Haywood Farm in Somerset Maurice Pullin, CC BY-SA 2.0…not to be confused with Hayward Burt’s family farm in Somerset, which was the location of our visit.
Whose idea was it to have a Keele Union Committee team-building countryside retreat in Somerset early January? I’d love to “blame” anyone and everyone on the committee but me. However, my appointments diary entry of 22 November reminds me that I was involved in the planning.
“Farm & Fricker (4.30 to 5.00 pm)”, I now realise, was a meeting with Kate (now Susan) Fricker and Chris “Farmer” Spencer, the later of whom had been one of my Barnes L54 flatmates and was now one of Hayward’s Barnes L54 flat mates.
We discussed the logistics of getting the whole of Union Committee from Keele to Somerset. I think, from memory, the plan involved Chris visiting his family in Devon that weekend in the Union minibus, dropping us Union Committee folk at the Burt farm in Somerset and then collecting us again on the way back to Keele.
The happening was arranged for the first weekend of 1985.
Before I describe the singularly mortifyingly embarrassing episode from this adventure, I should say that, on the whole, I remember the event as being a success. We had, as a group, been through quite an ordeal with the Bar Management Saga, which had just reached its Tribunal conclusion just a few days ahead of this “Union Committee field trip”. The idea of team building and resetting for the remaining two terms of our three term tenure was a good idea that mostly worked.
Friday, 4 January 1985 – Left London early and came to Keele. All went off to Somerset in the afternoon – went to pub in evening.
Saturday, 5 January 1985 – Lazyish day in Taunton – walked in afternoon – went to pubs in evening etc.
Sunday, 6 January 1985 – Went out to farm for lunch, then came back to Keele early evening – had drink in Union.
My diary is very light on detail, so it is just as well some aspects have stuck indelibly in my memory. No idea where we did our pub drinking, but the picture below, dated 1985 by the author, is quite possibly one of the pubs we tried. In any case, The Greyhound Inn is great eye candy and a pleasant diversion ahead of the tale of my embarrassment.
Whose idea was it to have an informal sort-of confessions game one evening as part of that Union Committee team-building exercise? I’d love to “blame” anyone and everyone on the committee but me. Unfortunately, it was my type of idea. I am pretty sure that I suggested it, or at least warmly welcomed the idea when someone else suggested it while we were planning the event.
One of the reasons I was keen to play such a game was my increasing unease at the fact that only a small sub-group on the committee (basically the other sabbaticals) knew that I had started going out with Petra Wilson the previous term.
It wasn’t that I had deliberately kept the matter secret, it was simply one of those things that emerged by stealth and which I had only, until then, disclosed to those with whom I was spending more time; in the case of the committee I think just the sabbaticals. Annalisa also knew by then.
Anyway, point is, I thought the confessions game, one evening in the pub, would be an ideal opportunity to let the others know…
…which it would have been…
…but for the unfortunate seating arrangement, with Ali Dabbs directly to my right and therefore having his go at the confessions game just before mine.
Ali Dabbs confessed to having a crush on Petra. Ali probably didn’t speak for all that long – I think we were all aiming for “just a minute” or 90 second vignettes – but I was mortified with embarrassment and Ali’s speech seemed to be going on for ever.
I didn’t want to catch the eyes of any of the other sabbaticals, who all will have been acutely aware of what was unfolding – not least because I had told them of my plan to use this game as my opportunity to let the rest of the gang know that I was going out with Petra.
[Life must be so much easier these days, where all you need to do is change your social media relationship status and wait for people you know to spot it. On second thoughts, social media relationship status might raise more potential problems and questions than it answers. I digress.]
Worse yet, it dawned on me very quickly that I couldn’t possibly use the confession that I had planned to use. It would have been cruel, albeit truthful.
The whole episode just felt like a kick in the eye for both me and Ali Dabbs. Coincidentally, I was listening to the Bauhaus track of that name quite a lot at that time:
I’m not good at constructing an oral argument without carefully planning what I am going to say. That’s one of the reasons why I like to write rather than make speeches. I’m also not good at lying, nor am I good at bluffing.
In those few seconds that I had to decide what I was going to say, I decided…
…that I couldn’t think of anything at all. My mind was a complete blank, apart from the acute sensation of embarrassment.
In the end, I pathetically aped Ali’s speech and pretended that I had a crush on someone else. I think I picked on one of Petra’s friends, Margaret Gordon, for no better reason than I couldn’t really think of anyone to pick on and her name seemed to have a “least harm” aspect to it if…or I should really say when…the sorry matter needed to be unpicked…within a few weeks. I have a diary mention of Ali Dabbs coming round to my flat on 2 February, which was part of that unpicking.
For some strange reason, I have been utterly averse to confession-type games ever since.
My embarrassing episode, while top of the pile, was not the only embarrassing thing I remember from that “field trip”. I remember Hayward’s dad, who, in my mind’s eye, I’m sure unfairly, resembled The Farmer from Shaun The Sheep movies, referring to Chris Spencer, our Barnes L54 flatmate, as…
…that old bloke you’ve hired to drive your van.
Chris did have a moustache, which possibly made him look a bit more grown up than the rest of us, but I don’t think he looked old. Hayward more or less managed to maintain his trademark deadpan delivery when saying:
That’s not an old bloke, dad, that’s Chris, my flatmate.
Small beer embarrassment compared with mine, but still.
