Category: Writing (my writing)

The King Cricket List, A Story For ThreadZoomMash, Performed 1 April 2021

The above logo used with the kind permission of King Cricket

For many years I have written occasional guest pieces for the amusing cricket website, King Cricket. Most pieces are written by webmeister Alex Bowden; a fine writer and good bloke.

My contributions tend to be in the following, especially whimsical, King Cricket categories:

  • Cricket paraphernalia in unusual places;
  • Animals being conspicuously indifferent to cricket;
  • Cricket match reports, which must meet one of two strict criteria:
    • if it’s a professional match, on no account can the writer mention the cricket itself,
    • if it’s an amateur match, the author is expected to go into excruciating detail about the cricket.

I realise that I have just generated a small list; a list of King Cricket categories.

But that is not the list I want to talk about today. No.

I keep a list of my submissions; I call it my King Cricket Article Log.

That’s the list I want to talk about. There are 83 articles on the list at present; 75 published and eight pieces awaiting publication.

I could simply cut, paste and read all the article titles…but I don’t think that would be much fun for you, or me.   

Instead, I have written a highlights list, with explanations, which might be an entertaining story in its own right:

Alex Bowden often publishes my pieces “fashionably late”; not knowing when they’ll be released is part of the fun for me. That’s why I keep a canonical list of my King Cricket submissions.

Review Of The Evening

As the brief for this ThreadZoomMash was to write a story based on a list, I think I owe it to the evening’s central conceit to review the evening in the form of a list:

  • Rohan introduced the evening with some thoughts on what lists are in the grander scheme of things and how they might become central to our stories;
  • Julie read a truly brilliant short story about a very short-lived romance in the form of a series of daily do-lists;
  • Geraldine had us in stitches with story named Stitches, about a trip long ago with her baby and an infeasibly long packing list for an activities weekend;
  • Then I performed my King Cricket piece;
  • Ian Theodoreson then recited a very poignant and thought-provoking piece about to do lists with items crossed off, which was in some ways a stroll through the different types of to do lists that have been relevant throughout his life. Ian has upped his piece, The List, to his own website, Living In Hope – click here ;
  • Jill’s list story was very imaginative; based on the idea that all the things she (or her character in the story) had done to escape an unsatisfactory employment were in the form of theme park activities, which she explored as a list of such things;
  • Jan talked about her love of lists, discussing several different types of list before settling on her “Grumpy List”, a surprisingly short list of highly amusing bugbears. So, we then moved on to…;
  • …Kay, who opened with a Dorothy Parker quote, which led in to her list of the men/boys for whom she has strong and poignant memories of why she was attracted to them. It was a wonderful mixture of charming, funny and dark;
  • Terry’s piece was called The Gratitude List. It mostly comprised a list of the people he’s been closest to and to whom Terry is perennially grateful. It was a very touching piece.

We had a great chat about each other’s pieces after the readings, which made for a very enjoyable gathering, as always.

The Love Letter, ThreadMash Performance Piece & Review, 4 March 2021

I chose to write and recite an impressionistic memory story, in the form of a love letter, about a night at Keele; 6 March 1981 to be precise.

The ThreadMash brief was simply to write a love letter. The resulting writings from the group were varied to say the least. Here is mine.

Dear Nina

It’s been a while since we met. Forty years, to be precise. 

It’s time I wrote to you. Letter writing was my thing back then…but I didn’t write to you…then.

A lot has happened since that night, in March 1981, when Anna encouraged you to spend the night with me. 

That was weird. 

I wonder what Anna was playing at? Just being playful, probably. The way she’d always be sluttishly playful in the refectory whenever she ate…or more accurately…whenever Anna fellated…and then ate…a banana.

Anna might have set us up for effect, of course. Anyone who roller-skates around the campus all the time, the way Anna used to…is prone to doing weird things for effect.

I don’t think she ever fancied me, Anna. I know she liked me, but I don’t think she fancied me. Actually that evening, while the three of us were sitting in the Union, talking about Bobbie Sands and Troops Out…I thought Anna fancied you, Nina. Perhaps she did. I was a terrible judge of signals back then. Probably still am.

Anyway, we can’t revert to Anna and ask her what was going on. Anna died in in 2012. I don’t suppose you knew that. I didn’t learn that news until a few years after the event. I didn’t keep in touch with Anna. But some of my friends did…or at least reconnected with her before the end. Lung cancer, it was. 

In truth, I was a little confused that night. Confused about love. 

I had been carrying a torch for Mandy from Manchester for months. One passionate December night. Agreement to progress. Several love letters…from me to Mandy. Nothing in return. I didn’t understand. 

I understand more now. I know more now. Letters are not always the medium they are cracked up to be. There’s ample opportunity for delay, for mislay, for tapping, for tampering…

…anyway, some three months after that night in Manchester, still I was, emotionally speaking, bearing that torch, for Mandy.

But the flame was flickering, fizzling by then, so the torch I was still bearing, utterly in vain, for Mandy, was not sufficiently hot for me to resist you. The flame was just warm enough to keep me confused.

As with Anna, I can’t revert to Mandy for her side of the story. She died in 2020, having been ill for some time. Cancer, I believe. I had reconnected with and am still in touch with Mandy’s brother.

Who were you, Nina? Who are you?

At one point, in the early hours, you toddled out of my pokey, student room, down the corridor, to the loo. 

You had just a small bag with you. You left the zipper open, with your Irish passport on the top.  

I must admit, while you were out of the room, I had a quick nosey at the passport.

The photo didn’t look like you at all…wait a moment, yes it did. It’s just that you had a shock of platinum blond hair in person, whereas the passport photo was a dark-haired version of you. 

But the name…I couldn’t begin to discern it. 

The forename was one of those bizarre Irish names; I can’t even hazard a guess at what it was. Perhaps it was L-A-O-I-S-E [Laoise], pronounced Lee-sha; or C-A-O-I-L-F-H-I-O-N-N [Caoilfhionn], pronounced Kay-lin. Anyway my young, ignorant eyes merely discerned an unpronounceable, supremely Irish name, the forename being nothing like Nina, the surname seeming like nothing earthly.

When you left, a few hours later, you sweetly but firmly made clear that you were just passing through and that we wouldn’t be keeping in touch or seeing each other again. Just a parting kiss.

No letters. No words. Until now.

Who were you, Nina? Were you simply, as advertised, a visiting political ally of Anna’s; through the student SWP & Troops Out alliance? Or were you Sinn Fein, Nina? Were you IRA, Nina? 

And who are you now, Nina? 

How are you now, Nina? Are you still alive? I do hope so. 

Anna’s gone. Mandy’s gone. But you?

I hope you are alive and well and thriving. 

Wherever you are. 

Whoever you are. 

Whatever you are called.

The story of that night, 6 March 1981, is in some ways a companion piece to the tale of a different kind of all-nighter, a couple of nights earlier:

A Five Day Marathon To Produce Concourse With Dave Lee, The Result Being A Student Union Lock-In & Near Death Experience, Late February/Early March 1981

The Love Letters ThreadZoomMash

Moving swiftly on to the night of 4 March 2021, Rohan Candappa curated and introduced the event. We had all sent our letters to another ThreadMasher, drawn at random. One or two people (David and Adrian) had chosen to write fictional love letters to the actual person whose name they had drawn, while the rest of us did not do that.

As it happens, I was first up, which possibly makes me “top billing” or possibly “the warm-up act”…or possibly just “first up”.

Geraldine went next, with a moving paean to spring.

Jill’s love letter was to her husband, telling the tale of their near separation by circumstances.

David’s was to Terry, who he fictionalised as his own former lover Teresa whom he was now stalking, having rediscovered them in the form of Terry.

Jan wrote a letter of devotion to the theatre, which certainly resonated with me, both when I received it through the post and when I heard Jan perform the piece.

Rohan feigned profound hurt at the idea that his wife of 25+ years chose to write her letter of devotion to the theatre rather than to him. During the ensuing interval, Rohan could been be seen trying to sneak out of the Candappa house with a suitcase and a hat to lay elsewhere. Fortunately, he and Jan were reconciled in time for the start of the second half.

Terry’s letter (which Rohan read well in Terry’s work-induced absence) was a testimonial to abstinence and its close relative, addiction.

Flo’s letter appeared to be a confessional love letter about a rollicking love affair, until “the big reveal” that the object of her passion is the London Fields Lido.

Julie’s love letter was very creepy, starting off sounding like a declaration of love but soon turning out to be the ramblings of a stalker to their stalkee.

Ian T’s letter was a eulogy to his former tribe, London cyclists, which evoked Ian’s memories of his regular two-wheeled commute.

Kay’s covered several things she loves, including Victoria Park, Marvin Gaye’s I Heard It Through The Grapevine and her family, concluding deftly that she would struggle to compromise any of those loves for romantic love.

Rohan declared his love for “the wide world”, which I’m sure sparked the desire to travel again in many of us.

Adrian concluded the evening with a bravura piece, which I can only describe as an hilarious homoerotic slapstick [did you see what I did there?] fantasy in which he and David were central characters. Most if not all of us were in stitches. Adrian’s performance was a great climax [did you see what else I did there?] to the evening. A real tonic as we start to emerge from this strange and difficult winter.

As always, it’s not just the stories, it is also the company of this wonderful group of people that makes the evening so special. Viva ThreadMash.

FoodCycle, GoodSAM, The Samaritans, 1981 Keele/BBYO Redux & Being Boilered, This Is Lockdown 3.0, 20 February 2021

With thanks to Rachelle Gryn Brettler for snapping us in Rossmore Road, preparing to do our FoodCycle run on a wet winter’s day

We don’t get out much in Lockdown 3.0, other than to buy food and do our charity work.

That is giving me a chance to crack on with my retro-blogging; I’m working through 1995 & 1996 to cover the Ged & Daisy (Ian & Janie) “25 years ago” story. I’m needing to give more thought, though, to the formerly less well-documented, “40 years on” story of my early days at Keele University.

Strangely, 1981 and 2021 seem to have collided, forty years on.

I wrote last summer about my joy at being asked to make our FoodCycle collections from St Paul’s in Rossmore Road…

FoodCycle’s Spiritual Home In Rossmore Road & Other Tales, 24 June 2020

…mentioning the superb tapes Graham Greenglass used to make for me, including quirky numbers such as Rossmore Road by Barry Andrews. I still hum it or sing it more often than not when Daisy and I do FoodCycle from there:

Dreamy use of sax and double bass on that track.

Last week, I wrote up the very weekend during which several visitors descended on Keele and Graham presented me with a few cassettes, including that very track. The piece below is a thumping good read, even if you weren’t there, including an excellent undergraduate recipe for spaghetti bollock-knees:

The Best Pot I Had In Five Years At Keele, i.e. The First Weekend I Tried Cooking In The F Block Lindsay Kitchen, 11 to 15 February 1981

On Wednesday, before Daisy and I did our FoodCycle run, I did an NHS Responder gig to collect a prescription. Strangely the prescription was to be collected at the Tesco Hoover Factory in Greenford. Strange, because also on that little collection of quirky recordings given to me in February 1981 was the song Hoover Factory by Elvis Costello:

So, by some strange quirk of fate, forty years after being given recordings of those two rather obscure (but wonderful) recordings about lesser-known places in West London, I found myself doing charity gigs from those two very places.

I have already written up the ear worm I got from Hoover Factory a few months after first hearing the song:

Uncle Manny’s Funeral & The Hoover Factory, 15 May 1981

But the early 1980s connection this week does not stop there.

While I have been cracking on with the NHS Responder/GoodSAM app as well as FoodCycle, Daisy has been training to become a Samaritan and this week moved on from being a course trainee to becoming a mentee (i.e. doing real sessions with real calls under the supervision of a mentor).

Towards the end of her course, Daisy had been waiting with a little trepidation to find out who her mentor might be. Mentors work closely with their mentees for a few weeks. She knew that it might be one of her course trainers or possibly someone she hadn’t encountered before.

A couple of weeks ago Janie announced that her mentoring instructions had come through and her mentor was a new name to her: Alison Shindler.

GED: Oh, yes, I know Alison Shindler.

DAISY: What do you mean?

GED: She was a leading light in BBYO towards the end of my time there.

DAISY: Might not be the same person…

GED: …Ealing BBYO – bet it is!

Of course it is.

What a pleasant surprise.

Less of a surprise though, after their first session together, is that Alison & Daisy seem to be getting along really well. I’m confident that the mentoring partnership should be a very good one.

Meanwhile Alison has furnished me with a photo from so far back in the day, the biggest surprise is that we were in colour back then:

With thanks to Alison Shindler for this photo

That’s a c17-year-old me turning around, next to me Simon Jacobs who was central to my “going to Keele” story and part of the “cooking weekend”. In the red scarf I thought was Jilly Black (who has remained friends with me, Daisy and Alison throughout those decades – in fact it is a little surprising we haven’t overlapped before now )…but it turns out to be Emma Cohen disguised as Jilly. Opposite Simon is Lauren Sterling plus, slightly upstaged by Simon’s head, Caroline Curtis (then Freeman) who visited me and Simon at Keele the February 1981 weekend following the “cooking” one.

A Short Visit From Caroline To See Me And Simon At Keele, 20 to 22 February 1981

It’s all too weird, in a good way.

But now, after all that excitement, Daisy and I are in temporary exile at the flat. The replacement of the Noddyland boiler has over-run by a day, making Daisy right and me wrong, as usual.

Stock boiler image: neither the actual old nor the actual new boiler

I’ve been grasping for a quirky early 1980s musical connection for a boiler replacement. So my earworm for the tail end of this tale is by that early 1980s mainstay, The Human League – Being Boiled:

A King Cricket Piece Entitled “A 1997 Ridiculous Ashes Podcast Match Report”, 4 February 2021

In February 2021 I took a stroll and listened to The Ridiculous Ashes podcast while so doing. I wrote up the “event” in the style of a King Cricket match report.

In June 2021 King Cricket published that piece:

A 1997 Ridiculous Ashes podcast match report

If anything ever goes awry with the King Cricket site, you can find that piece here instead.

The Unexpected Visitor, ThreadZoomMash Piece, Performed 28 January 2021, Plus A Brief Review Of the Evening

ellenm1, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

David Wellbrook curated this edition of ThreadZoomMash. The brief was to write a piece of fiction, 800-1,000 words, entitled "The Unexpected Visitor". I submitted and performed the following piece.

“What the blithering fuck are you doing here?” said Martin, in a daze-like state, having been disturbed from his intense concentration, staring at nothing much, on his remarkably cluttered coffee table.

“I thought I’d surprise you”, said Mary. “You knew I’d be back”.

“Did I fuck”, exclaimed Martin. “This is totally unexpected. The last thing you said to me, as you left, was that you were never, ever, ever, ever…EVER going to come back.”

“But that was months ago”, Mary whispered, coquettishly, “and it was hardly the first time I walked out on you swearing that I was walking out for the last time.”

“Months! At least 18 months. I thought I was shot of you. I thought I was over you. I mean, I am over you. It’s too late. I’ve moved on. I’ve got a new life. I’ve got a new relationship….”

Mary smiled and chided Martin gently. “No you haven’t Martin. I know you haven’t. You’ve been waiting for my return. And now I am back.”

Mary surveyed all around her in the living room of the pokey Deptford flat that had, for several years, been her home. Martin had lived there for many more years than Mary. Before Mary came on the scene, Martin had been with a woman named Peggy for years. Peggy had broken his heart. That’s all Martin would say about Peggy.

It was impossible to believe that Martin had, in any way, moved on. Apart from an increased amount of dust and general untidiness, the place looked entirely unchanged.

Mary smiled. “Let me tidy up and clean up a bit…”

“…oh no you don’t”, yelled Martin, “you can’t just stroll in as if you’d never been away and take over my life again. Leave me alone!”

Tenderly, Mary coaxed him, as she started to tidy up, “you can’t carry on living like this Martin. Look at the place.” 

Mary tidied for a while, then took out a dress from the chest of drawers, admiring and imagining herself wearing it.  “It’s that second hand Versace dress you bought me. I’d forgotten…it’s so beautiful.”

“Cost me a bloody fortune, that did”, grumbled Martin, “hundreds…”

“…but they cost thousands new, Martin. You were so thrilled when you found it and ordered it on-line. And I was so excited when it arrived. Do you remember?”

“Of course. You looked lovely in it.” Martin’s anger was subsiding.

“Shall I try it on?” asked Mary.

“I suppose so. If you like”, said Martin, quelled. Once Mary had put on the dress, Martin added, “give us a twirl”,

“Let me see if I can find some suitable shoes,” said Mary, rummaging at the bottom of the wardrobe, turning out pairs of shoes, “I don’t think I ever had a pair that quite went with this dress…I don’t suppose you could find a pair of second hand Jimmy Choos on-line to go with my second hand Versace, Martin?”

“Fucking hell, don’t start all that again”, said Martin, the anger welling up inside him once again, “that’s what we rowed over the last time. I was always shelling out money I don’t have, on clothes that you don’t need. I can’t afford you, Mary. I can’t fucking afford you”.

“Oh don’t be like that, Martin”, said Mary in her girlie voice, likely to make Martin even more angry. “I’ll pay towards them if you like”.

“Stop talking rot, Mary. You’ve got no fucking money. We’ve neither of us got any money. You’ve got all these clothes and now you’re talking about buying a pair of Jimmy Frigging Choos. You make me so angry.  You always do this. I want to fucking murder you and then kill myself.”

Martin was really wild with anger now. He started hurling clothes around, stomping around the flat and continuously threatening and hurling abuse at Mary. Mary, for her part, was soon reduced merely to sobbing and pleading with Martin to calm down.

Many minutes into the row, came a knock at the door. “Open up! It’s the police! What’s going on in there? Open up!”

“Now look what you’ve done”, said Martin, “the neighbours have set the police on me. This is all I bloody need.”

Martin opened the door. “Good evening officer…officers”.

Two policemen. One looked about fifteen. The other a bit older.

“May we come in please? The neighbours have reported a domestic incident in this flat and we’d like your co-operation.”

“Yeh, whatever”, said Martin.

“Shall I search for the victim, Boss?”, said the younger cop.

“No, wait a bit, Dan…now, what’s been going on, Mr…”

“Martin…”, blurted Martin, before he started weeping uncontrollably.

The flat was strewn with women’s clothes. Martin was on his hands and knees, wearing a Versace dress, leaving blue mascara tear pools on the formerly oatmeal-coloured carpet.

“You’d better sort yourself out, Martin”, said the older policeman, “because if we get called out here again, we’ll have to charge you and you’ll likely end up with a CBO. This is an informal warning, not a formal caution, but you take it seriously, mate”.

“What about the victim, Boss, the woman?” persevered the inexperienced young copper.

“Martin’s on his own here, Dan. Look at him. What a state. Let’s go.”

“I need help”, said Martin.

Review Of the Evening

There were eleven of us reading on the night. David Wellbrook, ever the soccer football fan, liked the idea of associating us all with members of the recently successful England World Cup winning side (1966). This triggered a memory wave from me earlier in the day, as I know what I was up to on that auspicious day:

The Day The England Football Team Won The World Cup Final, Nunu’s House, 30 July 1966

My memory piece also elicited a memory from Kay, which I felt upstaged my story in drama and brevity:

Your delicious Ogblog has reminded me that Uncle Bob came to watch the match at our house. Drink was taken. Bob was holding my baby brother on his lap for that last 30 minutes. The goal was scored. Bob leapt to his feet and threw baby brother in the air.
Luckily, dad caught him.

For his part, David allocated roles to each of us, in diagram form, which indicated the running order.

I was delighted to be cast as the controversial, hat-trick scoring No 10. Wikipedia introduced me to the juicier elements of that goal-scoring, but it wasn’t my new-found knowledge that amazed most of the group but fact that I didn’t know every detail of those controversial goals in the first place.

Jill, who might be forgiven for not knowing anything about the topic at all given her relative youth and the fact that she was raised in China, turns out to be one of the world’s leading experts on Bobby Moore. OK, I exaggerate for effect, but she had learnt about him as part of her UK citizenship programme, which is clearly oriented towards the really important stuff. Rohan should really write a book about that sort of thing.

Anyway.

The stories were diverse as always, despite the seemingly straightforward title. Several of the pieces had animals as the unexpected visitor; we had a spider, birds and a mouse, in Ian Theodoreson’s story, guest published separately on Ogblog here:

Ian Theodoreson’s The Unexpected Visitor From ThreadZoomMash, 28 January 2021

Jill’s story appeared also to have a mouse, but it turned out to be a visitor from four-dimensional space who figured that a small talking mouse-like manifestation might be less scary to humans than the alternatives.

There were several stories that revolved around death, including a murder and one story which included a birth. Covid was only mentioned a couple of times in the evening.

We went into extra time to arrange the next event, which includes a slightly convoluted “shuffling of the pack” which seemed to be confounding everyone until Jill turned out to be an expert on Google Docs as well a leading authority on Bobby Moore and four-dimensional space.

8-cell-simple

Dumbo, One Of The Unsung Heroes Of The Pandemic Volunteer Effort, Reflects On 2020, 1 January 2021

Dumbo: seriously cool…and honest

Dumbo The Suzuki Jimny is an occasional writer, here on Ogblog and also at King Cricket. Dumbo’s writings are more widely read than those of most automobiles. Dumbo only ever refers to me as Ged and to Janie as Daisy. Why Dumbo has chosen to write a “review of the year” public message is a mystery, but 2020 was a strange year in so many ways.

2020 started badly for me. I acquired a squeak that would not go away. It was incredibly loud and hugely embarrassing – heads would turn in the street at the sound of me coming and going.

A huge team at my car hospital struggled to get to the bottom of it. Ged and Daisy started dropping hints about my possible retirement. It got as bad as that.

Eventually, just before lockdown, thank goodness Derek, Colin, & Marlon performed a pioneering operation on my viscera, which solved my problem.

Ged & Daisy Go South On A FoodCycle Made For Two, 2 May 2020

Just as well I got better in mid March, because within a few weeks I was being called upon to do voluntary work.

In theory I was on call for NHS Volunteer Responders from early in the pandemic, but no gigs were coming through at first. So Ged and Daisy signed us up to do FoodCycle gigs once or twice a week, which we have continued to do throughout the pandemic.

My copious rear (as Ged describes it) comes in pretty handy, especially for the FoodCycle gigs.

Finally We Really Are NHS Responders, 19 May 2020

It wasn’t long before the NHS Volunteer Responder gigs started to come through as well. That and FoodCycle kept us really busy through spring, summer and into the autumn.

Just occasionally, it got a bit much; like the time the NHS Volunteer Responder app went into overdrive…

…And Then, For No Apparent Reason, The Volunteering Went Into Overdrive, 15 & 17 July 2020

…and the time Daisy inadvertently switched on the voice recognition for the FoodCycle Circuit Teams app and mentioned Madagascar…

White City To East Acton Via North Kensington…& Madagascar!, FoodCycle, 2 August 2020

Ged was busy with work the last few weeks of the year, so we did a bit less volunteering in the run up to Christmas, but during that time the pandemic got a lot worse again and the need out there started to rocket up, so we started NHS Volunteer Responding again on Christmas Day and have done lots of gigs since.

My proudest moment of the year was just a few days ago, when Ged and I went to the Co-op on Hanger Hill to get some shopping for a person who is having to isolate. (There seem to be a lot of those at the moment.)

Three young fellas from the Tesla Show Room & Shop around the corner came out of the Co-op just before Ged came out with the shopping. The young fellas stopped to admire me and one of them said, “I think these cars are pretty cool”. Ged overheard him and said, “seriously cool, not just pretty cool”.

So I don’t think Ged & Daisy will be dropping hints about my retirement again any time soon. I think we’re going to be pretty busy with NHS Volunteer Responding & FoodCycle for the next few months at least.

Which is pretty seriously cool.

A Zoom With Julia Tisdall, Gerry Goddin’s Distant Cousin, 23 December 2020

It’s The Ogblog wot done it.

When I reported on the sad death of Gerry Goddin back in August and then subsequently Gerry’s funeral in October…

Gerry Goddin’s Funeral, Hoop Lane Crematorium, 15 October 2020

…it didn’t occur to me that there might be someone out there looking for the name Goddin for genealogical purposes. Not least because the search for any next of kin for Gerry had been in vain.

But a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue, I received a note from Julia Tisdall, writing to me from Australia, whose great-grandfather was the brother of Gerry’s grandmother.

That makes Julia and Gerry second cousins once removed. (Some of my favourite people are my second cousins once removed).

Forgive the pun, Julia, but a second cousin once removed in the antipodes is a distant cousin in more ways than one.

Anyway, point is, Julia was thrilled and saddened to have found this connection but in such an unfortunate context. Here is an extract from her lovely note:

My great grandfather (Gertrude’s Brother) sailed to New Zealand back in 1913 and settled in Dunedin. 5 years later his sister Gertrude died of the Spanish Flu at only 32 years of age.

I suspect this was when my forebears lost touch with Gertrude’s husband and young son (Gerry’s father) Robert Percy Wilfred Goddin.

I am so grateful to see Gerry in Rainy Day Fellas. What a gem that is.

 It took my breath away, 1 , because it is so beautiful and 2 because the close up of Gerry’s hand strumming looked identical to my grandfather’s hand strumming.

For anyone reading this who hasn’t seen the video of Rainy Day Fellas, one of Gerry’s songs which was recorded a few years ago with Donna Macfadyen singing beautifully and Gerry himself accompanying on guitar:

“Rainy Day Fellas” (Live) from D-Sav on Vimeo.

Julia said that she would like to speak, so, one thing led to another and I managed to persuade Julia, who was until yesterday a “Zoom virgin”, to join a few of us on a Zoom call.

I was really glad that John Random,  Caroline Am Bergris and Graham Robertson were able to join the call. I didn’t feel I knew Gerry all that well; I don’t suppose any of us really knew Gerry well, but between us we knew Gerry from various aspects of his life these past 30 years or so.

Not just the NewsRevue part (although all of us are NewsRevue alums) but also Caroline’s long association with Gerry in the matter of poems and songs. I think/hope we were able to give Julia a fairly rounded picture.

And talking of pictures, John has rescued a few lovely pictures from Gerry’s flat, which I was able to share on the screen. Here are a couple of examples plus a third picture which is a link to a Flickr album with all 11 of the pictures:

GERRY GODDIN HEAD AND SHOULDERS AS A LITTLE BOY

So we were able to share a fair bit of information. Julia informed us that the family were to be found at 1 Ravenhill Road, Upton Park in the 1911 census. Not only did Gerry’s dad lose his mother to Spanish flu as a small boy, but Gerry’s own mum, Mona, died when Gerry was only six. By then they lived in Fairbank Street, Shoreditch, which I think has now been absorbed by the Provost Estate in now trendy Hoxton/Shoreditch.

The highlight of the 80 minute session, for me, was the moment when Julia picked up a guitar and played us a few bars of Rainy Day Fellas, with aplomb.

But actually the whole session was a highlight. I think everyone enjoyed the time together and we hope to have another session in the not too distant future. I know that Caroline, Helen and David are looking at some of Gerry’s other songs and trying to work out what to do with them. Once there is a bit of progress with that, it would be super to regroup with Julia and possibly some other members of her antipodean family.

In these difficult times, a bit of good news like this is something to hold on to. And while our lives comprise far too much Zoom and Teams, with far too little human contact (apart from funerals and queuing outside shops)…

…happenings of this kind make me realise that communications technologies – the Ogblogging, the ability to connect with people through social media, Zoom etc. – does enable many things that wouldn’t have happened otherwise at all.

Which makes me just a little optimistic that the post-pandemic new normal might just be the best of the too-virtual world we inhabit just now and the real world social contacts we crave.

On that positive note, season’s greetings to all readers.

Z/Yen’s Virtual Christmas Song Lyric, December 2020

This was written 6/7 December 2020 and performed virtually on 17 December 2020 at Z/Yen’s virtual seasonal event.

Note to self – communal singing doesn’t work by TEAMS or Zoom. It’s a latency thing.

DO THEY KNOW IT’S Z/YEN’S VIRTAL CHRISTMAS?

MICHAEL It’s Christmas time, Z/Yen has gathered virtually;
At Christmas time, enlightenment is on the screen.


MIKE And in our world of webclaves, we can spread a smile of joy;
Webinars around the world, at Christmas time.


LINDA But you recall, when we were in one place;
At Christmas time…


ALEX …we’d all gather face-to face.
There’s a world outside your window, that’s in a Covid wave again;


PETER Where the only liquid flowing, is the Dettol and D10.


JULIET And the Christmas bells that ring out, are the viral chimes of doom,


MORGAN Well tonight thank God it’s Teams, instead of Zoom.


SIMON And there won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas time,
At least they can’t blame climate change down there.


IAN Oooh.


ELISABETH To Lothbury no-one goes, Z/Yen’s door is always closed,
Do they know Z/Yen still exists at all?


IAN INSTRUMENTAL RIFF 1


BIKASH Here’s to you;


BEN Raise a glass for everyone.


MATTHEW Here’s to them;


HUGH In that massive atrium.


JANIE Do they know Z/Yen still exists at all?


IAN: INSTRUMENTAL RIFF 2


IAN: INSTRUMENTAL RIFF 3


CHAOS…CHORUS – ALL: Teams Z/Yen’s chorus
Sing Z/Yen’s Christmas song remotely
Zoom Z/Yen’s chorus
Z/Yen’s not choral, not remotely.


[REPEAT CHAOS…CHORUS AD NAUSEUM]

Here is a link to the riffs.

ThreadCrushes, My Turn To Curate ThreadZoomMash, I Chose The Topic “Crushes”, 16 December 2020

This ThreadZoomMash is dedicated to the late Professor Mike Smith

Part One Introduction: Medieval Crushes

I chose the topic “crushes” by happenstance. Just before lockdown 2.0, while I was pondering my choice of topic, a couple of old friends and acquaintances, out of the blue, unprompted, confided in me about crushes they’d harboured when we were all a lot younger.

The topic of crushes resonated with me as a rich source of story telling.

It also resonated with my love of medieval music. Without going into too much detail as to why and wherefore, most medieval secular love songs are about unrequited love. The story formula is a simple one – as my music teacher Ian Pittaway puts it – “she is perfect…; I am hopelessly in love with her; she doesn’t want me; I am heart-broken”.

Here is a song I am working on at the moment: Puis Que Je Suy Amoureux. A late 14th century song attributed to Richard Loqueville of Cambrai. Allow me to sing you the first verse and then translate it.

Since I am in love
With you, gracious, gentle one,
I never feel pain
I am so blissfully joyful.

Thus I wish to continue dreaming
Of serving you according to my design
Since I am in love…

[Love gives to lovers
Hope, sweet and pleasant.
Now my heart is waiting
For your gracious glance,]
Since I am in love…

Translation by Asteria – below I have embedded their delightful, professional rendering of this beautiful song:

Part Two Introduction: Primary Crushes

It was not my intention to write a crush story myself. That is not normally the way with the role of ThreadMash curator. But events since I set the topic of crushes have led me to a memory flash of my very first crush.

Here’s the story of how the memory flash and that primary crush came about.

Very sadly, my friend and work colleague of more than 25 years, Professor Mike Smith, died suddenly and totally unexpectedly on 12 November. It was Mike who, six years ago, encouraged me to start playing the four-string guitar. Janie and I had formed a bond with Mike and his young family over the years.

On the last day of Lockdown 2.0, we went to Mike’s funeral. We learnt for the first time many things about Mike’s earlier life.

I knew that Mike originally came from Montgomery Alabama and I knew that Mike had very strong views against prejudice. But I didn’t know that, in the late 1960s, pint-sized Mike had tackled the racist bullies at Alabama State University, befriending black people and bravely taking on the segregationists.

I also didn’t know that, as a youngster, Mike had liked the song Red River Valley, which the celebrant at the funeral then duly played to the congregation of mourners.

At the sound of that song, I was transported back to the late 1960s myself, to when I was seven; thoughts of my fourth year primary school teacher, Miss Brown.

I loved her and she was clearly very fond of me. I did extremely well that year in school. Miss Brown introduced me to Tudor history, a subject that has fascinated me since. She encouraged my writing.

By the time you get to your fourth year of primary school, you have got used to the idea that you will move on to a different class with a different teacher the next academic year. But Miss Brown dropped a bombshell towards the end of the summer term that year; she was going to be leaving the school altogether.

I was devastated. I wasn’t merely going to be in another class. I wasn’t going to see her again. I felt abandoned.

That year, I had been given as a present a small collection of remaindered records, known as Beano Records. Most of the records are dramatised stories for children with famous English theatrical performers peppered with classical music to provide additional dramatic frisson to the stories. But one of the records, incongruously, is a collection of Cowboy Songs.

One of those cowboy songs is Red River Valley, which had caught my ear around the time I learnt that Miss Brown was to abandon me. I played that song over and over, wallowing in the sentiment of it. I became determined to learn Red River Valley and sing it to Miss Brown on the last day of school.

Eventually I told mum about my plan. Mum gently dissuaded me from that particular idea. I think she encouraged me instead to take a small gift together with a note of thanks and farewell to Miss Brown. I expect mum maintained strict editorial control over the content of the note.

With the benefit of hindsight, that might have been the one occasion in my life when mum’s intervention in my romantic ideals was unquestionably for the best.

There are many versions of Red River Valley, but one of the most charming verses (absent from the rather corny Beano recording, which you can hear through the sound file below)…

Red River Valley, performed by an uncredited “real Texas cowboy”

…is an unrequited love lyric, the third verse of the version I’m about to play. Very similar to the Puis Que Je Suy Amoureux unrequited love lyric, written some 500 years earlier.

It’s 50 years since I learnt, but didn’t sing, Red River Valley for Miss Brown.

It is now time.

It’s easy to play on the four string guitar, which Mike Smith encouraged me to play.

So, this rendition is for Miss Brown and for Mike Smith:

Red River Valley

Oh they say from this valley you’re leaving
We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile
And they say that you’re taking the sunshine
That has brightened our pathway a while

Won’t you think of the valley you’re leaving
Oh how lonesome, how sad it will be
And remember the Red River Valley
And the grief that you’re causing to me

For a long time my darling I’ve waited
For the sweet words you never would say
Now at last all my fond hopes have vanished
For they say that you’re going away

Come and sit by my side if you love me
Do not hasten to bid me adieu
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the cowboy that loved you so true

Postscript: The Evening

Ten of us gathered. Eight contributors, me in my capacity as curator/master of ceremonies, plus Rohan Candappa.

The Part One running order was:

  • Jan
  • Adrian
  • Jill
  • Geraldine

The Part Two running order was:

  • Coats Bush (Terry)
  • Auntie Viral (Kay)
  • Fabian Tights (David)
  • Arfur Pig (Ian T)

(The nicknames is a long story. Ask Rohan).

We had a good 30 to 40 minutes after the readings to discuss the contributions and all sorts of other stuff.

From my point of view it was a great evening and I thoroughly enjoyed the role of curator. Not that i would want to curate the evening every time, but my hand is certainly up to curate again.

ThreadZoomMash Celebrity Edition, Siddharta by Hermann Hesse In My Case, Plus Lots More Fascinating Contributions, 16 November 2020

Tonight, another of Rohan Candappa’s left-field ideas. Choose one page from any book of your own choosing; explain your choice and read out that page.

I railed against the Desert Island Discs idea a few months ago…

Desert Island Diatribe, A Performance Piece For ThreadZoomMash, Plus A Review Of the Evening,29 July 2020

…do I even need to explain that “choose just one page to read” meets a similarly febrile emotional push-back in my mind.

But I quite quickly settled on Hermann Hesse as my choice of author. George Elliot and Hermann Hesse are the only authors about whom I decided, on reading one novel, that I simply must try to read everything this person wrote.

Hesse’s novels are extraordinary and quite exceptional. I commend all of his novels to you. Steppenwolf and The Glass Bead Game are mind-blowing, but possibly not the place to start with Hesse’s work.

My first Hesse read was Demian. I picked up that novel, pretty much by chance, in a remaindered bookshop on the Charing Cross Road in the mid 1980s. Some of the fictional conversations in that book reminded me of conversations I’d enjoyed with Anil Biltoo, the school pal with whom I went to Mauritius in 1979 and through whom I met Fuzz, the subject of my first ThreadMash piece.

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

Hesse’s evident fascination with Eastern philosophies and my desire to read more about them took me next to Siddharta. There are two parts to the book; I am going to read you the few hundred words that conclude Part One; a point at which Siddharta reaches a spiritual awakening such that he is, in a sense, reborn in Part Two.

I don’t personally believe in reincarnation, but I did feel a shiver down my spine while researching this preamble, when I read Hermann Hesse’s Wikipedia entry. Hesse died on 9 August 1962. That was the day that Anil Biltoo was born.

Anil Biltoo. Click here or the picture for the Project Gutenberg public domain version of Siddhartha in English

The Events Of The Evening

I went first, so (apart from a short introduction by Rohan before I did my bit), this piece is sequenced in running order sequence.

Kay went next. She read The Owl-Critic by James Thomas Fields, reading from a charming anthology she has kept from primary school. Kay might chime in with the details of the anthology, but I’m guessing it is out of print and hard to find. She had peppered the poem with musical notation as a child, which was a charming additional detail.

Flo read Last Of the MetroZoids by Adam Gopnik. It is a very moving piece about the art historian, Kirk Varnedoe, coaching a boys football team while dying of cancer. It is a very moving piece, which Flo read beautifully.

Next up was Jan, who (Rohan suggested) wanted to style herself as Constance DeVereaux this evening…perhaps an in-joke between “spice”. Anyway, Jan read from Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (another book available in the public domain through Project Gutenberg). She read the bit where Jo sacrifices her glorious head of hair to raise money for the family.

Ian Theodorson read a passage from East Of Eden by John Steinbeck (link is to Wikipedia entry, as the book is still in copyright). Ian preambled his reading by explaining some of the biblical references/allusions involved, not least the Cain & Abel story from the Old Testament.

Then a brief half-time discussion. The topic that got the most coverage was about Little Women and books of that kind, specifically whether there is an equivalent literary genre that helps young men to understand their romantic emotions. We concluded that there is seemingly no such genre.

We then had an actual half-time break, but there was no evidence of anyone eating cut up pieces of orange. Nor, mercifully, did Rohan try to motivate us with glib words and phrases such as “momentum”, “play as a unit”, “give it 120%” or “leave it all out there on the Zoom screen”.

There was then a euphemism-fest, using terms such as “recharging my gadget”, when it was clear that people wanted a toilet break.

I used that time as an opportunity to show those who remained my proud collection of decomposing Pooh.

When it comes to decomposing Pooh…if you’ve got it, flaunt it.

Rohan kicked off the second half by reciting the lyric of What A Fool Believes by Michael McDonald & Kenny Loggins. There’s a bit of involuntary threading in there, as Kenny Loggins also famously produced Return To Pooh Corner, including Loggins song House At Pooh Corner. It’s a fabulous lyric which I looked at a year or two ago with a view to giving it the troubadour treatment; I might just about be able to sing it now.

John read a nerve-jangling passage from Touching the Void by Joe Simpson. It is a heart-stopping true story about a pair of mountaineers in the Andes who survived a disaster in almost-impossible circumstances. It was made into a much-lauded documentary film some years after the book came out.

Jill read a passage from The Book Of Human Emotions by Tiffany Watt Smith. She read the piece about amae, a Japanese emotion which is hard to translate into English. “It means something like the pleasure that you get when you’re able to temporarily hand over responsibility for your life to someone else”, to quote Tiffany herself from this rather fascinating interview with her about the book.

Adrian read an hilarious piece from March Of the Lemmings: Brexit In Print & Performance 2016-2019 by Stewart Lee. The passage Adrian read was a sequence of thank you letters to brexity aunts for their brexity Christmas presents. I learnt that we should all have an Anderson shelter for Brexit; who knew?

Terry read a passage from The Big Book: Alcoholics Anonymous: The Story of How More Than One Hundred Men Have Recovered from Alcoholism, explaining after his reading, in no uncertain terms, that this book saved his life.

Geraldine read us three Robert Frost poems. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but it has dawned on me the morning after, that The Road Not Taken, one of Frost’s best known and most debated poems, is a fascinating echo of the East Of Eden “free will” debate regarding the Cain & Abel story from Ian T’s reading. Geraldine read one other poem the title/detail of which has escaped me (she might chime in with the title), plus The Gift Outright, which Frost recited in person at John F Kennedy’s inauguration.

Perhaps they should book Stewart Lee to recite some fitting words for the outgoing president at Joe Biden’s inauguration, if the narcissist-in-chief bothers to show up.

After the event, a few of us stuck around for some further discussion, although it soon descended into weird debates about matters such as the relative merits of Michael Mcdonald & Malcolm MacDonald, two people who are surely very hard to distinguish from one another.

I have had this problem myself in my time. Who hasn’t?

Just one more parting thought, brought to mind by the thought of stories we loved as children and our parents’ influence. I am blessed to still have many recordings of my parents reading to me. I have several still to go through and upload to Ogblog, but one in particular, from when I was five, remains charming and is a complete story. I uploaded it a few years ago and several friends told me that they have played it many times over to their children. Hare And Guy Fawkes by Alison Uttley:

Hare And Guy Fawkes, Daddy Reading To Me, 5 November 1967