When I say, “funny people” in this context, I mean comedy people, not necessarily strange people. Some of them might also be strange of course, but I’ll leave that judgement to the reader.
Funny-comedic, not necessarily funny-strange: Rohan Candappa
First up, for lunch on Tuesday 5 March, was Rohan Candappa. He wanted to try a Malaysian & Indonesian restaurant, Melur, on the Edgware Road. As I had requested that we meet somewhere over my side, as I needed to be at Lord’s for a game of tennis afterwards, that seemed a reasonable choice to me.
The weather forecast suggested heavy rain around the time I’d be finishing at Lord’s, so I took my car to Aberdeen Place and parked there ahead of lunch.
The food at Melur was excellent. I was restrained in my choices given the tennis bout ahead, going for an inoffensive Nasi Goreng. Rohan went for a more spicy version and for some roti canai, which I tasted and reckon was a pretty darned good roti. I shall forever more associate that dish with Rohan, so much so that I’ll think of it as…Rohan Kanhai. Coincidentally, I shall similarly forever be reminded of that Guyanese cricketer when I recall Rohan Candappa’s visit to Lord’s with me, last year:
I’m thinking of naming my novel genre “Mock Tudor Rock”
Rohan, who plans to manage my band, made several branding suggestions – I responded to those thoughts subsequently as follows:
The Wessex Petards might work better as a band name the The Wessex Pistols and I still feel that Sir Michael Smear is a more visceral nom de punk than Sir John Rancid. But I cannot better your album name – Never Mind The Bailiwicks – it ought to go gold or platinum on the name alone, before we release so much as a tiny sound sample…in fact it had better go gold or platinum before we release so much as a tiny sound sample.
I very much hope my thoughts were helpful and that Rohan can find a way to make the Threadmash idea work for all concerned.
I had allowed loads of time between lunch and tennis, so brought plenty of reading matter with me which I enjoyed reading over a couple of excellent cups of coffee at Café Laville, overlooking the canal in sunshine.
Then on to Lord’s in order to be taught a lesson by one of my favourite real tennis opponents who has recovered from injury since I last played him and seemed keen to let me see how well he can now move around the court. A surprisingly close match in the circumstances – I thought I did well to get close.
On Thursday 7 March I had a music lesson with Ian Pittaway, who passed expert judgement on my Mock Tudor Rock…
Place the rascal in the stocks at once!
…while helping me with some other silly ideas (watch this space) and sensible techniques (don’t hold your breath).
Then a visit from John Random for a bite of lunch and the second of two sessions of NewsRevue archiving. The first session was 25 January. John has a large collection of NewsRevue programmes, flyers and reviews, which simply needed to be digitised.
We succeeded in scanning it all in two sessions, despite lots of chat, listening to some music and cricket-match like breaks for lunch/tea.
Following some cheerful chat about murder rates around the world, which identified Mexico and especially Tijuana as a hot spot, we both agreed that Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass must have a lot to answer for. So we listened to a fair smattering of Herb. John was especially taken with his version of the Third Man theme…
…and his version of A Walk In The Black Forest:
We decided that this type of music is, in many ways, the soundtrack of our childhood. Of course we like to remember the cool stuff from the 1960’s and no doubt have listened to far more of the cool stuff in later life, but when we were kids this was the music that was being played on the radios and gramophone players most of the time in our homes and the homes we visited.
We also of course chatted about NewsRevue casts, shows and material gone by. We discussed one of my own classics from more than 25 years ago, Mad Frogs And Englishmen, which I realised I hadn’t yet Ogblogged. I have put that right now:
Job done in terms of the archiving, it was time for us to set off for one of our regular Ivan Shakespeare Memorial gatherings – at which NewsRevue writers from years gone by gather to eat, chat, laugh and informally quiz.
It was International Women’s Day today, so we found ourselves an all male gathering this time. In addition to me and John: Gerry Goddin, Mark Keagan, Barry Grossman, Colin Stutt and a rare but much appreciated visit from NewsRevue founder and “father of the house” Mike Hodd.
The venue was the Spaghetti House in Holborn this time; a good notch up in service and food quality from Cafe Rogues in my view. My first time there but not the group’s first time.
For many years John Random has talked about his vicarious support for a football team by the name of Blyth Spartans. His home town, Hartlepool, is John’s real team but he has carried a torch for this other team for decades.
John excitedly reported that he finally got to visit Blyth Spartans and saw an exciting match there just the other week. I believe it was this match. I feel that this momentous event needs recording for posterity, as does an image of John wearing his new Blyth Spartans titfer.
John reported on the event as follows:
I would like to say a big thank you to all those of you who came out to the Spaghetti House on Thursday night. Thanks also to Mike, Colin and Gerry for their entertaining quizzes. Falling as it did, almost on International Women’s Day I regret to report that NewsRevue has still not come clean on its gender pay gap. We haven’t even had any jokes about it, yet – though I have a feeling, we will – and soon.
As I said earlier, it had been a funny week.
Funny ha-ha, not funny peculiar.
Well, maybe funny ha-ha AND funny peculiar. Good times with good friends.
For someone who is making a conscious effort to cut back on midweek evenings out, this was not a high-achieving week.
11 February 2019, BDO Binder Hamlyn Partners Reunion, Guildhall
It started with a gathering of former BDO Binder Hamlyn partners at the Guildhall. Michael Mainelli asked me to join him and Elisabeth in helping to host that event – the first regathering of those partners since the firm dissolved into Arthur Andersen and other firms in the mid 1990s.
Of course, I wasn’t a partner in that firm, but during my five-to-six years with the firm I did do most of my work for audit clients. I also did a couple of internal consultancy projects – such things were normally considered to be career-blight for consultants, but I was either considered to be sufficiently dispensable or savvy enough to survive such trials – I still haven’t worked out which.
They are quite a centric bunch, the former Binder Hamlyn partners, in contrast with the quirkier group that descended on the National Liberal Club a few days later. Perhaps that explains why Michael didn’t trial his Gresham Society talk on humour in lectures. Instead, Michael made full use of his gavel and kept the formalities mercifully brief.
Actually it was a really pleasant gathering; just a shame there were none of the consultancy partners there who might have enjoyed the merry tale of my despair at my first assignment…
Anyway, I think the former partnership informally decided that it should regroup socially once every few years – certainly not leave it 20 to 25 years next time!
14 February 2019 – The Gresham Society Dinner – National Liberal Club
In fact we were on the way to the National Liberal Club when I discovered that Michael’s after dinner speech was to be on the subject of humour in Gresham lectures.
Excellent idea; it is always interesting when a professor chooses to speak on a subject about which he knows nothing…
…I said.
Michael laughed and then promptly added that joke to the start of his speech. It would be churlish to suggest that it got the best laugh of the whole speech, as there were lots of jokes in there…
…including, rather dangerously, I thought, one of my favourite intellectual jokes, the one about binary:
There are only 10 types of people in the world: Those who understand binary, and those who don’t.
I say, “dangerously”, because, of course, that is a joke that really only works properly on the printed page. As soon as you say “ten” or “one-zero” you have slightly killed the joke.
Had it been me, I’d have fallen back on my other favourite intellectual joke; the helium joke, which I think works much better orally than on the page, as long as it is delivered with good timing:
Helium walks into a bar.
The bartender says, “I’m sorry, we don’t serve noble gasses here”.
Helium doesn’t react.
Anyway, Michael’s after dinner talk was merely the apex of a very jolly evening. As usual, Tim Connell tried (and failed) to get through all the AGM business in five minutes. This time Tim double-failed; firstly by over-running in the first place, secondly by forgetting to re-elect the committee during the AGM bit which meant he had to hijack the start of the after-dinner revelry with that aspect of procedure.
Unusually this year we were graced with Iain Sutherland’s presence and he brought Bobbie Scully with him as a guest, which was a very pleasant surprise. Coincidentally, I had that very morning been Ogblogging about a visit to the theatre some thirty years ago with Bobbie to see the impenetrable Peter Handke play (or should I say dramatic poem?), The Long Way Round.
At the mention of this coincidence, Bobbie almost started hyper-ventilating as she remembers that particular theatre visit as quite the worst experience she can ever recall having at the theatre. If you click through you can read more.
Mercifully, Bobbie doesn’t seem to think that staying on for the second half was all my doing – she seems to think we both decided to stay out of charity to the performers, as we saw so many people leaving during the interval. So my memory of her begging me to leave during the interval and me insisting on us both staying is one of those false memories.
But back to the Gresham Society event, which no-one left early, even at the thought of an after dinner speech by Michael. It was, as always, a very convivial event with such interesting and friendly people.
Barbera Woodthorpe Browne organised a really charming touch for the evening – which ended up being on Valentine’s night this year due to availability of the venue – by sourcing large quantities of Valentine’s roses and seasonal gift bags enabling all of us to take the roses home to our loved ones.
15 February 2019 – Kim & Micky At Sanzio
The following evening Janie and I had dinner with Kim and Micky at Sanzio.
Picture from our previous visit in July 2018
I realise, looking at the picture from our previous visit, that we not only sat at the same table again but we even sat in the same places again. Here is my account of that previous visit:
This time I was not required to sign any disclaimers in the restaurant, but Kim was very determined to prove that she is “good at logic” by trying to demonstrate some logic puzzles on the table, using glasses, bottles and the like to try to make those “pattern-grid” type puzzles.
Janie and Micky were utterly baffled by it. I kinda got what Kim was on about (for once) but seemed to irk her by suggesting that such logic puzzles are not the be-all and end-all of rationality and indeed formal logic.
Meanwhile Kim’s dinner table logic puzzles started to look and sound like an old duffer demonstrating military maneuvers or cricket field placings by moving the cruet around the table. And the more Janie protested that she doesn’t/cannot engage with such puzzles at all, the more Kim sought to explain, while insisting that Janie can.
Meanwhile, I have a funny feeling that Jean-Paul Sartre was sitting alone at the next table, contemplating existential logic. After dinner, I heard the gentleman say to the waitress, “I’d like a cup of coffee with sugar, but no cream”. The waitress acknowledged his order and Sartre returned to his ponderings. A minute or two later, the waitress returned and said, “I’m sorry, Monsieur Sartre, we don’t have any cream – is it OK without milk?”
I have no idea why people think I would be a useful member of a quiz team. Perhaps it is because I am so intelligent and witty and knowledgeable about the topics I am willing to discuss.
It doesn’t seem to occur to people that top notch quizzers aren’t very much like me at all – or rather the selection of topics that top notch quizzers are knowledgeable about don’t overlap much with my topics of interest.
Anyway, every so often I get asked…
…once…
…but on the occasions I have said yes, I cannot recall ever being asked back…
…and very often I say no. In fact, unless the event or companionship pleases me, I say no.
Anyway, my point is, I was keen to meet up with this charming crowd as long as Jasmine recognised that I am not the quizzer she might have been hoping for. So when she asked me to join her MoneyMagpie team, I replied:
How could I possibly say no to that? But surely we have better general knowledge quizzers than me in our orbit? Still, it would be lovely to join you and your team if I’m as good as it gets.
In fact, I arrived in Soho a little early, so took a stroll down Chinatown memory lane at New Year time for a few minutes before entering De Hems.
It was great to see Brian Jordan again after all these years and it is always a treat to spend time with John and Jasmine. Also on our team were Susan and Annie, who were also delightful company, as was Annie’s son (who works for Marcus) and Tony Elliott who was our Marcus host on our table.
As usual, nothing that I really know about came up. No theatre, no early music, no sixties and seventies popular music, no cricket, no real tennis…
…what’s the matter with these quizzes?
On the few occasions I could answer a question with authority, at least one other person if not several others on the team knew the answer.
So I opted for the role of team cheerleader, to try and maintain the concentration and positive energy of my teammates. I also acted as the runner to take our answer sheets in – a role I tried to perform with as much gusto as my aching body could muster.
In the former matter, I (and indeed the team) was only moderately successful – we came fourth out of seven teams.
Somewhere on my bookshelves is a so-called humorous book from the 1980s called The Mackeson Book Of Averages – which was an alternative, stout antidote to the Guinness Book Of World Records. It is a very ordinary book. But if there is ever an update to the Mackeson Book Of Averages, perhaps The MonyMagpies team result in this pub quiz should be recorded in that book. That would enable me, Brian, Jasmine and John to add to our stupendous Guinness World Record via NewsRevue, plus my other Guinness World Record via Goodenough College.
But I digress.
In the matter of my role as team runner, I was awarded an MVP award (MVP normally means most valuable player, but in my case it was presumably most volatile player) – in the form of a bottle of Prosecco, which I proudly displayed in my trophy cabinet for about 2 minutes (long enough to photograph it):
…before handing it over to Janie for a more suitable purpose (drinking).
I think that Janie thinks that I won the bottle of bubbly for quizzing, so please, readers, do not disabuse her of that belief.
…and of course Rohan is the author of The Little Book Of Stress. I think Janie’s waiting area needs copies of both of those books…
…while the surgery itself is of course, in book terms, dedicated to The Price Of Fish.
On that final subject, I did a very clever deal with Tony Elliott of Goldman Sachs, who offered to buy a copy of The Price Of Fish if I, in turn, shovelled thousands of poundsworth of savings towards Marcus by Goldman Sachs. Good deal makers, these Goldman Sachs people – who knew?
Anyway, I shall not be using “mother’s maiden name?” as one of my security questions.
In short, the food, the wine, the company and the event were all top notch and most enjoyable. Our team’s quizzing though? Very average.
When Rohan was organsing this evening, he sent round a note asking us to “pencil in” this date.
Now I’m not one who is naturally disposed to doing what I am told…
…so I joined the small band of pencil-resisters and informed Rohan and others:
I have written “Rohan Thing?” in big letters in my diary, in ink. If my inflexibility in the pencil verses ink aspect deems me ineligible for the event, I quite understand.
Rohan responded:
Ian, it’s mainly your hat that I’m inviting. But, apparently, it can’t make it without you wandering about underneath. As for ‘Rohan Thing’ – that makes it sound like you’d met me at a party the night before, but can’t remember my surname. Despite all this, I still want you to come along.
Now I know what some of you are thinking. You’re thinking that I am buying time here, in a rather pitiful way, by quoting Rohan’s witty remarks while avoiding actually telling a story of my own.
Well, y…
…NO! Not at all. But that bant does form part of my story.
Let’s start with Rohan’s initial reference to my hat. Now it seems to me, that Rohan was, rather obviously, dropping a heavy hint that he wanted me to tell the story about the day I bought this hat.
And in many ways it is perfectly understandable that Rohan should try to coax me, kindly, gently, directorially towards telling that story. Because it is a darned good story. Within three minutes of buying this hat, from Lock & Co. in St James’s, in early June 2016, I was afforded the opportunity to accost Boris Johnson while he was on his bicycle and had to stop for me at a pelican crossing on The Mall. I waved my real tennis racket at Boris – an implement which, I have subsequently been told, has the unfortunate look of a sawn-off shotgun when in its archaic canvas bag. It wasn’t my intention to seem quite so threatening. Oh well.
Here are some of the items for you to peruse
Anyway, I let Boris know what a knob he was being by supporting Brexit, endangering our economy and potentially causing geopolitical mayhem. My noble gesture was temporarily cathartic for me but ultimately, it seems, futile for the nation and the world.
I could milk that anecdote into a full blown dramatic…or perhaps I should say tragi-comic recitation…
…if I wanted to…
…but as you know, I’m not one who is naturally disposed to doing what I am told…
…or even what I am kindly, gently, directorially coaxed towards doing…
…so I’m not going to talk about the June 2016 hat.
Instead, I’m going to talk about the trousers I bought four weeks earlier. These red trousers.
I made an emergency trip to the Retro Clothing Exchange shop at 28 Pembridge Road in Notting Hill Gate, to try and find an appropriate pair of trousers for a 1960’s party. Actually it wasn’t for any old 1960’s party. It was for my wife, Janie’s party.
The likely source of the party trousers was the basement of that retro shop. Despite its change of purpose within the “Exchange Empire”, I recognised the space immediately as the old bargain basement of Record and Tape Exchange.
[On with Sisters Of Mercy]
I inhabited that basement a great deal in my youth. Initially and several times subsequently, those visits were with my Alleyn’s School friend, Paul Deacon.
It was probably the pull of Record and Tape Exchange and my resulting familiarity with Notting Hill Gate that drew me to move into that part of London ten years later, almost exactly 30 years ago, when I was ready to find my own place. A most fortuitous draw, as I have been profoundly happy living there.
Now as some of you might know, I indulge a retro-blogging habit, writing up my diaries and memorabilia in the form of a life blog going back as far as I can go. Ogblog, I call it.
So, when I got home with my bright red retro trousers, I did a diary trawl of my 1970s second hand record shop expeditions, in order to Ogblog those memories.
Paul Deacon and I first succeeded in visiting that shop in late April 1978. I bought several records which had a profound effect on me. Most memorably from that first batch, a CBS sampler album, The Rock Machine Turns You On, which had, amongst other treasures, Sisters of Mercy by Leonard Cohen. I remember the hairs on the back of my neck standing up when I first heard that track. I played it over and over again, to the irritation of my parents who wondered why I was hell bent on playing “such dirgy stuff”.
But the dusty and musty smell of the 28 Pembridge Road basement actually reminded me most about a visit some three months later, during the school holidays, not with Paul, but with a young female known as Fuzz.
[Off with Sisters Of Mercy – On with Me & Mrs Jones]
You might recall that Rohan thought the term “Rohan Thing” appropriate for someone you met at a party whose second name had evaded you. Of course, back in 1978, when we were 15/16 years old, it was not uncommon to get rather friendly with someone at a party without ever finding out their second name.
But I must confess that Fuzz, with whom I’d had a gentle squeeze at Anil & Anita Biltoo’s party a couple of weeks before she and I made that July 1978 Pembridge Road visit, has a unique place in my junior romantic canon. Because I don’t think I even found out Fuzz’s real first name, let alone her second name.
How we arranged that “date” at Pembridge Road is a bit of a mystery now…but nowhere near as much of a mystery as her name. “Everyone calls me Fuzz”, is, I think, as far as I got, name-wise.
But in other ways, Fuzz and I got a little bit further. I was on the lowest foothills of learning about romantic entwinement that summer, but I had discovered tonsil hockey a few months earlier and was quite keen to practice that sport when the chance presented itself.
During one of the quarter breaks in our tonsil hockey match at Anil and Anita’s party, I inadvertently overheard Fuzz excitedly telling her pals, that…
…I blush to report this…
…words to the effect…
…I was the best tonsil hockey player she had ever encountered.
[Off with Me And Mrs Jones]
Now please bear in mind, folks, I went to the sort of school where the only feedback you got from games masters, even if you were one of the best sporting boys the school had seen in years, was a phrase such as, “you’re uncoachable”, delivered with a clip around the ear…
…and I was far from being one of the best sporting boys the school had seen in years…
…I was one of those boys who would try hard at sport, but whose abundant enthusiasm could not compensate for my dismal shortages of athleticism and talent.
Not that my school sporting career was completely devoid of success. Oh no. Three years earlier I had, famously, defeated the mighty John Eltham – who was certainly one of the more sporty boys – in the fives quarter finals of 1975. I even have a “winning quarter-finalist” trophy emblazoning my drinks cabinet, a trophy mysteriously uncovered by a certain Rohan Candappa, as evidence of that victory.
But my point is, I was not used to hearing encouraging sporting words at all and I had, until that juncture, the low confidence of a novice in the matter of tonsil hockey. My previous experience at that sport (otherwise known as French kissing) could, in July 1978, have been counted on the fingers of one hand. Possibly even the finger of one finger. But I was hearing it on good authority that I was already up there with the very best exponents of the sport globally. Wow.
Of course, it occurs to me now that Fuzz’s prior experience of tonsil hockey might have been as limited as mine, or even less so, making “best ever” a somewhat meaningless comparative term. Oh well.
What Fuzz might have thought of my sartorial talent back then is lost in the mists of time, but it is very unlikely to have been good news. Baggy flared jeans and a yellow PVC waterproof garment, which my youth club friends teasingly described as “Ian’s Banana Jacket”. Little did those folks know that I was, in fact, a proto leader of the yet-to-be-formed gilets jaunes movement. The non-violent, social justice, French chapter. Not the Neo-Nazi English chapter that likes to describe centrist Tories as Nazis. But I digress.
Anyway, back to my date, on a hot day in late July, with Fuzz, in the bargain basement of the Record & Tape Exchange shop where, years later, I bought these red trousers. I suppose I became engrossed in my gramophone record searches and it seems that Fuzz became overwhelmed by the mustiness and dustiness of that Notting Hill basement. Fuzz fainted, banged her head while collapsing and needed to be revived by worried staff in the shop.
But apart from that, young Mr Harris, how was your hot date?
Reflecting on this ill-fated first (and perhaps unsurprisingly, last) date with Fuzz, I realise that it could have been a truly disastrous incident. Had Fuzz lost consciousness and needed attention from the emergency services, I might have had some explaining to do to the other type of fuzz when trying to assist them in identifying the young woman and notifying her next of kin. I don’t think the answers “Fuzz” or “Thing Thing” would have gone down terribly well with the fuzz.
Roll the clock forward again to May 2016, the day I bought these retro red trousers and a month before I accosted Boris Johnson while wearing this hat…
…I wrote up those 1978 Record and Tape Exchange memories on Ogblog and corresponded with Paul Deacon over the next couple of days, tidying up and expanding some of the text.
Paul emigrated to Canada some years ago now, where he now pursues his career as a voice-over actor, music archivist and part-time DJ.
As an aside to our e-reminiscing, Paul asked me if Janie and I had listened to his weekly broadcast on The Grand At 101 lately, which is available on-line. I had to admit we hadn’t. The show is on Saturday afternoons in Ontario, therefore Saturday evening in the UK. Janie and I are almost always out on a Saturday evening.
But, as luck would have it, our Saturday evening plans that weekend had, for practical reasons, been switched to Sunday lunch. So I told Paul we’d tune in. A few other old school friends also tuned in that evening and we had some fun with Paul, messaging in obscure requests for shout-outs and spins.
Paul then messaged us to say that John Eltham (yes, he of the historic fives quarter final in 1975) would be joining Paul at the studio “any minute”. I was aware that John Eltham was due to visit Paul, but I hadn’t twigged that the visit was so imminent, let alone that day. Then another message from Paul:
John’s here now! He’s just told me about the Rohan Thing…
Thus we learn that there is more than one Rohan Thing. Indeed, there are many Rohan Things.
And as for my red trousers, you must be wondering whether they worked with my 1960s party get up?
Well…
[Remove hat and jumper to reveal bandanna, party shirt, CND medallion and don the CND whacky specs]
…the red trousers were a groovy happening thing amongst many groovy happening things at that party, man. Peace and love.
Footnote: At the end of the evening, Rohan ceremonially handed out a lengthy thread to all who had performed, to symbolise the thread of story-telling that leads from Chaucer through Shakespeare and Dickens to our evening and evenings beyond.
Ben Clayson captured that moment and has kindly consented to me publishing a Photoshopped version of his photo here – (not that Ben knows it at this actual moment, but if the photo is still here when you look, then he probably has actually consented):
Thanks, Ben – and thanks Rohan for organising it all.
Ah, so it was the equivalent Saturday two years ago – that’s a bit uncanny.
This time we enjoyed lavish hospitality at Caroline and Alan’s place. We also enjoyed son Alex’s company for much of the evening. Alex is now a strapping young man, which was somewhat predictable when you think about it, but always comes as a bit of a shock when you haven’t seen a youngster for a few years.
I tried to avoid saying, “haven’t you grown since I last saw you”, but that phrase came out anyway – at least half in jest.
Yummy nibbles before dinner with a very jolly Viognier. Caroline tried to assess which of the nibbles we liked best, but we were wise to the risk of saying, e.g. “the salmon ones”, because that would have enabled Caroline to say, “oh, so what’s wrong with the asparagus ones and the avocado ones?”. Janie and I are old hands at that game, even when the host/hostess isn’t actually playing it. Then a yummy main meal of:
red pepper soup;
herb-crusted lamb rack with poshed-up rice and roasted vegetables;
chocolate tart and fruit cocktail.
A very tasty Châteauneuf-du-Pape complemented the main meal, especially the lamb.
Conversation naturally covered the biggest issues of the moment – i.e. cricket, with me, Alan and Alex all in the same room. We also discussed politics and world affairs to some extent – without any irony whatsoever, of course.
Alex stuck around for a higher proportion of the evening than was necessary for good manners, but when he returned downstairs having gone upstairs after dinner to watch a movie, Janie and I both realised that the time had flown, it was getting really late and that we were in danger of outstaying even the warmest welcome.
Actually I ended 2018 reading the following short Kindle book by my old Alleyn’s school buddy, David Wellbrook.
I would like to recommend David’s book, My Good Friend, highly to anyone who cares to pay attention to my opinion.
I say, “I would like to”, rather than “I have recommended”, because Amazon, in their (absence of) wisdom, chose to reject the following review, which I submitted this morning:
An Exceptionally Good “Merry Pranks” Chapbook
This is a chapbook in the Renaissance sense of the word – i.e. a short, inexpensive booklet or short book. As it happens, it is also a “chap book” in the more modern sense, as it is a comedic set of anecdotes about the scrapes two young chaps – inseparable friends, who manage to get each other into (and sometimes out of) trouble.
Imagine a version of “Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks” with two central practical joker characters and you are starting to get the picture.
The adventures of this pair of twenty-somethings, David Wellbrook and his “Good Friend”, in the 1980s, mostly occurred either when they went on holiday together or when they were chasing opportunities to make a quick buck and/or score with young women.
The identity of My Good Friend appears to be a closely guarded secret. Some sources suggest that he is now a knight of the realm. Other sources suggest that he is an ordained minister of the Church. It is also rumoured that he was transported to the antipodes before the end of the 1980s, where he remains at large. On my reading of this laugh-out-loud short book, it is quite possible that “My Good Friend” today is all of those things and more besides.
More than just funny, the book is ultimately warm and charming. Read it and you’ll no doubt wish that you had spent your school days growing up with these clowns. I know I did.
Within about one minute of my submission, I received the following e-mail rejection:
Thank you for submitting a customer review on Amazon. After carefully reviewing your submission, your review could not be posted to the website. While we appreciate your time and comments, reviews must adhere to the following guidelines: http://www.amazon.co.uk/review-guidelines
I felt quite put out by that rejection, for several reasons:
It was nigh-on impossible for someone to have really read, by which I mean read, thought about and cognitively digested, the content of my review in the short interval between my posting and the rejection notice;
I have submitted several Amazon reviews in the past and never been rejected before;
I carefully read the review guidelines and could not work out which element of the guidelines I was deemed to have breached;
I did feel that the one review that Amazon has published so far for this book, by Derin, was, in my opinion, while amusing and a nice bit of fun amongst old friends, in breach of several of the guidelines…unlike mine. Here is a scrape of Derin’s review which might well bite the Amazonian dust if by chance Amazon wonks start crawling all over this incident:
So, I decided to appeal to Amazon customer service in order to have the injustice reversed. I wrote as follows:
I am horrified that you have rejected my thoughtful and well-crafted review for this book – see below. The review was rejected within seconds, so I do not believe that someone gave it due consideration at all, whereas, I’m sure you can tell, the review is well-written and honest.
Frankly, if you do not reconsider and choose instead to publish the review I shall never review anything on Amazon again.
Here is the reference number that came with the rude e-mail from you – thereafter the content I sent: Reference A1F83G8C2ARO7P-RKQCVM2C9B62D.
A couple of hours later I received the following Kurt reply:
Hello Mr Ian L Harris,
This is Kurt from Amazon Customer Care.
I apologise if your feel that your review of “My Good Friend” by David Wellbrook has been rejected.
Thank you for taking the time to provide not only a well thought out but also a heartfelt review of one of our Kindle Titles.
We do not wish to make you feel rejected and sincerely how that you continue to provide both Amazon and Amazon Customers with more of your book reviews.
It always helps customers like yourself to find the right title for themselves and helps Amazon find the right title types to provide to loyal customers like you.
We hope you continue your Kindle reading and heartfelt review.
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Warmest regards, Kurt C Amazon.co.uk
So that’s it then. My appeal has been denied. The use of English in the denial note is so awful, it cannot even be an entirely algorithmic decision (I figure the original rejection decision might well have been).
So please allow me, in my own space, to unpick that travesty of an e-mail reply from customer services.
…I apologise if your feel that your review of “My Good Friend” by David Wellbrook has been rejected…
I don’t FEEL that it has been rejected; it HAS been rejected.
…We do not wish to make you feel rejected and sincerely how that you continue to provide both Amazon and Amazon Customers with more of your book reviews…
I think you mean “hope” not “how”, but there is no point hoping, Kurt. When I said, “if you do not reconsider and choose instead to publish the review I shall never review anything on Amazon again“, I meant it.
…It always helps customers like yourself to find the right title for themselves and helps Amazon find the right title types to provide to loyal customers like you...
I see. So you want me to write reviews, which you will publish or reject at your algorithmic whim, so that you can sell me and other people more stuff. Well, I think I told you before that you have blown that deal with me and it should come as no surprise that the deal is still blown. Now with brass knobs on
… Your feedback is helping us build Earth’s Most Customer-Centric Company…
I am hoping against hope that Amazon’s corporate behaviour today is not the Earth’s most customer centric stuff.
…Warmest regards, Kurt C …
Well, I guess it was a pun to describe the denial note as Kurt, as I suppose there is an attempt at courtesy, but to milk a similar pun, it is an “empty Kurt C” as far as I am concerned.
So, my dear friends, there it is, my first rejection of 2019 and it wasn’t even past noon on the 1st of January.
I tried to help David Wellbrook in his quest to storm the world of electronic publishing, but I failed to get past the first hurdle.
In similar circumstances, David’s “Good Friend”, The Right Reverend Sir Nigel Godfrey, would, by now, no doubt, not only have had his review published but also been given a year’s free subscription to Amazon Ultra Platinum Prime for his trouble…
…oh darn, I think I’ve just blown the Good Friend’s cover.
Anyway, it is possible that more potential but undecided readers will land here than on that crummy Amazon Review area. So if you are one of those potential readers…
A bittersweet occasion, as Janie and I joined an informal conclave to say goodbye to Toni (Antoinette) Friend, who had died a few days earlier and been interred at family funeral.
Toni’s sons, Will, Tom and John, organised a discreet, small gathering at Daphne’s, one of Toni’s favourite places.
John and Will each made a short, moving speech about their mum, but mostly the gathering was, in accordance with Toni’s wishes, a celebration of her life.
It was very tastefully done. We met several people we had met before and a few that we hadn’t met before. Janie took a few pictures, the best of which are below.
Toni would have enjoyed this gathering – it had all the hallmarks of her style – and she would surely have been proud of her boys for the graceful way the event was conducted.
Janie and I had planned a day off that Monday anyway, so Brian Eno’s seasonal bash shifting to the Monday worked well for us – a rare opportunity for Janie to join in that fun.
We had been keen to see Japan House in Kensington since we learned of its arrival in London:
It was well worth seeing – many different artists displaying subtle ideas about making art from, or at least enhanced by, paper.
Then on to Brian’s party. I was keen to get there in good time to join in the singing. This is not seasonal singing but it is an opportunity to join in with Brian’s rather excellent a capella choir. A mixture of old and modern songs, carefully honed week in, week out by the regulars, who largely manage to prevent keen irregulars like me from ruining the sound.
Plenty of time for some eating, drinking and chatting – as usual with Brian’s parties, we chatted with several very pleasant and interesting people – before the dancing started in earnest. Janie is never a wall flower when there is a chance to dance and I knew that Brian’s choice of music is mostly right up Janie’s street.
Two very tiring hours later, Janie and I thought we should make our excuses and go – we both had work in the morning and felt we had left it all out on the dance floor by then. Good times.
Long ago arranged and long looked forward to, the (ir)regular gathering of old boys from Alleyn’s seemed to be looming as normal (Walrus & Carpenter followed by Rajasthan), when out of the blue we received a missive from our (un)official organizer, John Eltham, with some unexpected changes.
There are 15 people signed up for our festive evening. PLEASE NOTE NEW VENUE – 200 YARDS DIFFERENCE 7.00PM Hung, Drawn & Quartered pub – 26-27 Great Tower Street… 8.00PM Sripur restaurant – 25 Great Tower Street – yes it is next door !
The change would be more than a little discombobulating for some. Let us not forget that Nigel Boatswain, for example, a few years ago, struggled to find a new venue that was described to him as “right in front of the Monument”, because he couldn’t figure out a landmark from which to navigate. Mike Jones, who had been our Geography teacher back in days of yore, must have found his former charge’s geo-spacial shortcomings somewhat chastening.
In fact Mike Jones was one of several people who was listed to attend this 6 December gathering but latterly dropped out. He might have found the name of the pub an affront to his liberal arts background. Not only does the name describe a particularly barbaric medieval form of capital punishment, but a grammatically flawed rendering thereof. In my minds ear, I can hear Mike Jones gently correcting…
…hanged, drawn & quartered, NOT hung. Paintings are/were hung, people unfortunate enough to be executed that way were hanged.
Execution of Hugh Despenser the Younger, …[from] the Froissart of Louis of Gruuthuse (Public Domain picture https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanged,_drawn_and_quartered)
That barbaric punishment was reserved for high treason and was abolished nearly 150 years ago, although the hanging bit stuck around a lot longer and treason only (technically) ceased to be a capital offence 20 or so years ago.
In these troubled times, of course, who knows what legislative changes our so-called leaders might make in the crime and punishment department. Further, many of us who gathered have been known to say publicly things that certain tabloid newspapers might deem to make us “enemies of the people”…which is to say, treasonous.
Personally I have far less to worry about than most of my compadres, as I am a Freeman of the City of London. Thus, if I were to be hanged, I could choose to be dispatched with a silken rope, not the common or garden rubbish rope that my co-conspirators would doubtless suffer. I find that thought incredibly reassuring in the present political climate.
But I digress.
In the end, nine of us gathered and a jolly good gathering it was too, although those who were unable to attend were, of course, sorely missed. In no particular order, the nine were: Ben Clayson, David French, David Wellbrook, John Eltham, Ollie Goodwin, Paul Driscoll, Paul Spence, Rohan Candappa, me.
It was an incredibly mild evening, enabling us to take our pre-dinner libations in the street, although John Eltham did complain about feeling cold at one juncture. But then again, John had removed his coat for some reason.
The Sripur Restaurant was heaving and our group of nine was clearly at least one more than the restaurant was expecting. To be fair, the booking for 14 which had descended to “probably 8-10” in some ways deserved its relegation. We all nine squeezed round a table that would have been comfy for six and just about OK for eight. It didn’t really matter.
The food was pretty good. Perhaps not quite as flavoursome as the Rajasthan (he says based on one main dish and some sides), but similar quality.
The Sripur Nine were all in pretty good form. The bants and reminiscences flew around the table like a metaphorical food fight with poppadom-Frisbees.
Towards the end of the meal, Rohan Candappa solemnly announced that he had a sports trophy to award. he noted that most of the people in our group had been pretty sporty at school; only one or two of us had not. But, as Rohan pointed out, there should be sports awards for exceptional performance even when it comes from someone less naturally sporty than most.
Rohan then passed an engraved trophy around the room for everyone to read, much to the mirth, one by one, of the readers…one by one, that is, to everyone except me. Once John Eltham had the prize in his hands, he was instructed to hand it to me.
9 June 1975 – Fives Quarter Final – Ian Harris beat John Eltham
What a moment in my less-than illustrious sporting career. A trophy. Of course, Rohan was right. I had never personally held a trophy for sport of any kind. That quarter-final win remains the pinnacle of my achievement at an individual sport.
Left to right: John Eltham (just in picture), Rohan Candappa, Paul Driscoll & Ollie Goodwin…with MY trophy centre
I proudly took my trophy back to the flat and have placed it in as suitable a location as I can currently muster – in the drinks cabinet section of my built-in book shelves and cabinets, between two personalised krugs (beer steins).
But I am not expecting my sporting awards (belated and future) to start and end here; why on earth should they?
…and who knows what future glories are to come in the world of real tennis, where I have managed quarter final berths (albeit losing ones) in each of the two years I have been playing internal tournaments at Lord’s. And occasionally representing the club:
So, my dear old school friends, especially the sporty ones, I need your help. I mean, obviously the drinks cabinet will do for the time being as a temporary resting place for my trophy, but clearly I need to have built a bespoke trophy cabinet for my current and potential future collection of sporting trophies. You fellows, accustomed to the world of sporting trophies, surely can advise me on the size and shape of trophy cabinet that will serve me best.
But that is about me and the future – this article is primarily about the splendid gathering of old boys eating, drinking, banting and making merry in the City. As usual the time flew by, until several folks with trains to catch realised that their choices were starting to diminish and that the evening should come to an end.
As usual with this group, we managed to avoid the dreaded bodmin, although some suggested that we should play the game of spoof to saddle one “boy” with the whole bill. We decided against, but I note on reading up on that (unfamiliar to me) game, that some play spoof for prizes and trophies. Perhaps I should get into spoof at a competitive level – I was a dab hand at bridge back in the old school days.
It was a great evening – I’m already looking forward to the next one.
Exceptional Schmaltz Herring; the people’s choice as well as the judge’s
Don’t ask me how or why she does it, but Jacquie seemed set on the idea of a seasonal herring fest again this year, despite her (and latterly us) being away for the regular season and despite the stupendous effort that must be involved.
Eight of us gathered for dinner at Jacquie’s place; Josh, Melody, Sonia, Michael, Hils, me and Janie.
We spent the early part of the evening – some would even call it late afternoon – drinking, chatting and (in some cases) getting to know each other. For me and Janie, this was the first time we’d met Sonia (Jacquie’s friend) and Melody (Josh’s girlfriend). Everyone else we’ve known for yonkers.
Hils and Janie on a previous occasion – neither Chez Briegal nor a herring-fest
In truth, to call the meal a herring fest is a bit of a misnomer – or more specifically an understatement – as the culinary delights on show go way beyond herring; smoked salmon, poached salmon, gefilte fish balls, egg-and-onion, cheeses…
…I could go on and very often I do go on.
Talking of which, the talking is as much a central part of the evening as the eating. The conversation covered all manner of subjects, ranging from topical politics, to new media and Cheryl Cole. I must admit I was very weak on the latter subject. I blame The Economist, which seems to pay that pivotal icon of our times ridiculously little regard. I should consider cancelling my subscription.
But I digress.
Jacquie and Hilary set about a concerted lobbying campaign on behalf of the schmaltz herring, in a flagrant attempt to influence the judging.
“Mmmm, the Schmaltz Herring is especially yummy this year, don’t you think?
…and…
The Bismark Herring is very good, but not like the Schmaltz
…and…
The Sweet Herring is not quite a subtle as last time, is it?
…and…
The Swedish you say, Melody? Do you really think so? Nice, but a little bland, no?
You get the picture. My bloody-mindedness gene, which easily comes to the fore in such circumstances (it’s family, I can talk about this openly) was straining to award the coveted prize to anything other than the Schmaltz Herring.
The problem was, though, that this year the Schmaltz Herring really was exceptional in my opinion too. The Swedish, a new entrant this time, perhaps by dint of the event taking place late in the year, was extremely, indeed unexpectedly good – a very well-rounded flavour of herring – but not quite as exceptional.
So, after explaining the rules to the uninitiated (delicacies such as chopped herring and herring in sour cream have lifetime achievement awards, as does Jacquie herself of course, but it is only the unadulterated herrings that get judged in competition) – the results:
Highly Commended: Swedish Herring – superb effort from a new entrant
International Herring Award: Schmaltz Herring – utterly exceptional this time
Winners: everyone who attended – it was a lovely evening, as always.
Many, many thanks, Jacquie.
Give it up one more time for the Schmaltz Herring…what little is left of it.
And finally, one more (weirdly-shaped) picture of the smörgåsbord, courtesy of Hils. Thanks Hils.
