Dear Pete and Fellows,
At our time of life it is important to seek and cherish every little compensating thought that we can. An example: We have all passed 64 and I am sure that we are all still needed and fed which is more than can be said for one of the surviving perpetrators of that little 1960's ditty.
Another, though the comfort is a little cooler is that my sixteen year old youngster did not run away with a man from the Motor Trade; he is in the Music Business. So, That's All Right Then.
To compound the act. she waited until parents, grand mother and sister were all 800 miles away before telling us (by phone) that she was not at home with house sitters hosting a friend from Formosa as we thought but intended travelling to Greece with the New Love In Her Life. Rather unsportingly and I expect she will remind us of this in years to come, we asked her uncle, all twenty or so stone, shaven head and heavy boots to wrest her passport away from her. Well, one never knows what the water is like in these Foreign Parts.
Better safe than sorry.
Apart from that, we had an excellent time in France. Or Catalonia as we should call this region. Although very much within the mountain range and therefore much cooler than Perpignan, we were easily as warm as London, almost 90* F but rather more dry. Grass was uniformly yellow, though trees presumably had adapted and still had all their leaves.
The day following my younger's disclosure I was woken from my after lunch nap by the smell of smoke and shrieks from my elder daughter, Emily. Our garden is about thirty feet long, ending in a very low wall and gate which opens onto a communal park which effectively extends the gardens of the surrounding houses. Some residential roads in London are similarly arranged around Notting Hill. Ornamental trees, good lawn a pleasure to walk or sit.
Opposite our wall is a new house nearing completion. One of the builders had piled up spare timber and had set fire to it. Now, this time of the year, grass yellow and timber dry, there are few worse offences. Obviously the builder had travelled from many miles away where he probably lived in marshland. You may remember the forest fire which devastated much of the country just north of Perpignan a couple of years ago. The locals certainly do.
There are signs everywhere warning against fire. My daughter was over the wall and standing in front of the builder almost as soon as the first whiff of smoke appeared explaining this fact to him in Perfect English. He replied in Perfect French. I did not understand every word, but he made himself plain by chucking more timber on the blaze, sending a shower of sparks dangerously near the trees. Another resident appeared and repeated what Emily had said, but in French and complete with fist gestures. More people arrived, understandably worried, if the grass caught, the trees may well have followed. Le Canigou is surrounded by unbroken forest which could easily have gone up in smoke, quite apart from our houses. Grudgingly, the builder turned on a hose and made a show of dousing the flames, in fact it simply increased the smoke which now obscured the park. At that moment, two gendarmes appeared.
"Oh good," exclaimed Emily, "They have guns. Shoot him" she demanded, still in English. When this did not happen, she requested of the nearest French neighbour: "How do you say: Shoot him".
The policeman led the man to the front of the house, out of our sight. To Emily's obvious distress, he reappeared a few moments later, bullet hole free, but made a thorough job of dousing the fire. I gathered later that the police are empowered to demand spot fines for these offences and can be very persuasive. Anyway, this episode restored the faith in my daughters so cruelly shaken the previous day.
If you want any more and there is plenty.
Just ask
Neil
Sunday, December 23, 2007
My Hols, Thursday, August 30, 2007 8:09 PM
Dear Fellows,
This is my fourth visit to France since the 1960's. Compared to those days( the 1960's of course) it is a different country in many little ways; some good, others not so good.
The good is the transport system, including the roads. Road humps are very very rare. Autorouts, (toll motorways) are very common; every page of the Michelin map shows at least one north-south autoroute, with accompanying Route National the former primary road, (which now acts as an A (toll free) road.) Adequate, but has more traffic and many junctions. We calculated that paying the toll more than made up for extra exasperation and increase in petrol consumption of stop start motoring.
The road system is about 20 years in advance of England.
The not so good is the prevalence of dirty diesel engines. If thoroughly flushed with flushing oil at the recommended intervals, the exhaust is not so smelly. As it is, instead of Galoise, the streets smell like a bus depot during a busy period.
I have actually been overdoing it for the past few weeks, so I did not really wake up until we reached Paris. Once again we circled Paris using the Route Peripatetic (the French equivalent of our M 25, though as far from the centre of Paris as Vauxhall is to London).
Paris cannot be compared to London, at least not to The Square Mile. Half of what people refer to as London is the neighbouring city of Westminster. Both of these city's are surrounded by umpteen small towns and villages.
Streatham, for example was, until just over a century ago, a north Surrey village.
Paris is now ringed by really rather dispiriting blocks of flats, the denizens of which were described by Nicholas Sarcozy in terms I will not repeat. The other Nicholas (Van Hoogstraten) would have probably agreed with him. Did not harm his presidential chances. I simply wonder what drives a man to uproot his family to live in what is, in effect, a prison within a foreign country.
The north half of France resembles south east England, rolling hills, occasional forests, that sort of thing. From mid France, the eastern side is dominated by the Massif Central, which needs no translation. Clearly this area was dramatically affected during the volcanic period. Not a safe place at all, in those days.
There are very few long valleys. Roads at ground level would be obliged to twist and turn all over the place, so the French have simply built viaducts, most are 50 or so yards long. I counted five along one stretch, under our and neighbouring roads.
The king of viaducts is, of course the one at Millau, built by Norman Foster and a French engineer: Michael Virlogeux.
Well worth driving through France just to enjoy looking at it. The statistics are astonishing; It is taller than the Eifel tower, just a little shorter (35 meters) than the Empire State building also, it is 2460 meters, over one and a half miles long. As a comparison; from Marble Arch, along Oxford Street to Centre Point, or Marble Arch to Charing Cross station. Nearer home, from Streatham Hill station to Brixton Underground. One Hell Of A Distance. Admit it.
Nearing the Millais Viaduct, we stopped for petrol. We had an unusually long wait, the driver of the car in front seemed to have vanished, we drove around him to reach a free pump just beside the cash kiosk, where I discovered a possible reason for the delay; the young lady at the till was of such beauty, almost rivalling that of my daughters. No, I will not apologise, which father does not consider his daughters as the most beautiful of women, almost rivalling their mother.
Whilst I was standing, regretting my mis-spent youth, I was elbowed aside by a burly lady who easily resembled an American footballer in full kit, with the mouth of a cheerleader, "A fishwife, if ever I have seen one, I mused"(and I have seen plenty)
Any doubt on this score was instantly dispersed by her letting fly a torrent of French (as in "Excuse my") at such a speed I couldn't keep up.
To my astonishment (and delight) my little Angel changed her appearance; her face was no longer cheerful optimism but outright fury "Wrath of God-On Stilts" would convey an idea. What she said was beyond me, but she was clearly responding in the same coin, with knobs on.
An approach not to be found in "The Employees Guide to Good Customer Relations", specifically chapter 10:"How to Win Over the difficult Client".
However it seemed to do the trick.
Over the years I have noticed that the observation: "A soft answer turneth away wrath..." (Proverbs 15:1) is only effective when dealing with those who are "Playing the Game" As also Jesus' comment on "Turning the other cheek". One might meet the chap who enjoys smiting cheeks; the more the better.
Clearly a Plan B should be somewhere to hand as was so ably demonstrated.
This brings to mind a report in last years Daily Telegraph of a desk sergeant in a South American country who was dealing, as best he could with a Member of the Public who had a real or imagined grievance. After a while a young policeman chanced into the outer office. Seeing his opportunity to take advantage of his tea (or tequila) break, the sergeant asked the Young Policeman to "Get rid of him", gesturing towards the "Member of the Public"
"Righto Guv" (or Latin American equivalent) responded the Young officer, who took the man firmly by the elbow, escorted him outside the building, withdrew his service revolver and shot him, dead.
Apparently the youngster was distressed when his executive action failed to meet with the unalloyed approval of his senior officers,
This action probably did not feature in the aforementioned manual either.
Plan B it may be, but rather more drastic than I would have recommended.
Is there more? I expect so
Neil
This is my fourth visit to France since the 1960's. Compared to those days( the 1960's of course) it is a different country in many little ways; some good, others not so good.
The good is the transport system, including the roads. Road humps are very very rare. Autorouts, (toll motorways) are very common; every page of the Michelin map shows at least one north-south autoroute, with accompanying Route National the former primary road, (which now acts as an A (toll free) road.) Adequate, but has more traffic and many junctions. We calculated that paying the toll more than made up for extra exasperation and increase in petrol consumption of stop start motoring.
The road system is about 20 years in advance of England.
The not so good is the prevalence of dirty diesel engines. If thoroughly flushed with flushing oil at the recommended intervals, the exhaust is not so smelly. As it is, instead of Galoise, the streets smell like a bus depot during a busy period.
I have actually been overdoing it for the past few weeks, so I did not really wake up until we reached Paris. Once again we circled Paris using the Route Peripatetic (the French equivalent of our M 25, though as far from the centre of Paris as Vauxhall is to London).
Paris cannot be compared to London, at least not to The Square Mile. Half of what people refer to as London is the neighbouring city of Westminster. Both of these city's are surrounded by umpteen small towns and villages.
Streatham, for example was, until just over a century ago, a north Surrey village.
Paris is now ringed by really rather dispiriting blocks of flats, the denizens of which were described by Nicholas Sarcozy in terms I will not repeat. The other Nicholas (Van Hoogstraten) would have probably agreed with him. Did not harm his presidential chances. I simply wonder what drives a man to uproot his family to live in what is, in effect, a prison within a foreign country.
The north half of France resembles south east England, rolling hills, occasional forests, that sort of thing. From mid France, the eastern side is dominated by the Massif Central, which needs no translation. Clearly this area was dramatically affected during the volcanic period. Not a safe place at all, in those days.
There are very few long valleys. Roads at ground level would be obliged to twist and turn all over the place, so the French have simply built viaducts, most are 50 or so yards long. I counted five along one stretch, under our and neighbouring roads.
The king of viaducts is, of course the one at Millau, built by Norman Foster and a French engineer: Michael Virlogeux.
Well worth driving through France just to enjoy looking at it. The statistics are astonishing; It is taller than the Eifel tower, just a little shorter (35 meters) than the Empire State building also, it is 2460 meters, over one and a half miles long. As a comparison; from Marble Arch, along Oxford Street to Centre Point, or Marble Arch to Charing Cross station. Nearer home, from Streatham Hill station to Brixton Underground. One Hell Of A Distance. Admit it.
Nearing the Millais Viaduct, we stopped for petrol. We had an unusually long wait, the driver of the car in front seemed to have vanished, we drove around him to reach a free pump just beside the cash kiosk, where I discovered a possible reason for the delay; the young lady at the till was of such beauty, almost rivalling that of my daughters. No, I will not apologise, which father does not consider his daughters as the most beautiful of women, almost rivalling their mother.
Whilst I was standing, regretting my mis-spent youth, I was elbowed aside by a burly lady who easily resembled an American footballer in full kit, with the mouth of a cheerleader, "A fishwife, if ever I have seen one, I mused"(and I have seen plenty)
Any doubt on this score was instantly dispersed by her letting fly a torrent of French (as in "Excuse my") at such a speed I couldn't keep up.
To my astonishment (and delight) my little Angel changed her appearance; her face was no longer cheerful optimism but outright fury "Wrath of God-On Stilts" would convey an idea. What she said was beyond me, but she was clearly responding in the same coin, with knobs on.
An approach not to be found in "The Employees Guide to Good Customer Relations", specifically chapter 10:"How to Win Over the difficult Client".
However it seemed to do the trick.
Over the years I have noticed that the observation: "A soft answer turneth away wrath..." (Proverbs 15:1) is only effective when dealing with those who are "Playing the Game" As also Jesus' comment on "Turning the other cheek". One might meet the chap who enjoys smiting cheeks; the more the better.
Clearly a Plan B should be somewhere to hand as was so ably demonstrated.
This brings to mind a report in last years Daily Telegraph of a desk sergeant in a South American country who was dealing, as best he could with a Member of the Public who had a real or imagined grievance. After a while a young policeman chanced into the outer office. Seeing his opportunity to take advantage of his tea (or tequila) break, the sergeant asked the Young Policeman to "Get rid of him", gesturing towards the "Member of the Public"
"Righto Guv" (or Latin American equivalent) responded the Young officer, who took the man firmly by the elbow, escorted him outside the building, withdrew his service revolver and shot him, dead.
Apparently the youngster was distressed when his executive action failed to meet with the unalloyed approval of his senior officers,
This action probably did not feature in the aforementioned manual either.
Plan B it may be, but rather more drastic than I would have recommended.
Is there more? I expect so
Neil
Michaelmas Term Lads, Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Dear Richard,
Our time was from 1952.
I think I served the longest of our group, taking another year in the 6th form to improve on my initially poor exam result, I left finally in 1960, with, I think ten O levels. Most on "the instalment plan". I also managed a couple of A's. I would have easily obtained a Scholarship level in Botany, however the school had stopped offering this "elitist" exam.
Dr Toms did not teach divinity, quite the reverse. He once assured us, when one of his better pupils, Len Strom, requested time off to attend a Jewish festival, that he regarded all Religious Observance as Hypocrisy. On the few occasions he conducted morning assembly, following the passing of Mr Dawes, he barely disguised his distaste for the whole business. Although he did not realise it, he was a devotee of The New Religion, the Religion which Dare Not Speak it's Name.
This reticence is not due to Shame, though that would be understandable, but through conceit, though, of course, this is not admitted or even suspected by the Communicant. The Name of the Religion is: Scientism.
It has Prophets, though, again not recognised as such. The best known is Charles Darwin. More recent ones include Arthur C Clark (The Future is Not What it Was, is one of his better quotes). There are scores of others, though lack of space prevents me....
Understandably, very few quantum physicists would be members of this church as they realise All Is Not As It Seems. Now, I have not strayed far from the point of Dr Harold Toms, I assure you.
The first occasion I sat in his laboratory, our regular teacher was away, I noticed the Periodic Table of the elements on a chart hung on his wall. I think I was about 15. Prior to this time, I had not given the material universe much thought, taking everything for granted. Here was a chart of breathtaking simplicity with a few glaring anomalies such as hydrogen oxide.
According to the pattern exhibited by the chart, this chemical should be a gas with a lower boiling point than its analogue, hydrogen sulphide and only exist as liquid at low temperature and under considerable pressure.
Common sense would lead one to expect a light gas combined with the very lightest gas to exist as a gas also. In fact, hydrogen oxide is known as water.
If the unusual property of water at normal temperatures was not enough. Consider what happens when it cools below 4*C. I did not dignify my revelation with anything as pompous as a divine plan, I did feel that there was more to the universe than could be explained by "A Big Bang".
I did tackle Toms with this subject a few years later. To him, of course, there was no mystery at all. Certainly no need or room for external intelligence. We left the discussion with the agreement that it was very lucky for us that hydrogen oxide behaved as it did.
I have written on Mr Alnwick, whose daughter visited me as a patient a couple of years ago. I will try and find the letter I wrote at the time.
Anyway I have written enough for today.
Neil
Our time was from 1952.
I think I served the longest of our group, taking another year in the 6th form to improve on my initially poor exam result, I left finally in 1960, with, I think ten O levels. Most on "the instalment plan". I also managed a couple of A's. I would have easily obtained a Scholarship level in Botany, however the school had stopped offering this "elitist" exam.
Dr Toms did not teach divinity, quite the reverse. He once assured us, when one of his better pupils, Len Strom, requested time off to attend a Jewish festival, that he regarded all Religious Observance as Hypocrisy. On the few occasions he conducted morning assembly, following the passing of Mr Dawes, he barely disguised his distaste for the whole business. Although he did not realise it, he was a devotee of The New Religion, the Religion which Dare Not Speak it's Name.
This reticence is not due to Shame, though that would be understandable, but through conceit, though, of course, this is not admitted or even suspected by the Communicant. The Name of the Religion is: Scientism.
It has Prophets, though, again not recognised as such. The best known is Charles Darwin. More recent ones include Arthur C Clark (The Future is Not What it Was, is one of his better quotes). There are scores of others, though lack of space prevents me....
Understandably, very few quantum physicists would be members of this church as they realise All Is Not As It Seems. Now, I have not strayed far from the point of Dr Harold Toms, I assure you.
The first occasion I sat in his laboratory, our regular teacher was away, I noticed the Periodic Table of the elements on a chart hung on his wall. I think I was about 15. Prior to this time, I had not given the material universe much thought, taking everything for granted. Here was a chart of breathtaking simplicity with a few glaring anomalies such as hydrogen oxide.
According to the pattern exhibited by the chart, this chemical should be a gas with a lower boiling point than its analogue, hydrogen sulphide and only exist as liquid at low temperature and under considerable pressure.
Common sense would lead one to expect a light gas combined with the very lightest gas to exist as a gas also. In fact, hydrogen oxide is known as water.
If the unusual property of water at normal temperatures was not enough. Consider what happens when it cools below 4*C. I did not dignify my revelation with anything as pompous as a divine plan, I did feel that there was more to the universe than could be explained by "A Big Bang".
I did tackle Toms with this subject a few years later. To him, of course, there was no mystery at all. Certainly no need or room for external intelligence. We left the discussion with the agreement that it was very lucky for us that hydrogen oxide behaved as it did.
I have written on Mr Alnwick, whose daughter visited me as a patient a couple of years ago. I will try and find the letter I wrote at the time.
Anyway I have written enough for today.
Neil
Michaelmas Term Lads. Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Neil
Many thanks for your birthday wishes. I imagine I am lucky to have had 14cards although several of them were for 4 year-olds with a badge to suit and with an 8 written in front of the 4! Especially good to have a phone call from my daughter in Adelaide supported by emails from my two grandsons there.
What memories you evoke in mentioning Dr Toms. I lived in Romola Road at Tulse Hill and every morning as I walked to and up Tulse Hill itself I would see Dr Toms get off a No.2 bus and set off in the same direction. He always wore a trilby hat and a long raincoat (without a belt) and carried an attache case - as we called them then. I had to look out for him in order to put my cap on! He was a really nice guy and as I remember taught science of one description or another - so I am interested in your reference to Religious Studies.
In my day that was the fief of one Rev Arthur Charles Digby French. I still have all my Journals (did they exist in your day?) and one comment of his was 'Does nothing apparently'!
Bearing in mind I was taliking about 1934 onwards it is apparent that Dr Toms went on for some time. Have I already told you (short term memory loss is part of old age!) that a few weeks ago I had a visit from a Douglas Roberts - Yates House 1939 - who I last met on Sunday mornings in 1938 at the Milk Bar in Streatham Hill? He brought me a copy of a School Photograph of 1937 and so far I have been able to name 42 boys and pretty well all the Masters.As I look at them now from left to right: Alnwick, Cushion, French, Pearce, Yates, Towler, Adair, unknown, Medley, Toms, Round, McMinn, Warren, Dawe, Pitson, Wilton, unknown, Herrick, Pack, Dark, White and 2 German Students/Assistant Masters named Herr Feller and Herr Vatter (should be an umlaut over the a).
I wonder how many were still around in your time - would I be right in pitching that around 1954-1958?
Richard
Many thanks for your birthday wishes. I imagine I am lucky to have had 14cards although several of them were for 4 year-olds with a badge to suit and with an 8 written in front of the 4! Especially good to have a phone call from my daughter in Adelaide supported by emails from my two grandsons there.
What memories you evoke in mentioning Dr Toms. I lived in Romola Road at Tulse Hill and every morning as I walked to and up Tulse Hill itself I would see Dr Toms get off a No.2 bus and set off in the same direction. He always wore a trilby hat and a long raincoat (without a belt) and carried an attache case - as we called them then. I had to look out for him in order to put my cap on! He was a really nice guy and as I remember taught science of one description or another - so I am interested in your reference to Religious Studies.
In my day that was the fief of one Rev Arthur Charles Digby French. I still have all my Journals (did they exist in your day?) and one comment of his was 'Does nothing apparently'!
Bearing in mind I was taliking about 1934 onwards it is apparent that Dr Toms went on for some time. Have I already told you (short term memory loss is part of old age!) that a few weeks ago I had a visit from a Douglas Roberts - Yates House 1939 - who I last met on Sunday mornings in 1938 at the Milk Bar in Streatham Hill? He brought me a copy of a School Photograph of 1937 and so far I have been able to name 42 boys and pretty well all the Masters.As I look at them now from left to right: Alnwick, Cushion, French, Pearce, Yates, Towler, Adair, unknown, Medley, Toms, Round, McMinn, Warren, Dawe, Pitson, Wilton, unknown, Herrick, Pack, Dark, White and 2 German Students/Assistant Masters named Herr Feller and Herr Vatter (should be an umlaut over the a).
I wonder how many were still around in your time - would I be right in pitching that around 1954-1958?
Richard
Michaelmas Term Lads, Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Dear Fellows,
The first few leaves have fallen and it is now quite dark at what I thought of as "cider time", when I would drink my first (!) glass under the evening sun after a day interfering with the garden.
Clearly we have entered Michaelmas Term. I intended celebrating by sending a photo of Dr Harold Toms. My wretched new machine will not allow me to mail this or any photo, as my old, out of date one did.
Dr Harold, our Deputy headmaster was probably, albeit passively, more responsible for my religious view of life than the Other Harold (Hippo).
On reflection, Harold and Harry are variants of a name which cannot be applied to the same person. Harry Toms? Harold Waddingham? See what I mean. In the case of Hippo, he could never have been a Harry.
On Ft.Lieut. Waddingham, successor to The Swine, I have quite a lot to write, probably knowing him better than most of our little group. Sorry, you will have to wait for this, "With breath that is bated" (H.Poirot).
Now, I have ten members recorded for Strand. Not far off a third of a class. However, we need a litle Roll Call. How is Ray? I do hope he is on the mend. If he is still taking note of my mail, he should know, for old times sake, that standing next to the Elephant and Castle shopping centre/roundabout, more or less opposite the space once occupied by his house, it is possible to see the London Eye without standing on tip toe.
Happy Birthday Richard.
Neil
The first few leaves have fallen and it is now quite dark at what I thought of as "cider time", when I would drink my first (!) glass under the evening sun after a day interfering with the garden.
Clearly we have entered Michaelmas Term. I intended celebrating by sending a photo of Dr Harold Toms. My wretched new machine will not allow me to mail this or any photo, as my old, out of date one did.
Dr Harold, our Deputy headmaster was probably, albeit passively, more responsible for my religious view of life than the Other Harold (Hippo).
On reflection, Harold and Harry are variants of a name which cannot be applied to the same person. Harry Toms? Harold Waddingham? See what I mean. In the case of Hippo, he could never have been a Harry.
On Ft.Lieut. Waddingham, successor to The Swine, I have quite a lot to write, probably knowing him better than most of our little group. Sorry, you will have to wait for this, "With breath that is bated" (H.Poirot).
Now, I have ten members recorded for Strand. Not far off a third of a class. However, we need a litle Roll Call. How is Ray? I do hope he is on the mend. If he is still taking note of my mail, he should know, for old times sake, that standing next to the Elephant and Castle shopping centre/roundabout, more or less opposite the space once occupied by his house, it is possible to see the London Eye without standing on tip toe.
Happy Birthday Richard.
Neil
Oldest Profession ? Sunday, October 01, 2006
Oldest Profession Revisited :::::::::::
A man walked into a roadside tavern and as he looked over the crowded tavern, he saw an empty bar stool at the far end of the bar.
As he sat down on the bar stool, he noticed perched on a bar stool right next to him was a good looking, smartly dressed woman with beautiful red hair. "Hi there good looking. How's it going?" he asked.
The woman turned her head to the right, and looked him straight in the eye, and without blinking one time she said, "Listen fellow, I'll screw anybody, anytime, anywhere, your place, my place, it doesn't matter. I've been doing it ever since I got out of college, and I just love it!"
"No kidding?," said the man, "I'm a lawyer too! What firm are you with?"
A man walked into a roadside tavern and as he looked over the crowded tavern, he saw an empty bar stool at the far end of the bar.
As he sat down on the bar stool, he noticed perched on a bar stool right next to him was a good looking, smartly dressed woman with beautiful red hair. "Hi there good looking. How's it going?" he asked.
The woman turned her head to the right, and looked him straight in the eye, and without blinking one time she said, "Listen fellow, I'll screw anybody, anytime, anywhere, your place, my place, it doesn't matter. I've been doing it ever since I got out of college, and I just love it!"
"No kidding?," said the man, "I'm a lawyer too! What firm are you with?"
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
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
Sunday telegraph / guardian, Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Dear Fellows
Last Thursday, Marisa and I attended the Private view of Daughter Emily's young man's Exhibition, held at the Truman brewery in Brick Lane (yes, again. Little did I think when I visited Brick Lane as a salesman forty years ago that I would ever return. Of course, in those days: Little did I think).
One of his paintings is shown in the photo below. What is not mentioned is the sheer size. The dimensions of this one is: nine feet by fifteen feet. You couldn't take it home on the bus. This is only one of nine.
The effect is startling, to say the least.
I am no stranger to large canvasses. In 1960, or thereabouts, I visited the Tate where displayed in the front hall was a similar sized "painting" by some chap named Matisse. This consisted of coloured patches, about a foot square painted evenly (give him that) over the screen, something like ten rows of ten patches of colour "very deep" as the pseud was inclined to mutter in these days, knowing full well that their real thought was; "Load of b*******s.
The chap I was with, I think it was Michael Woodcock's younger brother. Just as tall, but rather less surly, attempted to explain how significant the positioning of each colour was. I remember replying: "Pull the other one".
Surreal paintings by Dali, Magritte and the like, I enjoy. Although many, I am sure are devised for fun which is part of their charm: Magritte's "This is not a pipe" springs to mind, most are well drawn, the subject easily recognisable.
Much of Modern Art; formless blobs could be regarded as "Wallpaper art" Nothing wrong with artistic wallpaper, just that it is not pretentious. Wallpaper masquerading as art is another matter.
This reminds me of another large painting in the news a few months ago as having been sold for a startlingly large amount. The painting consisted of coloured worms squiggling over the canvas. I immediately thought of the film in which the hero played by Tony Hancock wearing foul weather gear and riding a bicycle over his canvas muttering: "Every brush stroke torn from me" This film "The Rebel" seemed to have been quietly suppressed, perhaps it was a little too close to the knuckle. Actually, had the film company kept the Hancock canvas it would probably command an equally startling amount. Deservedly, in this case.
The other exponent of present day art: Damien Hurst is really working under false pretences, his work is in the field of Taxidermy,
Cartoon art such as "Wham" (you must have seen it) is refreshing and evocative. Brings to mind the excitement of opening "The Eagle" or "Hotspur" in the Good Old Days.
I do not know what to make of Stuart's style. There is no doubt he is an excellent draughtsman. Maybe he is starting his own school.
Were I an novelist, I am sure I could write a story for each painting to fit the illustration.
Really good art does remind me of an earlier universe where the viewer could enter the painting, taking on the part of one of the characters.
On the subject of characters, I have noticed that the little differences which set salesmen, dog, bird or art fanciers apart from the rest of us are magnified at conventions or exhibitions. not so obviously that noses at bird shows are sharp and pointed whilst at doggy events they are damp. Perhaps you, dear reader might suggest any ideas on this.
The reason for this digression is my noticing an exception to the art person at Stuart's exhibition, a fellow who walked past in a hurry with an expression on his face which rang a bell. I then noticed his velvet collar and the penny dropped; I was taken back fifty years to Tooting Broadway, birthplace of the actor George Cole. In those days the Broadway was heavily infested by chaps with velvet collars and similar expression, suppressed rage would be too strong a word, pissed off would not be strong enough. Admire them for a second too long: "Oi! Oo are you looking at?"
Did me good.
I am looking foreword to Stuart's next exhibition in Kensington.
Details are on his site and in the press, enclosed
Maybe meet you there
Neil
Last Thursday, Marisa and I attended the Private view of Daughter Emily's young man's Exhibition, held at the Truman brewery in Brick Lane (yes, again. Little did I think when I visited Brick Lane as a salesman forty years ago that I would ever return. Of course, in those days: Little did I think).
One of his paintings is shown in the photo below. What is not mentioned is the sheer size. The dimensions of this one is: nine feet by fifteen feet. You couldn't take it home on the bus. This is only one of nine.
The effect is startling, to say the least.
I am no stranger to large canvasses. In 1960, or thereabouts, I visited the Tate where displayed in the front hall was a similar sized "painting" by some chap named Matisse. This consisted of coloured patches, about a foot square painted evenly (give him that) over the screen, something like ten rows of ten patches of colour "very deep" as the pseud was inclined to mutter in these days, knowing full well that their real thought was; "Load of b*******s.
The chap I was with, I think it was Michael Woodcock's younger brother. Just as tall, but rather less surly, attempted to explain how significant the positioning of each colour was. I remember replying: "Pull the other one".
Surreal paintings by Dali, Magritte and the like, I enjoy. Although many, I am sure are devised for fun which is part of their charm: Magritte's "This is not a pipe" springs to mind, most are well drawn, the subject easily recognisable.
Much of Modern Art; formless blobs could be regarded as "Wallpaper art" Nothing wrong with artistic wallpaper, just that it is not pretentious. Wallpaper masquerading as art is another matter.
This reminds me of another large painting in the news a few months ago as having been sold for a startlingly large amount. The painting consisted of coloured worms squiggling over the canvas. I immediately thought of the film in which the hero played by Tony Hancock wearing foul weather gear and riding a bicycle over his canvas muttering: "Every brush stroke torn from me" This film "The Rebel" seemed to have been quietly suppressed, perhaps it was a little too close to the knuckle. Actually, had the film company kept the Hancock canvas it would probably command an equally startling amount. Deservedly, in this case.
The other exponent of present day art: Damien Hurst is really working under false pretences, his work is in the field of Taxidermy,
Cartoon art such as "Wham" (you must have seen it) is refreshing and evocative. Brings to mind the excitement of opening "The Eagle" or "Hotspur" in the Good Old Days.
I do not know what to make of Stuart's style. There is no doubt he is an excellent draughtsman. Maybe he is starting his own school.
Were I an novelist, I am sure I could write a story for each painting to fit the illustration.
Really good art does remind me of an earlier universe where the viewer could enter the painting, taking on the part of one of the characters.
On the subject of characters, I have noticed that the little differences which set salesmen, dog, bird or art fanciers apart from the rest of us are magnified at conventions or exhibitions. not so obviously that noses at bird shows are sharp and pointed whilst at doggy events they are damp. Perhaps you, dear reader might suggest any ideas on this.
The reason for this digression is my noticing an exception to the art person at Stuart's exhibition, a fellow who walked past in a hurry with an expression on his face which rang a bell. I then noticed his velvet collar and the penny dropped; I was taken back fifty years to Tooting Broadway, birthplace of the actor George Cole. In those days the Broadway was heavily infested by chaps with velvet collars and similar expression, suppressed rage would be too strong a word, pissed off would not be strong enough. Admire them for a second too long: "Oi! Oo are you looking at?"
Did me good.
I am looking foreword to Stuart's next exhibition in Kensington.
Details are on his site and in the press, enclosed
Maybe meet you there
Neil
Nobby, October 24, 2007
Dear Richard,
Miss Boorer, bless her, was still on duty when we arrived at Strand; well known for her sympathy towards the younger pupil, always comforting, sometimes mending their torn blazers. She retired about the same time as Mr Dawe.
Her replacement, Miss Alexander was the image of Mrs Jackie Kennedy, perhaps a bit younger, but similar hair style and smile. If Coxy had a hand in her appointment, I would be very surprised. Cox had no illusions on the nature of young men, or of older ones for that matter as he occasionally elaborated upon during his 6th form "Current affairs" class which was our treat for the week. Predictably his opening address was directed to the Head Boy: Harvey Gritzman. (I wonder what happened to him). Basically, he was imploring him to bring more "individuals" to his office for a Good Thrashing. The remainder of the period would have gladdened the heart of John Wayne. See what most of you missed.
An interlude, before I return to Miss Alexander. About twenty years ago, John Foster Dulles (is that his name or a descri[tion of his upbringing, I have often wondered) was discussing events and "might have been's" with Shevardnadze. Dulles wondered aloud what changes might have occurred in the world if it had been Khrushchev who had been assassinated instead of Kennedy.
After a few moments thought Shevardnadze replied that he did not think Onassis would have married Mrs Khrushchev.
Now, back to Jackie K's look-alike Miss Alexander, I cannot imagine how her head was turned by "The Swine". Of the various terms which could be used to describe him, "Handsome" or (horrible word) "sexy" is not on my list. Were he an actor and I a casting agent I would consider him for the part of a mid ranking figure of authority such as a uniformed police sergeant, government inspector or probation officer. He had a good military bearing and could convey an air of responsibility, but there was always the whiff of "Bounder" about him, as his actions amply demonstrated.
The term "Jack the Lad" belongs to his successor, Harry Waddingham. About whom I have much to report, but by request only.
From what I gathered, he took quite a bit of cash with him, which quite rightly belonged to the school or local authority. It was significant that he did a runner to North Cyprus, (yes, it was those days) where there was no extradition treaty.
What became of "Jackie" Alexander, I have no idea. Perhaps she was lucky and met a Greek.
I did phone his wife (who still lives in Aragon Gardens, Streatham) about fifteen years ago, when I found his name in the telephone book. His wife rather coldly told me he lived in The North of England and I could contact his daughter, if I was interested. As it happens, I was not, this was before Pete had contacted me. I doubt he is still contactable.
All the best
Neil
Miss Boorer, bless her, was still on duty when we arrived at Strand; well known for her sympathy towards the younger pupil, always comforting, sometimes mending their torn blazers. She retired about the same time as Mr Dawe.
Her replacement, Miss Alexander was the image of Mrs Jackie Kennedy, perhaps a bit younger, but similar hair style and smile. If Coxy had a hand in her appointment, I would be very surprised. Cox had no illusions on the nature of young men, or of older ones for that matter as he occasionally elaborated upon during his 6th form "Current affairs" class which was our treat for the week. Predictably his opening address was directed to the Head Boy: Harvey Gritzman. (I wonder what happened to him). Basically, he was imploring him to bring more "individuals" to his office for a Good Thrashing. The remainder of the period would have gladdened the heart of John Wayne. See what most of you missed.
An interlude, before I return to Miss Alexander. About twenty years ago, John Foster Dulles (is that his name or a descri[tion of his upbringing, I have often wondered) was discussing events and "might have been's" with Shevardnadze. Dulles wondered aloud what changes might have occurred in the world if it had been Khrushchev who had been assassinated instead of Kennedy.
After a few moments thought Shevardnadze replied that he did not think Onassis would have married Mrs Khrushchev.
Now, back to Jackie K's look-alike Miss Alexander, I cannot imagine how her head was turned by "The Swine". Of the various terms which could be used to describe him, "Handsome" or (horrible word) "sexy" is not on my list. Were he an actor and I a casting agent I would consider him for the part of a mid ranking figure of authority such as a uniformed police sergeant, government inspector or probation officer. He had a good military bearing and could convey an air of responsibility, but there was always the whiff of "Bounder" about him, as his actions amply demonstrated.
The term "Jack the Lad" belongs to his successor, Harry Waddingham. About whom I have much to report, but by request only.
From what I gathered, he took quite a bit of cash with him, which quite rightly belonged to the school or local authority. It was significant that he did a runner to North Cyprus, (yes, it was those days) where there was no extradition treaty.
What became of "Jackie" Alexander, I have no idea. Perhaps she was lucky and met a Greek.
I did phone his wife (who still lives in Aragon Gardens, Streatham) about fifteen years ago, when I found his name in the telephone book. His wife rather coldly told me he lived in The North of England and I could contact his daughter, if I was interested. As it happens, I was not, this was before Pete had contacted me. I doubt he is still contactable.
All the best
Neil
Nobby, October 23, 2007
I have to say that I am quite appalled at the thought of Strandians tampering with the school secretary. In my time the super efficient Miss Boorer operated in the room on the right of the Entrance Hall immediately opposite Mr Dawe's room and being a middle-aged spinster attracted very little other than professional attention. We got our 'naughties' from the girls of St.Martin's in Tulse Hill just below Trinity Rise. What on earth do you think Brockwell Park was for?! Can I mention Mary Andersen, Doris Lambert, Diana Rendell, Betty Berry, Joyce King, Dorothy Stevens - to name but a few?!
Richard
Richard
Nobby, Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Colin. Nobby "Co(c/cks" was the derivation. You were obviously in 2A and above such smut that abounded in 2B. If I had been caned because of the delectable Miss Alexander he could have had the skin of my back, for a glimpse of her tits, such was the excess of hormones that coursed through our teenage viens at that time. How she could fancy "The Swine" above us lads is still beyond me.
Brian.
Brian.
Still Pootering, Monday, November 05, 2007
Dear Fellows,
I had intended a short letter as a follow up to my daughter's boyfriend's (Stuart Semple) exhibition of contemporary art, this time the second exhibition, of normal sized paintings, was held in Chelsea. The venue couldn't have been more different from the Brick Lane venue.
The Chelsea gallery was itself a work of art, as indeed was the Agent, Martin Summers.
Marisa and I were startled by Martin's appearance as he was the image of our former MP and great friend Bill (Sir William) Shelton. To explain our open mouthed expression, we explained this to Martin, who advised us that he actually resembled Stewart Granger. Indeed he did as, naturally, did Shelton. Though I had known Bill for almost forty years, I had not noticed the resemblance. With the opulent period setting of the gallery, and the name, I saw, in my minds eye Granger's best film where he played the part of Beau Brummell to Peter Ustinov's Prince Regent.
I was going to describe the gallery, then I realised: Google Earth, SW3 5BJ will show the outside of the building which consists of four houses connected, they are lower right of the page, red roofed with skylights. The roof garden is reasonably visible running along the rear and at 120 feet, rather longer than an Olympic swimming pool.
Type Martin Summers into Google and you will be able to locate the Gallery and Roof garden. It is well worth the effort.
I had seen nothing like it except the Sir John Soane Museum, a house which could well have inspired the idea of the Tardis. The Soane Museum is also worth Googling and is well worth a visit, it is free.
Regards
Neil
I had intended a short letter as a follow up to my daughter's boyfriend's (Stuart Semple) exhibition of contemporary art, this time the second exhibition, of normal sized paintings, was held in Chelsea. The venue couldn't have been more different from the Brick Lane venue.
The Chelsea gallery was itself a work of art, as indeed was the Agent, Martin Summers.
Marisa and I were startled by Martin's appearance as he was the image of our former MP and great friend Bill (Sir William) Shelton. To explain our open mouthed expression, we explained this to Martin, who advised us that he actually resembled Stewart Granger. Indeed he did as, naturally, did Shelton. Though I had known Bill for almost forty years, I had not noticed the resemblance. With the opulent period setting of the gallery, and the name, I saw, in my minds eye Granger's best film where he played the part of Beau Brummell to Peter Ustinov's Prince Regent.
I was going to describe the gallery, then I realised: Google Earth, SW3 5BJ will show the outside of the building which consists of four houses connected, they are lower right of the page, red roofed with skylights. The roof garden is reasonably visible running along the rear and at 120 feet, rather longer than an Olympic swimming pool.
Type Martin Summers into Google and you will be able to locate the Gallery and Roof garden. It is well worth the effort.
I had seen nothing like it except the Sir John Soane Museum, a house which could well have inspired the idea of the Tardis. The Soane Museum is also worth Googling and is well worth a visit, it is free.
Regards
Neil
Le Canigou from our garden, almost, December 15, 2007
Dear John,
Here is the view from mid Vernet.
From our sitting room, the church is to the right . Le Canigou is due south, as can be seen, the time is mid afternoon.
The clock is accurate as are all clocks in Catalonia. They all strike on the hour. When there is more than one clock in a village, the senior clock strikes first, then, exactly two minutes later the second clock follows suit. I had not really noticed this in Vernet, however when walking around the Spanish town not far from the airport, I noticed that their clocks did the same, so I called in at the Tourist Office and asked the young lady what it was all about.
She told me about their taking turns to strike, so I asked her whether there was a Catalan town where there were 30 churches all with striking clocks and whether they also struck in turn (if so there would be no end to the racket). Of course, I did not put it quite like that. Funnily enough, she appeared to have lost her command of English at this point and Marisa pulled me, rather roughly, I thought, from the shop.
Do have a wonderful time and show us a few snaps on your return
Neil
Keep Smiling...Keep Shining, Monday, December 11, 2006
Dear Fellows,
Most of us first met Pete in September 1952 but it was not for some nine months later that I first uttered a word in his direction. To be precise it was at 9.15am. on the 2nd June 1953. This is not because I had never noticed him, quite the reverse; sad to report: He and I were not birds of a feather.
Even a quick glance at his photo in George's Strand School site would reveal a fellow filled with a quiet Joy of Life. "Keep Smiling...Keep Shining", the last words he wrote were his watchwords, throughout this and I would not wonder, many previous lives.
Anyone who has read a few of my letters over the past four years will have noticed a touch of the absurd, reminiscent of Michael Wharton (Peter Simple) of the Telegraph and Jeffrey Bernard (who was often "unwell"), Low Life correspondent of the Spectator. Both these chaps were notorious Depressives. It took years for me to recognise this quality in myself.
A while ago, I found in my fathers desk a twee pink and blue book in which was recorded:
"babies first words". That's me. The words were: "Oh dear".
Poles apart from Pete whose first words could have been: "Keep smiling..."
Ah yes, my First Word to Pete. A group from the school who had won the distinction of lining Elizabeth's Coronation route to The Abbey were assembled outside Tulse Hill station. Pete was some fifty yards away with his mother. To attract his attention, I called him. At the crucial moment I forgot his name (still happens) so shouted: "Oy"!
Did the trick.
Now whenever I visit the Holland Tringham, the local Wetherspoon Public House to which Pete and I repaired (love the word) whenever he visited me and is now indelibly associated with him in my mind, I sometimes get the urge to try a shout.
If it would bring him back. I would, I would! And happily risk disbarment.
All the best,
Neil
Most of us first met Pete in September 1952 but it was not for some nine months later that I first uttered a word in his direction. To be precise it was at 9.15am. on the 2nd June 1953. This is not because I had never noticed him, quite the reverse; sad to report: He and I were not birds of a feather.
Even a quick glance at his photo in George's Strand School site would reveal a fellow filled with a quiet Joy of Life. "Keep Smiling...Keep Shining", the last words he wrote were his watchwords, throughout this and I would not wonder, many previous lives.
Anyone who has read a few of my letters over the past four years will have noticed a touch of the absurd, reminiscent of Michael Wharton (Peter Simple) of the Telegraph and Jeffrey Bernard (who was often "unwell"), Low Life correspondent of the Spectator. Both these chaps were notorious Depressives. It took years for me to recognise this quality in myself.
A while ago, I found in my fathers desk a twee pink and blue book in which was recorded:
"babies first words". That's me. The words were: "Oh dear".
Poles apart from Pete whose first words could have been: "Keep smiling..."
Ah yes, my First Word to Pete. A group from the school who had won the distinction of lining Elizabeth's Coronation route to The Abbey were assembled outside Tulse Hill station. Pete was some fifty yards away with his mother. To attract his attention, I called him. At the crucial moment I forgot his name (still happens) so shouted: "Oy"!
Did the trick.
Now whenever I visit the Holland Tringham, the local Wetherspoon Public House to which Pete and I repaired (love the word) whenever he visited me and is now indelibly associated with him in my mind, I sometimes get the urge to try a shout.
If it would bring him back. I would, I would! And happily risk disbarment.
All the best,
Neil
Sunday, December 10, 2006 1:13 PM
Hi Guys.
I have just been out in the garden mowing the lawn and sucking up the leaves at the same time. I have loads of trees where I am and this time of the year they really make a mess. Most of them are not mine, either the neighbours or the councils and I hate them with a passion. However it was very nice out there, sunny and about 50 digress which is a nice temperature for me as I do not like the heat. I read last week that one council was proposing to fine someone for sweeping the councils leaves off his path into the gutter for them to sweep up with one of their machines, As the Gran in the Catherine Tate show would say "what a F****** liberty".
And they wonder why people dump rubbish illicitly.
All these new stealth taxes that are creeping in regarding rubbish collection is only going to exacerbate the problem. Where I live they have done away with a good garden waste scheme where you buy prepaid bags which they then collect and have introduced a scheme where you have to sign up to a 1 to 3 year contract with wheelie bins. I know I have spoken about this before but it really incenses me.
How are your councils trying to rip you off.over rubbish collection.
Brian.
I have just been out in the garden mowing the lawn and sucking up the leaves at the same time. I have loads of trees where I am and this time of the year they really make a mess. Most of them are not mine, either the neighbours or the councils and I hate them with a passion. However it was very nice out there, sunny and about 50 digress which is a nice temperature for me as I do not like the heat. I read last week that one council was proposing to fine someone for sweeping the councils leaves off his path into the gutter for them to sweep up with one of their machines, As the Gran in the Catherine Tate show would say "what a F****** liberty".
And they wonder why people dump rubbish illicitly.
All these new stealth taxes that are creeping in regarding rubbish collection is only going to exacerbate the problem. Where I live they have done away with a good garden waste scheme where you buy prepaid bags which they then collect and have introduced a scheme where you have to sign up to a 1 to 3 year contract with wheelie bins. I know I have spoken about this before but it really incenses me.
How are your councils trying to rip you off.over rubbish collection.
Brian.
You've Got to Smile, Thursday, November 22, 2007
A True story, who knows?
Archie
Top this for a speeding ticket...
Two British traffic patrol officers from North Berwick were involved in an unusual incident while checking for speeding motorists on the A1 Great North Road.
One of the officers used a hand-held radar device to check the speed of a vehicle approaching over the crest of a hill, and was surprised when the speed was recorded at over 300 mph. Their radar suddenly stopped working and the officers were not able to reset it.
Just then a deafening roar over the treetops revealed that the radar had infact latched on to a NATO Tornado fighter jet which was engaged in a low-flying exercise over the Border district, approaching from the North Sea.
Back at police headquarters the chief constable fired off a stiff Complaint to the RAF Liaison office. Back came the reply in true laconic RAF style:
“Thank you for your message, which allows us to complete the file on this incident. You may be interested to know that the tactical computer in the Tornado had detected the presence of, and subsequently locked onto, your hostile radar equipment and automatically sent a jamming signal back to it. Furthermore, an air-to-ground missile aboard the fully-armed aircraft had also automatically locked onto your equipment. Fortunately the pilot flying the Tornado recognized the situation for what it was, quickly responded to the missile systems alert status, and was able to override the automated defence system before the missile was launched and your hostile radar installation was destroyed.
Archie
Top this for a speeding ticket...
Two British traffic patrol officers from North Berwick were involved in an unusual incident while checking for speeding motorists on the A1 Great North Road.
One of the officers used a hand-held radar device to check the speed of a vehicle approaching over the crest of a hill, and was surprised when the speed was recorded at over 300 mph. Their radar suddenly stopped working and the officers were not able to reset it.
Just then a deafening roar over the treetops revealed that the radar had infact latched on to a NATO Tornado fighter jet which was engaged in a low-flying exercise over the Border district, approaching from the North Sea.
Back at police headquarters the chief constable fired off a stiff Complaint to the RAF Liaison office. Back came the reply in true laconic RAF style:
“Thank you for your message, which allows us to complete the file on this incident. You may be interested to know that the tactical computer in the Tornado had detected the presence of, and subsequently locked onto, your hostile radar equipment and automatically sent a jamming signal back to it. Furthermore, an air-to-ground missile aboard the fully-armed aircraft had also automatically locked onto your equipment. Fortunately the pilot flying the Tornado recognized the situation for what it was, quickly responded to the missile systems alert status, and was able to override the automated defence system before the missile was launched and your hostile radar installation was destroyed.
Old Masters, Monday, October 22, 2007
‘Dear Richard,
I am delighted to receive a personal letter.
Sorry I took so long to reply, This time of the year I am completing my annual accounts. As often the case, I am stuck at the point where I appear to have banked three hundred pounds more than I appear to have earned. Note the use of the word:”appear” It serves the same purpose as the legal word “alleged”. Anyway, I have to get it right or the accountant will charge that much to do it for me..
Leonard Dawe. Of course.
In my defence I should point out that we had very litle time to get to know him. He passed away towards the end of our second year and his successor had the sort of presence which easily obliterates earlier memories.
Presence? Yes, the presence of Darth Vader springs to mind.
I well remember Joseph Cox’s first appearance at Strand.Neat, dapper, three piece suited much like the the actor David Suchet in his role of Hercule Poirot. The only difference in clothing being the absence of spats. What he would say about the slovenly BBC inspired habit of men presenting themselves tieless with shirt torn open almost to their navel I dread to think, even though I would agree with him.
Aside from his suit there were major differences, He did not posess a moustache but made up for it with a permanent four o’clock shadow.
I certainly remember the first sound he uttered having been introduced to us by Dr Toms. Describing it is another matter: On paper the word was: “Errrrrrrgh”, the sound brought to mind a giant clearing its throat, or the response of an Old Testament prophet to the news that his flock had once again defied The Lord.
During the introduction, the entire school had leaned foreward to catch his first words. Upon The Utterance, the school fell back as one, as though struck by a gale. I remember a few nervous titters and shuffling feet.
The contrast with Mr Dawe could not have been greater. In his case a gentle admonishment:: “Gentlemen, gentlemen” was sufficient to bring silence. With Coxy, his presence was sufficient to strike the school dumb. Following the hymn and Prayer for Forgiveness came his “Death List”, With the words: “Certain Individuals were caught causing a disturbance in the lower corridor yesterday. In this connection I wish th see the following outside my door (for a thrashing) immediatly after Assembly”. I was not the only one to notice his utter disregard to the spirit of the Prayer he had just offered. Here I learned the meaning of the word “Hypocrisy”
Part of his menace was due to his physical disability. From what I could see, he suffered mild spasticity, his face appeared to be pulled back, his eyes tended to swivel alarmingly to compensate for his rather stiff neck and his voice was gruff, assisted by Nigroids or similar pill which he appeared addicted to.
As I have already written, Mr Alnwick would have made a far better headmaster, from my point of view.
Must stop now, but there is much more. I will respond to requests.
Neil
I am delighted to receive a personal letter.
Sorry I took so long to reply, This time of the year I am completing my annual accounts. As often the case, I am stuck at the point where I appear to have banked three hundred pounds more than I appear to have earned. Note the use of the word:”appear” It serves the same purpose as the legal word “alleged”. Anyway, I have to get it right or the accountant will charge that much to do it for me..
Leonard Dawe. Of course.
In my defence I should point out that we had very litle time to get to know him. He passed away towards the end of our second year and his successor had the sort of presence which easily obliterates earlier memories.
Presence? Yes, the presence of Darth Vader springs to mind.
I well remember Joseph Cox’s first appearance at Strand.Neat, dapper, three piece suited much like the the actor David Suchet in his role of Hercule Poirot. The only difference in clothing being the absence of spats. What he would say about the slovenly BBC inspired habit of men presenting themselves tieless with shirt torn open almost to their navel I dread to think, even though I would agree with him.
Aside from his suit there were major differences, He did not posess a moustache but made up for it with a permanent four o’clock shadow.
I certainly remember the first sound he uttered having been introduced to us by Dr Toms. Describing it is another matter: On paper the word was: “Errrrrrrgh”, the sound brought to mind a giant clearing its throat, or the response of an Old Testament prophet to the news that his flock had once again defied The Lord.
During the introduction, the entire school had leaned foreward to catch his first words. Upon The Utterance, the school fell back as one, as though struck by a gale. I remember a few nervous titters and shuffling feet.
The contrast with Mr Dawe could not have been greater. In his case a gentle admonishment:: “Gentlemen, gentlemen” was sufficient to bring silence. With Coxy, his presence was sufficient to strike the school dumb. Following the hymn and Prayer for Forgiveness came his “Death List”, With the words: “Certain Individuals were caught causing a disturbance in the lower corridor yesterday. In this connection I wish th see the following outside my door (for a thrashing) immediatly after Assembly”. I was not the only one to notice his utter disregard to the spirit of the Prayer he had just offered. Here I learned the meaning of the word “Hypocrisy”
Part of his menace was due to his physical disability. From what I could see, he suffered mild spasticity, his face appeared to be pulled back, his eyes tended to swivel alarmingly to compensate for his rather stiff neck and his voice was gruff, assisted by Nigroids or similar pill which he appeared addicted to.
As I have already written, Mr Alnwick would have made a far better headmaster, from my point of view.
Must stop now, but there is much more. I will respond to requests.
Neil
Old Masters, Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Neil
A few observations re the Strand. Firstly the Headmaster’s name was Dawe not Dawes. Interesting to see Alnwick’s name; he was there in the 30s teaching I am not sure what. I remember him as a small spare man with rather thick spectacles and a permanent look of surprise on his face.
The attachment refers to something I remember very well as these guys were my contemporaries. Family funds did not run to school trips of this sort otherwise I might have been amongst them. I mailed the Archivist at KCH for this info. which she got from ‘The Times’. Let me know if you get the attachment. Finally on the subject of the D-Day crossword puzzle I suggest any doubters look at the following link:
www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUKEngland-History/Crossword.htm
Again I was there! I think somebody said there were no US troops in Bookham. True but they were in Epsom - I think the 30th Division, their shoulder flash was a large GO.
Richard
A few observations re the Strand. Firstly the Headmaster’s name was Dawe not Dawes. Interesting to see Alnwick’s name; he was there in the 30s teaching I am not sure what. I remember him as a small spare man with rather thick spectacles and a permanent look of surprise on his face.
The attachment refers to something I remember very well as these guys were my contemporaries. Family funds did not run to school trips of this sort otherwise I might have been amongst them. I mailed the Archivist at KCH for this info. which she got from ‘The Times’. Let me know if you get the attachment. Finally on the subject of the D-Day crossword puzzle I suggest any doubters look at the following link:
www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUKEngland-History/Crossword.htm
Again I was there! I think somebody said there were no US troops in Bookham. True but they were in Epsom - I think the 30th Division, their shoulder flash was a large GO.
Richard
Old Masters, 27 Nov 2004
Neil
Great stories about the old days. I remember most of the names but not much detail about the people themselves, though I do remember Wray’s art room always full of paintings of mayhem and destruction done by his unshaven layabouts. How do you come to know them all so well?
Keep them coming
Colin
Great stories about the old days. I remember most of the names but not much detail about the people themselves, though I do remember Wray’s art room always full of paintings of mayhem and destruction done by his unshaven layabouts. How do you come to know them all so well?
Keep them coming
Colin
Old Masters, 25 November 2004
Dear Ian and Fellows,
Mr L.S. Dawes was head of the school when it was in Effingham. He was also the compiler of the Daily Telegraph Crossword which caused ruffled feathers amongst our security forces just before D-Day. A fuller account of this may be found on “The Strand Grammar School” website. (Worth buying a computer just for this, Dennis).
Mr Alnwick was head of the school at Elm Park and, but for his untimely death would have succeeded Dawes on his (Dawes) retirement. I am sure I would have done rather better with him as head than I did with Cox. Coxy referred to Brian Owen as a buffoon. Some might agree, but it does not indicate the sympathetic view one might expect from a caring head teacher. Of me, he told me that: “words failed” him and, to my mother, that he had “met my type before”. Charmed. I was interested, though not surprised, Ian, to see that Coxy had also marked your card. He was a bastard, but fair; he was a bastard to everybody.
Basically, he did not have Alnwick’s humour. Mind you he would not have been as upset, as poor Alnwick was, by the behaviour of a few chaps in the class two or so years above us. I will have to make enquiries as to what actually they did. Whatever it was, it was sufficient to have him cancel the forthcoming Christmas Panto and vow not to have another one. A vow assisted (sad to write, by the Grim Reaper). I suspect it was the same group who named his successor: “Mum” and gradually removed his atlases ‘till he was reduced to pleading with Mr Hicks for any spares.
If you recall, Jim Voce did have a strangely weather-beaten face; deeply lined. He looked older than he was. Exposure to the elements in a Jap POW camp would certainly explain this feature. Additionally, he had boundless patience. I would think his war time experience would have toughened him to an extent that even (Paul) Gadd (2a) could not upset him. Whether he was connected with Essex bowlers, I do not know, but am inclined to say yes. About two years ago, a lecturer in Human Biology (or similar) by the name of Professor Sykes was discussing the subject of DNA testing (the basis of many an American Forensic TV film). A lady student, also by the name of Sykes wondered whether she and the professor were related. He compared their DNA and found they were. Further, they contacted Eric Sykes, who happily volunteered his sample; Yup, he was also a relative. Voce is not a name I have come across elsewhere (unlike Mann), so there.
However, when I next have a word with Hippo, I will ask him. I have the idea that a little of me goes rather a long way with chaps 20 years older, whom I have not met face to face, for a generation or two. Ah, Mr Wilks. An utterly blameless man, if ever there was one. He trained at Borough Road College, (now Brunel University). I suspect he may well have been one of the one year squad. Not a bad system. From my experience at BRC, most of the three years was wasted. We would have done far better as “day release” students. As it happens, I have read that many in the profession now agree with this idea.
Mr Anthony, the natty taffy. I never got a warm (or any) feeling from him. He appeared quite elsewhere. He was a member of the Streatham Liberal Party, along with my parents. Even so, he seemed an absent man. His only good idea, when teaching French was to bring along a bingo set, appoint “volunteers” to act as callers and let us learn their numerical system enjoyably. So successful was this idea, he never tried it again. Actually, I can think of many parlour games which would lend themselves to assist in the cheerful learning of a foreign language. Needless to say, he never tried any of them either. As I recall, most of the lads (then aged about 12) were more interested in what could happen under the desk rather than over. But (m’lud) it was only due to boredom.
I dread to think how Mr Wray shambled into teaching. He had no idea of imparting knowledge of artistic skills. During the two years I attended his class, I can only remember him lurching to his feet to bellow:
Paint:
“The End of the World”, or: “Armageddon” or “A passenger liner sinking - with loss of all hands”. Or something equally choice. He would then sink back onto the seat on his raised dais surrounded by members of the 5th Remove, mostly unshaven louts whiling away the time before call up mercifully removed them from the streets of South London.
Following my conviction that the World is a stage; some years later, I watched The Trials of Oscar Wilde (Peter Finch as Oscar, Lionel Jeffries as Queensbury) and immediately recognised the tableau of The Marquis of Queensbury playing the part of Wray and John Bennett (Goebbels in the film: Hitler, the Last Ten Days) playing the part of E.J.Cook (5th Remove)(one of Wray’s Henchlets).
I certainly remember Mr Dawes announcement that Mr Wray was leaving the school and teaching to become a pig farmer being greeted by most unseemly but understandable guffaws from the pupils. As for the teacher of English opposite Mr Hicks. He was “One of the lads”. I remember him describing his son as: “up and coming”. Jenkinson (now a head administrator of a technical college) immediately perceived the sexual connotation and, repeating the words, cackled loudly, to the teacher’s obvious satisfaction.
He (the teacher) also gave new meaning to the word: “Recent” as in “books recently returned”. “Recent, yes geologically speaking”. He was attempting to denigrate the efficiency of West Norwood Library. On the principle that a person can be counted upon to denigrate anyone or thing he or she has wronged, I was not surprised some years later to hear from a young ladyfriend who had worked at this library that the (nameless) teacher was well known for borrowing more than his entitlement, returning them late and refusing to pay fines.
The other teacher whose name I have forgotten, but taught physics in “Dennis” Sly’s old lab had been named “The Dome” by pupils of his previous school. According to my source, he would have left Strand if the name had gotten out. I assured the fellow that the secret was safe, though I should think he is past caring now. As for his name, I have forgotten it. Brian would know, as he was The Dome’s Chief Tormenter. On the subject of Chief Tormenter the French teacher who could not keep order was “T.W.Edwards” known at first as “Spud” (work it out) but fairly quickly by his initials as “Twee”. Suited him. His Tormenter was: our very own Brian.
That should do you,
Neil
Mr L.S. Dawes was head of the school when it was in Effingham. He was also the compiler of the Daily Telegraph Crossword which caused ruffled feathers amongst our security forces just before D-Day. A fuller account of this may be found on “The Strand Grammar School” website. (Worth buying a computer just for this, Dennis).
Mr Alnwick was head of the school at Elm Park and, but for his untimely death would have succeeded Dawes on his (Dawes) retirement. I am sure I would have done rather better with him as head than I did with Cox. Coxy referred to Brian Owen as a buffoon. Some might agree, but it does not indicate the sympathetic view one might expect from a caring head teacher. Of me, he told me that: “words failed” him and, to my mother, that he had “met my type before”. Charmed. I was interested, though not surprised, Ian, to see that Coxy had also marked your card. He was a bastard, but fair; he was a bastard to everybody.
Basically, he did not have Alnwick’s humour. Mind you he would not have been as upset, as poor Alnwick was, by the behaviour of a few chaps in the class two or so years above us. I will have to make enquiries as to what actually they did. Whatever it was, it was sufficient to have him cancel the forthcoming Christmas Panto and vow not to have another one. A vow assisted (sad to write, by the Grim Reaper). I suspect it was the same group who named his successor: “Mum” and gradually removed his atlases ‘till he was reduced to pleading with Mr Hicks for any spares.
If you recall, Jim Voce did have a strangely weather-beaten face; deeply lined. He looked older than he was. Exposure to the elements in a Jap POW camp would certainly explain this feature. Additionally, he had boundless patience. I would think his war time experience would have toughened him to an extent that even (Paul) Gadd (2a) could not upset him. Whether he was connected with Essex bowlers, I do not know, but am inclined to say yes. About two years ago, a lecturer in Human Biology (or similar) by the name of Professor Sykes was discussing the subject of DNA testing (the basis of many an American Forensic TV film). A lady student, also by the name of Sykes wondered whether she and the professor were related. He compared their DNA and found they were. Further, they contacted Eric Sykes, who happily volunteered his sample; Yup, he was also a relative. Voce is not a name I have come across elsewhere (unlike Mann), so there.
However, when I next have a word with Hippo, I will ask him. I have the idea that a little of me goes rather a long way with chaps 20 years older, whom I have not met face to face, for a generation or two. Ah, Mr Wilks. An utterly blameless man, if ever there was one. He trained at Borough Road College, (now Brunel University). I suspect he may well have been one of the one year squad. Not a bad system. From my experience at BRC, most of the three years was wasted. We would have done far better as “day release” students. As it happens, I have read that many in the profession now agree with this idea.
Mr Anthony, the natty taffy. I never got a warm (or any) feeling from him. He appeared quite elsewhere. He was a member of the Streatham Liberal Party, along with my parents. Even so, he seemed an absent man. His only good idea, when teaching French was to bring along a bingo set, appoint “volunteers” to act as callers and let us learn their numerical system enjoyably. So successful was this idea, he never tried it again. Actually, I can think of many parlour games which would lend themselves to assist in the cheerful learning of a foreign language. Needless to say, he never tried any of them either. As I recall, most of the lads (then aged about 12) were more interested in what could happen under the desk rather than over. But (m’lud) it was only due to boredom.
I dread to think how Mr Wray shambled into teaching. He had no idea of imparting knowledge of artistic skills. During the two years I attended his class, I can only remember him lurching to his feet to bellow:
Paint:
“The End of the World”, or: “Armageddon” or “A passenger liner sinking - with loss of all hands”. Or something equally choice. He would then sink back onto the seat on his raised dais surrounded by members of the 5th Remove, mostly unshaven louts whiling away the time before call up mercifully removed them from the streets of South London.
Following my conviction that the World is a stage; some years later, I watched The Trials of Oscar Wilde (Peter Finch as Oscar, Lionel Jeffries as Queensbury) and immediately recognised the tableau of The Marquis of Queensbury playing the part of Wray and John Bennett (Goebbels in the film: Hitler, the Last Ten Days) playing the part of E.J.Cook (5th Remove)(one of Wray’s Henchlets).
I certainly remember Mr Dawes announcement that Mr Wray was leaving the school and teaching to become a pig farmer being greeted by most unseemly but understandable guffaws from the pupils. As for the teacher of English opposite Mr Hicks. He was “One of the lads”. I remember him describing his son as: “up and coming”. Jenkinson (now a head administrator of a technical college) immediately perceived the sexual connotation and, repeating the words, cackled loudly, to the teacher’s obvious satisfaction.
He (the teacher) also gave new meaning to the word: “Recent” as in “books recently returned”. “Recent, yes geologically speaking”. He was attempting to denigrate the efficiency of West Norwood Library. On the principle that a person can be counted upon to denigrate anyone or thing he or she has wronged, I was not surprised some years later to hear from a young ladyfriend who had worked at this library that the (nameless) teacher was well known for borrowing more than his entitlement, returning them late and refusing to pay fines.
The other teacher whose name I have forgotten, but taught physics in “Dennis” Sly’s old lab had been named “The Dome” by pupils of his previous school. According to my source, he would have left Strand if the name had gotten out. I assured the fellow that the secret was safe, though I should think he is past caring now. As for his name, I have forgotten it. Brian would know, as he was The Dome’s Chief Tormenter. On the subject of Chief Tormenter the French teacher who could not keep order was “T.W.Edwards” known at first as “Spud” (work it out) but fairly quickly by his initials as “Twee”. Suited him. His Tormenter was: our very own Brian.
That should do you,
Neil
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