Category: Friends and Family Events

The Rohan Thing, My Short Performance Piece As Part Of Rohan Candappa’s Inaugural Threadmash, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2019

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.

[Click here for the full story of that Boris Johnson day]

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”.

[Click here for the story of that first visit]

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.

(Click here for the story of that famous 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…

Now, at this juncture I probably should explain that “The Rohan Thing” back in 2016 was not the same “Rohan Thing” as The Rohan Thing we are all attending tonight. “The Rohan Thing” that John Eltham and Paul Deacon were talking about was the monologue, “How I Said ‘F*** You’ To The Company When They Tried to Make Me Redundant”, which Rohan had piloted at my company’s office earlier that year and which he was preparing to take to Edinburgh as his first Edinburgh Fringe show.

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.

26885606894_c4641e78f3_k

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.

Dinner At Caroline & Alan’s Place, 19 January 2019

It had been a while since we had seen Caroline and Alan…

…in fact, Ogblog is a helpful resource to answer such questions as, “when did we last see Caroline and Alan socially?”:

Dinner In Noddyland With Caroline and Alan Curtis, 21 January 2017, Followed By A Lazy Sunday, 22 January 2017

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.

We also realised that we had been so busy discussing anything other than our trip to Japan that we hadn’t even started on that subject. So we covered that one briefly and promised to send Caroline and Alan some links to the blog on Japan – this one is probably best for a laugh and to pick up some other fine links:

Japan Reflections: I Need To Write About Toilets In Japan, 7 November 2018

Or, if photos are more their thing, here is a link to one of the several albums of pics:

But back to London in January – what else to say? – we’d had a very enjoyable evening – thank you Caroline and Alan.

My Good Friend by David Wellbrook, Starting My New Year With A Rejection, An Appeal And A Kurt Denial, 1 January 2019

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.

If you require any other assistance, we can be reached 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. You can contact us by following the link below:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/help/customer/contact-us

Thank you for taking time to contact Amazon.

Your feedback is helping us build Earth’s Most Customer-Centric Company.

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…

…here’s another link through which you can procure David’s book:

Toni Friend Farewell Gathering, Daphne’s, 15 December 2018

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.

Subtle, Japan House, Followed By Less Subtle Party At Brian Eno’s Studio, 10 December 2018

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:

Even better, there was an exhibition to see that day: SUBTLE: Delicate or Infinitesimal TAKEO PAPER SHOW, so we went to see that exhibition ahead of the party.

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.

An Award-Winning Evening During Which I Hung Out With The Alleyn’s Old Boys Crowd, Sripur Restaurant, 6 December 2018

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 !

Here are links to the two venues themselves:

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.

It was a trophy commemorating my quarter-final win over John Eltham in the fives competition, on 9 June 1975:

An Uneventful Day Playing Fives, 9 June 1975

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?

For a start, I’m a little surprised that an earlier event on the fives court has not yet received the recognition it deserved…

A Marathon Day Of Court Sport; Fives and Fridge Ball, 4 December 1974

…beat Mason & Candappa 15-7…

…or if not that one, then surely the day, only one month after my historic victory in the fives quarter final against John Eltham, when I took a hat trick at cricket for 2AK against 2BJ on the very day that 2AK won the tournament:

The Day I Took A Hat Trick At Cricket, Alleyn’s School, 9 July 1975

…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:

Big Match Weekend At Lord’s Part One: MCC v HAC Real Tennis Match, 21 July 2017

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.

International Pickled Herring of the Year (IPHY) Awards, aka Dinner at Jacquie Briegal’s Place, 1 December 2018

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

By coincidence, a couple of days earlier, I had been doing a retro-blogging trawl from exactly 30 years ago and realised that I had visited Jacquie (and in those days Len) almost exactly 30 years ago to the day:

Left My Job At Newman Harris, Moved To Clanricarde Gardens And Started Work For Binder Hamlyn Management Consultants, 18 November to 1 December 1988

After plenty of drinks and chat – downstairs for the herring fest and more chat.

Jacquie Briegal’s table, minimally laden, from a previous herring fest

The herring awards tradition is described in the following piece from 2016 – click here or below:

Pickled Herring Of The Year Competition and Other Delights, 12 October 2016

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.

One Starts in a Barber’s. One Starts in a Bar by Rohan Candappa, Preview, Gladstone Arms, 21 November 2018

One of the great things about being friends with someone like Rohan Candappa is that you get to see some of his creative pieces while they are works in progress.

Take, for example, the wonderful piece Rohan and Kat Kleve are taking to Edinburgh for the 2019 fringe festival; One Starts in a Barber’s. One Starts in a Bar. – click this link for the festival blurb on the show.

Back in the day…

…but not so far back that the term “back in the day” didn’t even exist…

…Rohan told me about a short performance piece he was working on, working title “The Last Man Cave”, which was about going to the barber’s. That idea would sound like complete rubbish coming from most people, but coming from Rohan, I guessed that he was onto something eentertaining.

Rohan also asked me to look at a short fragment of a female performance piece he had worked on with the actress Lydia Leonard, which he had given the working title “Pigeons” and had filmed:

I thought there was real merit in that fragment.

Rohan agreed and told me that he had expanded it into a complete but short work, working title: ‘And You Are?’, which he planned to have performed alongside his comedic barber’s piece.

This combination made no sense to me at all…

…until I went along to The Glad in November and saw Rohan and Kat Kleve perform a preview of the two-hander now known as One Starts in a Barber’s. One Starts in a Bar. Have I mentioned that Rohan and Kat are taking the piece to the 2019 Edinburgh Fringe Festival? – click this link for more details.

Don’t be put off by the title “Trailer long” in the above trailer – it’s 74 seconds long.

That’s not long.

My hair is long…

…but that’s because I have an aversion to going to the barbers – an aversion formed when I was very small – a story for another time. Rohan’s barbers and bars stories are far more interesting than mine.

You don’t have to take my word for it – you can go to Edinburgh and see the show – click here for more details.

Based on the preview I, together with a few other lucky people, saw at the Gladstone Arms in November, One Starts in a Barber’s. One Starts in a Bar. is a really good show. It’s funny, sad and thought-provoking in equal measure.

If you are doing Edinburgh in 2019, go see it.

A Few Very Pleasant Evenings, 28 September, 2 October and 4 October 2018

28 September 2018 – Dinner With Deni, Tony, John & Kathleen

Early evening was my last game of real tennis at The Queen’s Club in my capacity as an MCC refugee:

Photo of me at Queens (from a different day) with opponents cut/airbrushed out

A fierce battle, it was, with a gentleman way above my pay grade, but through the wonders of the handicapping system we had a close fought match, which ended as a draw.

I thought 20 minutes would be more than enough time to get a couple of miles down the road to Deni & Tony’s house, but I hadn’t counted on the Friday night traffic combining with an accident nearby.

Yet, I arrived at the same time as Daisy, coming from the opposite direction and we really weren’t that late.

Plenty of time for drinks and nibbles before dinner.

Deni had gone to town in the kitchen, with a gazpacho soup and a salmon dish as the main. Desert was their favourite; profiteroles – it happens to be one of Daisy’s favourites too.

Tucking in good and proper

Lots of lively discussion too, trying to put the world to rights. John’s moderate views were somewhat tempered by his opinion that the only feasible route back to sensible, moderate politics might be barricades and politicians up against the wall and shot.

Everyone was on good form despite it being Friday evening and we were all surprised when the Cinderella hour struck and we said our goodbyes.

2 October 2018 Jamming Session & Dinner With DJ

Coincidentally I played real tennis (now back at Lord’s) before my next evening out; a jamming session with DJ at DJ’s place.

As I had all my tennis gear in tow as well, I decided to forego the electric instrument (which had sort-of been the plan), taking my baroq-ulele instead.

Electric-ulele – not selected for this match in the end

We tried amplifying the baroq-ulele for a while, which sounded rather interesting actually. We also mucked around with the strange assortment of songs I’ve been working on; then mucked around with a few of our favourites.

We still cannot decide which of us is ground control and which of us is Major Tom. It shouldn’t be that complicated, but it certainly is.

As always, we had a good chat and ate some good food too. An interesting bottle of Croatian red wine too – that worked wonders on my vocal chords.

4 October 2018 – Ivan Shakespeare Memorial Dinner

It’s been a while since we had an Ivan Shakespeare dinner – this one had been rescheduled more often than a routine visit by a British Gas engineer. But at least an Ivan Shakespeare dinner is pleasant and worth the effort.

Actually not much effort for me. Jasmine had suggested we try Bill’s in Kensington, which, frankly, is a hugely convenient option for at least two of us; me and Jasmine. In truth, many of us are starting to find Cafe Rogues tedious, in terms of the food (ordinary), the service (poor) and the tedious, Byzantine rules for Christmas gatherings.

A great turnout this time, a dozen of us, including some new-old faces, such as Emma, Nelson, Neil and Sam. Plus many of the usual suspects. I mostly got to chat with Jonny Hurst, Barry Grossman, Mark Keagan and Nelson at my end of the table.

What, no quiz?

For sure the food and service was better at Bill’s. The traditional “food half an hour later than everyone else’s” game for baiting Jonny Hurst is clearly just a Cafe Rouge Holborn thing; not a standard entertainment in all restaurants. Who knew?

John Random made an executive decision that the traditional quiz would not quite work with the ambiance – we were in a very central table position.

We are all keenly awaiting Graham Robertson’s “would I lie to you?” game, but we’re starting to think that he has sold our stories for megabucks to television syndicates in the Stans and has now fled the country with his ill-gotten gains. We don’t care, we’re having a great time at these dinners without Graham and his game anyway.

Seriously, I always enjoy these gatherings and others must also do so because so many of us have been coming back for more, several times a year, since not long after the turn of the century.

Roll on the next one.

Out With The Old, In With The New, Plus An Evocative Memory, 23 September 2018

With Janie’s encouragement, I did some comprehensive updating to my wardrobe (i.e. the contents thereof) at Solo Uomo after the lunchtime concert we attended at the Wigmore Hall on the Monday:

Trio Mediaeval, Wigmore Hall Lunchtime Concert, 17 September 2018

By the weekend, all the alterations were ready, so we ventured, on the Sunday, to Cavendish Square to collect the clobber, take it to the flat and clear out some of my old gear.

The items identified for the chop included, among many other things, a pink stripped shirt which was showing signs of wear and a pair of green corduroy trousers of seriously discernible vintage and wear. The charity shop seemed grateful for all.

Sartorially Antiquated?

Point is, I realised that those items, when combined with my purple Massimo Dutti jumper (not for the chop – there must be decades of use left in that garment)…

…were the very togs I wore on one of my last visits to see mum before she died – a visit that yielded one of my favourite anecdotes about that difficult time.

It was late December 2014. Mum had pretty much been unconscious throughout my previous couple of visits, including Christmas Day, when I visited together with Janie.

I was working at home between Christmas and New Year. One morning, I think the 28th or 29th December, when I called the hospital for my daily update, the nurse, rather surprisingly, said that mum seemed much better that morning and was sitting up and talking.

I asked if I could come and visit, despite the fact that it was not visiting hours, as she had been unconscious on my previous visits and I would like to catch a conscious phase if I could. The nurse asked how far away I was and, when i told her, said that I should set off straight away, to get there and have some time with mum ahead of the lunchtime rounds.

So I hurriedly threw on the purple jumper over my “schlock around working at home” pink shirt and green chords, then sped off in Dumbo towards St Georges.

When I got to the ward, mum was indeed sitting up and conscious. “Hello darling,” she said – immediate recognition although she had adopted terms like “darling” and “honey” about a year earlier, once the dementia had eaten away at her memory for names.

Then she looked me up and down, frowning.

“Oh dear, that jumper does not go with that shirt and those trousers. And couldn’t you even have brushed your hair before coming to see me? Oh dear.”

Yes, even on her death bed, with dementia ravaging her mind, my mum could still form a judgment on my appearance and dole out a tongue-lashing if she so desired.

It might sound strange, but it is one of my most abiding memories of mum; that exchange was quintessentially her.