I had a strange Alleyn’s School memory flash this morning (26 April 2017) while walking between meetings.
It must have been triggered by a conversation over the weekend in which a French gentleman named Bertrand was mentioned. I started to refer to the gentleman as Plastic Bertrand, unwittingly. (Yes, I know Plastic Bertrand is Belgian).
Then the memory flash. Summer 1978. A few weeks before our French ‘O’ level.
Our French teacher, the late lamented Trevor Tindale, had clearly become aware that the song “Ça plane pour moi” by Plastic Bertrand was riding high in the pop charts.
Naturally our ‘O’ level chances would be enhanced if we understood the idioms in the lyrics of that song. Also our grades might be enhanced if we thought carefully about improving the lyrics’ dodgy grammar and Franglais.
So we spent a few minutes in class deconstructing Ça plane pour moi.
Please don’t quiz me now on all the nuances of all the words and phrases. I don’t want to shame other less able students.
But still I should in all modesty report that I’m pretty sure I still know what “wham, bam, mon chat splatch” means. I can also make a pretty good fist of translating, “you are the king of the divan”.
I’m guessing c5 June 1978, as the song didn’t reach the top 10 until the preceding (half term) week and I’m fairly sure Trevor didn’t lighten the tone of the class this way just before the ‘O’ level.
If anyone else remembers this happening, I’d love to read some comments on it.
To jog memories further, here is a video of Plastic Bertrand singing the song with the lyrics all over the screen:
I got involved with “proper drama” at Alleyn’s for a couple of productions. Andorra by Max Frisch was the first of them, when I was just 15. Here are my diary extracts.
The first block, from January, shows little emotion or detail at having got a decent part in a Bear Pit production:
Friday 13 January 1978, Got a talking part in the school play – I’m the innkeeper – V pleased,
16 January 1978, should have rehearsed – cancelled,
17 January 1978, first Andorra rehearsal,
20 January 1978, rehearsed for Andorra, 23 January 1978, rehearsed for Andorra,
24 January 1978 Andorra rehearsal,
26 January 1978, rehearsed for Andorra,
27 January 1978, rehearsed for Andorra,
30 January 1978, rehearsed for Andorra,
31 January 1978, Andorra rehearsal.
Two weeks in, by the start of February, I’m a critic as well as a performer. Didn’t I know about hubris? I was way overconfident anyway – “perfected” is not a term I would ever use now:
Thursday 02 February 1978, rehearsed for Andorra – OK,
03 February 1978, rehearsed for Andorra – OK,
05 February 1978, first Sunday rehearsal for Andorra – not bad,
06 February 1978, rehearsed for Andorra,
07 February 1978, Andorra rehearsal – good,
09 February 1978, rehearsed for Andorra – good – seems to be OK,
10 February 1978, rehearsed in evening for Andorra,
12 February 1978 rehearsal for Andorra in afternoon – a good one,
13 February 1978, rehearsed for Andorra – not bad,
14 February 1978, scene 11 of Andorra perfected.
Matters were bound to take a turn for the worse after that and so they did:
Friday 15 February 1978, Dennis [Galvin] rushed to hospital last night with colitis – Mick Lemp [Michael Lempriere] has taken over,
16 February 1978, rehearsed for Andorra – not bad rehearsal but still looks poor,
17 February 1978, field day and rehearsal,
19 February 1978, rehearsal cancelled as Mick Lemp visits relatives in Exeter,
20 February 1978, Mick stuck in snowdrift, Dan [Shindler] in bed with flu, disaster for play,
21 February 1978, Rehearsed all day for Andorra – Mick & Dan & Den all absent,
22 February 1978, flop dress rehearsal this evening – does not look good.
But the show had to go on:
Thursday 23 February 1978, Yesterday’s flop dress rehearsal lead to an almost empty house [tonight] watching a great performance,
24 February 1978, 2nd night of Andorra – even better than last night – 3/4 house – enjoyed it,
25 February 1978, Last night of Andorra – 7/8 house – performance good – party afterwards – got drunk.
I’m pretty sure my parents came to see Andorra on the middle (Friday) night of the run. And I’m fairly sure the following dialogue (or something like it) took place on the drive home after the show.
MUM: I wasn’t very impressed by some of your school chums in the audience behind us.
ME: What happened, Mum?
MUM: Well, during the interval one of them said to his pals, “I’m looking forward to the bit where Harris has to run around the stage yelling ‘I’m not a Jew, I’m not a Jew.” Then they were giggling. I wasn’t going to let that pass without comment.
ME: Oh, God, Mum, what did you say to them?
MUM: I turned around and asked them why that was so funny. One of the boys explained, “because Harris is a Jew. But he has to run around the stage saying “I’m, not a Jew”. Then the boys giggled some more.
ME: …and then…
MUM: I said, “I’m well aware of all that. I’m his mother and I’ve helped him to learn his lines. I’m just trying to understand what makes it funny.” They went very quiet after that.
ME: Oh, Mum. I’m going to get mercilessly teased on Monday when I get back to school. Or worse. Why couldn’t you just let it go?
DAD: I knew it. I could have told you he’d be upset.
To be fair on the poor boys involved (and I do wonder who they might have been – any confessions?) it was an ironic, rather funny matter. Indeed, with the benefit of hindsight, my casting in the role of the Innkeeper might well have been based more on my physiognomy than my stagecraft. In any case, we cast had all had a bit of a laugh about the irony of me yelling “I’m not a Jew” during rehearsals and I saw little malice in the remarks as reported by my mum.
But to be fair on my mum, although I did get some serious ribbing on the Monday (as recorded in my diary), it was not at all to do with my mother’s intervention. Indeed the poor boys who got my mother’s tongue-lashing were probably more embarrassed than I was about that matter.
No-one would relish a tongue lashing from my mum. Cruel spectacles and cut glass voice to go with them.
No, the ribbing I received resulted from reports of my drunkenness at the after show party on the Saturday.
As to the exact details of my ribbing-inducing party antics, I recall very little. I do remember drinking far too much cheap party cider – a once-in-a-lifetime mistake (drinking cheap cider, not the occasional over-drinking). I think the party was at Tiggy’s house, mostly in a rather large garage/out-house. Or am I am confusing the Andorra party with the Twelfth Night party?…
Others who were a bit older (I was only 15-and-a-half) and a bit wiser (almost everyone else who was there) might recall the Andorra after show party better.
Still, my mother’s parental intervention was a pretty cringe-making one.
On 23 September 2016, I was honoured to witness live Toby Roland-Jones taking a hat-trick for Middlesex, sealing the County Championship for my beloved county – naturally I Ogblogged about it – here…
…but that wasn’t the first time I had witnessed a hat-trick live. Indeed, it wasn’t the first time that month, September 2016, that I had witnessed a hat-trick live – I saw Middlesex on the wrong side of one at Trent Bridge, Nottinghamshire – Ogblogged about here – just 17 days before the day of glory…
…but that Trent Bridge one wasn’t the first hat-trick I had witnessed live, although it was the first professional one.
The first hat-trick I witnessed live (and the last one for more than 40 years) was, remarkably, my own.
I don’t have many glorious feats of cricket to report. Let’s be honest about it; I’m not much good at playing cricket. I love it, but I’ve never been much use at it. But on 9 July 1975, the last match of 2AK’s trophy-winning season, I reported with little ceremony in my diary the following:
The irony of having watched The Ascent Of Man after such an auspicious sporting achievement is not wasted on me.
I remember the hat-trick remarkably well. I am pretty sure we were playing up on Alleyn’s top fields – not the very top one but the large, “lower top field”. That was mostly used as the second eleven pitch, but for the juniors I recall that field was divided in two, with a couple of strategically located mini-squares, so all four classes could play at the same time.
I can’t remember the name of the master who was umpiring. I do remember that my first wicket was a clean bowled and the second was a caught and bowled. The master and I then had the following conversation:
“Do you realise that you are on a hat-trick, Mr Harris?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What are you proposing to do about it?”
“I’m going to try and bowl the same ball again, Sir.”
Which I did.
The “same ball” being pretty much my only ball. A moon ball, ludicrously slow, with an attempt at spin on it; probably a bit of top spin but nothing else in its favour other than being straight.
You see, I was very keen, so I used to practice bowling in the back drive against the garage door for ages. I didn’t get much better at bowling, but I was usually at least able to bowl the ball straight in those days.
Clean bowled.
In my memory (undoubtedly a falsy) the master was rolling on the floor laughing when I took the third wicket in three balls. I’m sure he really did laugh, anyway.
9 July 1975, a truly memorable date in (my personal) cricket history. The ill-fated 1975 Ashes series started the very next day; I don’t think this fact is even faintly relevant to my story, but I wanted to write it nonetheless. I can write what I like on Ogblog.
A lot of very good bowlers have played an awful lot of cricket without ever taking a hat-trick. I know that I’m not and wasn’t ever a good bowler. My hat-trick was at a very elementary level and only has significant meaning to me. But it is a memory I have carried with me all my days since and I shall continue to cherish that memory until I am gaga and/or dead.
I wonder who the hat-trick victim was? That much has slipped my mind completely. His too, almost certainly.
Michael Lempriere had arranged for our drama class to go and see Entertaining Mr Sloane by Joe Orton. It would have been the mid 1970s Royal Court revival production (probably the West End transfer thereof), with Beryl Reid as Kath, Malcolm McDowell as Sloane, James Ottaway as Kemp and Ronald Fraser as Eddie.
Anyway, when my mum got wind of it that we were going to see THAT play, she went into high horse mode, for reasons I cannot quite work out. I think she just felt that we were far too young for…whatever it was…not that she really knew anything about it, other than the fact that she probably mentioned it to a friend and that friend looked horrified at the thought. perhaps a sample of two priggish friends.
Mum was probably in a grumpy mood generally at that time – she was in and out of hospital for the first half of that year, culminating in a hip replacement in May. Anyway, she decided not merely to ground me from this one – I might have got away with just minor embarrassment for that. She got on to the school and got the outing cancelled. How un-hip was that?
Several of my drama pals were mightily unimpressed with this, as was I. We were all very disappointed as much as anything else. Michael Lempriere handled the matter with great dignity I’m sure, but that couldn’t prevent the ribbing. In particular, I recall Bob Kelly giving me a hard time; not least suggesting my mother’s physical as well as behavioural similarities with Mary Whitehouse. As my mother had chosen to go down the cruel spectacles line during the mid 1970s (illustrated with a 1977 picture below) this was a difficult charge to deny.
I’m not entirely sure when the theatre trip that never was should have happened. My diary is silent on the whole matter. I am guessing it was supposed to be an after exams jolly at the end of my second year, but it might just have been a start of the next academic year jolly for our drama group. If the latter, we didn’t miss out on Ottaway and McDowell, we missed out on Harry H. Corbett as Ed and Kenneth Cranham as Sloane.
I made three mentions of the very first cricket world cup (which was billed as the Prudential Cup) in my 1975 diary. I have already Ogblogged the very first match…
Even I have had to do some Photoshop forensics on that 21 June entry:
West Indies won first P Cup by 17 runs. Had a day off school for founders day. TV: Cannon, That’s Life. Still swotting.
I’m not sure why I got a Saturday off on Alleyn’s School Founders Day. Perhaps it was because my year was still swatting for exams so we were exempted. Perhaps I was exempted on religious grounds, as that Saturday was just a few weeks before my barmitzvah.
In any case, I can’t imagine when I did the swotting boasted in the diary entry. I don’t have any recollection of swotting that day. I only recall being glued to the telly, not least for most if not all of that cricket match.
I certainly recall seeing Roy Fredericks getting out hit wicket, which was very early in the match…and seeing that partnership between Clive Lloyd and Rohan Kanhai…and seeing the Aussies struggle against that West indies bowling attack…
I do also recall the match going on late…indeed past the time that dinner was normally served in the Harris household. There was a golden rule that meal times took precedence over ANYTHING on television.
I remember arguing my corner. This was the first ever cricket world cup final and there would never, ever be another “first ever” and it was building up to a really exciting ending.
I managed to get a temporary stay of execution for the family dinner, much against my mother’s better judgement.
Below is a highlights package of the match – I especially dig the floppy hats donned by Fredericks and Greenidge at the start of the innings:
Beyond the final, I know that first cricket world cup had a profound effect on me.
I saved newspaper clippings of the scorecards from the various matches and I remember replaying the world cup with my friends (and on my own) in various formats over the summer:
I especially remember looking at the names of players and trying to understand what the different types of names meant for those different places. The mixture of Portuguese and Southern Asian names from Sri Lanka especially sparked my interest.
I wondered whether I would visit some of those exotic-seeming (judging by the cricketers’ names) places. I have now visited most.
Writing this article on the eve of the 2019 Cricket World Cup Final, I am still wondering when England will win the tournament.
This was the summer in which I took a hat trick at cricket; at the culmination of a league-winning tournament in which my class, 2AK won all but one of the league matches:
But when you are as sporadic at sport as I am, no amount of enthusiasm nor occasional high achievement is going to protect you from the bad days.
18 June 1975 seems to have been such a day. And not just for me.
Just in case any readers are as sporadic at reading finely crafted handwriting as I am at sport, let me transcribe that 18 June diary entry for you.
We lost in cricket league. Boo hoo. Some hot revision. Had to catch 37 train home. Out of fives competition. TV Ascent of Man, Only On Sunday. England out of Prudential Cup.
That loss in the cricket league will have really hurt at the time. I have all of the scores neatly recorded in the back of my diary (I’ll write up the tournament at some point) so can confirm that we lost that game to 2BM by three runs (90 played 93). They were the other form team in the league – we had beaten them once before in our run of six wins at the start of the tournament. A seventh win on 18 June would have confirmed the tournament for us, but that loss kept our main rivals in the race – we were to face them once more a couple of weeks later.
It appears that I not only had to vice-skipper the cricket team that day but I also had to play my fives tournament semi-final. I dont record who my fives nemesis was that day, but I have a feeling, thanks to John Eltham’s extraordinary memory for our school’s sporting legends, that it was Neil Hodson.
The 18 June 1975 diary entry, I must say, is extraordinarily bleak, even in its brevity. “Some hot revision”, I sense, was my juvenile attempt to record that sense of being hot and bothered all day at Alleyn’s. Clearly even my preferred route home from school on that day of sporting disaster was confounded.
Then, to cap it all, “England out of the Prudential Cup”, that first cricket world cup that I had been following avidly since the very first day of the tournament.
England’s nemesis that day – a left arm swing bowler named Gary Gilmour. 1975 was to be his annus mirabilis too. But Gilmour’s sporting heights were mirabilis electi while mine were mirabilis ordinarius.
I wrote the words “boo hoo”, cynically I suspect, but I wonder whether or not the 12-year-old me really did cry at some point during that day or evening. I must admit that, writing this up now, aged 56, I welled up a little imagining my much younger self going through and then reflecting on that awful sporting day.
Without doubt my favourite game in the early days at Alleyn’s was fives. Specifically at Alleyn’s we played Rugby Fives.
It was the only sport at which I was good enough to represent the school and no doubt that selection only came through my comparative ability with the left-hand as well as the right. Let’s not call this ambidextrous, in my case more like ambiclumsy. In any case, my doubles partner was Alan Cooke and he was good. I probably got my team berth more on the back of Alan’s skills than my own.
Still, I wasn’t bad and there are lots of references to my successes and failures throughout my diaries, especially 1974 & the first half of 1975.
But looking back today, early February 2016, I thought I should write a short piece about this simple entry I found for 9 June 1975.
Uneventful day. Beat Eltham 11-5, 11-5 in Q-Finals.
Now in my book, John Eltham was good at sport. Really good at sport. I’m not sure John played fives much, but he was generally good at sport.
I was not good at sport. Really, really, really not good at sport. There was the occasional success, of course, not least one goalkeeping tale of derring-do that I have promised not to blog about…
…for the time being…
…until I can find the reference and/or unless the promised hush money proves not to be forthcoming…
…but my point is, looking back, I don’t see how the two sentences in the above quote could possibly be talking about the same day. Beating John Eltham at any sport made it an eventful day. Heck, just having got to the Q-Finals of any sport made it an eventful day for me.
But perhaps my young mind, turned by some fleeting success, was by then looking beyond a semi-final appearance to greater glory than that achieved.
The diary is silent on fives for the rest of the term apart from a fleeting mention of my semi-final loss a week-or-so later, with no mention of the score or the opponent – click here or below – clearly I couldn’t even bear to write down that particular losing result.
Anyone care/dare to own up to ruining this poor kid’s day by destroying his one chance at glory in the internal fives competition? I fancy a rematch.
Postscript One
John Eltham, on seeing this posting, e-mailed me the next day to say:
You modestly left out the fact that we had at least two national Rugby Fives champions in our year ! Hodson & Stendall.
Indeed we did, John. And indeed Jumbo Jennings latterly. I’d forgotten about Neil Hodson in that context.
I have a strange feeling that it might well have been Hodson who beat me in the semis – I have always had a sense of unfinished business with him and I probably would have been too gutted to report the loss. Whereas Chris Stendall was, like Alan Cooke, an old mate from primary school; I took my (more often than not) losses against them on the chin and regularly recorded those in the diary.
Postscript Two
After writing the above line “I fancy a rematch” and posting this piece, I then knelt down to put the 1975 diary back in the box under the bed and then…felt my left hammy twinge when I got up again. Perhaps a fives rematch at the age of 53 is not such a good idea after all.
Postscript Three
For reasons of his own, Rohan Candappa presented me with a trophy commemorating this historic fives victory, in December 2018, described here:
I didn’t much use the B word (“boring”) in my teenage diaries, but that word does crop up more than once during the first three weeks of April 1975, deployed recklessly, as I shall point out later in this piece.
Tuesday, 1 April 1975 played on my own. TV Flintstones, Edward VII. Made model plane.
Wednesday 2 April 1975 – went to Andrew’s [Levinson] in afternoon. Played snooker etc. TV 20th Century Fox Presents, Fight Against Slavery.
Thursday, 3 April 1975 – played tennis and football in morning with Andy [Levinson] and Stuart [Harris]. TV man about the house, are you being served, Dave Allen.
Friday 4 April 1975 – played with Andy in afternoon. In morning got record missing from library [?].
Saturday 5 April 1975 – went to Spurs in afternoon. TV Pot Black, Canon.
I cannot fathom what I am trying to tell my diary about the record library. I do recall borrowing a lot of records from the library over the years, probably starting around then.
I can convincingly report through the power of memory that Stanley Benjamin took me to see that match. My memory (as enhanced by Google) can also report that a star-studded Spurs beat Luton Town 2-1 that day.
Sunday, 6 April 1975 – classes morning. Kalooki in afternoon and evening. All square!? Times seven.
Monday, 7 April 1975 – played with Andy. TV Likely Lads, Alias Smith and Jones, Goodies, Horizon.
Tuesday, 8 April 1975 – went shopping. Classes, grammar, whole book!! TV High Society, Edward The Seventh.
Wednesday, 9 April 1975 – Paul Deacon came over for day. Nice time.
Thursday, 10 April 1975 – classes! Andrew in the afternoon. TV Man About The House, Are You Being Served?
Friday, 11 April 1975 – another boring day! Tennis Stuart Harris. TV Caribe, The Good Life, Within These Walls, ? by 10!
I can only apologise to my friends whose names are juxtaposed with the word boring. I am quite sure I meant to say, “boring day apart from…” rather than suggest that my activities with friends were boring.
Saturday, 12 April 1975 – went to Chelsea V Man City. Lost 0–1. Good match though.
Sunday, 13 April 1975 – Kalooki 4p. Classes pretty boring as usual. Benjahair turned up! Mini squidge joined.
I cannot work out exactly where those nicknames came from, or even in the case of the first one whose nickname it was. Benjahair might have been Alison Benjamin‘s nickname at that time. Mini Squidge was Graham Laikin, younger brother of “Squidge” who was Richard Laikin. I’m sure these lovely people will be thrilled to have their teenage nicknames dug out of the archives for posterity. This is what happens when information treasure troves are opened under the fifty year rule. 🤪
Monday 14 April 1975 morning uneventful. Afternoon Andrew and Henry. TV Likely Lads, Alias Smith & Jones, Goodies – goody goody yum yum!
Tuesday, 15 April 1975 – Andrew afternoon snooker 7-6 to me after 5-1 to him. Molivers [Josh & Sadie] came in evening. Nice day!
Wednesday, 16 April 1975 – hospital mum in within three weeks. Taken by Marjorie and Wendy [Levinson]. Brixton haircut. TV Survivors, Fight Against Slavery.
Coincidentally, a few days after writing this piece, I spotted “Auntie Marjorie’s car” in Waitrose, Ealing. The proud owner, who had recently acquired the car, was delighted that I wanted to photograph it:
I cannot recall who Henry was. If it was someone from Alleyn’s School, Henry is a nickname which has slipped my memory. Apologies. Perhaps a friend of Andy’s from his previous school, Dulwich Prep. Sadie Moliver was mum’s cousin, although a generation older than mum in fact. Sadie was one of the few people on the planet who terrified my mum. It might have been on this occasion that I helped make the tea and mum demanded in a trembling voice that I ensure that Sadie’s cuppa was strong or else she would denounce it…
“this tea tastes like piss”.
Sadie when much younger. Thanks to Sidney Pizan for the picture.
Thursday 17 April 1975. I’ve – went to Alan’s [Cooke] for day. Lovely time. Went to classes. TV Love Thy Neighbour, Are You Being Served.
Friday, 18 April 1975 – had diarrhoea! Went shopping. In afternoon saw film on TV: The Village, Husband of the Year, The Good Life.
I’m sure that many of my readers are appreciating this level of detail in my juvenile diary, especially the many readers who like to use Ogblog as mealtime reading. [Please insert your own joke along the lines of “verbal diarrhoea diary” here]
Saturday, 19 April 1975 went to see Chelsea V Spurs. Fighting on terraces. Lost 0-2. Boo. TV Pot Black final, G[raham] Miles won. Canon.
Regarding THAT football match, I remember the occasion quite clearly. Again I was with Stanley Benjamin & some other members of the Benjamin family in their season ticket seats. The scrappiness of the football can be seen in this “classic match” video:
The match, the violence and the long tail of resentment between the two sides is captured in this article – click here -one of many I could have chosen.
I didn’t feel any sense of danger, as my hosts knew (or at least held themselves out to be knowing) how and when to leave the ground to avoid trouble.
My parents, however, were unnerved by the fact that I was on my way home from a football match while they were seeing scenes of violence from the ground on the news.
It might have been that occasion, more than anything else, that made my parents a little more reluctant to let me go off to football matches, while being quite relaxed about me toddling off to see county cricket at The Oval.
Friends who have shown concern about my football allegiances at that time (Perry Harley – you might be one of many) will spot the clarity of my express emotions in the April 1975 diary – my heart at that time was with Chelsea. Whereas I can now honestly say that my heart is not with (or against) any football team.
For those who find snooker more to their taste than football, I have found that Pot Black final on YouTube too:
You might sense that I was becoming a little skittish for the last two days of that school holiday. Dig the final two holiday entries:
Sunday, 20 April 1975 – found snail (Sydney). Kalooki, won 22p. Nice day in all!
Monday, 21 April 1975 – went to Tooting. Played around. TV Likely Lads, Alias Smith and Jones, Goodies – a goody goody yum Yum.
What I did in Tooting and with whom I played around on that last day of the holidays is lost in the mists of time. Andy Levinson and/or Stuart Harris most likely.
The ultra violence of those London derby football matches was clearly starting to have an effect on us youngsters! 🤪
…the noise of me playing with the echo effect capabilities of our Sony TC377 were probably a relative mercy to my parents ears. I am relieved and delighted to inform you that those particular echo chamber efforts appear to be lost for ever, so you are spared the indignity of hearing them. But fear not, echo lovers, I think there are one or two other recordings of that ilk that have survived – eh, Paul Deacon? 😉
Far too much telly, as usual, but it does seem that the Harris family TV vigil was mostly in front of BBC2 in those days, which at least had some educational content. See this link for the BBC2 schedule that night. Strangely, I remember that Horizon programme about the Milgram Experiment very clearly, as it affected me profoundly and I still think Milgram’s work has currency, despite it not conforming with modern standards of control and rigour.
Tuesday, 25 March 1975 – no [Hebrew] classes. TV Flintstones, Gillette Cup 71, Napoleon, Police Harrow Road.
Wednesday, 26 March 1975 – broke up from school. Not bad report. Andrew Levinson] in afternoon. Our own little Seder with duck. TV Rhoda, Slaves
“Our own little Seder” would have been me, mum and dad. Radical choice of duck for that “dress rehearsal” ceremonial meal, but dad was always partial to duck (as am I) and it was, after all, our own little Seder. I can tell you for sure that dad would have rushed through the ceremonial verbiage to get to the meal as quickly as possible. The next night we’d have been on better behaviour and the whole thing would have been more “regular”. I expect lamb was involved on the Thursday.
Thursday 27th of March 1975 played Subbuteo cricket. Seder with Marie and Louis and Grandma Jenny.
The first mention of Subbuteo cricket in my diary. I am pretty sure I would have been given it for – or rather funded the purchase from money given to me around – Christmas.
The approach of the cricket season…which even in those days included the BBC showing highlights from a Gillette Cup final from a few year’s earlier…must have prompted me to get started with my Subbuteo Cricket on the first day of the Easter holidays. Good for me.
Friday, 28 March 1975 – went to see Spurs V Wolves 3-0. Went to Grandma Anne’s in evening. TV Around The World In 80 Days.
The visit to White Hart Lane to see Tottenham Hotspurs play Wolverhampton Wanderers will have been with Stanley Benjamin. The Benjamins (Doreen & Stanley, plus daughters Jane & Lisa) were friends of the family and lived in our street.
Mum with Doreen & Stanley, late 1950s or c1960.
The entire male branch of the Benjamin family had season tickets at White Hart Lane. Andy Levinson and I were convenient substitutes if one or more of Stanley’s brothers/kin were away. On this occasion, as I don’t mention Andy, I think it was just me and I think we joined one or two of Stanley’s brothers in the posh stand where their season ticket seats were located.
There was a big bank holiday crowd that day and I remember oh so clearly that John Duncan scored one of the goals and Steve Perryman scored the other two…
If you want to see the programme, it is available on e-bay – click here. I note that I saw Cyril Knowles play that day. No doubt there were many choruses of “Nice One Cyril” ringing out around White Hard Lane that afternoon, as the promise of a Spurs victory came good. Go on, click the embed, you know you want to hear the song.
Saturday 29 March 1975 – went to shule. Went shopping. TV Doctor Who v good.
Sunday 30 March 1975 – no classes, lunch at Feld’s, Grandma Anne around for tea and evening. TV film Camelot.
Monday, 31 March 1975 – Dad was home. In all day. TV Scooby Doo, two Al Jolson films, Paper Moon, Goodies, Futtocks End, Alias Smith & Jones, Further Up Pompeii
An insane amount of telly on Bank Holiday Monday. I’ll guess it was a wet day. Futtocks End was one of those short comedy films that came around with alarming regularity on public holidays. I remember that there were no words – just grunts and exclamatory noises. My dad loved that film. Here are some clips:
John Burns, aka John Random, reports below that we both must have been watching the same stuff on TV. Well, there were only three channels; I’m sure the choices of discerning viewers such as our parents would often overlap! As evidence, John has sent in a magnificent sketch of his own – not a comedy sketch on this occasion but a pencil sketch. My dad would surely have approved.
Up Pompeii starred Frankie Howerd – it was a sort of cross between “A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To the Forum” and “Carry On Cleo”. I’m not sure the material has aged well…or perhaps it was always somewhat infantile… but in any case I do recall liking Up Pompeii as a child, whereas I find this short clip excruciating now
