The Tale Of Beany & Baggy, Virtual ThreadMash Performance Piece, 22 April 2020

The picture above shows Kay, who hosted the evening, top left, reading her piece at the Virtual Threadmash. In normal times Threadmash is held at The Glad, but these are unprecedented times. Chris wrote a poem about the evening during the evening and Rohan presented a short, stray piece about nicknames. Eight of us prepared and presented pieces for the evening, either on the theme Charlotte Thomas (I didn’t present my text piece on that topic) or on the theme of soft furnishings. Below is the text of my soft furnishings piece.

Before Beany and Baggy…

…what a strange sense that phase has to me; “before Beany and Baggy”…

…I can barely envisage Janie’s place without Beany and Baggy.

But of course there was a before.

There is photographic evidence from before. I even took a photograph myself of “before”:

There’s Janie. The year is 1994. And look; there is an array of floor cushions; quite nice ones. But not Beany and Baggy.

That picture was taken before.

Here’s how it was. Before Beany and Baggy, there were floor cushions. Several floor cushions. For a great many years, Janie had been content, nay, even happy, with that array of floor cushions. Here is a picture from the mid 1980s. Same Sandall Close living room, same floor cushions.

But, early in 1996, something must have changed in Janie’s brain. Those floor cushions were lacking something; they were no longer sufficient to satisfy Janie’s need for large scale soft furnishings suitable for sitting, reclining or lying around upon.

There are rough scribblings as early as January in Janie’s 1996 diary that indicate, to my razor-sharp, investigative writer’s brain, that soft furnishing schemes were on the march in Janie’s mind. Ikea. World of Leather. Just the odd name and/or telephone number. Then the diary paper trail runs cold.

But Janie remembers clearly where and roughly when she acquired Beany & Baggy.

“I saw an advert in a magazine for gigantic, armchair-like beanbags. I really liked the look of them, size and shape-wise, but the advertised ones were all garish colours. I phoned the vendor, who turned out to be a Greek-Cypriot gentleman named Costas, to ask him if he had any of those armchair-like beanbags in black.

Costas said that he didn’t have any black ones in stock, but he was expecting a new consignment any day which would include black ones. He said he’d call me when they arrived and he did call me back quite soon. Costas’s shop was in Richmond, near a shop I wanted to visit anyway to get a garment to wear at Michael and Elisabeth’s wedding…”

That’s how we know that Beany and Baggy entered our lives in the spring of 1996. Back to Janie…

“I had intended to buy just one giant bean bag, but Costas was a persuasive salesman and offered me a very good price for taking two. When you came over on the Friday, you said I’d made a mistake buying two, because the pair of them seemed to dominate the living room. I was already thinking along those lines. But you named them Beany and Baggy and we both soon got used to the idea of them”.

Yes, I did name them. I do have a tendency to name our possessions and bestow anthropomorphic characteristics upon them. My road trip in Dumbo The Suzuki Jimny with Ivan Meagreheart The Smart Phone and Benjy The Baritone Ukulele, as documented in my Brummy version of The Sound And The Fury being the apotheosis of that genre.

But I digress.

Beany and Baggy don’t actually speak, but they do make sneery noises, usually when Janie and I address either of them by name, implying that we have got the two characters mixed up. Our hit rate for guessing the right name is so bad, precisely 0% over 24 years at the time of writing, Janie and I are starting to think that these rebukes might just be a little game that Beany and Baggy play with us.

Anyway, after their arrival in 1996, the next 15 years were Beany and Baggy’s glory years. They had pride of place in the living room, where they were the first port of call for us to flop into and relax after a hard day or week’s work.

And it wasn’t just Janie’s and my rump that graced Beany and Baggy back then. Janie’s living room was also the waiting room for her surgery and there were high-falutin’ folk who could not resist the charms of Beany and Baggy.

Perhaps the most high profile rump that regularly graced the cool black leather of Beany and Baggy was the late, great actress Anna Massey.

Coincidentally, Janie and I saw Anna Massey play Queen Elisabeth I in Mary Stuart at the National Theatre in the spring of 1996, around the time that Janie first took custody of Beany and Baggy.

According to Janie, it was Anna Massey’s habit to arrive early for her appointment and she was keen to sit in Beany or Baggy, even towards the end of her life, by which time she needed Janie to help her out of the squashy armchair, be it Beany or Baggy, once Janie was ready for her.

It wasn’t all the celebrity lifestyle and relaxation with me and Janie though, even in the glory years. Both Beany and Baggy had their struggles with anorexia. Frankly, both of them got quite saggy after a few years.

Mercifully, Janie’s best friend Kim is a highly-regarded surgeon in the soft furnishings world (and indeed in the world of cuddly toys), so a quick visit to Kim’s Hospital; then Beany and Baggy were no longer saggy, indeed they were both really quite portly again.

Here’s the only picture I could find of me and Janie with Beany and Baggy in their pride of place position in that Sandall Close living room.

Really perceptive readers will spot three pairs of hands in that picture – Kim is hiding behind us holding up the embarrassing pom-pom things. Even more perceptive readers will notice the well-hung painting, top left. Rumours that I was my father’s model for that picture are, I regret to say, fake news.

Of course, all wonderful things come to an end. Janie moved from Sandall Close to Noddyland in the summer of 2011. Anna Massey never saw Noddyland; she died just a couple of weeks after we moved there.

Beany and Baggy nearly missed out on Noddyland too. At first there was still work going on in the house and very little room for soft furnishings – they sat stacked on top of each other in whichever room wasn’t being worked upon.

Janie even suggested that Kim might like them for her workplace, Theme Traders once the new furniture arrived. Kim demurred, Beanie and Baggy were too special; she suggested that we should find room upstairs for them both.

Kim was right.

Now one of them lives in the bedroom, under the telly…the other one lives in the spare room.

Beany…or is it Baggy…in the bedroom

It’s a sort of semi-retirement for them both. Janie occasionally sits on Beany…or is it Baggy?…in the bedroom.

In truth no-one these days tends to sit on Baggy…or is it Beany?…in the spare room.

They are sort of living back-to-back now, in closer proximity than they were before. Less than two meters. Not sure if it counts as social distancing what with the wall‘n’all. So they live separately yet together, very close and unquestionably a couple. Janie and I can relate to that.

If only we could work out which one is Beany and which one is Baggy.

The Night Of Charlotte Thomas, My Piece For ThreadMash Six, 31 March 2020

Is it really only a few weeks ago that we were still gathering in a crowded room above a pub to eat, drink, socialise and deliver our ThreadMash Five pieces to an eager audience of ourselves and others?

Yup.

But in these unprecedented times (oh boy am I becoming sick of hearing that phrase, “unprecedented times”) the only way we can ThreadMash is remotely.

So that’s what we did.

The brief for TheadMash 6 was set at ThreadMash 5. Rohan waved a leather-bound notebook emblazoned with the name “Charlotte Thomas” at us. Rohan had bought that notebook cheap in Paperchase on the Strand. Someone had ordered it before Christmas but had not turned up to collect it. “Who was Charlotte Thomas?”, Rohan wondered. The brief was simply to write a short story that addressed that question.

Eight of us have written Charlotte Thomas pieces. Four of us addressed the mystery of Charlotte’s leather-bound notebook in our stories.

Here is my story, steeped in the experience Janie and I had volunteering for Crisis At Christmas. The character, Sharla, is based on several of the vibrant characters we met at Crisis. As far as we know, none of them were actually named Charlotte Thomas in real life, but then again, you never know!

THE NIGHT OF CHARLOTTE THOMAS

The karaoke was in full swing. Not the best karaoke we’d ever heard, frankly. But also not the worst.  This was not your semi-professional karaoke of regular singers hoping to be spotted. This was impromptu karaoke. Informal, party, Christmas night, karaoke.

We heard one of the guests belt out Delilah, rather well, in a strong Middle-Eastern accent. Then we heard another guest belt out My Way…badly. Daisy and I couldn’t see the karaoke. We were in earshot, well within earshot, but we were on duty and had to remain at our post.

Then we heard Sharla sing. We didn’t know that she was called Sharla at that juncture, of course, nor did we yet know what she looked like, but we did know that the quality of the singing had gone up several notches, above and beyond the Delilah guy.

“…I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key, If I’d known…”

Daisy gave me one of her “I’m impressed” looks. I responded with my “too right” nod.  I wished that I could go and have a look over the balcony to see this singer, but that would have meant breaking the rules and leaving my post. I wasn’t about to do that.

About five minutes after I Will Survive had finished, a pint-sized, super-confident-seeming female guest came up to our station and engaged me and Daisy in conversation.  Sharla was only one or two words into her husky, deep-voiced opening gambit with us and we both knew we were being visited by that singer.

In truth, Sharla had taken a shine to Daisy, not really to me, although she seemed interested in both of us once she learnt that we were not just a duty pair, but an actual couple in real life. At this stage, Sharla pretty much asked all the questions and Daisy provided most of the answers.

Soon after Sharla moved on, Daisy and I were reallocated to a different station; ground floor. It was getting late by then, perhaps midnight, but quite a few guests were still milling about.

We chatted with several interesting people down there, before hearing the unmistakable sound of Sharla singing. The karaoke had long since finished. These were snatches of songs, mixed in with chatter. 

“Pull up to my bumper baby, In your…every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little…”

Daisy complimented Sharla’s singing again and asked her if she’d ever considered singing for a living. Sharla told Daisy that she wasn’t the first person to have asked her that question.

Later, Daisy and I were advised to wrap up warm for front door duty.  Now about 2.00 or 3.00 a.m., Boxing Day morning, gosh it was cold out there. A few guests still hanging out, some having a smoke, others just having a chat. Sharla appeared around the corner, a large mango in each hand. She told anyone who’d listen that a local 24 hour shop had given them to her. She vehemently denied the suggestion that she might have “liberated” them without the shopkeeper’s consent.

Sharla seemed in her element outside; indeed she told us that she was so used to rough sleeping, that she felt more in her element outside than inside at that hour. 

Sharla must have spotted that I was feeling cold – at least Daisy had been given a padded hi-vis jacket to wear, I just had one of the flimsy ones…

…Sharla darted inside and badgered one of the indoor volunteers, who was wearing a fleecy hi-vis, to swap with me.

“Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you, Sharla”, I said, wondering why I hadn’t thought to take that action myself.

“I’m very grateful to you volunteers”, said Sharla, “unlike some of the fucking dickheads around here. I’ve seen some of ‘em being so fucking rude, it’s a fucking disgrace. I was in a bad mood last night, but I’m never that fucking rude to volunteers. I’m ‘avin’ the best night ever tonight”.

Outside, Sharla opened up to Daisy more than before. Sharla talked about her disorganised upbringing and the similarly chaotic upbringing to which she had subjected her own children. She talked about the drugs and the prostitution and the rough sleeping. She talked about her family in Jamaica and her desire to visit them. Not all of Sharla’s stories quite stacked up, nor were they all entirely consistent with each other. But all her stories were eye-opening.

“You have led a fascinating life”, said Daisy, “you should write your stories down and get them published.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that”, said Sharla.  “In fact, just last week, down by the Strand, I was talking to a nice gentleman and he said just that. He said he’d buy me a leather-bound writing book with my name on the front as a Christmas present. He even wrote down my full name and made me spell it out for him. Charlotte Thomas”.

“Ah, Sharla stands for Charlotte”, said Daisy, “our niece is called Charlotte.”

“Nice,” said Sharla, “anyway, that nice gentleman never showed up with my present.”

“Maybe he’ll show up with your present after Christmas,” said Daisy.

“Nah,” said Sharla. I knew he wouldn’t and I know he won’t. People make promises like that all the time, but they don’t really mean ‘em.”

We didn’t see Sharla again for the next few hours. We were on various dormitory floor duties and Charlotte Thomas was clearly not one for using the Crisis beds.

The last time we saw Sharla was at about 7:00 in the morning on our last duty; near the entrance, making sure that incoming daytime volunteers and wandering guests all went in the right directions. We replaced another pair who very quietly pointed to a sleeping Sharla, sitting in a chair, her upper body sprawled out across the table, fast asleep. “She pretty much fell asleep mid-sentence while talking to us”, a grinning volunteer told us, in a whisper.

And there slept Sharla…Charlotte Thomas, for the rest of our shift. The arms of Morpheus had finally got her, just when most of the other guests were getting up and starting to mill around again. What was Charlotte Thomas dreaming about, I wondered? Such a life she leads, so many stories she has. She really could do with that writing book. Maybe that nice gentleman really will turn up on the Strand with her gift after Christmas.

Chris Stanton: Absurdist & Realist, A Personal Tribute, 9 March 2020

With thanks to John Random for the 1992 pictures, such as the one above.

It was with great sadness, although not surprise, that I learnt, on 11 March, that Chris Stanton has died. He had been battling and eventually reconciling himself with terminal cancer for a couple of years. It was a fitting coincidence that I learnt of his demise, through the NewsRevue alum community (specifically, via Chris Rowe), as I came off the real tennis court at Lord’s.

I first met Chris at the Canal Cafe Theatre in the spring of 1992, when I started writing for NewsRevue and while Chris was performing in John Random’s Spring 1992 run of the show.

Chris Stanton was the very first professional performer to deliver my lyrics to a paying audience. A rather morbid number, entitled California Here I Go:

Not one of my best, but one of my first…and my goodness, a performer of Chris’s quality could make the most of whatever material he was given.

That cast: Sarah Swingler, Ian Angus Wilkie, Chris Stanton, Sonia Beck

Later that run, the cast, with Chris Stanton up front and exceptional, performed another of mine, You Can’t Hurry Trusts. A much better – indeed still relevant – lyric for a topical satirical review, though I say so myself:

Chris Stanton’s professional career continued to thrive and take off as the 1990s went on…as did mine of course, but his was a performing career whereas my career was a more conventional one. I saw little of him for 20 or so years after our involvement with NewsRevue waned, by the end of the 1990s.

Chris was reluctant to join us at Ivan Shakespeare Memorial Dinners, although he did perhaps turn up once or twice in the early part of the 20th century.

Coincidentally, our paths crossed again some 20 years after Chris’s involvement with NewsRevue ceased, in 2016, when I took up real tennis at Lord’s and ran into Chris in the dedans gallery.

I, beginner.

Real tennis is a wonderful game, still played virtually unchanged since medieval times, ideal for those with a sense of comedy. As I said back in 2016:

real tennis is such a weird game, the rules could easily have emanated from a John Random sketch describing a fictitious game of John’s imagining.

Unless you are very gifted at the game (which I am not and Chris was only a little more gifted than me), you have to be prepared to look absurd at times, the game is so complex and confounding. Yet addictive.

I did write up my first on court encounter with Chris, en passant in 2016.

Real tennis players are sometimes referred to as “realists” but I think there is an “absurdist” element to it for us comedy types. I especially enjoyed saying, panto-style, “it’s behind you” to Chris, if he ended up (as oft we do) confounded by the eventual landing point of that hand-made, not-quite-round ball in that crazily-shaped court. Ironically, of course, Chris was doing a fair bit of panto in recent years, before he was taken ill.

We are a geeky lot too, so “the book” for real tennis scores is a global database that records the results of every match. Here is my head-2-head of recorded games with Chris; he will have given me handicap points in each of these matches; fewer as the years went on:

Final score: Stanton 3 matches to Harris 2 matches. I could have been a contender…

I didn’t know why I hadn’t seen Chris for a while – I thought he might just have been busy with work or off games with an injury – until I ran into him at Lord’s last summer on a test match day and he explained to me (with some surprise that I didn’t know) that he had lung cancer (one of the non-smoker varieties), was undergoing treatment but was probably just staving off the inevitable. By that time, Chris seemed reconciled, I’d even say at peace, with his fate. Certainly that was the way he presented me with the facts of the matter.

My last memory of spending time with him will be an abiding one and speaks volumes about the man. Towards the end of last summer, we had a 40th anniversary party for NewsRevue at the Canal Cafe Theatre. The event included the extant show and a “smoker” – the latter being a form of party we often had in the 1990s at which performers and writers would do party pieces for one another.

Chris rose to the challenge and asked to perform two of his favourite pieces at the piano: A Loan Again (by Ian Christiansen I think) and John Random’s wonderful 0898 song, the latter being a very witty, quickfire number – I hope John doesn’t mind me upping/linking his classic lyric.

Chris said to me, earlier in the evening, that he was worried that his lungs no longer had the capacity to carry him all the way through 0898 without a breather. I said that I was sure it wouldn’t matter if he did need a breather; we were a gathering of friends.

Of course, commensurate professional that he was, Chris somehow got through the song without missing a beat or pausing for breath once. It was a masterful performance, not least in the circumstances.

I don’t suppose my report of his tenacity comes as news to anyone who worked with Chris throughout his long and successful acting career, nor to anyone who did battle with him on the real tennis court.

In the language of real tennis, Chris was a “better than half a yard” sort of bloke; news of his demise has made me (and no doubt many others) feel “worse than the door”.

Or in the language of the stage, Chris Stanton was a stellar performer whose passing has temporarily made me feel wooden as I write.

But such super memories. Thank you, Chris Stanton.

Postscript: The Coincidence Magnifies

Within a day or so of posting this tribute, I learnt that Chris Rowe, the Newsrevue alum who notified us about Chris Stanton’s demise, is also a member of the MCC and also a real tennis enthusiast. Indeed, it was through Chris Rowe that Chris Stanton got involved with real tennis at Lord’s.

Here is a poster from the Newsrevue 1991 Edinburgh show, in which both of the gentlemen appeared:

Threadmash 5, Rohan Candappa’s Thing Has A Birthday Bash, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2020

How does one describe Threadmash? It is sort-of a writing club, where people write and recite pieces, often being encouraged outside their safe places, by ringmaster Rohan Candappa.

But it is not so much about what we do as it is about how it makes those of us who participate in it feel. I probably described that for the first time at the end of the Ogblog piece in which I set out my second threadmash piece:

But the very first threadmash was exactly a year ago. The piece I produced for that inaugural event is set out here and below:

Rohan is not one to let a birthday or anniversary go unmarked…

…nor is he one to miss an opportunity for a party of sorts.

So Threadmash 5 was cunningly scheduled for the first anniversary of Threadmash. Well played, Rohan.

There were several new faces this time, observing the readings and whole-heartedly participating in the party atmosphere. Several of them had “Sh” names, such as Shirani, Shivangi, Shazia and Rowan.

Eight of us wrote pieces to Rohan’s brief this time. Mine is published here:

Terry went first. He wrote a job application letter, to become a taster for Mr Kipling cakes. He used the application as a mechanism to tell us all about is “work experience” as a youngster. It was very amusing and touching in parts.

Jan then read us a letter to a plate of food that she was forced to “study” outside the headmistresses office for the whole afternoon, when five years old, because she had the audacity to abstain from eating the ghastly gunk that was her school dinner. This too was a very funny and touching piece.

Jan’s piece reminded me of a lovely piece of writing I published recently on Ogblog as a guest piece, by cousin Garry Steel, about a similar incident and the “truth and reconciliation” events that occurred decades later:

This was the first of several unexpected, surprising and in some cases downright weird coincidences in the evening’s pieces.

I went next…

…followed by Chris who wrote a letter to his own testosterone, explaining how their relationship had changed and was likely to continue changing over the decades. Not only funny and engaging, this piece was also moving and quite risky in the level and nature of its confessional humour.

Flo’s piece was the fifth one. A letter, decades later, to a youth with whom she had enjoyed extended correspondence and an unfulfilled dalliance “back in the day”, probably because she was less ready for romance at that time than the young man. As with all of the pieces, there was a mixture of drama and humour; this one especially bittersweet because the mismatch was one of those timing things that so many of us probably, if we put our minds to it, experienced one way or another when we were in the early stages of romance. I probably wasn’t the only man in the room thinking, “crickey, I never, ever put THAT much effort into wooing a girl. Poor chap.”

The strange coincidence in Flo’s piece was that she described the young man, on reflection, as “her troubadour”, which seemed a strange, coincidental echo of my references to William of Aquitaine and his reputation as the first troubadour.

Next up was David Wellbrook, who wrote a very moving letter in the part of a soldier on the front line in WW1, writing home having just killed a man in hand-to-hand combat. David is a very versatile writer. To a greater extent than most of us, he is able to pick up on Rohan’s entreaties to stretch ourselves beyond our safe zones and make that stretch comprehensively.

Strangely, Kay’s letter was to her late Grandfather and talked a great deal about his active service in WW1.This seemed like a particularly coincidental echo, coming immediately after David’s WW1 story and also in relation to mine, which was also a letter to a dead relative of the grandfather generation, albeit “grandfather-in-law” in my case. Kay’s piece was very touching, not least because clearly her grandfather had been unable to communicate feelings very much when Kay knew him and also because it is clear from the letter that Kay feels she might not have communicated with him sufficiently either.

Geraldine’s letter was directed by Rohan to be a letter of resignation, but Geraldine cleverly and delightfully twisted the idea to make it a letter of resignation to her former husband, explaining why she felt she simply had to escape the drudgery of the “American dream, American housewife” role in which she found herself cast as his wife. It was a beautiful piece of writing, full of love combined with a steely determination to explain herself and not to apologise. As with all of the pieces, the letter was probably the right length for such a performance piece but (and because) it said so much while leaving me wanting to know more.

After a short interlude, Rohan took us through a 10 point agenda. Is this is all getting a bit business-like?

…not as business-like as it looks, once you read the items

The brief for Threadmash Six is to write about an unknown woman named Charlotte Thomas. All we know of her is that Rohan managed to acquire a cheap moleskin-like notebook that had been customised with her name but never collected from the shop. Our job is to write about whosoever this person might be.

It did cross my mind to recycle my Theadmash One story, which is about a youthful dalliance with a young woman who I only ever knew as Fuzz, thus not even knowing her real first name, let alone her second name. She might very well be (or have been) Charlotte Thomas…

…but that would be cheating – I won’t do that. I think I have already decided on my Charlotte Thomas idea – it will be a bit of a stretch but I guess it is meant to be.

There was an awards ceremony, during which Rohan’s Edinburgh nemesis Rowan presented Adrian (in absentia) and Julie “Croissanita” with awards which, given their origins from the same stable as the Charlotte Thomas moleskin-type thing, I suggested should henceforward be known as “Charleys”.

It was a birthday party so of course there was cake…

…and goody bags.

Even the awkward silence was superb.

Then Rohan performed a new piece of his own, a very evocative piece which the agenda claims to be a collaboration with a top musician. But Rohan actually confessed that Brian Eno is…was unaware of the collaboration. I’m hoping Rohan will tell me which ambient piece he used to back up his words, at which point I shall update this piece with the information and possibly (with Rohan’s permission) let Brian Eno know how well he did.

Update: Rohan reports that the piece used was Neroli. You may hear Neroli on-line by clicking here or the embedded thingie below:

Rohan’s new work, about 15 minutes long, is a lyrical, poetic piece named Park.

Rohan was so pumped for his recital that he even felt the need to change for his performance:

Not only was Park a very charming and thought-provoking piece, it was, in a way, the third coincidence on the topic of troubadours. Of course, we will never know whenether the troubadour tradition was one of singing the lyrical poems to tunes or the dramatic recitation of lyrical poems with musical backing…almost certainly a bit of both depending on the piece and the troubadour. In any case it occurred to me that Rohan’s piece was very much of that 800+ years old troubadour tradition.

As always, the very act of gathering and spending an evening with such super people is a huge part of the Threadmash thing. I have known several of the people for just shy of 50 years now, whereas some of us have just met in the last year and about half the people at this anniversary evening were new to the thing. All were great company.

I’ve written too much already. It was a cracking evening. Thanks as always, Rohan.

Dear William, My Peformance Piece For Threadmash 5, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2020

The event that was Threadmash 5 is written up as an ogblog piece here and the link below

The brief was simply to write a letter, although Rohan Candappa gave me some additional guidance suggesting that I try fiction this time. Here is the piece I performed for that event.

Dear William

Hi. It’s Prince Harry here.  The sun is streaming in through my window here in France. It’s late morning; 1152 to be precise and you should know…indeed I want everybody to know, that I’m in love, William, I am in love!

Look, I know it isn’t going to be easy. She’s several years older than me, she’s a divorcee and she’s from across the pond. She might not be accepted by the great British public as “one of their own”.

She’s also a bit of a crusader. One tough cookie who doesn’t mind putting up a fight for the stuff she believes in. I like that about her.

William; she is SO beautiful. Not just how she looks in the pictures – those media types can make any old minger look special – but she really is a stunner. Real hotty totty, eh what?

But I’m not marrying her just for my own selfish reasons. Hell no. I’m getting married for the good of my country. We are in such a political mess at the moment. Near anarchy, I’d call it. Britain needs a royal wedding right now.

But, William, I would really like to know what you think. I know you can’t really give me answers, but you really know your pussy. Heaven knows you’ve played the field more than I have, more than most people. Droit du seigneur and all that.

So I wonder if you think my proposed marriage will work? I really could do with some familial advice and frankly I have no-one else credible to turn to in matters of the heart…

…just a second, all hell seems to have kicked off outside the Château. Bloody French, what the hell’s it about this time? They’re always revolting about something or another. Got to go, I’ll finish off this letter later on.

LATER ON

Hello again, William. It was 1152 when I started this letter; it’s 1173 now. Crumbs – when I said that I’d finish this letter later, I didn’t have “21 years later” in mind. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? Heck, how should I know; I’m not having much fun. Frankly, things haven’t gone swimmingly well since I wrote the first part of this letter.

It’s not all bad news. I’ve been King of England now for 19 years, which makes me a pretty important bloke, especially when you also take into account all my Dukedoms and Counties in France, including your old Dukedom of Aquitaine. Nice place. Decent weather.

So I did marry your grand-daughter, Eleanor. Wow, she really is a goer. Boof. We’ve had loads of kids. But therein lies the rub. It is nigh on impossible to keep all the kids happy with lands and castles and stuff. Eleanor doesn’t help because she insists on interfering – you know what women are like.

To be honest with you, I have fallen out with rather a lot of people lately, including Eleanor…and all of our kids…and my former best mate (now late mate) Thomas Becket… the Scots, the Irish, the Bretons, the Flemish, most of the French nobles, many of the English Barons…and the Pope.

But you know what, William? I know it might be hard for you to believe, but NONE of this revolting business is my fault. None of it. Heck, I’m just trying to do my job, establishing some sort of order out of the political mayhem I inherited.  

You of all people will understand what I’m going through. You too fell out with your wife and had a ruction with the church. At least I haven’t been excommunicated; twice. But history will look kindly on you, William. It already does. You’ve not even been dead for 50 years, but already you are remembered as a bon viveur, a great lover and especially as the first troubadour.  Heaven only knows how I’m going to be remembered.

How did you get away with all that stuff, William? Your behaviour…and the language you used in your songs – I’ve never seen the “F” word and the “C” word used so much in all my life.

Times have changed, though, William. The younger generation are prudes and snowflakes.   

In truth, I don’t see much of Eleanor these days.  Heck, I’m a busy fellow with loads of revolts to quell and I cannot bear being nagged. Anyway, Eleanor permanently stays indoors at the moment; I have security see to that. But I do still love her, in a way. A chivalric way.  You of all people will understand that.

In fact, it occurred to me that, as you were the very first troubadour; the chap who established the tradition of secular performance song which will endure for centuries if not millennia…

…I thought I should end this letter with a song that explains exactly how I feel about your granddaughter Eleanor.

Sincerely yours,

Your devoted grandson-in-law

Henry Plantagenet

ELEANOR

VERSE ONE

You’ve got a thing about you; Grandpa was a troubadou, I really want you, Eleanor legally;

Your power intoxicates me, though all the French folk hate me;

There’s no-one like you, Eleanor, regally.

CHORUS ONE

Eleanor, you of Aquitaine, as they speak in Northern Spain, Southern France and parts of Italy;

Eleanor, can you be more kind, I want you to change your mind, try to reign beside me prettily.

VERSE TWO

Sometimes I think your hassle, treating me like your vassal,

Seeking advance for you and the offspring;

Don’t suppose you envisioned, that I’d have you imprisoned,

When your coup failed with Henry The Young King

CHORUS TWO

Eleanor, you of Aquitaine, you’re a right chivalric pain, all our sons will not forgive me;

Eleanor, can you be more kind, I want you to change your mind, at this rate you’ll way outlive me.

OUTRO

Eleanor, gee I think you’re hell, ah-hah; Eleanor, gee I think you’re hell, ah-hah…ha-ah.

Not that they had chords in the 12th century, but for those who might be interested in the chords I used, the image below will help you. Aficionados might note the devils intervals I used to conclude the “musical piece”.

Performed on my Roosebeck baroq-ulele, tuned DGBE. Thus A4th is fret 2 on the G&B strings, D4th is open D and F# on the E string. Not very 12th century but a bit medieval…or just evil.

A Brief & Personal Tribute To Nick R Thomas, Who Died On 10 January 2020

This piece is a response to the news that Nick R Thomas has died. It culminates with two personal memories, including a sound file of one of my favourite Nick R Thomas comedy pieces.

The above photo is borrowed from Nick R Thomas’s Facebook account; his own choice of signature image.

I met Nick in 1992, when I first started writing for NewsRevue. He was a seasoned comedy writer by then, having been writing News Huddlines, Week Ending and various other stuff of that kind for a couple of years.

Like many of the regular NewsRevue writers at that time, Nick encouraged me and other keen amateurs when we joined the NewsRevue pack. Many of us got involved at that time or, as I think was the case with Nick R Thomas, cemented that collaborative writers friendship around NewsRevue in the early 1990s. We started to describe ourselves as “the class of ’92”.

Most of us had become less actively involved with NewsRevue by the turn of the century, but kept in touch with each other through occasional dinners known as Ivan Shakespeare Memorial Dinners, in honour of the first of our cohort to pass.

Although Nick R Thomas had moved to Bournemouth, he was for some time one of the more regular attendees at those dinners and was great company at those, presumably taking an infeasibly late train home quite often or occasionally staying up in London to join us.

I think the last of his visits to one of those dinners was in October 2017, which was a special Class of ’92 gathering to review old material…

Sadly, Nick was not well enough to join the NewsRevue 40th Anniversary party last year:

But actually I’d like to end this piece with two very personal memories of Nick.

In the autumn of 2016 a friend had a show at the Canal Cafe Theatre (about Brexit of all things), so I arranged to go on a Thursday and did a shout out to the NewsRevue crowd that I intended to stay on and watch NewsRevue that evening as well. Nick turned up unannounced and we spent a very enjoyable late evening together at NewsRevue – it felt like the years rolled back, although of course we were not looking out for our own material in that week’s show in November 2016. Click here or below for my write up of that evening:

My second memory is of Nick as lyricist…but not businessman. In the early 1990s, many of us were approached by the west-country singer/comedian Ben Murphy for material. Ben performed and recorded much of our stuff.

Ben always needed badgering for the money, but (until the inevitable, final small bad debt) always paid me in the end, in order to obtain more material.

I always assumed that everyone else from NewsRevue must have been handling Ben the same way.

But I recall a conversation with Nick R Thomas some years later (probably around 2004 when we had the 25th anniversary of NewsRevue), when Ben’s name came up and Nick told me that Ben had never paid him. Nick had always assumed that no-one got paid by Ben. I’m not sure how often Nick sent Ben yet more material without first receiving (and banking and clearing) Ben’s cheque for the previous batch.

I think this story proves that Nick was a natural for the arts, whiereas I was a natural for commerce.

Anyway, what does survive (something money could not retrospectively buy) is Ben’s recording of one of my favourite Nick R Thomas lyrics; The Bald Song.

Nick R Thomas was a fine comedy writer and was one of the good guys. I, together with a great many others, will miss him.

Reporting On The Final Of The Ollis Cup, Lord’s, 17 December 2019

How did I get roped in to writing the match report for this great match? By the simple expedient of turning up to watch, that’s how.

Here is a link to the report as published on the MCC website.

I’m gutted that the powers that be declined my chosen headline:

Ollis Not Lost.

Pearls…pearls…

If by any chance the MCC website doesn’t let non-members into the tennis section, here is a scrape of the report, allowing Dedanists and other friends of tennis, Iain Harvey and/or James McDermott to read all about it.

Gresham Society Soirée, Barnard’s Inn Hall, 16 December 2019

Is it really two years since the last Gresham Society Soirée? Yes. I wrote up the previous soirée thusly:

This time around, 2019, the programme looked like this:

Unfortunately, my magnum opus for 2019, which marks Sir Thomas Gresham’s 500th birthday, hence The Sir Thomas Gresham 500th Anniversary Song And Dance, was accidentally misnamed as the Sir Richard Gresham themed performance I gave in 2017. But I was able to put people right on that point pretty easily.

But before all of that, Michael Mainelli made a brief appearance to leave soiréeistas in no doubt that the show was about to begin, when he blasted our lug-holes with the sound of his bagpipes.

Michael Mainelli on bagpipes? Well I’ll be blowed!

Mercifully, Part 1 of the soirée was a highly professional and entertaining set by David Jones and Sian Millett, which gave us all plenty of time to recover from the lug-hole blasting and listen to the superb talents of this pair, who are very much becoming Gresham Society soirée favourites.

David & Sian as seen in 2017

David demonstrated his vocal versality with material ranging from lieder to Lehrer. David’s rendering of Hochländisches Wiegenlied by Robert Schumann was a particular delight, not least David’s rendering of the non-Germanic word, “Carlisle” mid song, as was David’s perennial Tom Lehrer favourite The Elements Song, which David can peform better than anyone else I have ever seen attempt it.

Sian’s talents range from grand opera to musicals. Her rendition of Mon Coeur S’ouvre A Ta Voix, with David accompanying on piano rather than the more traditional orchestra backing, brought out the beauty of the melody and the words to my ears, enabling me to enjoy hearing that aria afresh. No recording of Sian and David’s performance, sadly, but those who want now to hear the aria might enjoy the 1961 Callas recording below.

Returning to Sian’s performances, her flirty rendition of I Cain’t Say No was great fun and went down very well with the audience.

Sitting in front of me was Bobbie Scully, with whom I had, in 1984, suffered an unfortunate fit of the giggles, when we accidentally attended a stilted Rodgers and Hammerstein recital, learn more by clicking here or the block below.

For the avoidance of doubt, Sian Millett’s soirée performance was absolutely nothing like the stilted recital of the mid 1980s; the audience laughter during Sian’s I Cain’t Say No was very much WITH Sian rather than AT Sian.

The tone changes for Part 2 of the soirée, which brings amateur talent and enthusiasm from within the Gresham Society to the fore. As if to lull us all into a false sense of security, the first couple of items – Robin Wilson on the recorder, followed by a recitation from Under Milk Wood by Martin Perkins – were suitably talent-filled and dignified.

Then it was my turn.

Actually, despite appearances, a fair bit of scholarship went into my piece. I discovered, quite by chance, while researching “Ding Dong Merrily On High” last year for the Z/Yen seasonal function, that Jehan Tabourot, aka Thoinot Arbeau, was a contemporary of Sir Thomas Gresham, the former being listed as either 1519 or 1520 in all sources I could find. Tabourot (under the pseudonym Arbeau) wrote, in the late 16th century, a book, Orchésographie, comprising dance tunes and dance moves he recalled from his youth.

Branle de L’Official, the tune that subsequently was used for Ding Dong Merrily On High, is one such dance from Arbeau’s Orchésographie.

The really strange coincidence about this, is that when I discovered the temporal connection between “Arbeau” and Sir Thomas Gresham, my Googling led me immediately to Ian Pittaway’s website and this superb article:

Ian is my early music teacher. We had been talking in late 2017 about me possibly using Coventry Carol for the 2019 Gresham Society bash, but the Arbeau song and dance possibilities seemed to good an idea to miss.

Fans of Coventry Carol might like to hear Soul Music on BBC Radio 4, which was broadcast on Christmas Day 2019, but is still available through this link, which features Coventry Carol and includes Ian Pittaway talking about the history of the piece and the effect it had on him, with a bit of Ian’s rendition playing in the background.

Anyway, I did test out the song and dance idea with the Z/Yen team in 2018 with predictably hilarious results…

…and just over a year later I inflicted same on the Gresham Society – except this time I had tailored the words to suit Thomas Gresham’s 500th birthday.

It would probably be to the benefit of all mankind if the Gresham Society soirée performance of this piece were lost in the mists of time, but unfortunately Basil Bezuidenhout had an accident with his mobile phone and inadvertently video recorded the darned thing.

I must say, the singing from the assembled throng sounds rather good, which is more than can be said for my singing that evening.

For the dance, I ever so slightly simplified the dance moves from this actual facsimile of the 1589 book:

Again, Basil had a mishap with his phone and the dance is recorded for all posterity:

Not much can go wrong in a dance like that, although I notice a couple of us ended up the wrong way round with our partners at the end of the first movement. Many thanks to David Jones for accompanying us on “virginals” and to Sian Millett for her delightful rendering of my silly words while we danced.

Anthony Hodson and David Jones then briefly brought a sense of decorum back to the proceedings with a rendition of the Elgar Romance for Bassoon & Piano, but then Robin Wilson and Tim Connell led the soirée past the point of no return in the matter of decorum. Song sheets that cover some of the residual malarky can be seen by clicking this link.

No such nonsense as the above 2017 rendition of Tinniat Tintinnabulum, dear me no. This year, instead, Robin Wilson lead us in a more ballad-like latin canticle, Reno Erat Rudolphus Nasum Rubrum Habebat

In the tradition of topical comedy, Tim Connell, Mike Dudgeon & Martin Perkins rendered a French Brexit Lament – click here for the text of that pièce de résistance.

After all that, the assembled Gresham Society stalwarts needed reviving with a great deal of food and wine…

…so it was just as well that there were indeed plentiful supplies of both, enabling the remainder of the evening to become a highly convivial party. There was eating, drinking, chatting, laughing and general merriment, without, by that stage, the fear of imminent music, song or dance from over-enthusiastic soiréeistas.

As ever in the company of Gresham Society folk, a thoroughly warm-hearted and enjoyable time was had by all.

A Hat Trick Of Seasonal Events, London Cricket Trust Dinner, Ivan Shakespeare Memorial Dinner & Z/Yen Team Lunch, 11, 12 & 13 December 2019

It seems churlish to complain about too many nice events, but this particular week really did include a surfeit of them for me.

I had already enjoyed the Parasite evening at Curzon Mayfair…

…and the Z/Yen 25th anniversary party at The Old Bailey…

…and it was still only Tuesday.

The three events described in this piece were the Wednesday, Thursday and Friday of the same week.

London Cricket Trust Dinner, Three Cranes, Wednesday 11 December 2019

Duncan Jenkinson, Andy Griffiths, Leshia Hawkins, some bloke in pink Middlesex kit photo-bombing our picture, Ivan Thomas and Me, 16 July 2019

No photos from this event, but the above photo and link is from one of the highlights of the London Cricket Trust’s year – A B de Villiers opening our Deptford Park facility in July.

We thought it would be a good idea to have a meal together after the Trustees meeting this time. We have been gathering now since 2017 planning non-turf pitch and net facilities for London’s parks, without ever breaking bread together…until this evening.

The Three Cranes location in the City worked well for me, giving me the opportunity to clear some work at the office (yes, believe it or not I did also do some work in this event-filled week) before the Trustees meeting at the Three Cranes, which was followed by the joyous meal and libations.

This evening was an excellent opportunity to all get to know each other a bit better. Not just we Trustees, but also the England and Wales Cricket Board (ECB) people who have been working tirelessly on our intiiative (and participation cricket more generally), plus Ed Griffiths and his team who have been doing so much wonderful pro bono work on behalf of the LCT over the years.

One of many good thoughts that emerged from the evening is that we still haven’t actually watched any professional cricket together; we’re hoping to put that right during the 2020 season.

A very enjoyable evening.

Ivan Shakespeare Memorial Dinner & Trophy Match, Spaghetti House Holborn, Thursday 12 December 2019

It’s been a big year for anniversaries. Not only the Z/Yen 25th (the alumni party for which is linked again here and at the very start of this “hat trick” piece)…

…but also the 40th anniversary of NewsRevue, which had its alumni event during the summer:

One NewsRevue alum who, sadly, only just made it a few months beyond the 20th anniverary of that show was Ivan Shakespeare. We “Class Of ’92” types who were NewsRevue contemporaries of Ivan meet on an irregular occasional basis, three or four times a year, to keep in touch with each other, eat, trade jokes, share bizarre quizzes and also to remember Ivan. We’ve been doing that since mid 2000, a few months after Ivan died.

In the seasonal version of our gathering, the stakes increase markedly and we play one of the quizzes for The Ivan Shakespeare Memorial Trophy. I am proud to be the donor of the original Memorial Trophy, which was first contested in 2002, about 18 months after the dinners started.

It’s a bit like The Ashes, but for comedy writers rather than for cricketers.

Much like The Ashes, the trophy is a thing of exquisite gimcrackness; it’s absence of taste simply has to be seen to be believed:

Observant readers will see that I won that trophy once; in 2004
Some real names from the world of quizzing on there: Hugh Ryecroft for one, Barry Grossman being another.

The problem is, unlike The Ashes, the trophy is inscribed with the winner’s name each year…

…and the original trophy is running out of sensible places for the embazoning of the winner’s name…

…OK, there never were sensible places for the emblazoning, but now we are even running out of silly places to inscribe.

The solution: a new trophy. Acquired through the sort of tenacity that only Graham Robertson could possibly deploy – an eBay purchase which he needed to make twice because the first eBay vendor of tasteless out-of-date royal gimcrack merchandise took Graham’s money and did a runner.

The assembled alums at our new spiritual venue, The Spaghetti House in Holborn, decreed that Mark Keegan, who won the original trophy three times, should become “steward-for-life” of the original trophy.

Mark Keegan, delighted with his original trophy. Graham Robertson looks on, enviously.
Barry Grossman shows off the new trophy…
…then wears one for the team by winning the new trophy this year

As usual I came quite close but no cigar for me in the trophy stakes since 2004. Barry Grossman scooped the glittering prize this year – with sincere commiserations to Barry – he could have been an also-ran, but instead…

It wasn’t all quizzes and trophies; oh no, no, no, no, no, no no. There was plenty of time for eating, drinking, topical humour and some sense-of-irony-sapping politics on what was, after all, an election night.

Moving swiftly on from the will-to-live-depleting topics back to the humour section, John Random produced another set of personalised Christmas crackers this year, based on the BBC Radio 4 programme In Our Time with Melvyn Bragg.

My cracker contained a note posing the intriguing question:

What do you call a deer with no eyes?

Frankly, I had no idea and would gladly have said, “no idea”, but for the answer provided, which instead said, in Braggian tones:

With me to discuss what you call a deer with no eyes, I have Ian Harris, Professor of Mammalian Opthalmology at Gresham College and author of In Darkness Let me Dwell – and Professor Jonny Hurst from the University of Manchester, author of Champagne Super Over: Oasis In Popular Culture.

There is sort-of a tradition in recent years for at least one person’s order to go horribly wrong at the festive dinner. This year it Barry Grossman who suffered the indignity of being brought his main at starter time and a starter-sized portion of his chosen main at main course time. The nice waiter did his best to sort things out.

Ironically, Barry went on to win the quiz, as did Jonny Hurst in 2017 when it was his turn to be the brunt of the ritual service humiliation – in those days at Cafe Rogues in Holborn not far from the scene of this year’s crime. That year, 2017, John Random’s personalised crackers had been based on the Moral Maze. He likes his thinky-Radio-4 programmes, does our John.

Anyway, the night of 12 December 2019 will surely be remembered as a great night for NewsRevue alums…and Tories…ironically.

Z/Yen Seasonal Lunch, The Old Bailey, Friday 13 December 2019

Z/Yen team gathered in the Alderman & Sheriff’s apartment

In the world of crime fiction, criminals have a regular, unfortunate tendancy; returning to the scene of the crime. Whether that is true in the real world or not I have no idea. Nor do I have the faintest idea what that point might have to do with this section of this piece.

Anyway, just three days after the Z/Yen Alumni function at The Old Bailey, the current Z/Yen team regrouped in that astonishing building for the staff seasonal lunch.

On this occasion we found ourselves in the smaller function room, used daily for the judges pre-luncheon drinks, after enjoying our pre-lunch drinks in Michael and Elisabeth’s apartment. Once again Sean, their footman, proved his skills as a photographer – thanks Sean.

The meal was a very good one; smoked trout fillet, followed by a posh duck dish, followed by an apple tart-like desert.

The wines tasted suspiciously like those excellent wines we’d enjoyed earlier in the week and seemed suspiciously well food-matched for the lunch, thanks to the combined skills of Gordon Clunie and (in all modesty) me.

Linda produced one of her fiendish seasonal quizzes – let’s not even talk about how badly Simon Mills and I did as a so-called team on that one.

Secret Santa visited (I got some baritone ukulele strings) and Santa also brought everyone a small box of super posh chocolates.

Then the traditional Z/Yen seasonal sing song. Being exceptionally woke for a boomer, I again recycled a previous effort this year, cunningly adding a topical reference ensuring that no-one would realise that it was recycled…

…unless they looked at the copyright years and/or version numbers and/or read this piece. Here is the 2019 version of The 12 Days Of Z/Yen Training. Excellent, was the performance, especially the “Five Forces” motif, which brought tears to my eyes each time around.

It is a fascinating musical phenomenon that this particular song works in so many different keys: C, C#, B, D, D#, A, E, G#, G, F & F#…all at the same time…at least, it did that afternoon.

After the formalities, plenty of informalities with some additional quizzing, singing, chatting and libations until it was chucking out time at The Old Bailey.

Chucking out time at The Old Bailey on a Friday afternoon works remarkably quickly and effectively:

You are welcome to stay on downstairs if you wish…but no-one will be here with the keys to your cell until Monday morning…

…everyone scarpers sharpish at that juncture.

Some ventured on for more libations at a local hostelry, but after five events in five days, all I could think about was getting home and lying down for a good few hours.

The Gift, Fourth Threadmash, Gladstone Arms, 6 November 2019

It’s been a while since the last actual Threadmash, although we have had a gathering of the clan at The Glad since the previous Threadmash in May:

Anyway, this time the brief was “The Gift”, with additional instructions to stick to just one page. I took that to mean “one side of a sheet of A4”, but some took it to mean two sides. No matter. I can write something War & Peace epic length next time to get my own back.

I sensed that Rohan Candappa had mischief in mind when he asked us to bring two copies of our text with us.

Once we started Threadmashing, after several of us had dined on goat pie (or whatevs) and made a start on the libations, I also sensed that there might be a mini riot when Rohan announced that we would each be reading someone else’s work rather than our own. But we soon settled down and knuckled down to the additional challenge.

40 years on, Chris Grant still gets head boy privileges.

Chris Grant, a first time Threadmash writer (although not first time attendee) was excused the additional challenge and thus read his own piece as an opener for the evening. It was a charming short piece.

We had each been given a few minutes to read the piece we had inherited.

Quite early in the evening, David Wellbrook read out my piece, which follows below.

David Wellbrook soldiering through my piece

Coincidentally, I was given David’s piece to read; a somewhat Dahlesque horror story, as Rohan had encouraged David to try fiction this time. I did enjoy reading David’s piece I must say. Rohan has strongly encouraged me to try writing fiction for the next one.

He doesn’t look dictatorial, does he? It’s a deceptively gentle form of throat shaking, Rohan’s dictatorial style – sttrong guidance followed by, “but it’s up to you, of course…only if you want to…”

Anyway, here’s my piece which was so capably read by David:

The word “gift” has two distinct meanings as a noun. A gift means something given freely, a present. But it also means a natural ability or talent, such as, “a gift for writing”. When Rohan suggested “The Gift” as his subject for Threadmash Four, I was drawn to the second of these definitions.

These past few years, I have been spending increasing amounts of my time on activities for which I am not naturally gifted, but they are nevertheless activities that I love doing and pursuing. Specifically, I mean sports, such as cricket, plus music.
My mother came from a supremely musical family. One branch of her family yielded several notable professional musicians, especially violinists. Even my barber grandfather could, by all accounts, instantly play on the piano any tune you might choose to hum at him.

When I started secondary school, my mother gave me every encouragement to take up and play the violin. But quite quickly, the sound of me practicing, which resembled cats being tortured in a pitch-distorting dungeon, led mum to encourage me to give up violin and try something else. Anything else.

Actually I was growing quite fond of sport. Cricket, tennis and fives mostly. I wasn’t very good at sports either, but I wasn’t going to let an absence of giftedness stop me from trying. Nor was I going to let my own shortcomings stop me from becoming a fascinated follower of my favourite sports. And indeed also a devotee of many varied genres of music.

In truth, although I didn’t inherit the family gift for performing music, I certainly did inherit “a love of music”. And it has occurred to me characteristics such as “a love of music” truly are gifts to be cherished and celebrated.

Where I got my gift for loving sports such as cricket is more of a mystery. Neither of my parents had any interest in sport whatsoever. Not professional sport and certainly not my participation in sport; I don’t think either of my parents ever saw me play sport, other than me mucking about at some nonsense game at home.

Yet, my father’s very last birthday treat included a sporting revelation. The only way to treat my dad towards the end of his life…actually for most of his life…was to take him out for a good meal. As it happened, in 2006, dad’s 87th birthday, fell on a day that Middlesex were playing at Lord’s. I booked at table with a view in the Warner Restaurant, which followed an informal pavilion tour before lunch. They loved it. As dad said, “there aren’t many places I can go now and see people of my own age…apart from old age homes”. The England & Wales Cricket Board marketing folk may use that quote for nothing.

At one point that day, dad mentioned that he and his kid brother Michael had been given a set of cricket equipment by their parents as a gift, when the family moved to Clapham Common in the early 1930s and the boys started a new school there. Neither dad nor Michael had shown any interest in cricket before the gift, apparently, nor did that gift inspire either of them to take the slightest interest in cricket. My grandparents; Eastern European migrants with accents from central casting, were perhaps striving to turn their sons into quintessential English schoolboys through the peculiar sport that is cricket.

I wonder whether my grandparents’ intention with that cricket equipment gift somehow skipped a generation but still subconsciously fueled my love of cricket? A gift indeed.

Chris Grant remarked that he found it really weird hearing words that were so clearly mine coming out of David Wellbrook’s mouth. We have all known each other for over 45 years, so I suppose that is understandable.

All of the pieces were excellent, as usual. I also thought everyone made a good job of reading out someone else’s work, especially as most of us had not started the evening expecting to read something other than one’s own piece.

I caught myself categorising this Ogblog page as both “writing” and “friends and family events” this time. This reflects the fact that Threadmash has become, in my mind and I think those of others, a community of friends who, as it happens, like to gather to read and write together. It’s more than just “a writing thing” now. For all of it, I am grateful to Rohan for innovating and stewarding the ideas.

This time John Eltham came along to be part of the evening, as did Ben Clayson, although the latter arrived after the readings. It became, as always, a convivial gatheirng of interesting and interested people.

I took a few more pictures – all 10 pictures can be found on Flickr by clicking the picture icon below: