Drumfeld's Got Talent: The Aftermath

Following yesterday's entry (See 'On Mocking the Afflicted), it's probably only fair for me declare my position on the Drumfeld's Got Talent* panel of judges. I can reassure incumbents in the national equivalent that I'm not angling for an invitation to participate. They might, however, refer to dvds of the show for examples of how to realistically assess a performer without demoralising him. If in doubt about an act's quality (and admittedly, on occasion, sanity) I placate him or her with an affable, "well, it's certainly different!" a non-commitment repeated so frequently that it's become something of a catch-phrase. "It's certainly different, Hamilton!" someone might shout as I cycle past on my Pashley or browse in the spar. Fellow panellist, newsagent Hamish Duff, invariably followed this with "It's not different, Hamilton, it's drivel...." Unfortunately, his commitment to 'telling-it-like-it-is precipitated a spate of broken windows and the appearance of the words 'Death to Duff' sprayed on his lock-up.

Last year, following Hamish's resignation, the event's organisers introduced two new judges to the panel. Semi-professional curmudgeon Hugh Walker and T.V. talent show contestant and model Lindsay Carmichael (I've italicised the second of Ms Carmichael's qualifications because, according to my research, she's never actually modelled. It's a small point. She may intend to model, but until she does so, I'd advise her against padding out her c.v. with empty boasts.) Lindsay did appear briefly on the show's national equivalent, but failed to impress the panel of judges and was, in fact, reduced to tears by a unanimously harsh assessment of her singing ability. It could at least be argued that she had some experience in the field, albeit with a suspect temperament. Walker's appointment was more contentious and I opposed it from the outset. The event's organisers obviously anticipated that he'd fill the 'Simon Cowell' role recently vacated by Duff.

For years, the mere sight of Walker's vivid mop of dyed blonde hair in an audience has beensufficient to cause the most assured actor to stammer and fluff his lines. For over ten years local drama groups have been traumatised by his withering assessments in the Perthshire Examiner. As verbose as he is vituperative, his reviews often take up entire pages as he minutely details a production's flaws. Not content with dissecting deficiciencies of acting, writing or direction, he's has been known to castigate those responsible for lighting, musical direction and set design. When satisfied that he's adequately established the absence of talent, Walker's not above pointing out actors' physical defects. Drumfeld Players' stalwart Sandy Hall consulted lawyers after being repeatedly referred to as 'the cabbage' while Sheila Carruthers, from the same group, was identified as 'surely the most wizened and least desirable Principal Boy in the history of theatre. In assuming a role that traditionally prompts the first sexual yearnings, she's nudging a hallful of young boys toward homosexuality.' **

My objections to the new panellists were over-ruled. It gives me no satisfaction to record that, on the evening of Drumfeld's Got Talent, 2008, my fears were fully vindicated. Lindsey's contribution was inoffensive but negligible. Walker, however, was in his element. The first act of the evening, septugenarian dog handler Cyril Rilley and his musical Spaniel, Trudy, lasted three minutes: Walker's critique, including a lengthy digression on which he dismissed my "it's certainly different" as 'insipid' and 'gutless', stretched to half an hour. Simon Cowell's put-downs, however feeble, at least have the quality of being succinct. By the conclusion Lindsey and Rilley were both in tears while a third of the remaining contestants had left rather than subject themselves to a similarly merciless assessment.

By the time the last contestant, Frank Burns, took to the stage, it was nearly 2a.m. I was surprised that Frank had even entered what was, essentially, an amateur talent show. A passable singer and enthusiastic pianist, he's long been a fixture on what I've heard referred to as ‘The Trossachs Scene'. Better known as Rockin' Robin, The Boogie-woogie man and the Highlander, all names he has attributed to himself. He ruins songs, in my opinion, by frequently referring to himself in grotesquely whimsical, self-pitying terms: “Poor old Frankie can't take it no more,” he might whine or, “Spare a thought for poor old Frankie when you're lying next to Steve.” Of course, I can't claim any expertise in the realm of rock and pop. I rarely listen to anything other than Holst or my beloved Mahler. I'll concede, though, that on the occasions I've seen him play, I've found my foot tapping along to his repertoire. He's certainly a more accomplished entertainer than my brother, though his style is unnecessarily flashy and he dyes his hair. While I'd also contest his oft repeated assertion that “Freedom's just another word for nothing else to lose”, I'd advise from experience against discussing the fallacy of the argument with him. He's a notoriously volatile individual, particularly when in his cups. Rumours that he summoned the devil in Aberfoyle churchyard and exchanged his soul for a skull ring and a sixteen year old girlfriend led to his being excluded from Drumfeld's Hogmanay celebrations. (His girlfriend has since had a child, Frankie, Junior, whose welfare is monitored by the social services: Frankie commemorated the occasion by setting fire to a phone box in Aberfoyle, an act of delinquency for which he was subsequently barred from entering the town.)

It's fair to say that if Hugh been less thorough in his condemnation of the preceding acts, Frank might have been capable of delivering a lucid performance. According to bar-staff, while Hugh was holding court, he worked his way through seven pints of Guiness, each accompanied by a shot of whisky. This, however, doesn't take into account what he'd almost certainly been drinking earlier or, indeed, consuming over the course of what witnesses described as 'suspiciously frequent' trips to the toilet. By the time he shoved aside Colin Nicol, the evening's m.c., and sat down at the piano, his eyes were ablaze. His extended family and entourage, meanwhile, gathered menacingly in the front rows, where they started a chant of "Fran-kie, Fran-kie!" which Frankie milked before embarking on an original composition, the lyric of which comprised the repeated asssertion that "I'm a one man gang...."

"It's certainly different," I ventured as Frankie (having been frustrated in his attended finale by doormen who confiscated the lighter fluid with which he'd sprayed both Colin Nicol and the piano) stood before us for appraisal. "I loved it," concurred Lindsey in a strained voice that indicated the imminence of more tears. "Frankie," concluded Hugh after an agonising pause, "has enormous energy.... " He would doubtless have continued were it not for the commencement of a slow hand-clap at the rear of the hall where the other contestants and their friends had gathered. Responding to chants of "Fix!" one of Frankie's friends lobbed a tumbler in the direction of the malcontents, inciting a general fracas that persisted until the arrival of police reinforcements from Stirling.

In ensuing weeks, I'm afraid, there were no more cheery cries of "it's certainly different!" as I went about my business around Drumfeld. Instead I was routinely assailed by shouts of "cheat" and "shitebag". The accusation of cowardice, of course, is a particular slur against the founder of Cung-Coe. I can only counter that the first principle of any martial art is to realistically assess any given situation. On this occasion, my instantaneous assessment led me to barricade myself in a toilet cubicle from which I was rescued an hour later. The subsequent Examiner article, "Hamilton Coe Abandons Beauty Queen to Mercy of Mob", was inaccurate in every respect. Having established that Lindsay and Hugh had sought refuge under the table, there was little else I could actually do.

*The second Drumfeld's Got Talent, in fact, featured two Hamilton Coes. When ventriloquist Craig Sanderson introduced Hamilton Coe, Junior to the audience there were concerns that the joke might rebound. Investigators with less confidence in their abilities would have bridled at the affront. Had Sanderson attempted to introduce a Ronald Hawthorne puppet to its source he'd have provoked an immediate tantrum and received a lawyer's letter within the week. I'm made of sterner stuff. As anyone who knows me would have anticipated, I laughed louder than anyone and, at the skit's conclusion, applauded until my hands were raw. So pronounced, in fact, was my enjoyment that my sister and niece removed themselves from my vicinity and sat elsewhere. Nobody who has witnessed the extent to which I enjoy a good joke would ever accuse me of lacking a sense of humour.

In the weeks following the event, I did everything possible to assist Craig in making his creation credible, sending case studies and suggestions for future performances. It occurred to me that Hamilton Coe, Junior might be an ideal means of conveying my message to youngsters, contacted schools and youth groups on Craig's behalf and even sent him some appropriate scripts for such a venture. Craig, unfortunately, thought he knew better. Having harnessed the essence of Hamilton Coe, he tried to channel it in directions from which it could only rebound against him. In subsequent performances, Hamilton Junior became increasingly objectionable as Sanderson capitulated to the demands of adult audiences. “Stop that right now, Hamilton!” became his catch-phrase as the puppet rubbed himself aggressively against whatever young woman had wandered into the vicinity, his hinged jaw fixed in a leer of idiot yearning. After cautioning Sanderson against the path he'd followed, I was compelled, as was my right, to demand the puppet's destruction thus establishing a legal precedent for others parodied in this fashion.

** Like many who are excessively critical of others, Walker, beneath his bluster, is a sensitive and fragile individual. When the Gazette printed a letter critical of the quality (as opposed to the tone) of his writing, he threatened to resign his position. Bumptious and vain, he's in his element when regaling listeners with details of his own acting career, truncated, ironically, in 1970 when his interpretation of the leading role in Eastwood Theatre's The Importance of Being Earnest caused a reviewer to refer to him as 'nervous and unengaging'.

 

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