The old red flag

A hot summer’s day in deepest Dorset finds us walking along a leafy lane accompanied by the Ulster Prison Officers’ marching band. What strange surrealism is this now? Only a few hours later, we will retrace our steps in a tranquility that will suggest this has been nothing but a dream. The thousands of folk that are gathered along with television crews and those making documentaries in these con-dem(ed) times will, apparently, have vanished into thin air. For now, however, this is Tolpuddle at the climax of the Martyrs’ Festival.

Firstly to the church and the grave of James Hammett who was the only one to return to and stay in Dorset where, for his troubles, he died a lonely death in the workhouse. If only he could have foreseen how his life and those of his comrades would be celebrated. Here is a Methodist leader, come to lay a wreath which, inexplicably, has disappeared at the last minute. No problem, says the good lady vicar of the parish as she graciously gives him hers. Here is an aged and fragile Tony Benn, unrecognizable now in any other context. Here is an upbeat Billy Bragg who will congratulate the Bristol Socialist Choir on their rendition of two of his songs after Hammett’s descendants have laid their flowers. In the corner of this sunny churchyard, I wonder at the relevance of all this. Then I remember that I’ve just lost my job.

The grand parade, which is seemingly endless, is a magnificent spectacle regardless of one’s politics. Apart from the Socialist Workers’ Party who, by tradition, must look threateningly miserable, everyone is happy. Smiles as wide as the many coloured and beautifully crafted banners abound. There are balloons and streamers, kites and flags, dogs and pushchairs and all types of bands. They say it’s the biggest festival Tolpuddle has ever witnessed. I wouldn’t know….it’s my first. There is a slight delay to the parade’s commencement as an aged gentleman waving a huge flag of England refuses to move from the front of the leading band. No-one knows if this is a protest and, if so, what against. Two whipper-snappers from the local police force arrive in seasonal rolled-up shirt sleeves and manage to persuade the trouble-maker that there is every possibility of him becoming flattened in the immediate future.

Following the suitably shortened speeches, we later sit amongst good-natured crowds in the glorious sunshine listening to Billy Bragg. The red wedge has taken over the mantle of Mr Benn. Between songs, he preaches, shouts, advises and deals vociferously with a small band of hecklers who feel that Billy’s sold out with his celebrity appearances on Question Time. Largely, I don’t care. I am too busy enjoying the music, the sun and the crowd as I look out over the green fields of Dorset through a row of huge bright red flags.

Here is Billy, almost a child star, unique amongst his contemporaries for insisting on singing live on TOTP. His voice is even sronger today!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjUA3RU4B8E