Prior to returning to work, lunches and occasional boozy evenings:
Saturday 28 March – went to David [Wendy’s brother] Robbins’s barmitzvah in morning and Ivor’s [Heller] in afternoon. Mays [neighbours George and Winifred] came in evening.
Sunday 29 March – Lazy day. Went to Barmitzvah party in evening.
Wendy Robbins sporting her Streatham BBYO tee-short in 1979
In truth I don’t remember too much about that weekend – others (e.g. Wendy) might have stronger memories of it. The hospitality will for sure have been warm.
Back to work on Monday:
Monday 30 March – Work OK, Lazyish evening.
Tuesday 31 March – Work OK. Spoke to people in eve etc.
I’m not sure whether Jimmy was also doing a holiday job that Easter, but I think he probably was. For sure he spent several summer holidays working for the UCL Bubble Chamber Group at the main UCL campus in Bloomsbury. Just in case there is anyone reading this who doesn’t have a comprehensive grasp of what a bubble chamber group might do, allow me to deconstruct by saying “high energy physics” and linking to this piece about the UCL Bubble Chamber Group.
What I do know for sure is that the scientists with whom Jimmy was working had no truck with bubbly beer – they were a real ale crowd and I would be invited to join Jimmy and the team for a drink or two in their UCL bar until the early closure there led us to trek for 15 minutes or so to The Sun, which sold a vast array of real ales at any one time.
“Stop wasting valuable drinking time – let’s go to The Sun!” would be the cry from one or two of the bearded researchers with a central casting look and tone if anyone dared to drink up too slowly at the UCL bar.
Thursday 2 April – Work not bad. Lunched with Andrea [Dean]. Easy evening.
You’re probably getting the gist of this now. The diary is depicted above. I’ll pick up the translation story again the following Wednesday:
Wednesday 8 April – Went out with Caroline [Freeman, now Curtis] for lunch. Went on the booze with Jimmy in the evening.
Thursday 9 April – Met Jilly [Black] for lunch. Paul [Deacon] popped in, in evening with records etc.
Friday 10 April – Busy day at work. Relaxed in evening.
By the end of this fortnight was clearly focussed on producing mix tapes for Paul Deacon, while he was clearly hard at work doing the same for me. 11 April 1981 was a big mix taping day for both of us, as my archive will reveal in the next posting.
The room in 19 Cavendish Square where the accounts clerks were housed looked a little like the above image, only with about 10 desks and lots of shelves for box files all the way up to the high ceiling.
One day that week, I’m guessing the Thursday, a big Greek clerk propped a stepladder at the side of my desk (rather than opening the ladder properly) while attempting to retrieve a box file.
The next thing I knew, the big lad was falling backwards and I instinctively dived forward to break his fall. He might have landed dangerously hard on the edge of my desk had I not done so.
The big lad was slightly shocked but unscathed. I felt a surge of pain through my back.
My scoliosis is a little lower than the image above
I was in quite a lot of pain with my back for some weeks thereafter. It might well have been the root cause of my serious multiple prolapse nine years later.
I do hope that residents and lovers of Bournemouth forgive me for my damning four word review of the place…or at least understand the context of that diary statement from the 18-year-old me.
I was eagerly anticipating the next phase of my life by late September and I don’t think I was especially keen on a “Jewish holidays” stay in Bournemouth with my parents and Grandma Anne.
The compromise we agreed (not least because I had BBYO commitments) was that I would join them for a week in Bournemouth and then travel back to London for a Sunday commitment and then my own holiday week “training to be a student”:
I went to the Bournemouth BBYO meeting on the Sunday. The phrase “nothing to do here” was clearly a reference to Bournemouth as a town, not the warm hospitality I was no doubt afforded by the youth group there.
I suspect that the phrase “there’s nothing to do here” was handed to me by one or more of the BBYO-niks when I asked them on the Sunday for suggestions that might spice up my week.
We stayed at the Cumberland on this occasion, as evidenced by the photo below.
Until I found the above photo, helpfully labelled “The Cumberland” by my mum, I mistakenly thought we had stayed at the New Ambassador, as we had three years earlier – a mini-holiday from 1977 that I shall certainly write up in the fullness of time.
But whereas the fifteen-year-old me had revelled in the company of fellow youngsters in a Jewish hotel during the half-term week of October 1977, this 1980 visit was clearly not to my taste.
To add to the boredom factor for me, this holiday coincided with Sukkot, which, to religious Jews, is a major festival, observed strictly at kosher hotels such as the Cumberland (or New Ambassador, come to that).
The food would have been plentiful and all-inclusive; breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner, with several courses both to lunch and dinner. Grandma Anne will have massively over-eaten, especially at lunchtime. Then, every day, she would have gone through the four stages of post-lunch gastro-grief: irritability, wind, sleep and finally hope (i.e. hope for a few hands of kalooki before tea and cakes are served).
On the main Sukkot festival days (the Thursday and Friday that year) plus shabbat (Saturday every week), games like kalooki were forbidden, thus worsening Grandma’s afternoon mood when her kalooki hopes were dashed.
Grandma Anne – “I’m forcing myself to eat”
Still, a week in “Borschtmouth” was quite a pleasant change for someone, like Grandma Anne, in their late 80’s.
But not what I was looking for in my early 18’s.
In fact, if we go by the diary, nothing at all memorable happened during that week in Bournemouth. But I have one very strong, abiding memory from that trip.
Master Blaster Jamming Revolving Doors
Image “borrowed” from a defunct catawiki listing on fair use basis for identification
Neither my parents nor I were particularly interested in the religious holiday element of the visit. Grandma Anne was a rabbi’s daughter and dad had been raised in a very traditional Jewish household. Mum far less so. Once I had shown little and diminishing interest in the religious side of things, our household had become pretty secular.
Anyway; we had one mission while we were in Bournemouth which was to sort out my combined 18th birthday and going away to University gift. I wanted a ghetto blaster, so I could listen to radio and cassettes in the confined space I knew was to be my lot for several years at University.
Having left matters until late in the week, mum, dad and I hatched a cunning plan to get this piece of shopping done during Sukkot. The hotel basically acted as a synagogue for such a high-holiday and the vast majority of residents – not least all of the religious ones – would attend the service.
We worked out that we would have plenty of time to sneak out of the hotel, procure a suitable item and get back with the booty while all the religious lot were still ensconced in ritual and prayer…
…except that…
…shopping expeditions with my family were never particularly timely affairs and this purchase required thought and due diligence.
I bought a Philips Spatial Stereo Ghettoblaster/Boombox (see above picture) and very pleased with it I was too, all packaged up in its great big box .
We realised that we had cut it a bit fine and hurried back to the hotel.
Get yer skates on, Dad!
We realised that we had goofed as we saw people started to come out of the makeshift hotel synagogue. But rather than slowing down and unobtrusively braving our way in by sneaking through the doors and up the stairs while the assembled frummers were preoccupied with chat and thoughts of lunch…
…we panicked. In our rush, Dad and I got in the same section of the revolving door – a potentially door-jamming mistake at the best of times, but with the additional space-taking-device that was my ghetto-blaster in its box, we were stuck.
Not as posh-looking as this one, but you get the gist
Mum tried to rectify matters by pulling the revolving door in the reverse direction, but revolving doors don’t work like that – or at least this one certainly didn’t. I think a receptionist spotted our embarrassing circumstances and helped to rescue us. Goodness only knows how many people saw us and if any of those who might have seen us really cared. No-one said anything to us about it.
In later months and years, mum, dad and I would joke about the incident. It would have made a good scene in a sit-com or sketch in a comedy TV show.
Just in case some readers don’t realise what a suitable headline phrase “Master Blaster Jamming” is to describe the revolving doors story…and just in case some other readers want to hear the song Master Blaster (Jammin’) again, the following Stevie Wonder smash was all over the airwaves at that time and was for sure one of my welcomed earworms at the time:
So good, that track.
Anyway, I had my ghetto blaster and it gave me good service at Keele for my first two or three years, until I traded it up for an armour-plated Grundig one…but that’s another story.
Master Blaster Jamming…We’ll Be Jamming The Revolving Door…
12 August 1980. Not too bad a day. Went to Chrystal [sic] Palace with PDeW in evening.
Let’s not talk about my inability to spell the word Crystal at the age of seventeen.
Let us instead try to work out, just over forty years on, what the blithering heck might have been going on here.
The not too bad a day would have been at Hillel House working; I was trying to run the BBYO office that summer in the absence of a proper grown-up full-timer, as Rebecca Lowi had left and not yet been replaced.
I do recall an impending governance crisis on the National Executive around that time, which inevitably embroiled both me and Paul, as we were both on that National Executive. We had things to talk about and I do remember having several after work discussions with Paul that summer.
But if you had asked me, the day before yesterday, if I had ever been to Selhurst Park to see Crystal Palace play football, I would have said, categorically, no.
Football is not really my thing. Never really was, although in my youth I could be persuaded to go to football matches and certainly went to a few.
But Crystal Palace with Paul DeWinter on 12 August 1980 makes no sense for several reasons.
More importantly, despite my limited knowledge of football and Paul DeWinter, one thing I do know for sure is that Paul is a lifelong devotee of Brighton & Hove Albion FC (The Seagulls), not Crystal Palace FC (The Eagles).
Several of my South London friends are devotees of Crystal Palace and I am aware that there is intense rivalry between the two teams. I have often enjoyed, from the metaphorical sidelines, many enjoyable bants between the fans of those two teams, especially when Paul DeWinter is around.
Indeed, as I understand it, there is intense speculation as to whether representatives of the two species (eagles and seagulls) might be observed cross-fertilizing. I’m no ornithologist, but eagles are from the order of Accipitriformes (birds of prey), whereas seagulls are from the order of Charadriiformes, a diverse order which includes waders and auks as well as gulls, so I think it highly unlikely that those two species would even attempt cross-breeding. Certainly not visibly. But I digress.
So did Paul and I go to Crystal Palace to do something other than watch a football match? Perhaps we went to one of those open air concerts I remember my parents taking me to at Crystal Palace Bowl. Handel’s Water Music, Elgar’s Enigma Variations, Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik…that sort of thing. But I doubt if those concerts would have been Paul’s bag.
What about Bob Marley…didn’t Bob Marley play “The Bowl” that summer? But the bowl was done weeks before August in 1980 and anyway my diary would certainly have noted (and my memory would have retained) such an event.
No. For sure it would have been football.
I’m guessing it must have been some sort of pre-season friendly between Crystal Palace & Brighton; the intense fan rivalry belying an actual spirit of co-operation between the two clubs at an operational level.
Paul might actually remember what happened and put my feeble memory out of its misery.
Anyway – forty plus years on – thanks again for taking me to the footie in 1980, Paul.
I spent the summer of 1980 trying to run the BBYO office in Hillel House. Rebecca Lowi, our wonderful full-timer, had left. I was on the National Executive, had just finished my ‘A’ Levels and had made no plans for the summer. The arrangement made sense for everyone.
I’ll have plenty to write about that summer in the fullness of time. The diary is rich with clues and the memory still holds some intriguing details. I was 17 going on 18 and that is surely a good age for seminal, memorable stuff.
This piece, though, is very specifically about a hoo-ha that kicked off very early in my time running the BBYO office, concerning that year’s kibbutz groups.
I shall try to extract the relevant scribbles:
Monday 21 July – Not too bad a day. (Kibbutz trouble though).
Tuesday 22 July – Hardish day. More bad reports about the Kibbutzniks
Wednesday 23 July – Hard day. Still worried about Kibbutz lot…
Thursday 24 July – Not too bad a day. (Afek sorted out).
Now the fact of the matter is, I really need some help from some of the people who were on those Kibbutz groups to piece together exactly what happened.
From memory, there were two groups i.e. two Kibbutzim. One Kibbutz seemed fine, whereas the other Kibbutz didn’t seem to recognise that groups of young teenagers from England (I think these were 14 to 17 year old groups) could not be expected to work full adult worker hours in Israeli summer weather.
I received several calls – I think from worried parents – saying their kids were very unhappy and that there did not seem to be equivalence between the Kibbutzim. I was concerned on the first day reports came in but things really kicked off on the second day.
I was 17 years old, I had been a schoolboy three weeks earlier, but it was my job to try intervening and helping to resolve this problem.
Would you want the fate of your kid to be, to any extent, in the hands of this…er…kid?
I remember talking to some sort of shaliach – i.e. a liaison officer from the agency through which the tours had been organised; The Jewish Agency, if I recall correctly. I think he was quite negative about the situation, suggesting that the problem Kibbutz (which I think must have been Afek given my diary note, but possibly was the other one) was not a suitable venue for teenage kibbutz experience tours.
I remember talking to the agency on the telephone in quite animated terms. Those readers who know me well, especially those who knew me well back then, can imagine how arsy I might have sounded. Did the person at the other end of the phone realise that he was talking to a kid? Possibly. That might have made their predicament seem scarier.
I remember saying that I had really angry parents on the phone constantly, some of them lawyers, who were already threatening to sue anything that moved if the problem wasn’t resolved rapidy.
I remember thinking that I was laying it on a bit thick. I also remember thinking that the “ach, so what do you expect us to do?” attitude I was getting back from my initial enquiries was not getting me anywhere. So laying it on thick with a metaphorical, oral trowel was probably the best approach.
If Afek really was the problem site, then the whole incident panned out (from my point of view) within 72 hours. Word soon reached me that conditions had been changed. Did some youngsters switch Kibbutz? – I think that might have happened in some cases. Or were arrangements made for the groups to meet up some more and have shared leisure time?
Anyway, I do recall that the returning youngsters seemed to have had a good experience in the end and that my intervention was perceived to have helped solve the problem.
I’d love to hear from people who were actually on those kibbutz groups and find out what memories you have of those trips.
I’d love to see some photos, if anyone has them to share.
Coincidentally, there was a play at London’s Royal Court that year, Not Quite Jerusalem, about British youngsters going off to experience Kibbutz life and it not being what they expected. Even more coincidentally, it had its initial public airing through rehearsed readings that very weekend, 25 and 26 July.
I didn’t get to see that Royal Court production, but 40 years on…a few days after writing these words, I shall see the play’s first revival at The Finborough Theatre:
Unsurprising, then, that my memories of that 1980 experience came to mind and I was keen to get my thoughts written down before my weak memories morph with the play!
Anyway, the lunchtime special of the day (10 January 2018) in my client’s staff canteen was baked mackerel with onions. Very tasty it was too.
I remembered, so clearly, that my mother’s baked mackerel with onions was one of my favourite dishes.
Awaiting onions
I also remembered that it was one of mum’s “economy meals”. Times were hard in the mid to late 1970s. Mum shopped very carefully to help make ends meet. In addition, she had a routine which was to include one meal per week described as the “economy meal”.
Sometimes it would be a fish economy meal on a Tuesday. Sometimes it would be a meat economy meal on a Wednesday. Monday was leftovers from weekend roast day. Thursday was always fish day. Friday night was friday night. That’s how it worked.
Mum was almost apologetic about the economy meal, but the strange thing is, I used to look forward to them, because the economy meal was often, e.g. the baked mackerel dish, a real favourite of mine.
Thoughts of other “economy meal of the week” dishes started to flood into my head:
stuffed lamb’s hearts – might sound disgusting to those who hate offal or who can only contemplate liver from the offal department, but believe me, after slow braising, stuffed lamb’s hearts are unbelievably tasty. Here is a recipe not dissimilar to mum’s;
baked klops – or meatloaf. Economy in mum’s case because she would basically pad out cheap mince with egg and cereal. There are gazillions of recipes for meatloaf on line, but this “posh klops” recipe – click here – miles away from mum’s economy principles (veal mince…Balsamic vinegar!!) – sounds so very yummy I might give it a try;
salmon rissoles. Now this was an oddity in the economy meal department. Salmon rissoles with tinned red salmon were already occasionally on the agenda for the “regular fish meal” on Thursdays. Tinned pink salmon was much cheaper in those days (if you shop around possibly still is), so mum would sometimes make an economy meal of pink salmon rissoles. I’m not sure I could tell much difference – perhaps a bit more “meaty texture” to the red (Oncorhynchus nerka) species although surely the texture is lost in the tinning and rissoling. Little did I know then that, ironically, I would subsequently do deep, seminal economic research into the Alaskan salmon industry – click here for link to The Economist piece on the subject, although strangely, the pink species, Oncorhynchus gorbuscha, received less scrutiny than the red (sockeye), for reasons far too dull to explain.Here’s a link to a pinko recipe anyway;
When I got home from my meetings, I wondered whether I might have eaten that very baked mackerel dish exactly forty years ago to the day and looked at my old diary. Turns out that 10 January 1978 was a Tuesday, so I might very well have done.
I also realised that Tuesday 10 January would almost certainly have been a “caviar on toast for breakfast…economy meal for dinner” day. Bizarre, but that’s how it was.
What I also learned about that evening, after the second day of the school term, was the following:
gave talk at BBYO with Graham [Majin] on the cartoon. Went down well.
Ah yes, the cartoon. I really need to try to patch that thing together digitally. Graham’s attempt, a few years ago, to get the BBC properly to copy the 8mm film itself shredded the celluloid. Another Ogblog project to add to the list. Watch this space.
Anyway, all that foodie memory came flooding back simply as a result of tasting baked mackerel again in a style so similar to my mum’s…
