Hull Fire

Yesterday Mrs Poet posted on Facebook about a documentary being prepared about the late Alan Hull of Lindisfarne. 

I commented “Alan Hull once set my hair on fire with his cigarette.”

She replied “Ooh, do tell! Deliberately?"

“No, accidentally - I may do a blog about it sometime soon.”

Here it is, a bit of a long and winding yarn though so settle down at the back …

 

Back in the 80s Phil took me to the Linden Hall Hotel folk club and I won the raffle; 

free entry to the next month’s folk club.  A nice man came and signed a voucher ticket for me. 

Looking at it I said “Ray Laidlaw.  That’s a coincidence, same name as the bloke in Lindisfarne.  Looks like him too.”

Phil sighed heavily and replied “That's because he is the bloke in Lindisfarne.  Ray was in the same class as me at St Cuthbert’s.”

 

Having grown up in the same part of Tyneside our friend Pearl was, and is, a friend of Ray and other members of Lindisfarne.

 

About this time keyboards with built in synthesizers became available at a reasonable price and Phil acquired one (probably second hand).

Pearl was then living in the countryside with a neighbour that had free range hens.   

Pearl used to help her sell the eggs.   

Whenever we saw her almost the first thing she’d say was “Do you want any eggs?”

Phil was asked to provide the entertainment at Pearl’s 40^th birthday party.   

He recorded “Do you want any eggs?” into the synth and performed a rap with the chorus using it at various speeds and pitches.

"Brenda at home July 1992" the last photo Phil took of me

 

Ray was kind enough to read the poem Phil had chosen, Henry Scott Holland’s “Death is Nothing At All”, at his funeral.  Pearl gave the eulogy. 

 

A couple of weeks later Pearl phoned me.

“I’m going to a blues night at the Maggie Bank.  Would you like to come?”

The Magnesia Bank in North Shields was where Phil and I held our wedding reception so going there would be a bit poignant.  But I’d promised myself that I would refuse no invitations so I said “Yes”.

Alan Hull was there and, when he saw Pearl, he came over.

“Ee Pearl!  Have you heard?  That lad who did the ‘D’ye want any eggs’ rap at your birthday do has died?”

“Yes” replied Pearl a little awkwardly “this is his widow, Brenda.”

“Eee no!  Ee Aah’m sorry pet” and he slung his arms around my shoulders in a consoling hug.

 

A moment later an acrid smell hit us as the cigarette in his hand set my hair alight.