Pady Jalali – Ian Louis Harris

An Afternoon and Evening With Pady Jalali and John White, 11 April 2016

The reason for Pady’s visit was most unfortunate (the sudden death and funeral of a friend of hers), but the timing proved to be fortunate for us, as the trip made her available to meet us in London on 11 April.

Janie and I had already arranged a day off that day, to see a lunchtime concert of (mostly) English madrigals at The Wigmore Hall – Ogblogged here and had not arranged anything else of substance to do that day. John White was also available that evening and able to get away from work a little early.

Pady arranged to meet us at The Wiggy after the concert. She arrived a little flustered about 30 minutes after the concert ended. But hanging around at the Wigmore Hall is hardly a hardship for me and Janie (Daisy). It is one of our favourite places. In my case, it is now one of only two places in the world (the Lord’s pavilion being the other) where people still address me as “young man”.

It was lovely to see Pady again. Janie hadn’t met her before, but they hit it off straight away, as I sensed they would.

It was a sunny early afternoon when Janie and I had arrived at The Wiggy but it was raining quite heavily when the concert ended. By the time Pady arrived, the rain had subsided but still looked a bit threatening, so we decided to retire to the new Ivy Cafe in Marylebone Lane for some tea. A very suitable venue; quiet in the afternoon and geared up for dining or snacking.

Pady had checked in to a nearby hotel for the London leg of her journey, so we resolved to find a suitable restaurant nearby. Strangely, Pady doesn’t get to try Lebanese food in Boston. As she is a vegetarian, we thought the major mezzes followed by lesser mains tradition would work well.

John was able to join us at the Ivy around 16:30, by which time I was on to my second little pot of jasmine tea and we other three had already “done scones”. Getting to know you chat then switched to catching up chat.

Daisy and I did some thorough research and latched on to a restaurant named Levant – very nearby, as a good contender and one we hadn’t tried before. The promise of nightly live entertainment didn’t please us, but the idea of the entertainment starting no earlier than 20:30 did, as we were proposing to eat early. In any case, we could always fall back on Maroush if we didn’t like the look/smell of Levant.

As it turned out, we did like the look and smell of Levant. We very much enjoyed our meal and chat there. Very quiet at 17:30/18:00 when we arrived. Staff very pleasant. The mezzes were excellent. The grills less so, but still did their job. John drank beer; Lebanese and Moroccan varieties, while the rest of us showed no mercy to a tasty bottle of Côtes du Rhône.

After dinner, Daisy requested an arabic coffee but was told that, regrettably, the machine wasn’t working and that it would have to be regular coffee. We had a short debate about whether we could be bothered to go elsewhere, which was resolved by the realisation that it was nearly 20:30 already, so the live entertainment was due to start soon.

Where did all that time go? In chatting, reminiscing and catching up, that’s where.

So we ventured out into the mercifully dry evening, soon to find Comptoir Libanais on Wigmore Street. “They should have arabic coffee,” declared Daisy, marching across Wigmore Street, grinding taxis, bicycles and other vehicles to a brief but sudden halt. “Do you have arabic coffee?” asked Daisy as she breezed into the cafe. “Yes, come in sit down,” said an unidentified member of staff.

But it turned out that Comptoir Libanais didn’t do arabic coffee; never does, never did. None of us could be arsed to move again; we mostly wanted to carry on chatting for a short while. So we made do with regular espressos, cappuccinos or, in my case, rose-mint tea.

All too soon, we realised that it was really getting late for John, who still had a couple of hours journey ahead of him, so we walked John down to Bond Street tube and then Daisy and I walked Pady back to her hotel.

It was a lovely afternoon and evening. We worked out that it must be at least 10 years since Pady’s last visit, so hopefully Pady will start visiting a lot more regularly now. Who knows, perhaps as soon as next month. That’s right, in the merry, merry month of May, fa-la-la-la-la…

I Fagiolini, Wigmore Hall Lunchtime Concert, 11 April 2016

Daisy and I arranged a Monday off, in part because “that’s quite often what we do these days”, but this one in particular because I fancied this lunchtime concert at “The Wiggy”.

It turned out to be a fortuitous choice of date, as it coincided with Pady Jalali’s unexpected but delightful visit, which I shall report once I have finished this short piece; a link to which should appear, as if by magic, as a ping-back on this one once it is done. (Clever stuff, this WordPress blogging).

Pady toyed with the idea of joining us for the concert, but the train times from Manchester didn’t really work sensibly for that, so just Daisy and I enjoyed the concert, from our front row mafia vantage point.

Janie is not a great fan of Renaissance English Madrigals, especially those of the fa-la-la variety, but even she admitted that this short concert was a wonderful way to get a small dose of them without the irritation that arises from a large dose.

There was a lyric sheet available for 50p which I avoided. Not for the matter of 50p, you understand, but because making it too obvious that the lyrics were mostly about shepherds, shepherdesses, the merry month of May and a fa-la-la-la-la… would not have added to Daisy’s enjoyment. Worse, me singing along would not have added to anyone’s enjoyment.

The concert was broadcast on BBC Radio 3, will be broadcast again on 17th April and should be available on this link until 8th or 9th May. Yes, available until the merry month of May fa-la-la-la-la…

The ensemble entered wearing straw hats and carrying a hamper, an old badminton racket etc. The idea was to give the feeling of a spring picnic; an idea that worked better live than on radio, I’d suggest.

There were three examples of modern madrigal in our concert too – the running order is archived here – but for the encore I Fagiolini returned to the safer ground of traditional month of May-type material; Now is the Month of Maying by Thomas Morley. Plenty of fa-la-las to send us on our way.

Twee? Yes. But it was a lovely concert which set us up very nicely indeed for a relaxing afternoon and evening with friends.

Boston, Marblehead, Boston Again & Home, 1 to 3 December 1989

To Boston For The Last Leg Of My Trip

I flew from Washington DC to Boston. I recall thinking that internal flights were, in many ways, an easier option than railway journeys on that East Coast in those days. You pretty much just turned up and took the next plane, whereas the trains had been rarer beasts that required some logistical planning.

I did some touring on my own around the port and stuff that first day in Boston:

It was wicked cold in Boston. I had almost forgotten about the arctic weather I had experienced in New York (Washington DC was still warm) until I got to Boston, where it seemed, if possible, even colder. Perhaps I should have stayed away from the waterfront and the scenic views from the top of tall buildings to feel less cold.

I remember going into a music shop to buy Bobbie Scully the latest Billy Joel record – We Didn’t Start the Fire – Bobbie was a big fan of Billy Joel and the record was being played everywhere all the time while I was in the States.

The really memorable thing about buying that record for Bobbie was the reaction of a college boy type who was also in the shop, who said to me in that slightly pompous New England accent (which might be mistaken for mimicking the British accent but I think he was a genuine New Englander)…

…you don’t want to be buying that record. It’s complete crap.

No suggestion that this was an expression of his opinion about the record. It’s complete crap. Fact. Period.

It’s a gift for a friend who is especially keen on Billy Joel…

…I said…

…Oh yeh?…

…he said, in a disbelieving voice.

In truth I don’t hold that song in very high regard – not one of Joel’s best in my view, but that song always reminds me of this holiday…

…and also of Graham Robertson’s wonderful Newsrevue parody, “One Didn’t Start the Fire”, three year’s later, about the Windsor Castle fire.

An Interlude Upstate In Massachusetts

I had contacted Emma Weiss who had suggested that I join her and Betsy Brady for the evening and a stop-over in Marblehead…or was it Lynn?…

…I have a feeling that they lived in the former town and/but the municiple railway took me to the latter town. I remain irritated with myself that I didn’t keep a proper travel log for this holiday – the only extensive trip i have ever made without keeping one. I’m also irritated that I didn’t take my camera with me on this upstate Massachusetts leg of my trip.

Anyway, I do remember Emma coming to meet me from the train. I also remember Emma and Betsy giving me a brief driving tour around that part of the Massachusetts coast.

I particularly remember them showing me Salem – we had some tongue-in-cheek discussions about whether we might all be strung up in that town on account of ethnic origins and/or interesting lifestyles. We decided to dine outside Salem.

Boston was wicked cold at that time, but these towns up the Massachusetts coast were wicked colder still.

I remember having a jolly meal with Emma and Betsy, after which, having just got warm, they said it was time for us to visit a local bar…in fact I think they even use the term “pub” up there in New England.

The pub was cosy and the locals friendly. Many of them seemed fascinated with a visitor from the UK. No-one quite made me feel like a performing seal accent-wise in the mode of Norman Barst on Thanksgiving…

Dreaming Of A White Thanksgiving, New York, 23 November 1989

…but not far off.

I also recall how very cold it was at night, especially when someone opened the door to the pub. In fact, whenever someone opened said door the drinkers would ring out a chorus of:

CLOSE THE DOOR! CLOSE THAT F***ING DOOR!

Just as we were getting to the point that I thought we had warmed up and I was starting to feel nice and cosy for a pub sesh, Emma and Betsy said,

Right, that’s it. We’d better move on to the other pub now…

…at which suggestion I wondered out loud whether we really needed to go back out in the cold.

Emma and Betsy politely but firmly explained that they live in a small town and that they couldn’t possibly diss the folks in the other local pub by showing off their visitor from England in one pub but not the other.

Word of your existence will have reached the other pub some time ago now, so they’ll be wondering where we are.

Off we went to the second bar, which seemed quite similar in terms of its cosiness, unpretentiousness and friendly clientele.

Emma and Betsy might recall the names of the bars; I can add links and stuff if those hostelries are still there, which they probably still are…with many of the same locals still shouting, “close that f***ing door” on cold nights.

It was a great fun evening. Emma and Betsy were splendid hosts; it was very kind of them to provide that much hospitality to me. I have also enjoyed meeting them both since – e.g. at Michael Mainelli’s wedding, but it has been a good while since I last saw either of them.

Back To Boston, Brunch With Pady & Midge

The climax of my American road trip was an opportunity to see Pady Jalali in her new home environment of the USA. Pady is of Iranian origin but had acquired a quintessentially English accent while at school and then at Keele with us.

But just a few years in the USA had put paid to Pady’s English accent; by the autumn of 1989 she had acquired (and still has) a quintessentially New England accent.

At that time, Pady was teaching math…

…in the USA they only study a singular mathematic, whereas in the UK we study mathematics, or maths…

…at Umass in Amhurst.

Pady suggested meeting in Boston for brunch, along with her sister Midge.

The thing I especially remember about that brunch (apart from having a delightful afternoon with Pady and Midge) was the demeanour of the other diners.

Pady, Midge and I were engaged in conversation as one might expect when friends gather in a diner for a middle of the day meal.

But pretty much every other table seemed to comprise couples or small groups eating in complete silence. Some seemed to be taking some interest in eavesdropping on our conversation. Others seemed simply to be grazing, vacantly.

In those days, of course, non-conversational diners did not have hand-held gadgetry as an alternative focus for their attention. But in any case, this unengaged style of eating out was alien to me (as it had been to Pady and Midge before they migrated to the USA), although it did seem to cross the Atlantic and become part of the UK culture as well by the end of that century.

Of course we were not to be deterred from our purpose; having a good catch up and making a jolly occasion of it.

The photographic evidence suggests that beer, fags and food were all involved (I had long since given up smoking by then, but I was still enjoying beer and food).

It was really lovely to see Pady again – it had been some four years since she left England. Midge was also very good company that day.

It was a super way to end my two week visit to the States.

I’m not sure exactly when I flew back, but I have a feeling it was the Sunday night red eye and I have a feeling I went straight in to work on the Monday. I wouldn’t dream of doing that now.

Pictures from the Washington DC & Massachusetts legs of my trip (including those above but with quite a few more besides) can be seen by clicking the Flickr link below:

Minutes of a Strange Meeting From 10 June 1985, Typed Up 30 December 1985

I have published the hand-written version of these “minutes” under the date of the “meeting”.

Here is the typed up version, scanned from what I think must be carbon copies. Is there anyone else left on the planet who remembers what carbon copies were?

I guess I prepared these for our glorious return visit in January 1986 for the traditional UGM/AGM thingie.

After The Hackgrass Reveal…Later That Same Day…A Strange Sort of Committee Meeting, 10 June 1985

Hackgrass Reveal in Pub Circ, Keele, 10 June 1985

On top of my Hackgrass reveal antics on our last morning in office, it seems we held some sort of bogus committee meeting later in the afternoon. More a symposium than a mere meeting, by the looks of it.

It looks as though I completed the minutes that December, ahead of our January 1986 appearance at the UGM I shouldn’t wonder, so I’ll publish the typed version at that date. The hand-written version that follows must have been part-written on the day and then concluded later.

Looks as though my Daily Mail rebuttal might have been around the same time.

Experts at handwriting analysis forensics might be able to work out exactly what went on. John White – I suggest you might choose not to apply for this role, if your attempt at the Hackgrass cypher is anything to go by.

Ronnie Scott Review, Concourse Juicy Bits, February 1985 Part Eight

A final extract from that superb memory-jogging issue of Concourse from February 1985.

Ronnie Scott came to Keele several times while I was there. This would have been the last time I ever saw Ronnie himself perform, although I have been to “Ronnies” in Soho since.

My diary records little about the evening (Friday 25 January 1985), other than a statement that I went and a confession “got drunk”. So I am grateful for this review. My memory of at least one earlier Ronnie Scott evening at Keele (probably more than a year, perhaps two years earlier) is better and has a story to it, but I’ll save that story for my diary trawl later.

Janie loves Ronnie Scotts and I have often mentioned to her the wonderful evenings we had at Keele when Ronnie and his band visited. Here’s an independent report on one of those evenings.

Thorns Social Cock-Up, Concourse Juicy Bits, February 1985 Part Six

I remember Pady telling us about this “Thorns Cock-Up” last time she visited, a few years ago, so it made me smile coming across this article about it when going through this February 1985 issue of Concourse.

I had forgotten (or perhaps Pady even had forgotten) that the unfortunate band that got dicked around was none other than The Pogues.

All the more ironic, because Jem Finer of The Pogues was brought up at Keele, son of Professor Samuel Finer, the initial Keele (indeed University College of North Staffordshire) Professor of Politics.

With an additional irony from a personal point of view, because I have now met Jem Finer through his extraordinary Longplayer initiative. The central element of the initiative is a composition of his which is 1000 years long. Read about it and have a listen through this link. Daisy finds the music very soothing.

But for now, back to the 1985 debacle, article top right of the page:

Bar Licence and Health Centre Fee Controversies – Concourse Juicy Bits Part One, February 1985

Lots of juicy bits from the February 1985 issue of Concourse. Here’s the first of them.

Annalisa de Mercur, bless her, was very concerned that the Student Union’s bar licence might get scuppered, which would indeed have been a near-existential problem for the union. The storm was very much of the teacup variety, I’d have thought, for the reasons described in the article.

How Pady Jalali and Hayward Burt ended up in an intra-article debate with the Vice-chancellor, Dr Harrison, is anybody’s guess. Methinks Annalisa might have been trying to big up her piece, as it were.

The health centre fee had been an ongoing issue, if the 1984 manifestos are anything to go by. John “Memory Man” White will hopefully chime in on the comments to describe in intricate detail the nature of the new-look campaign he planned. I don’t remember a thing about it, although welfare was my bailiwick.

My First Ringroad Performance and Related Memories, Keele, 18 August 1984

I was reminded of my early Ringroad performances the other day (May 2017) while chatting with Paul Spence at an informal, curry-oriented gathering of the old school clan.

When Paul mentioned that his extensive energy sector interests include nuclear power, I found myself reciting the Ringroad Windscale poem from memory – the first and last verse simply flowed as if I had read or performed it just the other day.

Paul asked if I had a copy of the poem. I said I probably did – see below.

I didn’t write the poem. I’m not sure who did. Possibly Frank Dillon; at least Frank would probably know who wrote it. I’d like to credit it if anyone reading this can let me know the name of the author.

That chat with Paul brought back a flood of memories about my sabbatical year summer and my first Ringroad performances.

Over the summer, Keele would get waves of Open University students passing through for short face-to-face courses. This was rich pickings for a depleted Ringroad troupe, as you could redeploy the same material, show after show, secure in the knowledge that it was new to the frequently-changing audience.

Further, the Open University audience had money. Ringroad was traditionally performed on an “entry free, pay what you like on exit” basis. Our own impoverished students would tend to chip in with a couple of bob at best (nothing at worst), whereas the OU students would happily toss 50p pieces or pound coins/notes into the hat. One OU performance could easily generate a week’s-worth of beer money for two or three performers.

Frank Dillon, who was a seasoned Ringroad writer and performer, was around that summer and we spent a lot of time with him. I guess I was the only sabbatical mad enough (or perhaps I should say keen enough on a bit of extra-curricular performance and beer money) to agree to give Ringroad a try with him.

I recall Adrian Gorst joining me and Frank in performing Ringroad on occasions that summer, but I’m pretty sure that my first attempt was just me and Frank, an idea possibly hatched by Frank because Adrian was away. Frank probably sealed the deal with me a couple of nights before:

Thursday 16 August…went to Burtonwood piss up with Frank in eve

John White was also around that summer but didn’t want to perform Ringroad. It was just a few days earlier (14 August) that John and I started doing Union discos together – I’ll cover the discos and much more about that summer in other Ogblog pieces.

Still, it seems that my first attempt at Ringroad went well enough:

Saturday 18 August…did Ringroad in the evening – good larf

Frank and I did it again the next day:

Sunday 19 August…spent afternoon going over Ringroad stuff with Frank. Performed Ringroad in evening.

But perhaps I was over-stretching myself taking on all this novel activity at the same time:

Tuesday 21 August…did Ringroad and disco – both went down rather badly.

I recall that the OU students had somewhat of a reputation in the eyes of the regular Keele people. Let me merely say that many an OU student’s ring finger would show evidence of very recent ring removal, especially in the evenings.

From: http://www.flickr.com/photos/askjoanne/390246275/ Photographer: AskJoanne
This file is gratefully licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.

Indeed, had the term “cougar hunter” been invented back then, performing Ringroad to the OU students might have been described as, “like wielding a two bore rifle in a jungle densely inhabited by felines of a particular species”.

Not that I am suggesting that Frank Dillon and I were “two bores”. Far from it. Moreover, neither of us were interested in that particular fringe benefit.

In fact, I recall, after one of those early performances, Frank was relentlessly chased after the show by a very enthusiastic middle-aged OU woman who said she loved the show and clearly took a particular shine to Frank. I think it might have been the night that John and I also did the disco, so John and I only had limited opportunities to rescue Frank and help steer proceedings to a reasonably dignified conclusion.

If Frank had shown a more open-minded attitude to such matters, of course, he might have become President of France by now. Or at least Merseyside Metro Mayor.

Still, bunny boiling hadn’t yet been invented then either, so, as far as I know, no animals, (feline, lapine or indeed of any species) were harmed in the making of Ringroad that summer. Pady Jalali, our social secretary, a well-known protector of live fauna and carrion alike, will be much relieved to learn this.

Why did I recall all of this?

Oh yes, Windscale, Sellafield and the poem that I doubtless learned that first weekend of doing Ringroad and which has stuck in my brain ever since. The corn flake box which protected my collection of Ringroad scripts has long since disintegrated, but I have preserved the scripts as best I can in a file.

To be credited to the author as soon as that person’s identity is established. If you click through to the image, you can then download the file from Ogblog.

The author, if/when that person’s identity does come to light, might wish to explain their idiosyncratic spelling of Sellafield, but we’ll let that pass for now.

O Captain! My Captain! – Gentlemen Of The Right v Players Of The Left – Keele Festival Week Cricket Match, 26 June 1984

Toby Bourgein. Picture “liberated” from the 1980/81 Keele Prospectus

I am sadly motivated to write up this story having learnt, a few days ago (September 2020), that Toby Bourgein has died. Toby captained the Players cricket team in all three of the festival matches I played. I had been intending to write up this glorious 1984 match for a couple of years, since I wrote up the tale of my surprise appearance in the 1982 match..

“Got Roped In To Playing Cricket All Afternoon”, Gentlemen v Players Cricket Match, Keele Festival Week, 24 June 1982

…and the 1983 match…

My Second “Thanks For Coming” (TFC) Keele Festival Week Cricket Match, 21 June 1983

For those not motivated to click the above link, I was a late selection for the 1982 match (for reasons that, alone, make the 1982 link worth clicking). I did not bowl and I did not bat in that historic victory, but I did, more by luck than judgement, take a stunning catch.

It won’t have looked this good, I wouldn’t have been so suitably attired, but it was a diving (in my case left-handed) catch. This picture from school five years earlier. I was better at taking pictures than at playing cricket. Still am.

Toby Borgein had a long memory and a good heart. I ran into him a week or two before the 1984 match and he told me he wanted me to play again and have a proper go this time.

We have a solid opening batsman, Ian Herd, this year. I’d like you to open the batting with him.

Ian was on Somerset CCC’s youth books – i.e. he was way above “our” scratchy festival knock-about cricket pay grade. But I didn’t know that until later.

Several of my friends came along to watch this time around, not least because I knew more than 30 minutes before the start of the match that I’d be playing. Anyway, there were worse places on earth to spend a glorious summer afternoon than the Keele Festival Week Beer Tent.

With thanks to Frank Dillon, this picture of an earlier “Players” team, probably 1981

We (The Players) fielded first. I neither distinguished myself nor embarrassed myself in the field – unlike 1982, during which my fielding had met triumph and disaster; naturally treating both of those imposters just the same.

I was mostly fielding in the long grass where I was able to nurse my pint of ale and seemingly play cricket at the same time. Who says men cannot multi-task?

The Gentlemen scored a little over 100 in their innings. A respectable but hopefully not insurmountable score for that fixture, based on previous experiences.

Then to bat. Sadly I have no pictures from the 1982, 1983 nor the 1984 event – if any are subsequently uncovered/scanned I shall add them. Here is the earliest photo of me going in to bat I can find; from 1998:

If you imagine Barnes Hall to the right of me and the tennis courts, beer tents etc. to the left, this could almost be the Keele playing fields. Almost, I said.

I still hadn’t picked up a cricket bat since school, unless you count the 1983 net and subsequent nought not out without facing a ball. But I was quite fit that summer, having played tennis regularly before (more or less during) and after my finals.

Anyway, Ian Herd could bat. We rattled along. I helped to see the shine off the new ball. I suspect that Ian made a greater contribution towards seeing off the shine by knocking the ball to all parts, but we’ll let that aspect pass.

The crowd was probably more heavily weighted towards Players’ supporters than Gentlemen’s supporters, but in any case by the second half of the match vocal chords were more lubricated.

In what seemed like next to no time, there was a cry from the crowd…

50-up

…allowing me and Ian a joyous moment of handshaking celebration in the middle.

“I think I’d better ‘hit out or get out’ to give some of the others a go this year”, I said.
“Good idea”, said t’other Ian

It didn’t take long (one ball) for me to loft one up in the air and get caught.

More tumultuous applause as I came off, with the score on 53/1.

“Fifty partnership – great stuff”, said Toby, ever the encouraging captain

I remember Bobbie Scully and Ashley Fletcher both being there. and both expressing joy in my performance and surprise that I could play. I’m pretty sure that several of my fellow Union Committee members, not least John White, Kate Fricker and Pady Jalali were around too.

Remember, folks, that everyone was quite well oiled by then and no-one was REALLY watching…

…apart from the scorer.

The scorer was Doreen Steele’s son. Doreen was the Students’ Union accountant and the NUPE shop steward for the union staff. Her son clearly aspired to similar careers.

“How many of the 53 did I score?”, I asked.
“Three”, said the lad.
“Are you sure it wasn’t four?” I asked, having counted to four in my head.
“You’re probably including a leg bye…”
“…I hit that ball onto my pad, actually…”
“…the umpire signalled leg bye. It was a leg bye…
…you scored three.”

You can’t argue with that schoolboy logic.

Nor can you argue with the fact that I had been part of a fifty partnership in a cricket match.

Nor can you argue with the fact that Toby Bourgein had pulled off a captaincy masterstroke…or at least a warm, generous gesture that meant a lot to me.

But did The Players win the match, I hear you cry? You bet your sweet pint of Marston’s Pedigree we won.

Toby Bourgein will be better remembered at Keele for many other things, not least his student activism. The one other picture I have of him, below, is from a protest we attended together in 1982. But I remember Toby especially fondly for these silly cricket matches, for which he was, O Captain! My Captain!

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To Boston For The Last Leg Of My Trip

An Interlude Upstate In Massachusetts

Back To Boston, Brunch With Pady & Midge

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