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THE NOD CORNER
MELODY MAKER SEPTEMBER 22 1990
THIS WEEK: NOD GOES CAMPING
I've always yearned for the outdoor life. Maybe it's cos mine 'as been a
life of confinement, both spiritual an' physical. 'specially larst year,
when Pete, Paul an' Tony, the rotten bastards, locked me in the dining
room cupboard for a fortnight while the rest of the band went away
on holiday! Ten minutes before they left! I'd 'ave starved to death if I
'adn't fahnd a moulderin' packet of Crawfords Cheddars in there wot kept
me goin' Then, a fortnight later, just as I reached my larst biscuit, they
came back, an' 'oo should open the door and deliver me
to freedom but -- Carl! How sweet to here his voice as He ordered me to do
10 press-ups for 'avin snacks between meals. I'll always be grateful to
Carl for savin' my life. I could 'ave kissed Him, only I wouldn't want Him
to fink I was a roarer.
Anyway, when Carl ordered the band to take a fortnight's camping
in the Cotswolds, my 'eart filled with glee. Carl said He "sought peace,
perspective and my own private Elizium. I demand absolute tranquility."
Carl finks that cities are crimes against nature, an' rightly so. He finks
we should all be livin' ahtside, among the trees an-rabbits, communin' wiv
nature, speshully in the winter when the wevver's bad. Wot a man! I feel
so unworthy beside Him.
An' so, we pitched our tents - or rather, I pitched the tents - it was aht
of the question that Carl should participate in such menial
labours, an' the rotten bastards refused to 'elp, unless you
call frowin' clods of grass at me 'elpin'. Carl was to spend most of His
time zipped up in his tent in the warm, warnin' us gravely that 'e
demanded "absolute silence and tranquility." For His meditations.
"Right!" declared Pete, as soon as Carl was aht of earshot. "Let's get
to work, eh?" And to my 'orror, 'im and the uvver bastards emptied a box
full of trumpets, firecrackers, popguns an' suchlike - wiv the express
intention of makin' as muchnoise as possible, knowin' I'd get the blame! I
spent the next arf an hour divin' around in the mud smotherin'
firecrackers that Tony was casually tossin' arahnd, getting my head
in front of a gong just as Paul was abaht to bash it wiv a big tin spoon -
ouch! - an' putting my hand in Pete's mahth to muffle his bellows of "CARL
IS A C***!", which he bit till it bled. All to protect Carl's
silence, which I 'eld as sacred. The rotten bastards!
Arfter all that I was exhausted an' dyin' for a crap. So I
implored the uvvers not to make any noise,
on their honour, while I was away, an' to their credit, they
solemnly agreed. So I made my way over the hill wiv my
spade, finkin' wot a good bunch of blokes they were deep dahn, underneaf
it all. When I returned, 'owever, the sight that greeted me filled
me wiv 'orror! A tent was on fire - Carl's tent! Throwin' dahn
my spade I ran like the wind to the site, shriekin' "CARL! WAKE UP!
WAKE UP, FOR GOD'S SAKE! FOR GOD'S SAKE, WAKE UP, CARL!!" My only
fought was for His safety.
Imagine my astonishment, when 'oo should emerge from my own tent next
to the one on fire but -- Carl! "Who's making that infernal racket?" He
roared, angrily. At that point, the rotten bastards appeared on the scene.
"Nod, I fear," said Pete, wiv nauseating pity. "He cares little for your
quest for absolute silence as a prerequisite for meditation,
more for drawing attention to himself."
"Did this 'Nod' not know I had swapped tents with him, so as to align
myself with the evening star and the mystical line it casts, according to
my compasses?"
"We told him, Carl," lied Pete. He never! "But he insisted on setting fire
to his own tent as part of his pathological desire to
be noticed." Whereupon Carl glowered at me, an' uttered those words that
made me quake wiv dread. "Ten press-ups!" He cried, like a prophet
of the Old Testament. An', as I hit the grahnd pumpin', the
uvvers smirkin', I realised these surly, damp clods of grass would be
my bed tonight, my grim communion wiv nature.
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