Several best bits for me, and hard to choose one in particular, but here goes. If you’ve never been into the Royal Hall in Harrogate, you should try. It is stunning, all gold leaf and lapis lazuli and muriels [yes I know it’s ‘mural’- it’s what Hilda Ogden used to say] painted all around.

I love muriels. Funnily enough I was at college with a girl we nicknamed Muriel. She was going out with a boy who was a bit of a geek really, and got bored with him and dumped him [to his face, of course, there was no texting option back then…]. Anyway, he went on and did well for himself and is now in the Sunday Times Top 100 richest people in the country list. How do you feel about that, Muriel? That’s where shallow behaviour gets you. You’re right though, he was a geek ….

I don’t suppose either of them is reading this anyway [not if they’ve any sense].

As usual I digress. Sorry. I loved just coming across the Angel of the North, looming high and mighty out of the misty morning – I’ve always wanted to see it and it is as magnificent as I imagined. We also came across the Cock of the North, which is the name of a pub in Bristol, and the now honorary title of a landlord in Newcastle, whose establishment we sadly allowed ourselves to be sucked into.

We’d been in there the previous day, and it seemed such an affable and character full place, even down to them playing a scratchy recording of ‘The Shoals of Herring’ on an old fashioned gramophone. Wonderful. We sat in the snug and sang along. And then we met three young folk singers in there, one of whom was a great shanty enthusiast. I mean we’re hardly a threat to the nation’s security are we? Five granddads and a great granddad of 79 [did I mention he was 79?] in the group, it was indeed surprising to be ejected from this pub for singing.

Remarkably, it was the first time any of us had ever been slung out of any pub, anywhere [ in these days of recession I thought they’d be throwing us in ], which considering we have a combined age of nearly 600, is a pretty remarkable statistic. That, in linear terms, is just one ejection since three years before Agincourt.

I just wonder if this tw*t [sorry, but sometimes only one word will do, and it’s not twit] might have infringed our human rights? Surely the right to sing and be happy is enshrined somewhere? I always say to people, particularly around Remembrance day, that my dear old dad ended up in Bombay in the war for four of what should have been the best years of his life, to allow me to be the loud mouthed, opinionated know it all that I am today. As Pete would say ‘Everyone’s entitled to your opinion Jon.’ Thanks for that Pete. Did I mention he was 79?

Anyway, what right did the Cock of the North have to try and repress that? It became even more bizarre when he threatened to call the police. Well, I went along to some funny calls when I was in the constabulary, but never anything like this. I suppose for a long time we’ve been in danger of being charged with crimes against music. Maybe he did have a point after all….

The other highlight for me, and I suspect all the other buoys, was all the truly lovely folks we met in and around Newcastle, Gateshead, Derby and Harrogate. They sometimes say that Britain is divided, but I don’t believe it for a minute. There is a terrific warmth between all us ordinary people that is tangible, a union of different kinds if you like, and it’s only when you have the rare misfortune to come across someone who doesn’t share that, that you really appreciate what you have got.

Just one Cock amongst all them Angels!

Dreckly dears xx

We’ve had a damp and dreary old summer like the rest of you, but we’re now highly excitorised at the fact that this winter we’re going to be doing a gig in Wales; St David’s Hall, Cardiff in fact. We’ve sung there before, with Show of Hands at the Welsh Proms a few years ago, before overnight we became phenomenally stupendous and fabulous [my god, I can hardly remember those days before we became sensational fish finger icons], and my what fun we had – Whoop whoop!

It’s going to be brilliant doing a gig in a place where we have such a shared cultural heritage – singing, language, mining, Methodism, over-fondness for farm animals and bitter and twistedness towards anyone who’s not Cornish or in their case, Welsh. We have so much to talk about, so many notes to compare.

Now what we try and do at certain gigs is to try our hand at performing songs resonant of the area. So for example at Liverpool Philharmonic last year we slaughtered ‘The Leaving of Liverpool’, to much sympathetic applause it has to be said. Well, the scousers love a trier don’t they? When we go to Gateshead in November, you Geordies need to prepare yourselves for a soft southerner version of ‘Fishy on a Dishy’ [like in the fish finger ad!], and we’re sure that you’ll be as gracious as the people of Liverpool were.

But what should we sing over in Wales to ingratiate ourselves with the local punters?
I asked my old muckers Spickett and George and Gully, all Welsh exiles in Bristol and mates of the FFs, what we should do and to a man they all replied ‘Myffanwy!’ at the top of their voices.

Hmmm….

Cwm Rhondda [Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer fish-head, stay with me] is a magnificent hymn, but I’m not sure if it’s right for the occasion. Then of course, there’s ‘Land of My Fathers’. Now I’m not sure whether in St Isaac we could ever really sing it with any conviction, given the confusion that annually reigns here on Father’s Day…

Anyway, it’s always a bit dodgy singing someone else’s national anthem isn’t it? I’d hate to hear any Welsh boys singing ‘Trelawney’ I must admit. There is, of course, this adaptation of ‘Land of My Fathers’, which before I provoke the ire of the Welsh, I first heard sung by Welsh rugger buggers years ago…

‘Wales, Wales, bloody great fishes are Wales,
They swim in the sea, you can eat them for tea,
Bloody great fishes are Wales.’

That’s the thing. When it’s your National anthem, you can do what you like with it.

Talking of Wales, on Sunday the luckiest girl in North Cornwall and I went to a Moby Dick symposium in Plymouth. The ‘Moby Dick’ big read has a different chapter read online everyday [there are well over a hundred of them!] – Tida Swinton has read the first, and other readers have included Sir David Attenborough [him with the long straggly ginger hair – or was that a programme on the oran utan? It’s hard to tell I know], the Prime Minister, our mate Stephen Fry, Simon Callow and Benedict Cumberbatch.

Despite numerous incursions against good taste by continual repetition of fatuous remarks about Greenpeace and sushi, I’ve also read a chapter. So fish heads, if you prefer ham to whalemeat, you can catch it at Chapter 36, The Quarterdeck. Hope you enjoy it. If you don’t, I don’t want to know if it’s all the same, thanks very much.

Thar she blows!!!

Dreckly dears xx