I wrote letters to mum and dad which doubled as my diary/travelogue. Here is a scan followed by a transcript of the first of them, which relates to 16 July 1979.
For those who struggle to read my beautiful manuscript, here is a dictated transcription:
Dear Ma and pa,
Well here I am, in Mauritius. It’s 7:15 AM and the sun will soon be making its presence felt. We are right at the tail end of the wintry weather (that means cold nights), but wrapped up in a blanket I was quite warm enough, so the assurance that I won’t need the blanket for much longer is quite irrelevant. Mindyou, I’d have slept like a log through anything after getting about half an hours sleep on the plane.
The flight was most enjoyable. At Heathrow we met a Biltoo, Arriss, who travelled with us and being in aviation he knows the ropes. Bahrain, our first stop (at 1:45 GMT 3:45 Bahrain time) was smelly, with workers sleeping around on the airport floors etc.
Seychelles wouldn’t let us off, as it was raining when we stopped there, but the weather in Mauritius was lovely.
We arrived at 11:15 GMT, 2:15 Mauritius time and were met by Marraz (whose home I am in now) Garçon (with chauffeur to take all our bags) and Narrain (whose wife is one of Bill’s sisters). Of course they brought their families with them, (except Narrain as there was no room to 6 kids). First of all we drove to Garçon’s house.
The first thing that struck me on the journey was the extreme poverty. People living in rusty shacks etc. The second thing was the wonderful smell of the island, this mainly caused by sugar cane.
Garçon’s house at Rose Hill is like a mansion. We may stay there for a while. We quickly moved on to Narrain’s house – that was when we met Tiffin (Bill’s sister) and the six children. Then we went to Marraz’s house. Marraz has pull here, so the words Marraz Biltoo got us straight through customs etc. at the airport.
That evening we were visited by the Anglican priest from Catford [Lynford Smith] who I recognise and who recognises me. He says you can’t possibly see Mauritius unless you live with Mauritian people for some time, like I’m doing.
Anyway I’ll be in touch soon, lots of love Ian.
PS Please keep my letters as I’m too busy to write everything down for you and keep a diary
I refer to Anil’s dad as “Bill” in these letters, but I remember him as Dat (or Dutt) and I am pretty sure everyone in Mauritius called him Dat. Perhaps Bill was his nickname or simplified name in England.
This photo, taken later in the holiday, shows the people named in that first letter and some more. Left to right: Anil, Marraz, Anandani (in front of Marraz), Dat (Bill), Narrain (sitting in front of Dat), Garçon, Janee, Tiffin.
I did not witness that 1975 ejection, but I clearly had it on my mind that day.
But by 1979, it seems, not only was I (once again) too busy pottering around with actual cricket at Alleyn’s School to witness the match, I don’t even mention the cricket world cup in my diary.
had lazy day (scored) easy evening
So lazy was I, that day, I abandoned capital letters and most punctuation.
“Scored”, on that day, will mean, “scored a school team cricket match”, not the other (chasing girls) type of scoring.
Sociologists of the future will be delighted to learn that, at age 16, I was doing my fair share of the other type of scoring; the page before and the page after in the diary attest to that.
But that week had been an exam week at school.
I have a funny feeling that this particular episode of scoring lazily for the school team was a match at Battersea Grammar School (or I should say Furzedown, as that school had, by then, become) playing fields, which at that time was situated a lazy stroll away from our home in Woodfield Avenue. I say that only because I remember being asked at the last minute to score such a match around that time and the use of the term “lazy” infers that I went to little bother all day, possibly including even an absence of travel bother.
The way the Alleyn’s School match turned out is lost in the mists of time, unless some archivist somewhere kept the scorebooks. Anybody know if such archives are available for inspection? If so, let’s just hope my scoring handwriting was better than my diary handwriting.
The MCC has put up a rather charming half hour highlights package from that 1979 world cup final match – jolly decent of them – in two sections – here they both are:
No need to hold on to your hats for this diary entry, readers. 20 June 1979 is not one of the more exciting ones:
School OK. Exec meeting – all OK
But like the best Greek dramas, the exciting stuff is all happening just off stage.
This was the year during which I went out with Gillian for many months – several mentions of those activities on the preceding and subsequent pages.
The perceptive reader / interpreter might notice that I describe the youth club meeting the night before as “near revolution”. That can only be to do with the welfare day we were busy organising, with representatives from all around the Southern Region due to descend on our tiny little Streatham enclave on 1 July. I’ll take soundings and write up that whole near-drama soon (he writes in June 2019).
And those keen on drama might note that I sat my AO-level Drama that week. B was the result of that, if I recall correctly.
But the diary is entirely silent about the fact that the England cricket team, who for sure were very much on my mind still that summer, as indeed they were every summer, won a world cup semi-final thriller against New Zealand that day:
I played Bright Eyes while working on the Privatise/NewsRevue piece and it brought on a solid wave of memory from that April 1979 weekend. You couldn’t get away from Bright Eyes that spring; it was the Easter Number One, it was everywhere. I’ll insert a link at the end of this piece as a reward for those who…scroll all the way down there…I mean read this fine piece of mine in its entirety.
Drewy’s Party 14 April 1979
I don’t remember ever decorating at Anil’s house, but that’s what the diary says I did, before going on to Drewy’s place in Harrow-On-The -Hill for the party.
There was a group of visiting BBYOniks from the USA (New Jersey I believe) in town – earlier diary references cover earlier sessions with them. That is probably why I took my camera. Indeed, the photos of Drewy’s party are the only party photos I took throughout those years (unless you consider the conventions to have been several-days-long parties, which is not a ridiculous contention).
So how have I managed to find solid evidence that my unidentified fragments of negative, including the above “trews-free in the park” picture come from the same weekend?
Not so easy.
The main suspect in “the mysterious case of the trews-free gentleman” (see the first photo of this piece, above) now lives in the USA himself. When approached, he immediately started pleading the fifth amendment, which I think has something to do with bearing arms – I really should have made more attention when I did that comparative law module…whatever, I knew I’d need to handle this character very carefully indeed.
Still, once the gentleman had been offered immunity (which is apparently what you do with guilty folk in America to get them to sing), he sang like a canary.
More conclusively, now that I have gone back to the original negatives and looked at the whole fragment, I have also found the following picture on the same strip:
Clearing up the Drewy house carpet; see the Simon photo above – case proven
Also on the same strip, a couple of nice pictures of Linda, so she must have been there too. Perhaps she has some memories of this weekend to add:
Given the negative numbers and the fragmentary nature of the negatives, I am vaguely recalling that this roll of film was not finding its way happily into and through my camera. Indeed, from the depths of my memory, I think the camera jammed on the ramble, hence the shortage of pictures on that stack.
My diary is clear that we went on from Drewy’s place to a ramble:
Case proven.
As I write (14 April 2017) it is the 38th anniversary of the Drewy Party and Matzo Ramble weekend. An auspicious anniversary, as it happens, because this is Easter weekend and also the middle days (Chol Hamoed as they are known) of Passover, an unusual coincidence of festivals, just as it was in 1979.
…but in the spirit of the modern era, perhaps we should rename the Matzo Ramble as a Rakusen’s Ramble. Or, in honour of our recently departed visitors from New Jersey, a Manischewitz Meander…
…now I’m rambling. Have a look at the Bright Eyes vid below. Those with memories that go back that far, might just get a little memory flash of that 1979 spring. If so, I’d love to learn about your memories too.
So this was the day that I confirmed that I would spend five weeks of the summer of 1979 in Mauritius.
The kind Biltoo family gave me an extraordinary opportunity, in 1979, to visit the beautiful island of Mauritius as a family guest, not as a regular tourist, for five weeks, along with Anil (my school friend at Alleyn’s) and his father Dat. It proved to be a life-changing, life-enhancing experience for me; an act of wonderful generosity and hospitality on the part of that family.
As far as I can tell, this is the one and only one reference to my trip to Mauritius in my diary, prior to the visit:
Saw Anil today. Confirmed Mauritius…
I want to use this date to record my thoughts about VS Naipaul’s extensive essay/article about Mauritius, written in the early 1970s, The Overcrowded Barracoon.
Actually I cannot remember when I read The Overcrowded Barracoon at Dat Biltoo’s request. I am fairly sure that Dat more or less insisted that I read the article before making my decision as to whether or not to join the Biltoo family for five weeks in Mauritius.
It’s not a very complimentary piece. Perhaps Dat thought it would put me off. Or rather, that if it did put me off that it would be better that I didn’t join them. Or rather, that if the essay sparked my interest rather than put me off, that I would be a suitable companion for them. It did the latter; I was fascinated.
I think Dat lent me the book and I think that both my parents read the article too.
I remember thinking that the politics of that island sounded incredibly complicated and I remember not really understanding many of the points that VS Naipaul was making. For example, his comments about South Africa and Mauritius not being a place that would appeal to the anti-apartheid protester only made sense to me once I got to Mauritius.
In fact, the only point from the article that really stuck in my mind for 40 years was the notion that young, unmarried women of South Asian origin were chaperoned on Mauritius. Perhaps that point stuck because chasing girls formed a fairly major chunk of my brain space by the spring of 1979. I was 16 for goodness sake. Perhaps that point stuck because my father warned me quite sternly to be careful in my behaviour towards girls.
I do recall asking Dat some questions about the article before we went and that he answered my questions kindly, with brevity, mostly in the style of “you’ll see when we get there”. He was right.
I also recall one of my questions relating to the swastika symbol which I found perturbing but which Dat explained is a good Hindu symbol that had been misappropriated and used as an evil symbol by the Nazis.
On rereading The Overcrowded Barracoon 40 years later (August 2019) I realise what an insightful yet flawed essay that article was. The thoughts on Mauritian post-independence politics were fascinating, with the benefit of my direct experience and then hindsight in the following years.
But I think VS Naipaul’s derision about hopes for the tourism industry and the risk of overcrowding on the island have proved misguided. Naipaul was sniffy at the idea that Mauritius might increase its annual tourist footfall from 20,000 per annum to 300,000 per annum. Within 50 years of independence, Mauritius was happily accommodating over 1.3 Million tourists per annum. The population has also grown, from c800,000 to just over 1.3 Million. Almost exactly one tourist visit per Mauritian resident from 2016 onwards.
Whether or not the place is now overcrowded is a matter for conjecture, but it is certainly no longer a de facto slave colony, nor is it dependent upon munificence from dodgy neighbours and/or former colonial powers. Indeed Mauritius is now perceived as an economic success story and a major tourist destination.
But I had the opportunity to visit the nascent independent Island state (just over 10 years after independence) through and with a large, diverse Mauritian family. As my travelogues attest, that was a very special experience for a 16 tear old kid. I shall be forever grateful to the Biltoo family for giving me that experience.
No information in that diary entry on who my companions were that evening. I remember going to the George Canning with Jim Bateman more than once and also I’m pretty sure Mark Stevens. Perhaps also Paul Deacon and/or Graham Majin on at least one occasion; others joined us too, I think, on one visit or another. This aspect of my memory needs help.
But I do remember those evenings at the George Canning reasonably well.
As I recall it, the music on all my visits was British Rhythm & Blues – click here – much like the first albums by bands like the Rolling Stones, Manfred Mann, The Moody Blues, the Animals etc. Whether that R&B was the style of the place always or whether that was merely what you got on the nights we could afford, I don’t know.
But we could afford these evenings on a bit of saved pocket money. The beer was just a few pence more than normal, but if you eked out two pints over the evening you could still get a whole evening of beer and music for a quid.
The George Canning type of pub wasn’t a salubrious environment back then. I’m talking about 1979 Brixton, not the hipster “south-Shoreditch-like” inner London neighbourhood of today.
Indeed I don’t suppose my mum would have approved of us going there had she realised what a dive this pub was at that time; but Effra Road was also the location of the Brixton Shule (synagogue), so (in her mind) what could possibly go wrong just a hundred yards or so up the road from there?
From our point of view, it always felt safe and welcoming enough. The nights we went to the place, it was mostly populated by people who were there for a few beers and some music. Perhaps a few old regulars bemoaning the noise, but on the whole there was a sense of shared music-following purpose.
As I write on 31 December 2018, I find it hard to believe that it is 40 years since I attended the BBYO National Convention 1978/1979, my second National Convention.
I took loads of black and white photographs at that 1978/1979 convention – four rolls of film by my reckoning. At some point, someone must have taken some photographs for me:
Incontrovertible evidence that I wore baggy flares in those days. This is the Streatham clan performing some sort of a skit. We all look like we could do with a good meal.I’m not sure where this busker came from or which day this picture was taken, but the poor fellow (like many of us) looks as though he needed a good meal and some decent clothes. We must all hope that he went on to make something of his life:Jeffrey Spector in skittish mode
On 31 December 1978, Jeffrey Spector, who is sadly no longer with us, was installed as the National president for 1979. Although I didn’t know it then, some months later I was co-opted onto Jeffrey’s National Executive to edit the magazine for the last few months of 1979. It was an honour and privilege for me to have worked with him (and others of course) in that capacity.
I’m not too sure what was happening at this juncture but I am pretty sure this was taken on Jeffrey’s installation day and would have been part of that day’s ceremony/procedure.
There’s loads that I’d like to write about this convention and other BBYO happenings, but I think I should consult with others before delving into details.
One abiding memory of this particular convention is the extremely cold and snowy weather over New Year that year. Some scallywags took full advantage:
You can take the lad out of South London…
My diary for the three days (29 to 31 December) simply reads:
29 December: CONVENTION
30 December: SHEER
31 December: MAGIC
Whereas my diary entry for 1 January 1979 reads:
1 January: Return from convention. Cold – both sorts.
I feel immensely fortunate that I had the opportunity to share my youth with the terrific bunch of people I met through BBYO.
The Flickr album link that follows (the picture below) takes you to all the black and white photos I took and/or that were taken on my camera during that convention. Trigger warning – there are more than 140 pictures:
I had invited my extant (and soon to be ex) squeeze to the last night and the after show party. She told me she was especially impressed with Nathan Ariss’s Feste – a perfectly reasonable review, as I recall his performance was somewhat of a highlight. But at the party she seemed to put quite a lot of effort into letting Nathan know how impressed she had been. Nathan seemed in no rush to restore the natural dating order of things either. I let the girl know what I thought and I think that might have been my penultimate date with her. And it was a really really serious relationship – it had been going on for at least 5 or 6 weeks by then so was probably our 8th or 9th date.
I’m over it now. I really am.
I shared this recollection with the Alleyn’s Facebook group and made my peace with Nathan Ariss all these years later, not that there was ever an absence of peace at the time; I’m sure he was blissfully unaware of the matter back then.
Indeed, reflecting on the matter decades later, Nathan confused my lass with some other lass who had chatted him up/been chatted up by him at that party.
Malvolio (Martin Brassell), Sir Toby Belch (Chris Grant) & Fabian (David Wellbrook). Thanks to Paul Hamer for extracting from Scriblerus.
Squeaky Newton (John Newton, the Deputy Head) tapped me up for this production, but I didn’t want to act again after the Andorra experience, which I had enjoyed but which had convinced me that, while I loved theatre, the boards weren’t really for me. But Squeaky persevered and suggested that I help with the production behind the scenes. I realised that I wanted to do that. He also suggested that I take a small part, Valentine, otherwise I’d feel a bit spare on the nights of the actual show.
Then, with various droppings out (Mark Stevens was originally cast as Antonio) I ended up with two parts and a fairly sizeable one in Antonio with only about four week’s notice for that one.
Meanwhile, I was so blasé about this production I didn’t mention it in my diary at all until a passing mention of “rehearsal” on Friday 17 November before going on to the grandmothers’ (yes, that apostrophe is in the right place, I did the rounds that night, “G Jenny for dinner, then on to G Anne”) places.
Occasional mentions of rehearsals for the rest of November, then best part of 2 weeks with no diary entries at all – very rare – but I guess the play and my other commitments were keeping me a bit too busy.
Next entry is 8 December “rehearsal for play till late”, then:
10 December “dress rehearsal went quite well for 12th Night”,
11 December “day of ignoring school play completely” (not really completely, because I mention the play in my diary entry),
12 December “12th Night matinee then on to BBYO (youth club) with makeup on still”,
13 December “day off from play”,
14 December “12th Night first proper night, very good”,
15 December “most important night of play – went brilliantly”,
16 December “went to school with Julie – last night of play – party afterwards which went on until one”.
Two more recollections about the production itself. Neil Kendrick, who was one of the officers, discombobulated one night and forgot to say the “away sir”…or whatever line it was that got Paddy Gray, me and him off the stage. I recall that Paddy and I needed to concoct some ad lib business to get the three of us the heck off the stage that night!!
Because I was late to the part of Antonio, I had limited time to learn lines and rehearse the part. Squeaky had also choreographed a brief sword fight with Sir Toby Belch (Chris Grant) before the law arrives, for which Chris and I were under-rehearsed.
One night, I think the first proper performance, unsurprisingly the fight went awry. Perhaps I got over-excited and forced too hard, or perhaps Chris wasn’t holding on tight enough to his sword. It’s too late now for blame or recriminations. Chris went on to be head boy and on the Board of Sport England, so let’s guess it was my fault.
Anyway, Chris’s sword flew out of his hand and over the edge of the stage. I remember listening out for a yelp from an impaled member of the audience, but I don’t think the sword had actually gone very far. Still, there we were, Chris and me, all dressed up, no place to go with our fight. The law weren’t expecting to come on to stop the fight for another 30 seconds or so. Another ad-lib classic, mercifully lost to posterity.
“Did you get good notices?” I hear you cry. Pretty good, it turns out. My recollection was that I had been damned with some faint praise, but in November 2020 Paul Hamer (thanks, Paul) dug out and dusted off his Scriblerus (as it were) to uncover the following rather charming notice by Chris Chivers, an English master who did not generally look kindly upon my slovenly approach to formal grammar.
With many thanks also to Mike Jones, who somehow survived being my form master and teaching me geography in the third year, preserved the programme and uploaded it to our Alleyn’s Facebook Group.
A couple of recent happenings and one imminent happening at the time of writing, mid-October 2017, triggered this early romance memory and some musical connections.
The imminent thing is the pilot of a new piece on Halloween Night 2017 (I don’t think we should read anything into the date) by my old school friend, Rohan Candappa. Rohan describes his nascent piece thus:
What I’m going to perform is a show called ‘What Listening To 10,000 Love Songs Has taught Me About Love’. It’s an exploration of love, and music, and how the two intertwine. it’s also about how our lives have a soundtrack. And how the songs on that soundtrack can both contain and convey so much meaning, so much of who we are.
In one of my party pieces, describing my November 1978 party, I alluded to my progression, at that very party, from random tonsil hockey player to a somewhat steadier approach to romance.
The other recent event which helped conjured up these vivid 1978 memories is more obscure. Janie and I have been listening to John Shuttleworth’s Lounge Music on Radio 4 / iPlayer. It is very silly, but Janie and I enjoy the nonsense and of course novelty/comedy music has been very much my thing since I was a youngster. I only recently discovered the fact that John Shuttleworth is the alter-ego of Graham Fellows, who first found fame as Jilted John, back in that very same autumn of 1978.
I was relentlessly teased at the time by friends who knew I was “going steady” with “a girl, her name is Julie…” with excerpts from both sides of the Jilted John record.
Now look, I must be fair on my old friends from Streatham BBYO (the youth club where Julie and I hung out in those days) and my old friends from Alleyn’s School. If one of my pals had been following, almost word for word, the trajectory of Jilted John’s hapless romances, I’d have been up there leading the teasing myself.
But the upshot is, when I look back on the soundtrack of that first steady romance of mine, the only music I can truly connect with it is that Jilted John record.
Perhaps that Jilted John record really is an “exploration of love, and music, and how the two intertwine”?
Or perhaps in my case it “contains and conveys so much meaning, so much of who I am.”
If so, oh dear.
Anyway, try both sides of the record; I must admit to enjoying hearing both again after all this time.
Parenthetically, I’m sure I can hear the riff from the 1980 classic, “Stand Down Margaret” by The Beat in “Going Steady”. Stand Down Margaret has its own place in my life’s soundtrack, a little bit later in my young life, from the University days.
Also parenthetically, Going Steady was originally the A-Side of the record…
…but the Jilted John side went down better on radio play and became the A-side. The “Julie” story is within the better known side of the record – Jilted John:
