I had wondered, when looking at the photo batch, whether I had got some negatives mixed up, as it looked to me as though some pictures of my dad in Brighton had got mixed up with a day trip to Greenwich.
But the diary reminds me that we went to Greenwich twice, going to Brighton on the day in-between.
That summer was the first time in my childhood that we had no family holiday.
Dad must have been very short of money at that time – the business had been doing badly for a few years by then. Dad probably couldn’t justify the expense of getting someone else to run the photographic shop for any amount of time during those commercially better end of summer weeks, even if he could have afforded the holiday itself…which he probably couldn’t.
So he/we simply took a long bank holiday weekend – I suspect he just kept the shop closed until the Thursday.
I have done this as a photo piece using the picture captions to tell the tale; I think the pictures themselves tell most of the story.
Dad in the Trafalgar Tavern, 29 August 1977
The diary suggests that we very much enjoyed our lunch at the Trafalgar Tavern.
Me in the Trafalgar Tavern, 29 August 1977
Probably we enjoyed the lunch so much so that we didn’t get to see all the things we’d intended to see in Greenwich that day.
Cutty Sark, 29 August 1977Old Royal Naval College – 29 August 1977 – seemingly taken from a boat – how many times did I see that glorious panorama from the deck of a boat in later years?29 August 1977 was a beautiful sunny day by the looks of it29 August 1977 – Old Royal Naval College in the sunshine
On 30 August, we went to Brighton. Only three photos from there that day – all of my dad being blown or blowing in the wind:
Dad being blown around in Brighton, 30 August 1977Dad blowing in the wind, Brighton, 30 August 1977 – I like this picture a lot.
We clearly decided to return to Greenwich to finish our sightseeing on 31 August. We took lunch in the Cutty Sark this time, which I don’t think we liked as much as the Trafalgar Tavern back then, if I am reading between the lines of my diary correctly.
The weather looks miserable in the 31 August pictures, as does my mum:
Dad and Mum, the latter looking wet and cold, in Greenwich, 31 August 1977Dad and Mum, the latter looking wet and cold, in Greenwich, 31 August 1977Major General James Wolfe looks hardier than my folks, 31 August 1977The top of Greenwich Park had a truly grimy, industrial view back thenTime Traveller. Me at the Greenwich meridian line 31 August 1977
On this day in 1977, Paul Deacon and I recorded ourselves larking around, including, for some unknown reason, several takes of a scene emulating an execution at the time of the French Revolution.
I’ve no idea whether anyone other than me and Paul will find this four minute clip funny, but I laughed out loud many times on hearing it again.
I think my favourite bit is on take 4, when you hear my pseudo-Robespierre voice, once again, ask
“do you ‘ave anything to say?”
and you can hear my mother holler from the next room…
“yeh – shut up!”
…at which point Paul collapses in gales of laughter.
Some of the bits in several of the takes where Paul gets tongue-tied around his lines are pretty funny too.
I also laughed out loud at my third announcement of “take 5” – to announce two “take 5s” might be described as unfortunate, to announce three sounds like carelessness. The juvenilia of a numbers man.
Suffice it to say that the unintended humour works better than the rather mawkish intended humour.
The guillotine sound comes from an actual guillotine…
…no, really…
…a paper one, which looked more or less exactly like this picture, which I have borrowed from an ebay sale long since closed – I’m sure the anonymous photographer/seller won’t mind – fair use for educational purposes blah blah:
Madame la Guillotine
The sound of the drum roll was made on a genuine Southern African bongo drum, a gift from my mother’s dear school friend, “Auntie” Elsie Betts who lived (I believe still lives) in South Africa. For reasons unknown, I took a superb photograph of that majestic drum:
Monsieur Le Bongodrum
The sound of the aristocrat’s head landing was, if I recall correctly, achieved with a white cabbage being dropped into a wastepaper basket. My mother used to make her own coleslaw to my father’s specification – with a light vinaigrette sauce, no mayonnaise nonsense for my dad’s slaw – it was a sort-of cross between sauerkraut and coleslaw really.
But I digress.
Point is, there would always have been a white cabbage conveniently on hand whenever the need arose for a head removal sound effect. The cabbage will have looked like one of these:
Paul and I made quite a few silly recordings over the years, but I believe only the one tape survives. Most of our recordings were recorded on the trusty Sony TC377, which looked like this…
…the tape for which was expensive and in demand in the Harris household (mostly by me to be honest), so much of the silly stuff will have been wiped over with other silly stuff or, eventually, something someone wanted to keep.
I meticulously digitised all the reel to reel tapes that survived (a few batches of tape were deteriorating before digitisation, so those tapes couldn’t be saved) but, as far as I can tell, none of the survivors had larking about material on them. Sorry.
So how or why did the 12 April 1977 material survive?
The answer is straightforward and signalled in the following diary page.
The relevant passage is 2 January 1977 – Bank Holiday Monday:
Went to Comet cassette deck. Great.
On that day, our reel-to-reel family bowed to the inevitable and procured a cheap (this is the January sales, isn’t it?) “solid state” cassette deck. It was not a special one. I think it was one of the following or similar – I have borrowed the picture from an ebay sale long since closed – I’m sure the anonymous photographer/seller won’t mind – fair use for educational purposes blah blah:
While I think Paul and I probably recorded the coin tossers/execution scenes on the reel-to-reel (the clicks sound reel-to-reelish to me – Paul might know better), I at least made a copy or copies onto cassette following that 1977 reording session:
Below I have also embedded the 20 minutes or so of general larking around stuff that preceded the main takes. It’s not a particularly interesting listen; I think we must both have been in an especially silly mood that day. Paul might go through it and extract a few small snippets of value from it. I think there is a Cyril Vaughan impersonation on there somewhere and one or two other impersonations to boot.
The main “conceit” of the following preliminary piece is a spoof sports commentary on the world coin tossing competition. This appears to be a throw-back to an earlier, seminal event, in December 1974:
Anyway, here is twenty minutes of coin tossing, infantile giggling, some impersonations and some early attempts at the execution scenes. This recording is on the other side of the Execution Scenes cassette.
I have written all of this up in September 2018 at Paul Deacon’s request, as he is giving some sort of talk about careers to a women’s group in Canada, the country in which Paul and his family now reside.
Paul wondered if I had any relevant photos of us from that time, which I don’t really – sorry again. The only picture I can lay my hands on with both of us in it is the following, which Paul himself uploaded in our Alleyn’s alum group:
Paul on the right doing the bumping; me the recipient of the bumps. This might take some explaining to a genteel women’s group…
…but if they are instead a group of Canadian Women’s Ice Hockey players/supporters, the picture will look like childishly amateur violence, which it assuredly was.
While I denied all memory of this event when Paul first upped that picture, I have a vague recollection now of how those autumnal-looking bumps came about. I’ll Ogblog about that separately some other time.
This piece is about recordings of execution scenes and stuff. You haven’t yet listened to the four minute execution scenes clip? Here it is again for your convenience. Listen out for my mum as “best supporting actress” in take four.
This turned out to be our last family summer holiday together. The following year dad was brassic (skint) so we just did some day trips and stuff, e.g. Greenwich:
Then the year after that, I did BBYO camps while mum and dad went off and did their own thing early autumn.
I turned 14 on this La Manga holiday and I do remember feeling, even at that tender age, that I had sort of outgrown those family holidays. I sensed that mum and dad wanted some prime time together and I was no longer intrigued by going off and doing stuff with random youngsters who just happen to be on holiday with you.
We stayed in the Hotel Entremares – not the sort of place I might stay in now, but it is still there and looks OK. Mixed reviews now.
The hotel (and to some extent the resort) was brand new then and I suspect my dad picked up a late booking at low cost for a place that hadn’t yet gained a reputation.
Clearly we were treated like visiting celebrities:
There is a movie for this holiday which, believe it or not, actually did yield some “famous for 15 minutes material” many years later, when Visa rewarded me handsomely enough and used some clips in one of their adverts and vines. Here is the whole movie:
https://youtu.be/k_XVsDXFhHM
Here’s the Visa ad, which shows dad slapping on the tanning oil:
This blond girl features in the movie too. I wonder whether I had latched on to the blond girl or whether she had latched on to me. Rohan Candappa probably wants me to track her down and write a story about her.
In those days La Manga was positioning itself for tennis in particular…
This event came to me as a memory flash while in e-conversation with Rohan Candappa in December 2020 on the topic of that “limbo period” between Christmas and New Year. Rohan pointed out:
Limbo is a strangely schizophrenic word. It’s either a time when nothing is going on, or the most extreme dance you can imagine.
Suddenly it all came flooding back to me. The dinner & dance the day after my Barmitzvah. The Peacock Club in Streatham. The limbo dancer my parents arranged as entertainment for said evening. My limbo dancing “career”, not just remembered but I knew for sure that I have photographs.
Why the choice of limbo dancer for a Barmitzvah party? The answer to that question is truly lost in the mists of time. Some would suggest that it was a very “South London” choice. Others that it was an inappropriate choice steeped in cultural appropriation.
My guess is that someone dad knew through his photographic shop business was connected with the charming young lady in question.
Dorothy.
I know that she is/was named Dorothy because the pictures in my parent’s memory book / photo album have clearly been labelled “Dorothy”.
[Infantile readers may insert their own version of the joke revolving around the idea that “Ian was a friend of Dorothy when he was thirteen years old” here.]
Dorothy [Thinks]: What a funny little boy he is. Ian [Thinks]: I could be in here…whatever “being in” might be.
Dorothy showed us how it should be done.
Steve Lytton was one of several people who had a go. Unfortunately for him, his photo survived and has lived peacefully in my parent’s memory book for 45 years and counting:
Friends from the neighbourhood and school might recognise Andy Levinson in the background of the above and following picture. He’s hiding behind is mum. It seems he didn’t have a go at limbo dancing.
My technique showing real promise there. If only I had persevered with the practice, I could have been a contender.
Then Dorothy started to show off.
I mean, really, was that completely necessary?
Seriously, I do remember Dorothy being sweet with me and making the whole event feel special. She was clearly very talented at limbo dancing.
One day I’ll write up other aspects of my Barmitzvah. Sadly, for lovers of music and theology, there is a recording of me singing my rite of passage passage and I’ll feel Ogblog-honour bound to upload it, if only for the sake of completeness.
Anyway, the limbo dancing was great fun. Dad clearly felt that he had pulled off a blinder by booking Dorothy…
…while mum did far more dancing than was good for her, just three months after having a hip replacement:
Update/Footnote Post Publication
I managed to track down and get in touch with Steve Lytton after publishing this piece – it seemed only polite to let him know that his youthful limbo dancing efforts were now in the public domain.
It was really nice to catch up with Steve and e-chat after so many years.
One thing that Steve said solved at least part of the “why a limbo dancer at my Barmitzvah party” mystery:
…what a coincidence. We had a limbo dancer at MY Barmitzvah party…
…said Steve. The penny dropped. We had a limbo dancer at my celebration because I/we had so much enjoyed the limbo dancer at his, a year or so earlier. So the question now really should be, “why did Steve have a limbo dancer at his Barmitzvah party?” Or maybe it was simply the fashion for such parties at that time.
DeepAI Imagines The 01 Once Daily Streatham Hill To London Bridge
We had our own special train that took us from Streatham Hill directly to North Dulwich (and then on to London Bridge). A great service for us Alleyn’s kids from Streatham Hill, not needing to change. It was even named/numbered the 01, perhaps in honour of its once a day status.
Of course it was not just for us Alleyn’s kids; there were kids from other schools – Tulse Hill Comp. and William Penn to name but two – on that train too. No self-respecting adults rode on that train as far as I can remember.
In the early days, there were very few of us from Alleyn’s who got on at the start of that run – possibly just me and Andy Levinson. We loved the fact that we could see the train in the siding and that it pulled into the station, seemingly for us.
Andy a couple of years later
Latterly for sure Rupert Jefferies, Justin Sutton and I think one or two others from Alleyn’s joined the train at Streatham Hill, but those guys I think started after the “mugging” described below.
Friday 21 February 1975 – “mugged” on train. TV Sportstown, Rhoda, Porridge and MASH v good.
I remember a fair bit about the incident, although I don’t think I could identify the brace of assailants now. In those days, British Rail had 10×10 person compartment carriages on those suburban trains. Andy and I usually had a compartment to ourselves, but on this occasion we were joined by two larger lads. They seemed well big to us, but we were 12; they might have been 15 or 16.
Hey boys, they shouted, have you got any money…and we said…
…very little. We had very little money. We were schoolboys who had no need for money on a regular school day, so I suspect we had a couple of bob between us. (That’s 10p if younger readers are unfamiliar with the terminology).
We gave them what little we had and then, I remember this so clearly, the assailants sort-of boxed…pretty much just slapped, our ears, perhaps in frustration at the paucity of their haul and/or possibly because our suits betrayed the fact that we were from a posh school.
Ultra-violence it wasn’t, which is why my diary entry used the term “mugged” rather than, for example, MUGGED.
Saturday 22 February 19 75 – TV Doctor Who, Walt Disney. David Aarons – Monopoly, I won. [He] taught me gin rummy.
Two Saturdays in a row my parents must have gone out, two Saturdays in a row David Aarons (one of Lionel & Dina Aarons’s children) came around. Mum and dad must have been fitting in a few socials ahead of mum going in for her hip replacement.
At age 12-and-a-half, I clearly didn’t have it in me to use the term “babysitting” in my diary, but that is what this would have been. David could have only just turned 16 by then. Prior to David, it was quite often one of his big sisters, Ruth or Judith, who would babysit for me. They had probably outgrown that role by then – indeed one of them at least was probably already at University by then. I don’t think the fourth Aarons “kid”, Robert, ever babysat for me.
I remember those sessions with David well. My perception was that he treated me more like a grown up than his sisters. Possibly I WAS quite a bit more grown up with him, or at least a fair bit closer to his age and stage of life. I do remember him teaching me games, although I had quite forgotten that he set me on the road to Gin Rummy. I remember him using some choice phrases that I liked and emulated for a while. I especially liked:
Expletive deleted…
…when indicated a desire to swear but the restraint to avoid doing so. I still use that one occasionally. I was saddened to learn that he died of brain cancer tragically young.
Sunday 23 February 1975 – classes good. Chinese good. Came home after lunch. TV The Great War, Who Do You Do.
Monday 24 February 1975 – went to visit mum in hospital. TV Goodies, Call My Bluff.
Tuesday 25 February 1975 – went to visit mum again. Rather uneventful day. Saw muggers in next door café.
Dad couldn’t cook to save his life, so while mum was in hospital having her hip replacement, we ate almost every night in restaurants and cafes – either in Streatham, Camberwell or somewhere inbetween.
I recall the fact that I spotted the previous week’s assailants in a cafe just a few days later and pointed the fact out to my dad. It was one of those moments when you realise that your dad is not the all-embracing protector that your childhood assumes him to be. I can’t remember exactly what dad said, but it would have been something along the lines of…
…put it out of your mind, son.
It’s possible that he didn’t believe that I had really spotted the right guys. After all, even the police had a lousy reputation for identifying and nailing the right young criminals in such circumstances.But I’m equally sure that dad would have, quite rightly, felt loathe to take on such a situation.
Wednesday 26 February 1975 – went into Uncle Cyril’s cos of operation, went to [Cyril’s] shop, masala yum yum, played chess and I won!
Uncle Cyril in this instance is our next door neighbour Cyril Barnett. This was probably the first time that Cyril and his wife Marion took me in the back of their van up to Chalk Farm to deliver stock to his shop and have a treat at Marine Ices as a reward for helping them.
What would “elf & safety” say about a 12 year old kid rattling around in the back of a van with a whole load of shutters on rails? We could probably have Cyril and Marion taken away in chains for that today, but back then we all rolled with such risks and I rather enjoyed the thrill of those van rides…
Cyril: proof positive that you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs
…and I absolutely loved Marine Ices masala-flavoured ice cream. I fear the place has now gone, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.
Thursday, 27 February 1975 – visited mummy after shop. Dinner, “Adam’s Ribs”. TV The Roman Way, Dave Allen At Large.
”Dinner Adam’s Ribs” is a reference to a segment in MASH, where one of the characters was dreaming about his favourite Chinese spare ribs restaurant, which was named Adam’s Ribs. After visiting mum in Kings College Hospital, Dad and I found a Chinese restaurant in Camberwell where we both thought the spare ribs especially fine, so we declared that they were Adam’s Ribs.
Friday 28 February 1975 – Went to shop. Visited mummy. TV Porridge and MASH..
Saturday 1 March 1975 – Went to Andrew after school. Played snooker. Visited mummy again.
Mum was in hospital for 10 days or so, I think, having her Stanmore inserted.
It is strange sitting writing this article in the clinic, almost 50 years to the day that mum had her hip replaced, having just yesterday had mine replaced. She got 40 years out of hers, I doubt if I’ll need or want 40 years out of mine!
A strange mixture of interesting, baffling and mundane diary entries in this chunk of my second term at Alleyn’s.
27 January To 2 February 1974
Sunday 27 January 1974 – Still no Mr Freed [Hebrew classes]. Grandma Anne’s. Made dad a blue moon egg.
Monday 28 January 1974 – Cricket with Banson v good batting and bowling.
Tuesday 29 January 1974 – Art good. Classes good.
Wednesday 30 January 1974 – Fives with Cookie – from 11-3 down to 16-14 up. He one [sic] other game.
Thursday 31 January 1974 – BAD DAY IN ALL
Friday 1 February 1974 – Maths test. Form drama, The Cave. PE basketball match.
Saturday 2 February 1974 – scool [sic] morning. Afternoon played filter paper.
“Blue moon egg” – my dad liked fluffy omelettes and I learnt how to make them when I was still quite small. They were (are) difficult to get absolutely right in terms of fluffiness – a bit like making a soufflé in a pan – but if I got it right, dad would announce that the egg was a blue moon egg.
I’ll talk about cricket in January at Alleyn’s separately in more detail elsewhere. At this seminal stage of our cricketing careers, I suspect that Barry Banson held back on head-cuffing as his modus operandus for “encouragement”.
In the matter of fives (Rugby fives), to be fair on Alan Cooke (aka “Cookie”), it is clear from other diary entries that I was usually the victim of his more able performances. During that early effort in January 1974, I must have found a little something extra to turn a match around thusly. Interesting that we were already playing to 15 rather than to 11. I’m pretty sure that our “proper” junior matches were played to 11.
When a bad day is all in block capitals, it must have been pretty bad. I might well have thought it needed no further exposition, as I would remember the details of its badness for the rest of my life. However, I can now report categorically that I have no idea what made that particular day bad. I can only say with some certainty that, at the time, that Thursday had not been a good one.
By Friday all was well again, with Drama Friday to enjoy and a basketball match in PE. I’m struggling to work out what “The Cave” might have been. I have already asked “Sir” (Ian Sandbrook) who is equally baffled.
There is a play called The Cave by Mervyn Peake which was written in the 1950s but not formally published until after 1974. It is possible that Alleyn’s had some “for school” copies of that piece, as some of the resources we used were not formally published books. Ian Sandbrook says:
The Mervyn Peake hypothesis has some merit as I think the English Dept did consider the Titus Groan trilogy as a candidate for the Mode 3 English Syllabus – although that is perhaps rather a fragile link.
If anyone out there remembers, then do chime in.
The late John Clarke (chemistry teacher) would no doubt have been proud of me playing with filter paper on Saturday after school. Just the sort of thing he would have wanted (perhaps even expected) boys from his chemistry class to do.
3 To 9 February 1974
This week has some even more obscure or difficult references in it. Some of it is handwriting related but some items are simply, to my mind now, truly weird things to write in one’s diary.
Sunday 3 February 1974 – Classes, Freed in March. Bechat Hamazon [grace after meals] v good.
Monday 4 February 1974 – cricket great bat good eye a hit bowl straight and good catch 4 v good, 1 good, 1 bad.
Tuesday 5 February 1974 – Art painting on wall. Classes good. Alf Garnet [sic] good.
Wednesday 6 February 1974 – Fives v Cookie. Man About The House v good.
Thursday 7 February 1974 – Very bad day. Horrible H’s in bad mood. I got the bad.
Friday 8 February 1974 – Monitor for entrance exam. Learnt some magils and /`read] a chapter second WW. Timeslip v good.
Saturday 9 February 1974 – scool [sic] in morning. Changed shoes Tuf /` + reinforcers 400] Dr Who v good.
“Freed in March must mean that I was told that I would transfer from Miss Aarons’s class to Mr Freed’s in March. Not that I was due to be released in March, nearly 18 months before my bar mitzvah. That wasn’t going to happen. Why I was so keen to mention the grace after meals I have no idea. I vaguely recall the Brixton Synagogue Hebrew Class including a sweet, calorific elevenses with Danish pastries, challah bread, jam and the like. This was partly to motivate attendance and partly to teach the meal graces in a happy context. I’ll write more on this topic in a specific piece or two and direct it towards the several friends from that era with whom I am still in touch, 50 years later. I think Andy Levinson was the only other Alleyn’s boy from our year who also attended those classes.
I’m not entirely sure what all of the Monday cricket entry means, but the England selectors might want a look at that young man, based on my description.
The Tuesday diary entry suggests that the art teacher, Mr Brew, liked one of my pieces. This wouldn’t be the last time that Mr Brew took to my crude drawings, despite my near hopelessness. My Dad, being a genuinely good artist with a steady hand and fine eye, tutored me a little at home, rendering me a bit less than useless and very keen.
Alf Garnett was the main character in Till Death Us Do Part – a comedy that wouldn’t pass muster in the modern era because, although it was ridiculing racist and misogynistic opinions, the Alf Garnett character spouted them with abandon. Here is the episode I watched that night with my parents:
Wednesday – the fact that I say “fives v Cookie” without mentioning the score tells you that Cookie must have won – probably won well.
Man About The House was a much gentler comedy than Till Death Us Do Part. Below is the episode we watched that night.
Interesting to read that 1st year pupils did monitoring for entrance exams. I have no idea what “learning magils” means. It might have been some homework for my bar mitzvah class. Also unsure what the second world war reading was about, as for sure we were studying ancient history that year. Perhaps just reading for general interest.
I had to Google “Timeslip”, but when I did so remembered that children’s programme. Unlike the above two shows, which first broadcast the above episodes on the day of the diary mentions, Timeslip was first broadcast three or so years’ earlier. Below is a short trailer which might trigger some of your memories:
I had to Google Tuf to realise that my note about changing shoes included a brand name. Back then, the brand was meant to be indestructible footwear for kids…
“Reinforcers 400” can only be a reference to buying a packet of 400 hole reinforcers. This might be the geekiest diary entry ever and surely confirms my membership of the Dull Men’s Club. We’re only a few weeks’ in to my diary and no doubt there are some well geeky entries to come.
Dr Who very good – who knew? The Doctor was Jon Pertwee at that time and Invasion of the Dinosaurs was the mini series at that time. Here is a short explaining how that season of Doctor Who worked:
Some of this TV stuff might be in colour for you (and for me now) but in 1974 the Harris household was still strictly black and white.
I’d forgotten all about hole reinforcers…I wonder whether I can find some in my draw and repair some damaged holes in my file pages?…
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:
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.
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:
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.
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.
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 …
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
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.
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:
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:
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?
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.
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:
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.
