Sir Bendigo Wrestles With Women Dept.

Women, eh? 

Some years ago, [writes Sir Bendigo Wonglepong - Ed.] I was in a charity shop in the Cotswolds with Lady W (or Mrs W as she then was, before my ennoblement). I was riffling listlessly through the singles, wondering exactly how many Bellamy Brothers singles were still in the hands of their original owners, when I came across something rather special. It was a copy of Johnny Dankworth’s African Waltz (Columbia 45-DB 4590, 1961, c/w Moanin’).

Now I’m no vinyl fetishist. The family Dansette went to meet its maker (J. & A. Margolin Ltd of London, since you ask) many years ago. I take my music digitally and have done for at least fifteen years. I have no particular love for African Waltz, come to that. But I can’t resist a well-turned single, even though I have no means of playing one. And this one…the vinyl was as black and virginal as the day it came out of the Hayes pressing plant all those years ago. The green label was unsullied by the scrapings of autochanger arms. The original Columbia sleeve, with its multicoloured concentric circles, was in no way dog-eared. It was, in short, mint.

I was gazing at this phenomenon, calculating the odds against it staying in this condition for well over fifty years, when Lady W whipped in and bought it, just like that. ‘Lovely mid-century vibe,’ she said by way of explanation. 

As I followed her out of the shop, she marched over to a bin, took the record out of its sleeve, and dropped it straight in. My howl of pain could have been heard at the other end of the high street. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I hissed. ‘I don’t want the record, do I? I want the sleeve, I’m going to cut it up for an artwork,’ she said unapologetically. 

It’s very rare that I feel the need to speak firmly to Lady W. But although she’s an artist to her fingertips, she is also Australian and therefore lacks historical perspective. Fishing the record out of the bin, thankfully unsullied by its close acquaintance with McDonalds boxes and Tango cans, I gently reunited it with its sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t come over here and destroy our priceless cultural artefacts without so much as a by-your-leave,’ I said. ‘How would you like it if I…’ But who? Slim Dusty? Rolf Harris? Best leave it at that, I thought. 

So I did. She had no idea what I was talking about anyway. The single sits in a box with other singles and will no doubt find its way back to a charity shop when I cark it. Or I could sell it on Discogs for anywhere from 24p to £6. But that’s not the point, is it?