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?"
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
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.
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