Holiday In Bulgaria, Golden Sands, August 1972

A peachy holiday. Mum, me, Denise, Steve & Tony Lytton.

Oh boy did the memories come flooding back.

Just before the end of 2020, I tracked down Steve Lytton, with whom I hadn’t been in touch for many decades, on the back of a memory trigger about limbo dancing:

We had a very enjoyable e-chat. At one point, Steve said he couldn’t remember how we met, but I remembered it clearly. We met as a chance encounter between our two families in Golden Sands, Bulgaria, in August 1972.

Our parents got on well with each other. Steve and I got along well too, which I’m sure pleased all four parents, as Steve and I were both only children.

Not only did our families hang out together a lot during that holiday but (unusually for holiday friendships) that connection continued for a good few years when we got home, despite the Harris family living in Streatham and the Lytton family living in Hendon.

This was not one of our more photographic holidays, but still there were half-a-dozen pictures from this holiday in “Mum’s maroon album” and I managed to find an envelope with a few more pictures of varying quality/vintage, some black and white from “my camera” (I was only allowed simple stuff at that age; dad wanted me to prove my bona fides as a photographer before letting me use better equipment and materials) and some contact prints, I’m guessing from the Lytton collection. I’ve put them all (16 of them) in the following Flickr album – click here or below:

Bulgaria 1972 b en

There is also just a couple of minutes-worth of cine film. The Lytton family feature as much or perhaps even more than my own family in the film. I think dad possibly shot more, but some of the film got sun-damaged – there’s some slight evidence of that damage in the surviving film.

You get 15 seconds of the previous year’s holiday (Port Leucate in Occitania, South-West France, since you asked) as well as the couple of minutes of Bulgaria. A fair bit of clowning around, but the highlight of this movie is unquestionably the beach football, in which mum takes a tumble and then Steve, rather than assisting the injured player, cynically takes possession, playing on. Shocking sportsmanship, caught on film for ever.

I had a few abiding memories from this holiday, despite this holiday being 18 months or so before I started keeping a diary. But the very best of the memories was triggered by Steve, when we e-swapped reminiscences.

Let’s start with my abiding memories and use Steve’s wonderful recollection as the grand finale.

Abiding Memory 1: A Standing Room Flight

My first memory is about getting to Golden Sands. We flew on the Balkan Bulgarian Airline:

In those days they were using Ilyushin Il-18 Soviet Russian planes that had shown a recent propensity to crash, apparently, although mercifully we were in blissful ignorance of that fact when we flew:

“It’s just an Ilyushin…”
RuthAS, CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

What I especially recall, though, was the “standing room only” short hop from Sophia to Varna in one of those. People were standing in the aisles of the plane holding on to grab-handles like passengers on a bus or tube.

Abiding Memory 2: Viennese Waltz Chicks

Bulgarian Viennese-Style Music Trio Dressed Like 1970s Grandma’s Curtains

Was it really the music of Johann Strauss II that touched my heart, or did I have a kiddy-crush on these lovely musicians? I’m well over the Strauss now, anyway, but here’s the piece that particularly sticks in my mind from that holiday:

That really is a superb barnet and tasche sported by the great Austrian waltz dude

Abiding Memory 3: The Olympic Flame

There was a great deal of excitement when word went around that the Olympic flame, doing a circuitous route from Athens to Munich via several Balkan/Eastern European countries, would be staying outside OUR hotel, The International in Golden Sands, for the night.

Detective work on my part tracks down this museum record – click here – which suggests, if I understand the dots on the map correctly, that we are talking about 12/13 August 1972.

We had rooms overlooking the front. I am pretty sure I joined my parents on their balcony to watch the excitement unfold.

A crowd within and without the hotel, pregnant with anticipation.

Then cries from within and without:

Es kommt…Sie kommen…Hier kommt es…

…that sort of thing. The vast majority of tourists in Golden Sands in those days were East Germans.

The torch bearer ran up some steps, ignited the “eternal flame cauldron” where the Olympic flame was to repose for the night, stepped back down to the sound of tumultuous cheering and applause…

…while the Olympic flame petered out in the cauldron.

There was a rapid inspection and rejigging of the cauldron, then the ceremony was repeated, this time successfully.

I was just shy of 10 and was already aware that Santa doesn’t exist. Now I learnt that the Olympic flame is not as eternal as the authorities would have us believe.

Don’t believe everything you read, son…
…especially not Bunter’s Holiday Cruise.

Bird’s Eye View Of A Nudist Beach

Thanks to Steve, I have recovered another wonderful memory of this holiday.

We all had rooms with excellent views overlooking the seafront. But Steve’s room, at one end of the hotel, had an especially splendid view. It overlooked a sectioned-off nudist beach.

Steve, very kindly, shared this world of wonders with me. We would sneak off to Steve’s room whenever the opportunity arose, to have an ogle and a giggle. Steve was around 11, I was coming up to 10 – I’m pretty sure neither of us had a clue what we were ogling at or where all those moving parts might go.

Fortunately for genteel readers, I have no images from that aspect of the holiday and am averse to Googling “1970s East German nudist sunbathers” for fear of the dreadful dark recesses of the internet that such a search might reach.

However, the image of dad, above (modestly attired in shorts, of course) gives a sense of the size and scale of the (mostly) East German gentlemen who frequented that beach. And I have managed to find a similarly modest but suitably scaled East German woman shot …

Renate Boy aka Renate Garisch – you couldn’t make these names up.
Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-B0901-0014-003 / CC-BY-SA 3.0

Anyway, I do now recall that my mum liked to dine out on this story for quite a while. Apparently both sets of parents wondered why Steve and I seemed so keen to sneak off to Steve’s room. I fear that it was me that blew our cover in this innocent yet guilty secret pursuit, by asking to borrow dad’s binoculars.

The parents worked us out, caught us out, made light of it and shared in the humorous side of this story. Dad taught me that quality rather than quantity is what matters when observing the human form, a lesson that has served me well in art and in life.

Tony, perhaps emulating the sights from the neighbouring nudist beach

Tutankhamun Exhibition, Spring or Summer 1972


Roland UngerCC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

I remember being taken by my parents to the Tutankhamun exhibition at the British Museum in the spring or summer of 1972. It was the thing to do that year.

I remember the excitement of planning the trip. I remember the crowds outside the British Museum and having to queue for ages.

I remember being shepherded through the exhibition, in truth not seeing much as a tiny tot, but still being exhilarated by it all.

To compensate me for the long queues and not all that much to see once we’d been through the exhibition, my parents bought me a souvenir of the visit; a Tutankhamun Mask Mug, which still to this day forms part of my minuscule trophy cabinet, in itself part of a slightly larger drinks cabinet:

For several decades, that “Treasures of Tutankhamun” relic of mine has served as the collection dish for small coins that are better off in the charity coin jar than in my pocket. While it still serves that purpose, in theory, in practice (nearly 50 years later) I rarely use cash these days so the jar fills up mighty slowly.

Earlier in 1972 – The Curse of “Toot”

My favourite memory surrounding the huge public phenomenon that was the Tutankhamun exhibition was my Grandma Anne’s take on the topic, in early spring of 1972.

“Keep away from that park. It’s dangerous”.

Grandma Anne, bless her, was more than a little deaf by 1972. Also, despite having lived in England since just after the first world war, English was not even her second language, after Russian and Yiddish.

Driving away from Streatham one Sunday, I’ll guess just before the arrival, or early in the days of, the exhibition, Grandma Anne exclaimed, as we drove along Bedford Hill, that someone had cursed the common.

We asked her what she was on about. She’d heard it on the radio. She was emphatic. Grandma Anne didn’t know the details, but someone had put a curse on the place and if you went there, bad things were likely to happen to you. She was keen for me especially to keep away from the place.

Open-air exercise class, Tooting Bec Common - geograph.org.uk - 1316311
Something wicked this way comes, in Tooting Bec Common’s cursed tombs

The curse of Tooting Common. It took us a while to twig her confusion and we three were in stitches about it. I’m not sure Gradma Anne ever got her head around why they named a park in South London after an Egyptian Pharaoh …or maybe a Pharaoh after a South London park.

Anyway…

Cursed Or Lucky? Autumn 2012

…roll the clock forward more than 40 years after the 1972 exhibition in London – Janie and I got something close to a private viewing in Cairo in 2012 when we inadvertently arrived in Egypt on the day some trouble kicked off, so we visited the Cairo Museum in the absence of 95% of the normal number of tourists:

There’s lucky, not cursed…hopefully.

Curses? Tut, tut.

Pre-diary Memories of “Classes” – Cheder On A Sunday Morning At Bolingbroke Grove Shul, Late 1960s To Early 1970s

Rabbi Morris Davidson, Bolingbroke “Field Trip” To Camber Sands, early 1970s

I started keeping diaries at the start of 1974, at which time my diaries are peppered with many mentions of “classes”, on Sunday mornings, plus Tuesday and Thursday evenings. By that time, my religious instruction had been transferred to Brixton.

I shall write up those Brixton cheder diary extracts and stories soon.

But my memory retains a few impressionistic memories of my earliest experience of cheder (Jewish Sunday School), which was Sunday mornings only at my family’s synagogue, South-West London, otherwise known as Bolingbroke.

I attended cheder at Bolingbroke from quite a young age (perhaps age 5 or 6 onwards) until the cheder closed in the early 1970s and the handful of us who were still of cheder age transferred, mostly to Brixton but some, I think, to Streatham.

I am only in touch still with one or two people who shared that Bolingbroke cheder experience. Mark Phillips (and through Mark, perhaps also his older brother Simon). Wendy Ornadel was there at Bolingbroke and I think switched to Brixton cheder afterwards. I also have a sneaking suspicion that Andrew (Andy) Levinson (and perhaps also Fiona) joined us, for a while, in a futile attempt to keep Bolingbroke cheder going by poaching friendly kids who would more naturally go to cheder at their parents’ own synagogues. For sure the Levinsons, like me, switched to Brixton rather than Streatham. I’m pretty sure Andy is with me in the cine film of our field trip to Camber Sands in the early 1970s, which is the only photographic relic I have of that era.

Two-and-a-half minutes of low-grade cinematography (not dad’s best day with the hand-held) but high-grade historic value follows:

Impressionistic Memories Of Bolingbroke Cheder

Here are my highly impressionistic memories of the cheder at Bolingbroke. I’m hoping that others might chime in with some additional memories in the comments or send me private messages to enable me to beef up this piece.

  • There was a senior and a junior class. The former I think was for kids over 10 (or perhaps 11) who were preparing for bar mitzvah or bat mitzvah – my cohort never made it to that senior class at Bolingbroke. If I recall correctly, Rabbi Davidson instructed the senior class himself. The junior class was for us little ‘uns;
  • Our teacher in the junior class was a bearded fellow named Mr Herman, imported from North London, solely for the purposes of our instruction on a Sunday.
Mr Herman looked a bit like this public domain image of cheder instruction, except my memory (perhaps false) recalls Mr Herman with red hair, a bit younger than the beardy depicted.

  • I remember wondering in my very young days whether the pop group Herman’s Hermits had something to do with our teacher, Mr Herman. I vaguely recall that Mr Herman had a northern accent and had some connection with Carmel College, as did Herman’s Hermits’ talent manager, Harvey Lisberg. So there might, coincidentally, have been something in my seemingly childish nonsense word association between the two…but probably not;
  • Rabbi Davidson was a kindly and gentle man. I looked forward to a time when I would receive direct instruction from him, but it was not to be, as classes at Bolingbroke folded before I got to his level;
  • When Mr Herman was unavailable and no relief teacher was sent as a direct replacement for him, which I think started to happen increasingly frequently towards the end of our time at Bolingbroke, our class was minded by the Rabbi’s son, Cyril Davidson;
  • I say “minded” rather than “taught”, because I don’t think Cyril was willing and/or able actually to teach us. He would set us tasks from our work books, which (in my impressionistic memory at least) tended to be quite trivial such as colouring in pictures from the Bible or working through simple alphabet/language exercises, while Cyril sat at the desk in front of us drinking coffee and reading The Observer. Frankly, my guess is that he was a reluctant child-minder in these circumstances and I have some sympathy with his stance. When I was in my 20s, all I wanted to do on a Sunday morning was drink coffee and read The Observer.
Nice one, Cyril

While researching this article on line I managed to trace Cyril and I hope he doesn’t mind my having grabbed his thumbnail picture from the public domain. I am certainly granting him the right of reply when I send him a link to this article. I also hope he might add some thoughts and insights of his own.

Update: Correspondence With Cyril Davidson Through Facebook

Cyril Davidson writes:

I totally reject your recollections of my teachings at SW cheder l was and always have been a conscious and serious teacher who received a distinction in my teacher’s certificates at the university of London Institute of Education I never read the Observer in my life 

I responded:

I am sorry that our memories of the cheder are at such variance. We were very young and only there for a few years at the end of that cheder’s time. We must have mistaken the confident competence of your calm, relaxed demeanour (which was a relief when compared with the hard-scrabble educational method of some others) for indifference.

  • TRIGGER ALERT: HEALTH & SAFETY & SAFEGUARDING ENTHUSIASTS MIGHT FIND THE NEXT PARAGRAPH DISTURBING
  • I recall breaks being quite wild affairs. We were largely unsupervised and there was quite a sizeable area to explore and use for hide and seek type games. Further, there was a dumb waiter that connected the first floor kitchen with the downstairs public hall. Braver kids would liaise to use the dumb waiter as a mode of transport between the upstairs and downstairs. More timorous kids would be threatened with involuntary journeys in that device. I think the weaker of the timorous kids were occasionally transported against their will in that thing. From memory, I fell into the “timorous but sufficiently resistant” category, as I recall fearing getting inside the dumb waiter, but don’t recall having been encouraged/forced actually to do so.
Update: Subsequent Correspondence from Cyril Davidson After My Responses

Having cleared up the misinformation earlier did enjoy reading about the South W Cheder and the kind References about my revered father Rabbi Morris Davidson
I do remember pupils riding up and down the service lift in the hall and playtime in front area opposite the cemetery

I also remember having interesting chats with Mr Herman at play time

I had not seen the picture of my father at one of the great [Cheder] outings he used to arrange

Happy days

  • I have one other memory, from an event put on for the parents, when the older children performed a play. It was about Pesach (the Passover story) but it might have been performed at Purim time. One of the boys was very heavily made up to be afflicted with boils (one of the ten plagues) and I found this look so startling that I couldn’t watch that bit and took cover in the arms of my parents. Later, when the boy had removed his make up, my parents tried to help me overcome my fear by pointing out that the boy in question, whose look was no longer frightening me, was in fact the boy with the boils. Just the mention of “the boy with the boils” again spooked me, even though the sight of the actual boy, now boil-free, did not. For years, my parents would threaten me with “setting the boy with the boils on me” if I didn’t comply with their instructions.

More About Bolingbroke Generally

The Jewish Community Records site has a short tombstone piece (stub) for that long-defunct synagogue (it closed in 1997) – click here to see that stub.

The Harris family were members there for most of that synagogue’s life, from when the Harris family moved to Clapham Common North Side (c1930) to the bitter end.

I have written a fair bit previously about the Harris family’s shul/community in Soho, roughly 1916 to 1930 prior to moving to South-West London:

What I didn’t realise, before researching the current piece, is that the revered Rabbi Tzvi Hirsch Ferber, who instructed my father and Uncle Michael in their younger days, was the father-in-law of Rabbi Morris Davidson. That fact is there to be read in Rabbi Ferber’s Wikipedia entry if you bother to read that far.

I wonder whether this was a coincidence or whether there was a connection.

Did Rabbi Ferber possibly encourage the Harris family to move to a community where he knew that his son-in-law Rabbi was residing (or soon to reside). Or, if the South-West London community was looking for a new Rabbi soon after my family moved there, was it my family that connected Rabbi Ferber’s machaton with their new community?

Also interesting to me is to discover that Rabbi Ferber (and indeed Rabbi Davidson) subscribed to a movement known as the Musar Movement which, I paraphrase perhaps to a fault, focuses on contemplative and ethical matters, including commercial ethics, to a greater extent than theological absolutism and/or strict orthodoxy of practice.

Update: Further Correspondence With Cyril Davidson

We are direct decendents of Rabbi Yisrael Salanter founder of the Musser movement.

I replied:

I am fascinated to learn this about your family. My father was a great admirer of your Grandfather, Rabbi Ferber, who was revered at the West End Talmud Torah when my father was a small boy. I can see from the several Wikipedia articles on Rabbis Salanter and Ferber, and on the Mussar movement, that you are a direct descendant of the founder. I have added your comments to my piece in the interests of balance and to enable those interested to search further. One additional point that might interest you – in researching my family’s early years in the UK as part of the Soho community, I have acquired (but not yet read) a copy of your Uncle Chaim Lewis’s book “A Soho Address”. I am very much looking forward to reading it. With very best wishes to you and your family.

Although none of the religious stuff filtered through to me in adulthood, the ethical stuff most certainly did. That dynasty of Rabbis (Salanter, Ferber and Davidson) might have approved of my Gresham College Commercial Ethics lecture, for example, while probably not warming (or relating) to all the examples I used, nor to my extremely limited approach to religious observance.

Strangely, towards the end of researching this piece, I discovered a recent article on a Jewish website, ukjewshlife.com, about our old South-West London community – click here. If by any chance that site isn’t active once you get there, you could instead click here. That article has some lovely photographs of the old place including one of a wedding inside the shul. That wedding photo, if you look to the rear right of the shul, you can see the little block of four seats where the Harris family would sit. A place of honour but not prominence, I always considered it. In the early days, my grandfather and his four sons. Then just the four sons. Then Uncle Manny, Dad, Cousin Anthony and Me. Anthony until just before the place closed down, dad and I (once a year in my case) until the bitter end in 1997.

Memories from anyone else who shared these experiences would be most welcome through the comments section or private messages if you prefer.

Update: Cousin Angela Writes

My cousin Angela experienced the Bolingbroke Cheder in the 1950s. She writes:

I remember the cheder really well. We had Rev Davidson in the top class…I remember Cyril but he was older than me…Rev Davidson had a metal ruler and he used to rap the boys’ s knuckles if they were cheeky.

We had 3 years. The youngest one was a woman teacher (can’t remember her name) then the next class was the chazan (can’t remember his name either) and then Rev Davidson. I remember passing most of synagogue time either in children’s service or outside.

A good trip down memory lane…

Update: Mark Phillips Writes

I loved seeing the images of Cyril and Rev Davidson…I think your recollection of Cyril’s teaching was more accurate than his!

Names to add. Michelle Brown, who I still see, John Rosenthall and David Craig. David’s family owned a pen shop in Balham.

Cyril Davidson Recalls Yet More (FB postings 5 May 2024)

For many years there were three classes at S W L Cheder the beginners class which I attended was taken by the formidable Miss Kutner, the middle class by the synagogue shammas who lived in a flat above and the top class by my father the Headteacher which I originally attended three times a week

By the way Rabbis Ferber and Davidson were strictly observant Jews

The shammas was Mr Rosenbluth

It was large cheder in it’s heyday My fellow pupils included Joy Stein Ann Landsberg Harvey and stuart Katz Ronald and Alan Zeegan Sheldon Weitzman Michael Butler Raymond Davies Steven Freedman stamps Album and Michael Billig. Also Laurence and Steven Slater and Rodney Press

Rabbi Morris Davidson, kindly and gentle as I remember him, but I wasn’t in the top class in the 1950s.

From Yan Chow (Or Do I Mean Yang Chow?) In Streatham To Dim Sum In Soho, Chinese New Year, Probably February 1972

Photo by Jason Jacobs, CC BY 2.0

When I was a small child, growing up in Streatham, there was not exactly a vast choice of restaurant cuisine to choose from. But there was a Chinese restaurant near home. Mum, dad and I all liked the food there.

This image, from 1958, thanks to John Payne on Facebook

In my memory it was named Yang Chow – perhaps the proprietors changed the name between 1958 and my childhood visits there in the late 1960s and early 1970s. But that was the place. The “theatre” mentioned in the advert above is apparently the Streatham Hill Theatre, subsequently the Mecca Bingo Hall, although the restaurant was no more opposite the Bingo than it was opposite The Locarno, or The Cat’s Whiskers as it was known when I was munching food in the restaurant almost opposite those two landmarks.

My parents were friendly patrons in any restaurant we visited and we became friendly with the proprietor family. I cannot in truth remember the name of the matriarch patron, but for some reason the name Li pops into my head, perhaps falsely, but I’ll refer to her as Li in this article. I do remember the name of the proprietors’ little boy, Christopher, who was a similar age to me (perhaps a year or so younger), who would tend to show his face during our visits to the restaurant. Christopher and I became friends.

On one visit, Li announced that the restaurant would be closed for one weekend only as the family was going to celebrate Chinese New Year with family and friends in Soho that weekend. They wondered whether I would like to join them, to keep Christopher company.

I was keen. My parents were content. The date was arranged.

I’m not 100% sure that it was the 1972 new year, but I’m pretty sure I was around that age and something about “The Year Of The Rat” rings a bell. Again, the vague memory might be flawed.

But I am 100% sure how excited and awe-inspired I was by that event.

We went upstairs in a Soho Chinese Restaurant – sadly I have no recall which one it was. The beautiful sketch below might be the very one; who knows?

Terrence Dalley’s 1972 Sketch Of 43 Wardour Street

We sat at a large table and the upstairs room was packed with Chinese people. I think I might have been the only western face in the room.

Everyone seemed to know everyone – not only the people at our large table – which was presumably Christopher’s family and close friends – but the whole room felt a bit like one big party. It was probably an informal gathering of the suburban Chinese restaurateur community.

Writing 50 years later, it seems extraordinary that local Chinese restaurants might close for Chinese new year – a guaranteed busy time for all Chinese establishments today – but back then I don’t think the annual Chinese event had any traction in the wider community.

I remember lots of people making a fuss of me and I remember several people, especially Christopher’s parents, worrying that I might not like the food and letting me know that they could arrange for some food with which I was more familiar if I didn’t like the “party fare”…

All the Dim Sum

But by gosh they needn’t have worried. The smells, the look of the food, the textures, the flavours. I’d never seen, smelled or tasted the like of it before.

I fell in love with dim sum that day and have never lost the love for it.

Little me, around that time

It was not all that long after this seminal event in my culinary journey through life that the Yang Chow closed and that family moved on, we knew not/know not where.

67 Streatham Hill in 2022 – from Googlemaps

Before the end of the Yang Chow era, I do vaguely remember my mum insisting on reciprocating the hospitality I had received by inviting Christopher over to our place for a homely meal. Whether he liked the meal and/or ended up associating matzo balls as a variant of dim sum is a matter seemingly lost to history…

…unless, by some chance, my posting of this article somehow helps re-establish contact with Christopher and/or that kind family, who initiated my love for westernised Chinese food at the Yang Chow and utterly entranced me with dim sum at a more authentic Chinese restaurant in Soho, all those decades ago.

When Grandma Jenny Took Me To See Living Flea…I Mean, Living Free, Odeon Astoria Brixton…Or Do I Mean The Ritzy, January or February 1972

Brixton Astoria / Academy by Fred Romero from Paris, France, CC BY 2.0

A friend mentioned Brixton Academy to me the other day (January 2022) which immediately triggered the memory/thought:

didn’t that used to be the cinema we knew as “The Flea Pit”?

Which triggered my one clear memory of going to that cinema – although I’m sure I was taken there several times as a child. I especially remember Grandma Jenny taking me to see the film Living Free there.

Cursory research on Living Free at IMDb uncovers the UK release date as January 1972, so I am writing this memory up almost exactly 50 years after the event.

I remember the experience especially clearly, as Grandma Jenny had loved the film Born Free. She was so excited that there was a sequel to Born Free and that I was now old enough to accompany her to the flickers.

Unfortunately, Grandma Jenny’s excitement turned to disappointment, as she felt that the film Living Free was only a shadow of the wonders that she had enjoyed in the film Born Free. Grandma Jenny felt bound to let me know that the original was much better.

Disappointed

Frankly, I don’t think I would have discerned much difference between the two films at that age. Lions are/were exciting charismatic megafauna to see on the screen. The humans waffling on about lions and each other was comparatively dull.

Even the theme music for Living Free was cheesy and disappointing for Grandma…

…who subsequently serenaded me with the theme from Born Free, in the hope I would thus discern the relative quality of the latter theme. Unfortunately, Grandma Jenny did not share her sister-in-law Marie’s wonderful BBC Singer singing voice.

But fifty years on, the thing I remember most about the experience was my dad wanting to have me checked over for fleas for the rest of the weekend, after I had visited The Flea Pit. And dad insisted on referring to the movie as “Living Flea”.

Postscript -Memory Corrected By A Four-Year-Old: The Flea Pit Was The Ritzy, Not The Astoria

Within an hour of me posting the above piece on the Streatham, Balham & Tooting (yes, as you’ll soon see, geography was not my strongest suit at school) Memories Group on Facebook, Paula chimed in with the following remark:

I went to see Living Free in Brixton too! I always thought it was the Ritzy… but I was only 4, so what do I know 😂

As soon as I saw that comment, I knew that she was right, a fact confirmed within minutes by Paul:

I’m pretty sure the ‘flea pit’ was the ritzy, not the odeon( as stated in the article….)😊

In my own defence, I know that Grandma Jenny did take me to see movies at the Brixton Astoria as well as the Ritzy back then. I have a feeling that my first “date” with Grandma was to the Astoria, but that was to see an afternoon matinee of the Sound Of Music…

…something that Grandmas everywhere did with/for their grandchildren back then, before the days when such movies were shown on the TV every bank holiday and certainly before the days that you could stream those old movies whenever you like.

The Hills Are Alive…

I can report that Grandma Jenny’s serenading with the Sound Of Music theme sounded no better than her rendition of the Born Free theme.

But I digress.

Yes, my memory from age nine has been bested by someone who was less than half my age at the time.

Grandma Jenny and I saw Living Flea at The Ritzy.

Original uploader: Secretlondon at English Wikipedia., CC BY-SA 1.0

A Family Holiday With The Schambill Family In Port Leucate, August 1971

We befriended the Schambill family while in Juan-les-Pins the previous year.

In that baby-boom era, I suspect that Jean-Pierre & Marie-Therese (Monsieur et Madame) Schambill were as conscious as my parents that their son, Jean-Michel and I were relatively rare examples of only children. The fact that Jean-Michel and I had got along well and allowed the grown ups to enjoy their holiday time in relative peace was probably a fair chunk of the rationale behind the Port Leucate adventure in 1971.

The Schambills had a villa in Port Leucate, as did a friend of theirs, depicted above, who was also to holiday their with his son, Luke and (I think) his mother or mother-in-law.

Luke, Me & Jean-Michel Made Three

I think Luke was a bit older than us, but not too much so and we all got along. I remember that Luke liked a cartoon character named Lucky Luke, so of course that was his nickname and of course we played cowboys with him in the Luke role, whatever that might have been.

In truth I don’t remember all that much about this holiday. The small stack of 20 photographs that I have uncovered, fifty years on, help a bit – Flickr album here or below:

Leucate 02

There is also some cine – just a couple of minutes 13’15” to 15’20” in the following reel:

You get to see what the Port Leucate beach looks like and also the villa we stayed in is depicted briefly.

I remember the food. Several of the French adults had been raised and/or had lived for several years in North Africa, so meals in the villa had a distinctly French/Maghrebi style to it. I remember finding it very exotic and taking to it; whereas I think my mother found it a bit strange. Cous-cous? What’s that?

I know we corresponded with the Schambills for some time after that holiday – certainly Jean-Michel and I were sort-of pen pals for a while. I have a feeling that one or other or possibly both of Jean-Michel’s parents in time visited mum and dad in Streatham, but I don’t think I saw them again after that 1971 holiday.

I wonder what they…and in particular Jean-Michel, might be up to now?

A Family Holiday In Juan-les-Pins, August 1970

This holiday in Juan-les-Pins was my first taste of travel outside the UK and my first time on a plane. I was coming up to eight years old and remember little about it in truth.

One of my few abiding memories of the holiday is connected with the headline photograph – I do remember learning to swim under the tutelage of the swimming instructor depicted. The picture illustrates the physical element of his method, which was combined with the constant repetition of his sole word of English – “swim” – stated in a baritone French accent, part entreaty, part hypnotism I imagine.

Suffice it to say, the fellow’s method must have worked on me – I did eventually learn to swim. I think my neck might be a bit longer than it otherwise would have been too.

Jean-Michel Schambill & Me

My other abiding memory was meeting & befriending the Schambill family. Jean-Michel was bit older than me, but well “within range” and our respective parents seemed pleased for us to become pals.

A rummage through old photographs has uncovered a few pictures from that holiday that I probably hadn’t seen since the time, including the picture below, with me and Monsieur Schambill on a pedalo, with Madame Schambill doing the hard work by the looks of it.

We got so friendly with the Schambill family that we ended up holidaying with them again the following year, in Port Leucate.

Meanwhile, in Juan-les-Pins, we stayed in the Hotel De France, as depicted in the picture below.

Looks quite posh. I don’t think it is there now – at least not under that name.

There is a decent stretch of 8mm cine from that holiday – the first 13’10” of the reel below. You can see “Monsieur Swim” at work. You can also see Bill Ruffler – of Ruffler & Walker fame, having a go at water-skiing. I do remember mum and dad going on about the coincidence of running into the Rufflers in Juan – Bill’s business premises were a few doors down from dad’s shop in Battersea.

The photos above and a few more are all in a Flickr album – click here or below:

Juan-les-Pins 07

Not many detailed memories from that age and stage, but my impressionistic recollection is that I had a wonderful time and found the whole “going abroad” thing quite thrilling.

Aladdin, Streatham Odeon, c29 December 1969

Brian Whittle / Streatham High Road, summer 1978

I remember less about this panto than the Cinderella event the previous year with Dick Emery and Joe Brown:

That’s probably because I enjoyed a fleeting moment of stardom in Cinderella (interviewed on stage), whereas I was overlooked in the throng of eager children during Aladdin.

In my mind, I had MET Dick Emery and would share that vignette with anyone who might listen, whereas I had merely “seen” Norman Vaughan and never warmed to the latter as a comedian…there might have been other reasons for that lack of warming of course.

As for Joe Brown and Peter Noone, my memory is mightily confused now that I have done a bit of research into these two pantos and acts. The It’s Behind You! – Pop Stars In Panto piece linked here explains a bit more. In truth, I remember Peter Noone’s performance (and Herman’s Hermits as an act) far more vividly than I remember Joe Brown’s performance or Joe Brown & The Bruvvers as an act.

I don’t remember seeing a collective of Hermits, only Peter “Herman” Noone, but the recorded history suggests a plurality of Hermits, as does a lisgting from The Observer at the time

Aladdin Listing ObserverAladdin Listing Observer 14 Dec 1969, Sun The Observer (London, Greater London, England) Newspapers.com

Anyway…

…I do recall that one of my very early “party pieces” was to sing, I’m Henery The Eighth, I Am. No doubt encouraged by both of my parents, who were great lovers of Edwardian-style music hall.

My (possibly flawed) memory has Peter Noone singing it in Aladdin, but possibly I saw Joe Brown singing it in Cinderella instead…or as well…or neither – perhaps my parents simply taught me that song ahead of seeing one or other of those performers because my parents knew that they had famously sung that song.

The hive minds in the Streatham Balham & Tooting Memories Facebook Group on balance suggest that it was most likely Joe Brown in 1968 who performed that song.

Below is Joe Brown & The Bruvvers singing it:

While below is a vid of Peter Noone singing it with Herman’s Hermits:

Anyway, point is, possibly on the back of seeing that song performed in these pantos, it became one of my party pieces for much of my infanthood.

Then I more or less forgot about it for best part of 50 years…

…until I remembered it again and wrote an adaptation of the song, which I retitled The Thomas Gresham Nativity Song and performed for The Gresham Society…

…which might only be described as a mock Tudor performance piece. Well, I suppose I was a kid from a mock Tudor house in Streatham:

Mock Tudor Smarty Pants

For those especially interested in this sort of thing, below is a recording of the original music hall version of I’m Henery the Eighth, I Am, sung by Harry Champion:

A Short Holiday In Brighton, During Which I Met Geoffrey Boycott & The Yorkshire Cricket Team, 3 September 1969

That short holiday in Brighton was one of the least memorable of my childhood, but for the fact that we happened to be staying in the same hotel as the Yorkshire cricket team.

I’ll explain the context of the holiday after I relate this seminal moment in my lifelong love of cricket.

Dad and I were in the lobby of the hotel, probably waiting for mum, at the same time as the Yorkshire team were preparing to set off from the hotel to the Sussex CCC ground; I’m guessing this was the morning before the start of the three-day match.

Our coinciding will simply have been happenstance. Dad had no interest whatsoever in any sport, let alone cricket.

But Geoffrey Boycott was a big name in those days – one of very few cricketers who might find himself on the front pages of the paper or on the television news, not just the back pages. Dad knew who he was.

So, as we found ourselves in such close proximity to a big name, dad thought he would introduce me to Geoffrey, along the following lines.

This is Geoffrey Boycott, one of the most famous cricketers in England and indeed the whole world.

Being pretty well trained for a seven-year-old, I looked up at Geoffrey and said words to the effect of:

Very pleased to meet you, Mr Boycott.

Boycott2
“What a polite young man”, said Mr Boycott, patting me on the head: Sigerson, CC BY-SA 3.0

Geoffrey responded well to these polite enquiries. I’m told that this is not always the Geoffrey way, so he must have been in a decent mood and I guess we came across as suitably deferential, fellow hotel guests.

What a polite young man.

Geoffrey patted me on the head. He might even have added

I do like polite young men.

He then explained the teams presence to me and my dad, half-introducing us to some of the other players. For reasons I cannot explain, Phil Sharpe, Geoff Cope and Chris Old’s names stuck in my head for ever. Perhaps it is to do with the minimal number of syllables to those names.

From that holiday onwards, for many years, I thought of Yorkshire as my team. After all, I knew them. I’d met them. They were my friends.

Is that Yorkshire yon?

Here is a link to the scorecard from the match Yorkshire played while staying in that Grand Hotel with us. It did not go well for Geoffrey, who had to retire hurt on 3, just a few minutes into the match. Neither did the match go well for Yorkshire.

My family took that unusually short and proximate break, because I had my adenoids and tonsils removed a couple of weeks earlier, so mum and dad felt that a short break (sea air, ice cream, that sort of thing) not too far from home was the safest option and might aid my convalescence.

There is a short home movie from that holiday – not one of dad’s best:

https://youtu.be/U_EhZsvMRbM

A few transparencies too – below is a link to the highlights of that, which includes some pictures of me in school uniform when we got home and possibly my earliest efforts with the camera – a couple of pictures of dad:

1969 Brighton Highlights (1)

Mum and dad clearly put a lot of effort into trying to keep me amused – frankly that holiday must have been deadly dull for them.

But I met the Yorkshire cricket team on that short Brighton break and my love of all things cricket was surely sparked there.

Cinderella, Streatham Odeon, c30 December 1968

Image borrowed from Betty’s Birthday Blog on the “nigelthedame” website – click here – with thanks for both the image and the information about this production.

With gratitude to a posting on the Streatham,Balham & Tooting Memories Facebook Group, talking about the Streatham Odeon, I remembered going to see as a small child, Dick Emery (amongst others) in panto there. I did a bit of Googling to find out about it and found out quite a bit – not least through the blogpost linked above.

So, that year I saw Dick Emery, Joe Brown and no doubt some other names I would now recognise, in a production by Audrey Lupton & Arthur Lane.

An article on It’s Behind You! – Pop Stars In Panto, describes this aspect of Joe Brown’s performance:

In 1968 Joe was at the Odeon Streatham in Cinderella with Dick Emery. Joe played Buttons and as part of his routine to entertain Cinderella he performed a multi instrumental spot. In this he played guitar, acoustic guitar, ukulele, banjo lutes and even a mandolin!

Is it possible that my later-day love of early music and stringed instruments for the playing thereof was formed all the way back then? Unlikely as I had no memory of Joe Brown’s multi-instrumentation.

More likely is that I caught an earworm at that performance – Joe Brown singing I’m Henery The Eighth, I Amthe hive mind of the Streatham, Balham & Tooting Memories Facebook Group seems pretty sure that Joe sang that song in this panto. For sure I picked it up as a party piece when still a very small nipper – probably at my parents’ behest as they were keen Players’ Theatre-istas before my time and loved that sort of music hall song.

I have found an official review of this panto -in the Guardian – written by an un-woke eleven-year-old named Victoria Bourne:

Victoria Bourne Cinderella GuardianVictoria Bourne Cinderella Guardian 27 Dec 1968, Fri The Guardian (London, Greater London, England) Newspapers.com

The thing that made the event especially memorable for me, was being summoned onto the stage by Dick Emery himself and answering some fiendishly difficult questions in a manner that, for some reason, seemed to make the audience laugh.

This occasion might, technically, have been the first time I ever “trod the boards” personally and certainly my first interaction with a professional performer.

I was not to see my fine words dealt with by a professional performer again until 1992, when the late great Chris Stanton (coincidentally another fine comedy actor who latterly did good panto) was the first of many to perform my lyrics in NewsRevue.

So why did Dick Emery pick on me for the honour of joining the cast on stage and being an unwitting, unpaid comic? The answer is lost in the mists of time.

Possibly I waved my hand and shouted “me! me!” more vigorously than anyone else. Or perhaps my mum did the vigorous waving and shouting for me. Or maybe I just looked like the sort of cocky little kid that central casting would have chosen for the role.

Cocky little Streatham kid c1968

We returned the following year to see Peter Noone and Norman Vaughan in Aladdin, but that, as they say, is another story.

I didn’t get summoned to the stage that second time.

What’s become of my pantomime performing career?…

…I should have asked, that following year.

It’s behind you!…

…the audience should have shouted.