New life
As Irish as blueberry pie
Zenga Longmore
0 malara said a strange thing to me the other day. Well, not such a strange thing, perhaps. I mean, if you or I were to say it, it would not sound strange at all, but a two- year-old piping, 'You're a good cook, Mummy,' struck me as being extremely unusual. Most children utterly scorn all mother-cooked food until the day they set up homes of their own; then they spend the rest of their lives making various women miserable by chanting, 'Why can't you cook like my Mum?' Perhaps by 'most children' I only mean boys. Either Omalara is a true appreciator of the culinary arts or the effects of the Blar- ney Stone which she kissed last August have not quite worn off. Whichever the case, Harlesden is obviously doing her good. Although she misses the refined company of our Brixton friends such as Clawhammer Jones Bingo and old Mrs Wright from the ninth floor, Omalara finds her new move to Harlesden to be full of variety. She has even got to know one of her new neighbours. The introduction came about in this way.
Just after Omalara's flattering words had been uttered, Olumba came in from the street and announced, 'Here is Rumbling Tum.'
'Well sit down and eat,' I suggested.
'Can I ask Rumbling Tum to eat also? He is just outside the door.'
'Eh? What?' I queried, but an Irish accent quickly corrected Olumba.
'I call meself Rambling Tom, not Rum- bling Tum.' The stranger was a lanky Con- nemara man in his fifties, with sharp, humorous eyes in a weathered, craggy face. Tom Collins is the name, but I call meself Rambling Tom when I play the guitar.'
'Mr Collins is from number 25 down the road,' explained Olumba. 'We met at the bus stop-o.'
'You know the Mean Fiddler, the presti- gious music club?' Mr Collins enquired, opening a guitar case as he spoke. 'Well, I play in a pub down the road from there, Friday and Saturday nights. Ah, I play the tunes that Irishmen love to hear.'
'Oh do give us a rendition! I simply adore old Irish ballads! "The Flower Of Killarney"! ."The Rose Of Tralee"! Now, when I was in County Kerry. . . . '
'Old Irish ballads! Are you off your head? I said tunes that Irishmen love to hear, and that is Country and Western songs!'
So saying, the musician, with heartless resolve, seated himself in my favourite easy chair, took up a guitar stance and began to strum. Omalara's blarney chose that moment to gasp its last and with a shrill 'Aieek!' she hurriedly left the room.
Rambling Tom's voice was completely different from that of his alter ego Tom Collins. Tom C. spoke in nicotine-stained, canny tones. Rambling Tom sang straight from the nose. Listening to those long- drawn-out `Che-eatin' hea-a-arts' trans- ported me into the world of a homesteader on the prairie; a life of blueberry pie, a belief in God's Own Country, Truth, Jus- tice and the American Way. An impressive performance, perhaps, but I would sOoner have put up with President Bush strolling about my front room advertising America to me. At least the President would have refrained from singing.
I suppose the Irish have a right to like American Country music, considering they virtually invented it in the first place, but has anyone a right to bring it into Harles- den? Especially now that I've moved here!
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