As I get older, I realise that certain statements that older people make, such as, “the policemen look younger and younger” express how those older people feel, rather than an objective reality about the average age of policemen.
But when I say, “the county championship seems to start earlier and earlier” I believe that is pretty much true…although not by all that much.
The last time I froze this much, Daisy and I went to see the second day of the 2013 season in Nottingham, 11 April that year, reported on King Cricket at that time…
I had arranged to play tennis at 14:00. I got to Lord’s in time to see most of the first session of play. I decided to sit in the relatively sheltered central part of the pavilion forecourt, where I watched, read and chatted a little with one or two other hardy folk. The stewards reckoned I wouldn’t last long out there but actually it wasn’t too bad in the morning and the new soft padding on the pavilion benches…
…standards are falling…
…made the whole experience less painful than expected.
Young Josh de Caires bowling
After a very close game of tennis, which my adversary won by dint of the odd point here and there, I took my time over my ablutions and then grabbed a soft drink followed by a light bite and coffee – initially in the pavilion bar but subsequently, as the sun was shining, I took my coffee in the new Compton Stand – a vantage point from which I took the headline picture (also replicated above).
But even in the sunshine, it was bitterly cold by that afternoon period, so I decided to return to the pavilion.
By the time I got to the pavilion, Josh de Caires had taken a wicket. This was to be my burden all afternoon; I didn’t actually get to see a single wicket – I was either changing or on the move every time Middlesex took a wicket. One of the friendly pavilion stewards even asked me to keep moving around, as my moves seemed to coincide with Middlesex’s success so comprensively.
Anyway…
…I decided to focus on 19-year-old Josh de Caires’s bowling.
I watched for a while from one of my favourite vantage points, the writing room. If you ever wondered what it looks like from behind the sight screen, wonder no more – the above picture gives you a pretty good impression of it…indeed much like an impressionistic art work.
I had brought plenty of warm clobber with me and I decided to don the lot of it. After all, as Alfred Wainwright famously said:
“There’s no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing.”
Thus I braved the middle tier balcony, as evidenced by the following pictures…
…for about three overs, before I decided that jumper, thick jacket, scarf, hat and gloves were insufficient for me as the sun was going down on a seriously chilly April day.
I congratulated the handful of hardy folk who remained on the balcony, admitting to them that I was a wimp. One agreed. One consoled me by letting me know that I was far from the first to have tried and failed to brave the afternoon chill. One pointed out that I hadn’t lowered the ear-flaps on my hat, which might have made all the difference.
I watched the remainder of the day from the impressionistic comfort of the writing room. Naturally Middlesex took a wicket while I was ambling down one flight of stairs from balcony to room.
I had a very good day. I read, I chatted, I played tennis and best of all I watched some live cricket again.
My Grandpa: Lew (or Lou) Marcus, with his older brother Max
Meet my Great Uncle Max Marcus (1878-1952). He was the oldest of the multitude of Marcus siblings to venture from the old country to Blighty. My Grandpa Lew (1892-1959) was the youngest of the siblings.
But where exactly did the Marcus family venture from?
The family legend has been vague to say the least. Before the term “self-identify” had been invented, the Marcus family self-identified as “Litvak musicians”.
The word Litvak is a Yiddish term for Jews of Lithuanian (or more generically places we would now call The Baltics) origin. For families like ours, who came to Britain in the late 19th century, that meant that they would have been Russian subjects in The Pale Of Settlement before coming to Britain.
Great Uncle Max as a young man – c1900
The other matter of clarity from the family legend was that Great Uncle Max came to England with his wife, Leah, as an advance party, establishing themselves, at least to some extent, before the rest of the family followed towards the very end of the 19th century.
I did a little bit of on-line genealogy around 2011, liaising with my cousins Ted & Sue, which yielded very little about the family origins. It did encourage me at that time to interview my mother, plus cousins Jacquie Briegal and Sidney Pizan (the latter being Max’s grandson) – I have quite a few notes and yarns for future pieces, but almost nothing on the Baltic origins.
1901 census shows 9 year old Grandpa Lew with parents and some siblings in Whitechapel
I couldn’t find Max and his nascent family in the 1901 census when I looked in 2011. But I did find them in the 1911 census. In April 1911, Max and family were in Great Yarmouth. Once established as a musician in England, for much of his working life, Max split his time between London and Yarmouth. The picture below is probably Yarmouth.
Max playing double-bass with a small band, which I refer to (in PDQ Bach terms) as a schleptet.When in London, Max played with De Groot at The Piccadilly & Regents Palace Hotels
In the 1911 census, Max claims that he and Leah come from Austria. This claim is a stretch, almost worthy of the UK Government 110 years later, in its extremely loose association with the truth.
In reality, Viennese waltz music was all the rage in those days; it was probably “professionally convenient” for Max to hold himself out as an Austrian exponent of waltz music. It is almost unthinkable that Max (or anyone else from the Marcus family) had ever so much as set foot in Austria (or any part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire) before 1911.
Max, Leah & emerging brood circa 1907. Far right is my Great-Grandma Annie.
Max and Leah’s offspring and descendants turned out to be a pretty musical lot. On the far left of the above picture is my mother’s cousin Sid, who ended up as a first violin in and sometime leader of the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House. Harry, the younger boy in the above picture was, by all accounts, an even more talented violinist but suffered from stage fright, so made his career teaching.
To the right of Harry (Harry’s left) in the above picture is Becky, who became Becky Pizan:
mother of Sidney Pizan (who, along with my mother, provided the family pictures you are enjoying);
reportedly a very gifted pianist in her own right (as was, according to my mother, my own Grandpa Lew);
grandmother of the artist Adam Green, whose extraordinary, almost accidental research a few weeks ago has led to a swathe of discoveries.
I thoroughly recommend that you click through to Adam’s piece about my mother’s musical cousin (Adam’s Great Uncle) Sidney Marcus and the discoveries that flowed from that- click here or the link below.
For those who just want to skim the topic, Adam has helped to identify Sid Marcus as The Saw Player on several 1930s recordings, such as the following:
My mum always referred to Sid as “a multi-instrumentalist” without going into too much detail. I hadn’t previously twigged that Sid’s “fifteen minutes of fame” second instrument was the hand saw.
Adam, via Radio 3 and Ron Geesin (composer, writer and self-confirmed absurdist), established that Max and his family, in the 1921 census, stated that they came from Kovno – now known as Kaunas, the second-largest city in Lithuania.
Adam says in his piece that he was a bit surprised, as he thought that branch of his family hailed from Riga.
My take on the matter, having been bitten by Max’s 1911 claims, was that Max on census day was not a 100% reliable witness to his own origins, but that Kaunas was unlikely to be a complete lie (unlike Austria) as it was unlikely that anyone in England would give a fig about which Baltic town Max and family might hail from.
I decided to redouble my efforts and try a bit harder to find Max and his branch in the 1901 census. I had drawn a blank when I looked back in 2011 but I hadn’t looked that hard.
As it turns out, I should indeed have looked harder back in 2011, although the search engines might not have been so good back then.
The 1901 census page for Max, Leah & Simon [sic] Markus [sic]
The trick was to look for Leah and to ask the search engine to be non-exact in the matter of surname (as well as first name) spelling. Thus we find Marks (latterly known as “Max” – we have since learnt that he was previously known as “Mendel”), Leah and baby Simon (latterly known as “Sidney” or “Sid”) in Back Church Lane Whitechapel, very close to the rest of the family and very close to Tobacco Dock, from whence it seems the family was scraping a living in the tobacco business in those early days.
Let’s drill.
Where are they saying they come from?
Let’s drill some more and zoom:
Max comes from Nidy and Leah comes from Yugger?
OK, so in 1901, before they had mastered the English language and how to spin with it, Max and Leah admitted to having been born in different places. I am pretty confident that “Yugger” is the way the census dude wrote down Leah’s attempt to tell him that she was born in Riga.
What about Nidy? I’m pretty sure Max was telling the census dude about Nida, Lithuania.
Now I’m going to be honest here and admit that, until I did this research, I had never heard of Nida, nor had I even heard of the Curonian Spit, the 60+ mile long sand dune depicted below.
In the late 19th century, Nida was an art colony. Confusingly, the northern part of the Curonian Spit now shown as Lithuania was, at that time, part of Greater Russia, whereas the southern part that today is part of Russia, including Kaliningrad was, at that time, Königsberg, part of Prussia. As my mum would have said, “don’t start”.
For a family of musicians, I suspect that Nida, with its relatively wealthy Prussian visitors, was a suitable place to spend the summer season and earn a decent crust, even if you retreated to Kaunas for the winter and urban gigs…
…and then it dawned on me. Great Yarmouth is also a summer season town, built on a spit, albeit a smaller spit than that massive Curonian one.
When Great Uncle Max chose to divide his musical time between London and Great Yarmouth, I’ll guess he was simply continuing the family tradition from the old country, having found a coastal place that reminded him just a little of his youthful summers on the Baltic Coast.
Of course there is a fair amount of supposition in this, but it is hard to imagine why Max would invent an answer to “where were you born” by falsely giving the name of a holiday town on the Baltic Coast.
Perhaps we can find some corroborating evidence on this. I note that Max, Leah and Sid had two boarders sharing their Back Church Lane home in 1901, Michael Freedland and Marks Freedland, both of whom also claimed to have been born in Nidy (Nida). So here is a shout out to possible descendants of the Freedland Brothers – has your family history handed down stories about where your family came from and how they came to England? Because it seems likely that those young men’s fortunes were, at least to some extent, conjoined with that of the Marcus family, from the old country and for a while in Blighty.
To close, my favourite picture of Max is the one below, from 1936, with young Sidney Pizan, dressed up and out for a stroll in Westcliff-on-Sea. It seems he really loved his coastal resorts, did Great Uncle Max.
Afterword: Extracts From E-Mail Conversations With Ron Geesin Casting Doubt On My Nida Theory But Not Necessarily On My Litvak Waterside Theory
Ron to Ian 4 April 2022:
“…On your latest research, hold on a minute! On the next page of the 1901 Census, there’s a ‘Caroline Davis’ ‘Needle Worker’. This gives the enumerator’s written forming of N and W, quite different to each other. So the Marcus entry has to be ‘Widy’…”
“…and there’s a village just outside Kaunas called Vijûkai. Could this half mumbled and ‘interpreted’ by an ill-informed enumerator come out as ‘Widy’? It’s not uncommon in Censuses for people to sometimes state their real original village and then later state the nearest town.”
Ian to Ron 5 April 2022
“…I don’t find the “Vijûkai” for “Wida” idea convincing, although it is just as convincing as my own wild theories! There would have been many long-since destroyed shtetls near Kaunas of which one named Wida or similar is quite possible…”
Ian to Ron 13 April 2022
“…Apropos your thoughts on Vijûkai, which feels to me a long way from anything that might be pronounced or written as “Widy”, there is a neighbourhood near that place which feels more “Widy” to me, named Vaišvydava
Both of those neighbourhoods are on the outskirts of Kaunas and the general area had a significant Jewish population back then, so it is plausible that we have found our Widy. Not on the lagoon coast but it is on the riverside coast! The general area is named Panemune…
Unable to muster the time or energy to write an 800-900 word piece on the topic “The Deadline” in the genre “Fiction” for our first live ThreadMash in two years, I instead submitted the following 920 word letter of apology.
Dear Kay
I regret to inform you that I shall be unable to submit a ThreadMash piece on the theme “The Deadline” in the genre “fiction” by the due date.
Normally I’m good with deadlines. I’m nothing like the writer Douglas Adams, who was so lousy at deadlines, publishers knew not to bother setting them for him. Adams famously said:
“I love deadlines; I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by”.
Although I am relatively good at meeting deadlines, naturally I tend to leave written pieces until the last minute; who doesn’t?
At the turn of the century, having foolishly agreed to write a charity textbook, I managed to meet the deadline only by dint of arranging to have some wisdom teeth removed and thus being forced to stay home for two weeks of convalescence for which I set myself a 2,000 words per day target to get the last 20,000 words of the book done on time.
It was on that occasion I learnt, for the first but not the last time, that book publishers don’t expect the authors to meet deadlines, so I was met with five weeks of silence until the editor picked the thing up at their appointed time. The same thing happened when my co-author Michael and I submitted the first draft of “The Price of Fish” on deadline; five weeks of silence because the so-called deadline isn’t a true deadline.
You don’t want truth, do you, Kay?
You want fiction.
Our first book, "Clean Business Cuisine" was fiction. We wrote it without a publisher and therefore without a publisher’s deadline. Once we had a publisher and a production schedule, I arranged the first book signing with what seemed to be plenty of leeway for the production deadline. But of course we ended up with a race against time to get copies of the book to the book signing location, Halifax, ahead of the event. That “skin of teeth” deadline was met, just. I even turned up at the venue on time myself; but in my rush to change into my dinner suit that evening, I forgot to take a pen with me to the venue. That’s right, I turned up at my first ever book signing without a pen. As the venue was a youth theatre where the narrowest writing implement to hand was a permanent marker pen, this was an existential crisis for the book signing, until a customer showed up with a pen to lend me for the evening.
I could have fleshed out that deadline story, but it is a true story about fiction…not in itself fiction.
Actually I have a bit of a problem with deadline stories in fiction. They tend to follow a predictable pattern, whereby suspense is generated through the device of a deadline, often, especially in thrillers, through convoluted circumstances.
The Perils Of Pauline is a classic example of ludicrous deadline, or cliff-hanger thrillers. For bizarre reasons, villains in this type of story seem compelled to condemn their potential victims to a death that will scare them for several minutes before killing them, allowing time for the victim to extricate themselves from danger, or for a hero to arrive and rescue the victim. Bond villains are another example of fiends with this monstrous flaw. I find these fictions implausible and not to my taste.
I did consider writing a topical pastiche of the thriller deadline story, in which the villain tries to construct the cliff-hanger scenario, having tied the potential victim to a railway track, but the locomotive-driven demise is confounded by excuses from the track and train operators apologising for delays caused by Brexit, Covid and latterly Putin. Meanwhile the hero’s efforts to rescue the potential victim are similarly impaired by Brexit, Covid and Putin excuses from would-be suppliers of motor vehicles, horses and rope cutting equipment. The risk of the victim dying of neglect becomes an interesting additional angle to this otherwise simplistic, predictable storyline.
I should add, parenthetically, that The Perils Of Pauline never did have the heroine tied to a railway line; that specific scenario was used several times in the copycat series The Hazards Of Helen.
Joking apart, my dear Kay, this whole business of people being unable to set a sensible deadline and then meet it is no longer funny. It is inundating me with needless tasks and starting to get me down. The worst example of this Brexit, Covid, Putin (or BROVIN syndrome, as I call it) is the “temporary” pipe which has been dangling around our Notting Hill Gate home for more than two years, while the flat above mine awaits a not especially complex plumbing solution. An elephant gestates in fewer than two years. The entirety of our street, Clanricarde Gardens, including the shops adjoining each side of the main road, was built in the 1870s in fewer than four years. I feel like going onto the Bayswater Road and protesting about it, but a large bunch of other protesters have beaten me to it and taken root there.
No, the real truth, Kay, is that BROVIN syndrome has finally got to me. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am unable to generate 800-900 words between now and the deadline.
Sorry about that.
With love and very best wishes
Ian
PS You may complain in writing to the ombudsman, ICAT (The International Court for the Arbitration of ThreadMash – Justice R Candappa presiding). But don’t expect a response from ICAT before the deadline.
“Temporary” trailing pipe since December 2019Clanricarde Gardens – whole street constructed 1869-1873Local protests about other matters, more pressing than trailing pipes
The Evening Itself
We had a good time at The Tokenhouse – a venue that Rohan booked in quieter times; we suspect that they will seek larger groups henceforward.
It was wonderful to see many members of the gang in person again after so long. Unfortunately several were unable to attend – Kay’s last minute Covid indisposition reminded us why we hadn’t been together in 3D for so long.
Kay did join us via Zoom, however. Her story had a dystopian past quality to it that was only tangentially about deadlines…
…contrast with Jill’s dystopian future story about existential deadlines.
Several of the stories (Jan’s, Flo’s & Adrian’s in particular) managed to weave romance into the deadline scenario; in two cases ideas around internet dating and social media flirting were front & centre.
Rohan and David can explain for themselves what their stories were about, while Adrian probably couldn’t provide a logical reason why he ended up in a pantomime lion costume at the end of his performance piece.
Jan, Julie, Flo & Jill, keen to pose rather than look naturalDavid posing as his natural self, half capuchin monk, half capuchin monkey Adrian, no longer donning his lion outfit (don’t ask)
To lose one cricket great in a day may be regarded as misfortune…
…but this piece is not the place for that kind of joke.
Rod Marsh and Shane Warne were both great Australian cricketers – larger-than-life personalities. I was lucky enough to see both play live – in Shane Warne’s case many times.
Rod Marsh (1947-2022)
Rod Marsh was one of my “love-to-hate” heroes from my school days. Heroes from school days leave their mark in a different, perhaps more indelible way.
I only saw Rod Marsh play live once, although, on TV, as a kid, I saw lots of him. Latterly, as I got to see lots of cricket live, Rod Marsh’s was a face I’d quite often see around the grounds (in my case Lord’s and Edgbaston), especially during the Ashes.
Here is my report of the one time I saw Rod Marsh play live. Marsh was one of the Aussie players who walked around the ground to entertain and chat with the crowd on that relentlessly gloomy weather day.
I learnt that Rod Marsh had died early morning, before going to the gym and progressing with the rest of my day.
A Day Going Through Old Photos With Jilly, Oblivious To The Extent Of Cricketing Greats Loss
I spent a very pleasant day with Jilly Black, going through her photo archives, doing a bit of scanning and working out how we might scan a plethora of differently sized films etc.
Naturally a hearty lunch and general catch up chat formed the centrepiece of such a day, but below is one of the few dozen pictures we did actually scan.
Roberta & Jilly while at the notorious Kibbutz Afek, 1980
Jilly and I had such a laugh when we spotted that Jilly had written “Afek 1981” on the photo packet. After stating with certainty that the omnishambles had been in 1980, I suggested two possibilities for the 1981 mention:
that Jilly had labelled the pictures many years later and had misremembered the Afek year by one year;
despite everything that had gone wrong and all the pains I (and others) had gone through to try to relieve the suffering of the youngsters, that crazy bunch of teenagers had returned to Afek the following year for a further dose of draconian discipline and disease.
I concluded that the most likely answer was the second of the two, not least because Jilly is so good with numbers.
After Jilly left, I looked at the news headlines on my smart phone and learnt that Shane Warne had also died that day.
I saw Shane Warne play live many times between the late 1990s and the end of his playing career.
Although I saw him representing Australia far more often than I saw him play county cricket, my favourite memory of watching him play is from a county match.
I wrote it up at the time on the Middlesex Till We Die website. I’m sure the current editorial team will forgive me for extracting the most relevant three paragraphs here, but if you want to read the whole piece you can find it on the MTWD site here.
Watching Warne
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Thursday night I had time to come and see the end of play and sat behind Shane Warne's arm for over an hour. Friday morning, knowing the folks weren't due to arrive for another 30-40 minutes, I sat in the Pav and watched him from in front of his arm. It really is a wonderful thing to be able to sit in exactly the spot of your choice watching a player of that quality bowling live. I should add, by the way, that I think Ed Smith and Ed Joyce played Warne extremely well on Thursday and Friday. The man is a legend and was bowling really well. Forget the joke runs that Ed Smith made at the end of the innings - he deserved them really; his first 100 was worth 150 when you consider the quality of bowling he neeeded to see off to get there.
A Couple of Wickets and Joke Bowling
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As soon as I got paged by my mother and went towards the gate to meet the folks, a couple of wickets fell. Joyce and Styris. It was to be that sort of day. I took the parents into the Long Room and sat them down for the famous "Long Room view" of the cricket. The match was moving along pretty slowly. 3 or 4 minutes later, I see Warney coming our way. I explain hurriedly to my folks that this man is a living legend, but neither of them have heard of him! The grumpy gent sitting in the high chair behind us makes an audible disapproving snort noise. Mum asks if it would be appropriate to congratulate Warny, on his return, for the achievements I have just described to her. I suggest that he has probably had enough adulation and will be able to get by without hers.
I then explain to them why I thought he'd come off (agreement) and what was going to happen next (joke bowling), which seemed ridiculously complicated and silly to the parents (understandably). Soon Nic Pothas is bowling. I explain that he is the wicket keeper and doesn't normally bowl. I also explain that he is an eccentric who wears different coloured underpants depending on whether he is batting, keeping or training. I wonder whether he even has a bowling colour of underpants and whether he had the opportunity to change into them. Even Mr Snortnoise seems to approve of this joke.
It was truly a bittersweet. nostalgia-laden day. A really agreeable catch up with Jilly, sadly tinged and sandwiched by the sad news from the cricketing world. Such is life.
Anyway, I started to hatch a plot several years ago – 2018 when at Falkland Palace playing real tennis, to be precise – where Ewan Lee informed me that he was teaching his pupils to play fives on squash courts. The slightly different size and colour can be compensated for with a special ball, he told me. Squash courts are good for fives and vice versa. It occurred to me that Lord’s, with two squash courts, might be a very good place for fives.
Let’s not talk about why it took me three-and-a-half years from idea to actual plan and fruition. Let’s just talk about the fruition.
Early in 2022, I ordered a selection of fives equipment (several sizes of gloves & inners, plus a couple of those special balls) as a donation for players at Lord’s to share. Most of the gloves were “white-labelled” but you can buy, for a few bob extra, gloves labelled for the old school, so I treated myself to a personal Alleyn’s pair.
What would Mr Tindale have done? What would Mr Banson have done?
The equipment arrived 25 February and I had a provisional arrangement to have an initial go with Jack Clifton (one of the real tennis pros) and Janie on Monday 28th February.
What a glorious day it was.
I had arranged to play real tennis at 14:00. Janie and I arrived a little early for that session, enabling me to show her the (very) basics of fives for quarter of an hour or so before my game. It transpires that 10-15 minutes is sufficient for the addiction factor of the compelling game that is fives to kick in. Janie said she’d practice on her own for a while and come and watch the tennis a bit later. She did show up to watch the tennis for quite a while, but not before she’d warmed up her hands a fair bit for fives.
After I’d come a close second (which seems to be my regular placing post-Covid) at tennis, Jack, Janie and I had a good introductory knockabout on the fives court.
Jack took to the game very quickly indeed – I’d suggest that anyone who is a natural sportsperson for hand-eye co-ordination ball sports should be able to pick up fives and find pleasure in it rapidly.
Janie’s new-found addiction was slightly mitigated by her concern for her hands and fingers when playing a hard-ball game. As a podiatrist, she does need fully-functioning hands for work and worries about even the slight bruising that is inevitable (especially at first) even with padded gloves. I remember a similar conversation when she tried wicket-keeping.
Jack and I tried a couple of short games before the former returned to the pros office to do some work. “But for you, this too is work”, I said, but to no avail. Janie and I played for a while longer, while waiting for the next pair of combatants to finish their tennis match, as I had semi-lined up one of them to have a go at fives.
Graham Findlay, an Old Fettesian and increasingly handy real tennis-player, had previously told me that he used to play rugby fives at school. I should have guessed that he would have been very handy at the game; he’s very handy at games.
Both of us were able to boast an interval of 40 to 45 years since we had last played fives.
You can just see Graham in the background checking out the fixture list
Janie volunteered to watch and shoot some hand-held video from the squash court viewing gallery.
The first three clips show the progression of our warm up and refreshing our memories about the rules.
I had remembered the serve rule, but forgotten that lefties normally serve from the other side
Graham claims not to be remotely into it yet, then plays a classic leftie’s winner
Graham practices some serves from the left-hand side of the court
The next three clips show some highlights (or should I call them lowlights?) from our match: A Very Old Fettesian v An Alleyn’s Very Old Boy. Hold on to your hats:
The first rally of the match and Graham is unquestionably “too good”
Graham goes 3-1 up, Janie advises and I somehow scramble a winning rally
At 3-2, Janie advises some more and I pull off a classic shot to confound a leftie
We should draw a veil over the rest of the match. After all, fives is a quintessentially good-natured, sporting, fair-play game. It’s not about the score. It’s not about winning or losing. I’m sure, dear reader, you understand my points…or shortage thereof.
Graham wondered afterwards what Dr Colin Niven (a former teacher of his at Fettes and a former Head at Alleyn’s) would make of it – would he cheer for Fettes, Alleyn’s or just give three cheers for the sport?
There was simply no way we were going to let a global pandemic totally ruin our Z/Yen staff Christmas gathering for two years.
OK, we had to do without completely at the end of 2020. OK, the Omicron wave made it impracticable to persevere with our original date – 17 December – in a week where everything else was also postponed or cancelled.
But we were determined that this would be a postponement, not a cancellation. Those fine people at Watermen’s Hall, together with the rather wonderful The Cook & The Butler people who do the catering there, came up trumps with an early opportunity for us to regroup in mid February.
They kept very quiet about their choice of menu ahead of the day, perhaps because it was full of nice surprises and treats, some of which might well have been late decisions.
More than just sound good, that five course meal tasted really good too, with excellent choices of wines to wash the food down.
We did almost everything we had planned for the original event, including our traditional Secret Santa. The picture above shows my table. The one below the other Z/Yen table, capturing the moment when Peter discovered that he had received the best Secret Santa ever – a massively extendable diagrammatic representation of the central part of the River Thames.
Given the setting of Watermen’s Hall, this present couldn’t be bettered and it did the rounds of the room several times.
The only problem with Peter’s Secret Santa present was that Juliet couldn’t contain her pleasure at how well the gift had gone down, exposing herself (as it were) as having been that particular Santa.
For some reason, by way of contrast, no-one has owned up to giving me a tin of Senior Moment Mints.
The picture below depicts Charlotte and Bikash chatting about their spoils while Michael addressed the assembled throng – a loyal toast I think.
One thing we chose not to do was sing the 2021 Z/Yen Christmas song. Linda did bring it along, as it had been all ready to go back in December 2021. But we chose not to proceed with singing it, as the entire meal had been changed and we can’t even “trail slothfully back to Lothbury” any more.
Still, I thought I should still publish the “unused canticle” for completists of my oeuvre to collect, debate and savour like connoisseurs, at their leisure, in the privacy of their own metaverses.
I think we drew the long straw with the February 2022 menu, personally.
After such an enjoyable meal and conversation, not wanting the afternoon to end, most of us retired to Jamies St Mary’s to continue the discussions over a few more quiet glasses – such is the City early evening on a Friday post-pandemic.
So many events postponed and cancelled before Christmas. Then Janie and I spent the Christmas period doing Crisis and stuff. Then, just around the time I was supposed to start doing nice stuff again, towards the end of January, I went down with the mildest of mild doses of Covid, requiring me to isolate again and cancel out my social engagements.
I was really looking forward to seeing John for the evening. He had chosen a new restaurant that has had rave reviews: Zahter. It read and sounded wonderful. Here’s a link to the website.
But so used to cancelation had I become, that, around 16:30, rather than simply looking forward to spending the evening with John, I became convinced that John would call any second to cancel the evening.
But no cancelation call was forthcoming so I off I set to Foubert’s Place; a location I hadn’t visited in years…OK, I’ve barely visited any Central London locations in years…but in the matter of this location, many, many years.
The service was excellent – explaining the menu – from which we chose a selection of cold and hot mezes to share, rather than choosing any main dishes.
We tried:
Atom – a chilli yoghurt dip – a bit spicy for my taste these days;
Fava – a broadbean based dip very much to my taste;
Karides Guvec – tiger prawns in garlic butter;
Manti – meatballs which they kindly did for us without the walnuts.
A quick look at the Liberty clock on the way home, although it sadly was not an appropriate time to see the movement of the moving bits, unless we were willing to wait around for quarter of an hour or so…which we were not.
Our first visit to the theatre for quite a while. The Covid pandemic stopped us in our theatre-going tracks back in March 2020.
Indeed we nearly missed out on this one. I had booked for us to see a preview on 22 January, but the week before the Royal Court wrote to me saying they had to cancel the first few previews due to…you guessed it…Covid.
I called to see if we could get decent seats to see the play relatively early in the run. I spoke with a helpful-sounding Royal Courtier on the phone.
Now let’s see. You were booked in seats E9 & E10 for the preview…
…I can offer you E8 and E9 exactly two weeks later, the evening of 5 February.
Problem solved, I thought. But mischievously instead I said:
…but E8 & E9 is not the same thing as E9 & E10.
I heard a gulp at the other end of the phone, so I thought best to put the poor fellow out of his misery quickly.
…joking! Problem solved.
Ironically, as it turned out, no-one sat in E10 on the evening itself and someone rather tall was sitting in front of E8, so we did, in the end, occupy E9 & E10.
But that’s not so weird a story, whereas the play is a seriously weird story. Here’s the teaser:
I thought the play was wonderful and awe-inspiring. A sort-of pastiche of scary folk tales and fables, a sort of exploration into perennial abuse of women through the ages and the meaning of autonomy.
Alistair McDowall’s plays are a bit like that. Janie and I both absolutely loved Pomona…
…whereas The Glow split our jury, as had X – the other McDowall we had seen at the Royal Court some five years ago. Janie found elements of The Glow disturbing and was disconcerted by the extreme time-hopping involved.
Janie was not quite as disconcerted as the young woman who was sitting in front of us, who nearly jumped out of her skin at the coup de theatre that signalled the end of the first half of the play. The young lady told us after the play that she had recovered herself and enjoyed the play as a whole.
My own praise for the fascinating play also extends to the superb cast. Ria Zmitrowicz was truly excellent in the lead, ably supported by Rakie Ayola, Fisayo Akinade and Tadhg Murphy. Vicky Featherstone sure knows how to direct and produce this sort of play – who knew?
Not the easiest watch for those easing their way out of the pandemic, but if you want to see a full tilt piece of spellbinding theatre, The Glow might well do the job for you. It certainly did so for me.
Sanity Clause, Anyone? – Christmas Eve & Boxing Day
Janie and I are not exactly model celebrants of Christmas. In recent years we have made it our habit to volunteer, primarily for Crisis at Christmas, which is a wonderful charity.
Yet Janie does have a fondness for unusual Christmas decorations, and has long-regretted not photographing the “Christmas Gnomes Tea Party” we drove past on Popes Lane two or three years ago.
But we did stop and snap the above acrobatic (or possibly desperate) Santa on Boston Manor Road, setting aside our santaphobia and praising the owner of the house for his stunning fandangle.
As if that wasn’t excitement enough before Christmas, we also did our first Crisis shift of the year on Christmas Eve:
We are Ged & Daisy for our Crisis shifts. Daisy here was sporting Christmas (and for that matter Z/Yen corporate) colours.
Daisy, for reasons known only to her, tends to pronounce the word “crisis” as “crises”, as if one massive homelessness crisis at Christmas isn’t enough.
Daisy was tempting fate this season with her plurality, in my view. Indeed, we swiftly found ourselves embroiled in a second crisis. The Duchess of Castlebar (Daisy’s mum) had yet another nasty fall on Boxing Day, not even two hours after we left her. So that’s hospital again (the third time since the start of November) and all the palaver that entails.
Keeping calm in a Crisis…or crises
All Isn’t Quiet On New Year’s Day
On New Year’s Day, we were back to Crisis. A smaller team that day with plenty to do; we ended up running the coffee stall / canteen, the clothes store and delivering food to rooms on that shift.
On Christmas Eve, there was masses of donated stock but it was difficult to find individual items of the requisite type and size for each guest, so some people were taking/writing down orders in the “clothes store”, others were fulfilling them from stock in the basement and then delivering the clothes orders to the rooms. Time consuming but basically a systematic sequence of tasks. Daisy and I worked on fulfilling and delivering clothes orders on Christmas Eve.
New Year’s Day was different. Stocks were running low, with mostly super-large and super-small sizes remaining available. Almost all of the stock had been moved upstairs to the clothes store.
After our session running the canteen, Daisy and I were allocated to the clothes store. That is when we met The Sartorialist; a guest with a particular interest…you might even describe it as an obsession…with the garb on offer.
Daisy tells me that I handled the situation with great patience, but I suspect that my face was betraying whatever my words and tone were belying – I’m not a naturally patient chap. Perhaps sensing my frustration, The Sartorialist kept apologising to me for his persistence, without ever tempering his resolve to see just one more garment, in case it turned out to be a size/colour/style/brand that suited him.
At one point he said to me:
You’re well dressed – why shouldn’t I be?
I pointed out to him my tracksuit bottoms and trainers, similar to those I had worn for tennis a few hours earlier (see below).
I was talking about your top. I don’t wear tracksuit bottoms and I would never, ever wear training shoes.
I thought about my choice of jumper for my Crisis shifts (see above). It must be more than 25 years old. Daisy and I bought it when visiting a provincial town; the weather had turned unseasonably cold on us and I wanted a cheap, comfortable, washable pullover to use as layering.
I also wondered what The Sartorialist might have made of my choice of top – in particular headgear, for tennis (see below).
Geddy In Disguise…With Glasses.
At that juncture, I thought it best to hand the customer-facing side of the Crisis clothing emporium over to Daisy.
Consummate professional salesperson that she is…
…at least in the matter of selling…by which I mean giving away by dint of talking up…charitably-donated goods…
…Daisy successfully persuaded The Sartorialist to take three items of clothing and move on, enabling us to progress with other customers, who were forming an increasing long, yet surprisingly patient, queue.
4 January – A Charitable Keele Connection On Our “End Of Term” Shift
One of the good things about Facebook is the way it informs you about connections with other people who know your friends. On Holiday Monday I joined the relevant private Facebook Group for people who were doing Crisis volunteering shifts in our slot, to spot that one of the volunteers, Amber Bauer, is a friend of Sally Hyman, whom I know from “back in the day” at Keele.
Sally runs a wonderful charity, CRIBS International. It turns out that Amber knows Sally through that charity.
I wondered whether Amber would be on our 4 January shift. I didn’t spot anyone named Amber during our pre-shift briefing, but that “end of term” briefing was…very brief.
But soon after the briefing, one of my first customers when I was staffing the canteen/coffee stall again, had the name badge Amber, so we connected in person.
A little later, Daisy and I took over from Amber on outdoor duty…
…yes it was punishingly cold doing that duty once the temperature had dropped that evening…
…enabling Daisy to take pictures of a very chilly Amber handing over to a not-yet-but-soon-to-be-chilly me:
I look comparatively cold already and I haven’t started the duty yet. Mind you, Amber seemed awfully pleased to see us when we turned up to take over.
Amber and I both reckon that the above picture and story should make Sally Hyman smile – not least because it includes a soft plug for Sally’s wonderful international homelessness charity.
You Want To Know More About The Charities Mentioned In This Piece?…Of Course You Do…Clickable Links Below:
This piece of amateur research was triggered, towards the end of 2021, by a casual enquiry by Carl Snitcher, a leading light in the Dedanists & Real Champions world, while we were on our way to play a match at Hampton Court Palace.
Carl was wondering whether the asserted date of 1740 for the first real tennis champion was accurate. Some had suggested it was not. I was the only amateur tennis historian Carl had to hand at that moment.
The answer to the exam question: “Did Clergé become the first tennis champion in precisely the year 1740?”, is a reasonably straightforward one; I shall answer it briefly in the next section of this piece.
But I realised, on engaging in this small piece of research, that, far more interesting than the numerical, “when?” question, is the more human query, “who on earth was this initial tennis champion Clergé?”
Other great players of this time (1740- 1753) were Clergé, the elder Farolais, La Fosse, Barcellon (the father), and Barnéon. Clergé was the most remarkable…
Paumiers qui acquirent, il y a trente ou quarante ans, une certaine réputation de force, furent les sieurs Clergé, Farolais pere, La Fosse, Barcelon pere & Barneon ; — le sieur Clergé étoit le plus vanté…”
…except in the matter of dates, where Manevieux is saying “these past thirty or forty years” rather than stating specific dates. Manevieux no doubt spent several years writing his amateur treatise.
As an early music lover, I am at home with the use of “circa” for dates derived from estimates based on best available evidence. I find the term “circa 1740” suitably precise yet hedged for the starting date of Clergé’s pre-eminence.
Who Was This Manévieux Fella?
Before we explore the story of Monsieur Clergé, I’d like to delve a little into the author, Manévieux , upon whose 1783 writings our knowledge of the early tennis champions is based.
He is almost certainly otherwise (or more completely) known as Louis-Claude Bruyset de Manévieux, who published a couple of other works, in particular a eulogy to his great uncle,Jean André Soubry (1703-1774), Treasurer of France in Lyon.
One of my bugbears is that we have no picture of Clergé, nor of Manévieux for that matter, but there is a contemporaneous portrait of Soubry, which will have to do in the “eye candy” department for the time being:
Portrait by Nicolas de Largillière, presumed to be Jean André Soubry, c1729
In the 1783 tennis treatise, Monsieur Manévieux describes himself as an amateur. Whether he means amateur tennis player, writer or historian is unclear. Sounds like my kind of guy in any case.
Manévieux dedicates the treatise to Le Comte D’Artois, who went on to become Charles X after the Bourbon Restoration. As a youngster, Charles, Count of Artois was famous for his drinking, gambling and womanising (presumably he wasted the other 10% of his time), the fashionable rumour of the time was that Charles was having an affair with his sister-in-law, Marie-Antoinette. He famously won a bet with Marie-Antoinette that he could get his architect, François-Joseph Bélanger, to design and build a party palace within three months. The result, at enormous expense, was the 1777 Château de Bagatelle.
Charles, Count of Artois, painting attributed “after Antoine Callet”, c1775
Charles, Count of Artois was unusually keen on tennis for a French royal of his era. Thierry Bernard-Tambour (good name for a tennis historian, Tambour) in his article on 18th century royal paumiers, registers, from royal archives that that…
Janvier-Jacques [Charrier] became the King’s paumier in 1763, also [paumier to the] Count of Artois
and
[ball making by] Etienne Edmond [Quillard] in 1765 for the Dauphin and the Count of Artois
…which means that Artois did play tennis from his infancy. The Manévieux dedication suggests that Charles retained an interest in the game into adulthood. Shneerson (pp76-77) provides some fascinating insights into Charles’s extravagant behaviours and spending around the game. D’Artois apparently had a hissy-fit when spectators applauded his opponent in a public court. After that, he only wanted to play on private courts. Between 1780 and 1786 he had his architect, Belanger, build him a court on the Boulevard du Temple – as much for drinking, gambling and womanising as for watching/playing tennis if the designs are anything to go by. That was probably the last pre-revolution court built in France.
Charles spent several years in England during his exile from France, during which time he is known to have played regularly at the James Street (Haymarket) court, spectators presumably having been warned not to cheer the future King of France’s opponents.
But let us now return to Monsieur Clergé himself.
Wikipedia (Unusually Not) To The Rescue
My usual starting point for research of this kind is Wikipedia, but on this occasion, at the time of writing (December 2021), Wikipedia was having a bit of a shocker in the matter of our first named tennis champion, Monsieur Clergé.
Parenthetically, it is amusing to note that Louis de Rouvroy,The Duke of Saint-Simon founded his own fame and reputation as a memoirist on the back of his annotations of Dangeau’s memoires, despite stating that Dangeau’s writing was:
of an insipidity to make you sick.
Still, the period of the Dangeau memoires; 1684-1720, covered the last 30+ years of The Sun King, Louis XIV’s reign and the early years of the Louis XV era.
Here is an example from the autumn of 1685:
Sunday 4 November 1685, in Fontainebleau. – The King went to shoot; My lord [Louis the Grand Dauphin] did not go out all day; he made the good jeu de paume players play, and Jourdain played better than little Breton or little Saumur had ever played, as people say at that time.
I am not the first tennis historian to trawl those 19 volumes for nuggets of information about tennis, nor will I be the last. It is mostly pedestrian stuff, but I discern and summarise the following:
tennis was on the whole falling from favour in royal circles during that period;
more or less only in the autumn, when the royals were at Fontainebleau and Versailles for the hunting season, does tennis feature at all in their lives;
younger members of the royal family would “have a go” – Louis the Grand Dauphin was still having an occasional hit in the earlier period of those diaries. For example, on 3 December 1686, he played on the three-day old new court at Versailles – the Grand Dauphin continued to play regularly there throughout the winter of 1686/87, but the novelty of playing there soon wore off for him;
there was more enthusiasm for watching professional players play than for having a hit themselves – the royals tended to watch if the weather was too poor for hunting and/or if they were entertaining visiting dignitaries, such as exiled English royals;
one of the Jourdain brothers was the pre-eminent player in the mid 1680s at least;
in October 1687 the professionals at Fontainebleau petitioned The Sun King for a licence to exhibit their skills in Paris; this he granted:
Thursday 9 October 1687, in Fontainebleau. – The King saw the good players of jeu de paume play, who asked that they be allowed to take money to see them play in Paris; it would earn them money, and apparently the king will allow them.
Sunday 26 October 1687, in Fontainebleau. – The king saw the good players of jeu de paume playing, and granted them the privilege they asked for; they will play twice a week in Paris, and will be displayed like the actors. They are five: the two Jourdains, le Pape, Clergé et Servo.
I believe the above mention of Clergé The Elder to be the only one by Dangeau himself. There is a further mention in the autumn of 1690 which comes from a Saint-Simon footnote, the detail presumably extracted from Mercure:
Thursday 12 October 1690, in Fontainebleau. – The bad weather made it difficult for people to go hunting. – The king led the exiled royals [James II & Mary of Modena] of England to the tennis court, where the great players played (1).
(1) “The weather was so bad in the afternoon that we could not go chasing the deer. So we only went to the game of jeu de paume, where a game between the Jourdain brothers and le Page, Clerget [sic] and Cerveaux against them, gave a lot of pleasure.” (Mercure of October, p. 297)
The great journalistic tradition of mis-spelling names goes back at least to the 17th century
Eagle-eyed lovers of tennis might have noticed that the account suggests that the exhibition match might have been three-a-side, or possibly three-against-two. Accounts from the 17th and 18th century, such as they are, suggest that such matches were quite common at that time – possibly even the norm for exhibition matches.
What Do We Know About The Initial Tennis Champion, Clergé The Younger?
The first thing to say is that there must have been an elder and younger Clergé, despite some histories suggesting that the Clergé referred to by Dangeau in 1687 and the Clergé referred to by Manévieux as being pre-eminent for some years from c1740 might have been one and the same person.
Even those of us who marvelled at the skills displayed at Lord’s, until recently, by nonagenarians Robin Simpson and the late Major Jan Barnes, would admit that the giddy heights of skill described by Manévieux are probably only at their peak for a decade or two or (at a push) three.
possibly a son, or grandson, of a player of the same name, mentioned above [by Dangeau]
…while in Real Tennis Today and Yesterday, John Shneerson is more resolute:
probably the grandson of the Clergé who played in front of Louis XIV.
I agree. The tennis business tended to be a family business, in those days to an even greater extent than it is today. Assuming our c1740 champion Clergé was the grandson of the Louis XIV petitioning and performing Clergé, it is probable that the father was also “in the business”.
In truth, we know almost nothing about the early life of the younger Clergé.
The Master Paumiers who acquired, over the past thirty or forty years, a certain strong reputation, were Messrs Clergé, Farolais (the father), La Fosse, Barcelon (the father) & Barneon. Mr Clergé was the most extolled by the strength of his first stroke, which he executed perfectly. He was the man who played the doubles game best, taking only the shots he had to, according to the rules, bolstering & warning his second, strong or weak, to take the ball. Very different from other players, who tend to make their second useless, by hogging the whole game.
When Clergé had taken the serve [hazard end], he advanced to the last [winning] gallery, appearing to defend the galleries with volleys from boasts, cross-court forces and shots off the tambour, warning his second to play the others. On the service side, he would take his place in the line of four tiles [around chase one-and-two] near the [dedans] post, where he volleyed forehand or backhand the forces or boasts off the main wall. He preferred to allow the ball to land a chase than to move from this position & let his second play all the other shots.
Nobody, in a word, was nor will be held in higher regard, not only for the strength of his game, but also for the strength of his character – Mr Clergé was a totally honest paumier. There was no deceit to his game nor did he succumb to the commercial interests that sooner or later tend to prejudice the professional player; he never played for money.
It really does sound as though he was a great bloke, Clergé, as well as a great player.
We think we know just a little more about his later life.
Between those two notable/notarised events, we find our hero assisting Louis Joseph, Prince of Condé in putting the finishing touches on his jeu de paume court at Chantilly, in 1756/1757.
It was Clergé who put the finishing touches on that Chantilly jeu de paume and who also acted as paumier to Louis Joseph, Prince of Condé for some while after that:
It is to Henri-René Clergé du Gillon, master paumier, that we entrust the regulatory finish of the room, to namely “the black painting of the Jeu de Paume three separate times”. Finally, we equip the room with nets and we buy different “utensils” needed for the game for nearly 1,500 pounds.
By that time, Guillaume Barcellon had been appointed paumier to King Louis XV, in 1753. Modern historians suggest that Clergé’s supremacy as a player had probably waned by then and that Barcellon was the champion player for a dozen or so years.
We also know, based on an undated mention in Manévieux, that Antoine-Henri Masson at one time (probably after 1765, once his supremacy had been established) challenged and defeated Clergé and Charrier, having given them half-fifteen in handicap.
La Taille et La Taille the younger, Bunelle, Clergé, Farolet, Masson, Charrier and Barcellon
But, when Manévieux lists paumiers and their courts at the end of his 1783 treatise, the name Clergé is absent. Possibly he had retired, possibly he had died between 1775 and 1783.
There might now be enough evidence gathered in one place (I’m pretty sure this article is more comprehensive than anything previously published about Clergé) to enable a keen historian to dig deeper and uncover more.
Picture This: Henri-René Clergé du Gillon, aka “Clergé The Younger”
I mentioned earlier that it seems such a shame that we have no portrait of the first champion of tennis, the first sport to establish a continuous world championship.
We have images of Barcellon and Masson, who followed soon after Clergé The Younger, but none of our hero. Perhaps he eschewed pictorial publicity as well as pay for play.
So I decided to commission a fine artist – the only amateur fine artist I had to hand at that moment – to create an artist’s impression of what Clergé The Younger might have looked like.
“Nobody was nor will be held in higher regard, not only for the strength of his game, but also for the strength of his character ”
There you have it – Clergé The Younger – he looks and sounds like such a fine chap.
Acknowledgements
With grateful thanks to the many encouraging and helpful people whose comments and ideas have shaped and are shaping my scribblings on tennis history. In particular thanks to Thierry Bernard-Tambour for additions and corrections (currently in process).
