COLUMN – JULY 2012
Huntin’, shootin’ ‘n’ fishin’ emporia the size of an out-of-town Sainsbury’s and the odd, immaculate Dodge Charger aside, some of the finest diversions punctuating any languid drive through America’s Bible Belt take the form of church signs.
Often dwarfing the pristine clapboard edifices they cheer for, said signs employ every conceivable gambit from straightforward fire-and-brimstone threats, through sarcasm, to occasionally velour-threatening humour in an effort to cajole the passer-by into not, for once, doing so.
And the messages of three particular hectoring rectors -all spotted when driving Jaguar’s ignominious X Type, unnoticed, from coast to coast for CAR a few years back- are still lodged firmly in my mind; the gently surreal ‘The Easter Bunny Didn’t Rise From The Dead’; the clearly-given-up-on-his-parish ‘Whatever’; and the bull’s-eye ‘Staying In Bed Shouting “OH GOD!” On A Sunday Morning Is Not The Same As Going To Church’.
Now, I fear I may be approaching an age where the phrase ‘not the same’ creeps a little too often into my lexicon; Paris Hilton versus Jean Shrimpton… iPod versus Michell Transcriptors Hydraulic Reference turntable … Shard versus Chrysler building… Crocs versus cowboy boots… Huayra versus Miura… But I do feel entirely justified in using it in the context of my current bête noir, to wit: Being relentlessly bombarded by other people’s music wherever you go is not the same as staying at home and choosing your own.
Hotels have always been entirely culpable in this respect; Katie Meluha’s trilled treatise on the Beijing bicycle population inevitably enlivens every lift ride, the telly in your room will always be blaring away to ‘welcome’ someone approximating you (Arthur French Consulate a favourite), and even that suspiciously pink breakfast sausage must now be helped down by a side order of Noel Gallagher’s unedifying Emus.
Going some way to explaining my perennial Clothes-Hippo status in the pages of this very magazine, boutiques have been at it even longer -sales assistants always happier to reach for the semaphore flags than turn down the volume to a level that actually permits speech. And now it seems that even my preferred tranche of once-tranquil Mudfordshire eateries has concluded that no lunchtime chat over a pie and a pint is complete without a little R&B Lite dressing.
Nor will stepping outside save you anymore. At the Oval the other day, my pleasure at seeing the Australians stuffed once again was more than somewhat alloyed by the bizarre decision to play a couple of bars of coruscatingly loud and inappropriate music from some popular beat combo or other every time anything of merit happened.
When it comes to ruining a perfectly pleasant afternoon, however, even this idiotic behaviour must play second fiddle to the Bufton-Tufton who, at a recent RAF Fairford Tattoo, invited us to ‘sit back and enjoy the glorious, unmistakable sound of the Spitfire’ before blasting the theme tune from 633 Squadron (entirely comprised of Mosquitoes, numpty) over the Tannoy at sufficient volume to render the glorious, unmistakable Spitfire utterly inaudible.
Still, could be worse, I suppose… I was in Japan recently, strolling down the main street in Asahikawa on the island of Hokkaido, in search of something to eat which was, a) recognisable as food and, b) definitely dead. And the street lamps had speakers attached from which came what sounded like the incredibly over-excited Japanese equivalent of CBeebies, without the visuals, but with everyone involved boasting a very small fire engine trapped up their noses.
This went on all… day… long. I wonder what the suicide rate in Asahikawa is, because if I lived there it would promptly rise by one.
What the hell has music got to do with shopping? Or eating a sausage? Or catching a lift? Or cricket? I long to set up some sort of society against the wanton playing of music in public…. How About a Nice Steaming Hot Cup of Shut the F*** Up… But, as acronyms go, HAANSHCOSTFU is clearly still in need of work.
In the meantime, I’m going to take sanctuary, once again, in the car –last bastion of privacy and the only environment over which we can still exercise control having left the house. Much like at home, however, I have now, sadly, all but given up on playing music on the move. I relish the peace and quiet too much.
There are, of course, exceptions. Music should always be played when driving anything with CVT transmission to drown out the episode of Bonanza being filmed under the bonnet, aboard the Evoque to disguise the fact that it isn’t armed with at least six cylinders, and behind the wheel of a Veyron to distract drivers from the realisation that they’ve shelled out of small fortune on what is, let’s face it, always going to be something of a munter.