in a freezing cold van was hell at the time, but seems romantic and part of our initial hardship now. Driving all through the night, a coffee cup perched firmly on the dashboard was taxing then, but sounds like bliss now.

      Now things seem to be moving so fast I can't get a moment to reflect and to understand what is happening. By the time I get back to my room proper we'll have been away for three and a half months solid, with only two days off and five travelling days. It's a crazy schedule we are keeping, but, as I keep telling people it makes up for doing nothing for those two years before that. I just wish I had some time to reflect and soak it up along the way. It's all I can do to keep an up-to-date journal.

Billy Bragg Live at Greyfriars Bus Station

As I took the escalator into our beloved bus station today I imagined Billy Bragg playing a gig in there one day. I let myself run with the fantasy; quickly deciding where the stage would be, what the crowd would look like and even the songs he would play. I could already hear his familiar reverberated Essex vocal delivery and the aggressive down-stroke guitar playing, and it sounded like heaven. Greyfriars is probably the only place in town where you ever hear people sing, and they’re never singing Billy Bragg songs; they’re singing generic pop with lyrics that would fail to engage even the most culturally-stunted among us. I guess that says something about the town. Billy Bragg could come and help us out.

                Greyfriars has a long history of smelling like urine and resembling the “jaws of hell,” as one architect put it. Its past has been blighted by stalactites dripping from the ceiling, of the car park alongside being too dangerous to use and as a building that is utterly useless to anyone with a wheelchair. "It is an ugly, malevolent building brimming with inner hostility and low aspiration," an ex-Northamptonite so perfectly put it. It certainly does feel hostile, perhaps because the roof covers and engulfs the building in a constant shade of darkness. And the low aspiration? That's just Northampton for you, the go-nowhere town all go-nowhere towns look towards. These are all truths, but Greyfriars is our bus station and I'll be sad to see it go when the new North Gate bus station opens later in the year.

                What will go in its empty space has not yet been decided, but we can trust our Borough Council to fuck up again so brilliantly that the next building will cut just as many corners and be just as much of behemoth as Greyfriars currently is. That said, the place needs to go; it only serves to damn the town now. People have a bad opinion of it. You rarely see anyone smile in there.

                So why Billy Bragg? Since day one he has supported and celebrated British-ness and so has become an icon and symbol of this country – he is a jewel. All through his thirty-plus years of service he has encouraged people to think, to engage and to share information. No doubt he’s been through Greyfriars at one point or other when he ran round East Northamptonshire getting Riff-Raff together. The people passing through Greyfriars on any given afternoon could do with something to engage with and something to think about; something way above and beyond whether the number 7 will be late or whether 50p Lil will corner them into given her a cigarette and dribbling on their shoes.

                In an age of bands playing sessions in any and all manner of strange venues Billy Bragg has been doing just that for many years; standing on plastic chairs to sing at miner’s benefits and at punk garden parties. Greyfriars would be perfect. How about it Bill? Make a decision and come down to play the closing party. Please, I beg of you, save us from ourselves for a few moments and help us to celebrate yet another fuck-up by the borough council.