Deep and Meaningfuls
The small conversations around the Big Events from my UK notebook
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“Devil go home to your wife!”
That’s what you’re supposed to say to a magpie flying solo through the English countryside.
Complaining about trains and weather is mandatory, as is a lust for Guinness whilst smoking a fag.
Thankfully, I returned home with my 22 years of sobriety from alcohol intact, because every pub serves Guinness Zero — all the tasty foam with none of the hangover.
When I learned I was going to be spending time in the country on my trip, I was so excited because I just knew a mystery would unfold. Some dearly departed would give up the ghost and Miss Marple, Poirot, Sherlock, and of course, CI Barnaby, would be on the case.
When I told this to the Byline team, they laughed, and told me it’s not really like that.
Well, on my way to Totnes from the London Paddington station, I got a message I was going to have to get off the train a stop early, because they’d found a corpse on the tracks.
And while I am sad for the dearly departed, I did feel a bit vindicated.
And that is when I found out that complaining about trains and weather is a national British pastime.
Now, I am from the land of nuclear heat and a thousand days of sunshine, so imagine my delight at the stormy weather. Nothing warms this heart more than a good downpour, so as I disembarked off the lovely train which took me past the lovely sea, I gazed at each raindrop with gratitude and adoration.
Thankfully, one of my hosts suggested I plan for every season so my wardrobe was on point. What I didn’t know is that all four seasons can pass in one hour, but even then, it’s scarf on, scarf off.
The British are so British.
On the day I arrived, Labour had just had a sweeping victory — its first in 14 years — and those I chatted with were cautiously quasi-optimistic with a side of stoic reserve. I told them that what they might be feeling is trauma — they’ve been in trauma neck deep, just like America. It makes it hard when good things happen to wrap yours arms around it.
But good things are happening.
Fate just keeps on happening…
And the UK and France rallied to defeat the Putinists, and America will do the same.
I prepared for my panel for three days and nights — and an entire lifetime — with my coach, High Fidelity — Burgess Meredith to my Rocky Balboa. We refined and refined and refined my thoughts to the point that when I sat in that chair in a 1388 hall, I stuck all my landings.
All the panels I went to, the applause occurred at the end. But I received applause after my first answer — when asked what was missing from the US election coverage. I launched into a Shakespearean soliloquy about information warfare that resonated with the 700 guests in attendance.
But despite being elated about how well I handled the questions about what happens to the rest of us if Trump wins — think, feudalism — I was devastated that the audience was left with a comment by another panelist that Joe be too old and a magical fairy unicorn candidate must replace him post-haste (I’m paraphrasing).
Smh.
All’s well that ends well, and I got the last word when my Theatre of War report was published the following day, where I reminded our global audience that you don’t give up the power of incumbency in a good economy — which always wins — because Putin wants you to. Putin knows Biden will thump Trump, and it’s our job to ensure we don’t fuck it up.
I soothed heart and soul with the kind words of a flamenco guitarist who doubles as an audio/visual guy; and an activist who flew all the way to Mexico from the UK to cast his ballot in the June election — denied the right to vote by mail. (Spoiler alert: he’s RadPod’s next interview — the election fuckery in Mexico a foreshadowing of American fuckery).
I got to meet the World’s Greatest Interviewer — Byline Radio’s Adrian Goldberg — in person.
I cherished every moment with the Byline Team — Jukes and Colegrave — and the entire reader-funded brilliant crew.
Dancing to Darondo in the rain… as Jukes tells stories from the dramaturge files.
Sigh.
I met my investigative writing partner Sian Norris at a pub in Bristol, and I’m still pinching myself.
She and I did so much work to warn people about the threats to Roe, and meeting her in real life was a moment.
Nearly everyone was taller than I expected, but just as beautiful as I imagined.
I had a fake beer with war correspondent John Sweeney, who was worried about Biden’s Age. And I launched into my soliloquy, which seemed to settle the matter.
We are, after all, not voting for a guy but against authoritarian regimes everywhere ffs.
I could never have imagined that a Bette Founding Member would drive from Holland to meet me at the Festival.
She found me and Jim Stewartson through Resistance channels on Twitter, and she is fucking amazing. We had a cappuccino in a storm, and when I ran out of my American Spirits (disclaimer: I don’t inhale), she bought me a pack of smokes, which in Europe features a teen with emphysema on the package.
We walked between the raindrops, admiring the lushness of the gardens of Dartington Hall, and even found a thatched roof fairy hut.
I’m not sure life exists outside of pubs in the UK. I pubbed around like it was Hollywood’s in the ‘90s, but that’s where all the deep and meaningfuls took place.
Sitting at the Fox & Hounds Pub in Northamptonshire with Keir Giles, who was so shy in a way and humble. I have worked with him for five years, and know him to be goddamn brilliant so I found the humility endearing.
I had the best spiced carrot and coriander soup in my life at the Fox & Hounds, and Keir suggested the sticky toffee for dessert. Sticky toffee is a thing in the UK, and I think it’s still sticking to my bones.
Keir thinks it’s too late for America, and I think that’s a gift from me to you.
Nothing like a challenge to prove Americans aren’t as dense as the literati might presume by the empirical evidence that we don’t cherish and hold our democracy as sacred as we should.
Let’s prove him wrong.
As I wrote on day one, London Paddington station was lit when I arrived — everyone looking like a character from a Dickens novel — the election glow joyful and palpable.
The entire trip was filled with some kind of magic. Hanging out with the literati means you overhear stories about writers like Martin Amis, who read and re-read Jane Austen to be reminded of great writing. It means when driving to your destination you take deters to have deep and meaningfuls with modern UK writers.
A gentleman from France, who caught my panel, briefed me on French politics in the Dartington pub — The White Hart — the unofficial green room for the Byline Festival. He explained the reason so many young people are embracing the far-right is that France doesn’t teach history of World War II, because it’s a national shame. He also said that he lives in a town where two families have not spoken to each other since the War — one was Vichy, one Resisted. And then he explained to me that there were actually two Resistances in France — both fought against the Nazis, but one resisted communism and the other resisted DeGaulle… and he said they fought bloody battles.
Upon the day I returned, the French had resisted fascism — another sign that America can, too.
In the final days of my journey, I ended up in-country in the magical fairyland of Great Tew — no one who doesn’t live in Great Tew believes it exists, but I saw it, and it’s as real as the no-name pigs I befriended, and the sheep’s shite I tried to avoid stepping in whilst traipsing through the meadows in gold vegan cowboy boots.
Of course, my brilliant hosts and I ended up at the town’s pub — Falkland Arms — where conversations about the weather continued, and the trains, and the election, and life and life and life…
I popped outside to have a smoke with a local who offered me a Parisienne. I always fake smoke when I travel or I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to.
That Parisienne in the rain gave me the opportunity to flex my Godard knowledge — the famed French director filmed a cheeky ad for the Swiss smokes back in the day.
Talking about cinema through the night while eating homemade paella and listening to Lucinda Williams and Hurray for the Riff Raff with people who read books and know history was nothing short of some kind of magic.
I stayed up all night to write to the music of the wind and the rain battering an old English farm house, mashed up with Oisin Lunny’s latest mixtape — my muse.
I didn’t sleep the entire trip, except the minimum to function.
I didn’t want to miss a thing.
Outside my suite at Dartington Hall was an ancient graveyard.
I reflected on the dearly departed and on the brevity of life.
“I’ll sleep the big sleep when we defeat the fascists,” I promised the ghosts, who quietly applauded as the wind whistled and howled.
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More info about Bette Dangerous - This magazine is written by Heidi Siegmund Cuda, an Emmy-award winning investigative reporter/producer, author, and veteran music and nightlife columnist. She is the cohost of RADICALIZED Truth Survives, an investigative show about disinformation and is part of the Byline Media team. Thank you for your support of independent investigative journalism.
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Begin each day with a grateful heart.
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Not dead yet.
Flattered, I'm sure :-).
Great to meet you at last Heidi x