Sunday, December 23, 2007

Obituary/Obitchery, Saturday, July 07, 2007

Dear Denis and Fellows,

Woody Allen was reported as explaining: "I don't want to achieve immortality through my work...I want to achieve it through not dying".

Where would we be without Woody.
Rather, where would we be if his wishes came true?
I will tell you. Without the benefit of Obituaries for a start.

Yesterday, I was saddened to read of the passing of a chap I would have loved to have known. To quote a friend, Brian Cobby, (aka the talking clock) with whom I shared the Sad News only an hour ago: "if only I had known how to miss-spend my youth when I was young".

Of course, I am talking of the sad demise of "The Bestial" George Melley.

I first noticed George when using an old friends lavatory some forty years ago. On the wall was a poster displaying a very well dressed youngish man, pin striped, double breasted &ct. with the legend: "Buy This Bloody Record".

In those days I was not all that musically literate. True. if Geoff had done his job (apart from lusting after Spanner), I could have written every note of "In the Mood", but those were before the days of The Who, The Gun and The Love Affair, when I had not visited Ronnie Scotts (My God, can there be such ignorance).

It was some years later that I realised that George was, without realising it, of course, a Beano Boris writ Very Large indeed. For those so interested, his obituary in yesterdays Telegraph leaves little to the imagination, though it does not include Brian Cobbys reminiscence of his drag parties at Brighton often in the house of David Jacobs, not the old Strandian: "Bedpan" Jacobs but the solicitor who helped the Beatles get started. Very sadly he was "Suicided" by order of The Mafia.

Now, I have only just learned of this, doubtless the Perps. have shuffled off this mortal coil long ago, or if not, they are in no condition to stand trail so I just mention this as additional interest. As further interest, Brian Cobby, who knew Paul Gadd, aka Gary Glitter, assured me that he had attended a school just south of Brixton. I wonder where he could mean.

Another death, which was not reported in the Telegraph was that of Streatham's Own Poet and Art critic: Frank Gompers. He lived in a large house in Woodbourne Avenue, on the way to Battersea Grammar, now bought by Streatham Hill and Clapham High Girls School, where my two little cherubs were, expensively, educated.
Gompers (probably anglicised from the Portuguese Gompez) was a Character.

Some forty years ago, his Love Poems were accepted by Streatham News, owned by Reg and (Aunty) Jill Exton, friends of his and my mother. (I did not presume on such friendship, hence the locals were spared my poems).
Sadly his poems were written in vain and he remained a bachelor, looked after during his latter years by his sister, whilst he made a point of visiting local amateur theatre and music groups (of which Streatham still boasts a few) and writing a criticism which was generally well received.

Time was not terribly kind to Frank. Whatever his sister may have done to assist her brother, her attention did not extend to his mode of dress. Even his kindest critic would have agreed to his appearance as that of an unmade bed. He was also in the habit of carrying a soft leather brief case slung around his neck on a strap, so that it resembled a nose bag. Sadly his sister passed away some five years ago and the poor chap was to be seen trudging the streets looking even more the worse for wear.

The Outrageous and the Blameless.
All part of Life's Rich Pagent.
Neil

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