When I say, “funny people” in this context, I mean comedy people, not necessarily strange people. Some of them might also be strange of course, but I’ll leave that judgement to the reader.
Funny-comedic, not necessarily funny-strange: Rohan Candappa
First up, for lunch on Tuesday 5 March, was Rohan Candappa. He wanted to try a Malaysian & Indonesian restaurant, Melur, on the Edgware Road. As I had requested that we meet somewhere over my side, as I needed to be at Lord’s for a game of tennis afterwards, that seemed a reasonable choice to me.
The weather forecast suggested heavy rain around the time I’d be finishing at Lord’s, so I took my car to Aberdeen Place and parked there ahead of lunch.
The food at Melur was excellent. I was restrained in my choices given the tennis bout ahead, going for an inoffensive Nasi Goreng. Rohan went for a more spicy version and for some roti canai, which I tasted and reckon was a pretty darned good roti. I shall forever more associate that dish with Rohan, so much so that I’ll think of it as…Rohan Kanhai. Coincidentally, I shall similarly forever be reminded of that Guyanese cricketer when I recall Rohan Candappa’s visit to Lord’s with me, last year:
I’m thinking of naming my novel genre “Mock Tudor Rock”
Rohan, who plans to manage my band, made several branding suggestions – I responded to those thoughts subsequently as follows:
The Wessex Petards might work better as a band name the The Wessex Pistols and I still feel that Sir Michael Smear is a more visceral nom de punk than Sir John Rancid. But I cannot better your album name – Never Mind The Bailiwicks – it ought to go gold or platinum on the name alone, before we release so much as a tiny sound sample…in fact it had better go gold or platinum before we release so much as a tiny sound sample.
I very much hope my thoughts were helpful and that Rohan can find a way to make the Threadmash idea work for all concerned.
I had allowed loads of time between lunch and tennis, so brought plenty of reading matter with me which I enjoyed reading over a couple of excellent cups of coffee at Café Laville, overlooking the canal in sunshine.
Then on to Lord’s in order to be taught a lesson by one of my favourite real tennis opponents who has recovered from injury since I last played him and seemed keen to let me see how well he can now move around the court. A surprisingly close match in the circumstances – I thought I did well to get close.
On Thursday 7 March I had a music lesson with Ian Pittaway, who passed expert judgement on my Mock Tudor Rock…
Place the rascal in the stocks at once!
…while helping me with some other silly ideas (watch this space) and sensible techniques (don’t hold your breath).
Then a visit from John Random for a bite of lunch and the second of two sessions of NewsRevue archiving. The first session was 25 January. John has a large collection of NewsRevue programmes, flyers and reviews, which simply needed to be digitised.
We succeeded in scanning it all in two sessions, despite lots of chat, listening to some music and cricket-match like breaks for lunch/tea.
Following some cheerful chat about murder rates around the world, which identified Mexico and especially Tijuana as a hot spot, we both agreed that Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass must have a lot to answer for. So we listened to a fair smattering of Herb. John was especially taken with his version of the Third Man theme…
…and his version of A Walk In The Black Forest:
We decided that this type of music is, in many ways, the soundtrack of our childhood. Of course we like to remember the cool stuff from the 1960’s and no doubt have listened to far more of the cool stuff in later life, but when we were kids this was the music that was being played on the radios and gramophone players most of the time in our homes and the homes we visited.
We also of course chatted about NewsRevue casts, shows and material gone by. We discussed one of my own classics from more than 25 years ago, Mad Frogs And Englishmen, which I realised I hadn’t yet Ogblogged. I have put that right now:
Job done in terms of the archiving, it was time for us to set off for one of our regular Ivan Shakespeare Memorial gatherings – at which NewsRevue writers from years gone by gather to eat, chat, laugh and informally quiz.
It was International Women’s Day today, so we found ourselves an all male gathering this time. In addition to me and John: Gerry Goddin, Mark Keagan, Barry Grossman, Colin Stutt and a rare but much appreciated visit from NewsRevue founder and “father of the house” Mike Hodd.
The venue was the Spaghetti House in Holborn this time; a good notch up in service and food quality from Cafe Rogues in my view. My first time there but not the group’s first time.
For many years John Random has talked about his vicarious support for a football team by the name of Blyth Spartans. His home town, Hartlepool, is John’s real team but he has carried a torch for this other team for decades.
John excitedly reported that he finally got to visit Blyth Spartans and saw an exciting match there just the other week. I believe it was this match. I feel that this momentous event needs recording for posterity, as does an image of John wearing his new Blyth Spartans titfer.
John reported on the event as follows:
I would like to say a big thank you to all those of you who came out to the Spaghetti House on Thursday night. Thanks also to Mike, Colin and Gerry for their entertaining quizzes. Falling as it did, almost on International Women’s Day I regret to report that NewsRevue has still not come clean on its gender pay gap. We haven’t even had any jokes about it, yet – though I have a feeling, we will – and soon.
As I said earlier, it had been a funny week.
Funny ha-ha, not funny peculiar.
Well, maybe funny ha-ha AND funny peculiar. Good times with good friends.
…Rohan Candappa implored me to attempt Sound Of The Suburbs by The Members in a similar style.
My problem with Sound Of the Suburbs, though, is that I never found it convincing as a new wave or punk anthem. On that track, The Members always felt like a “me too” act, performing in a style that wasn’t authentically them.
Indeed, my research uncovered a few uncomfortable facts about The Members. Firstly, they were from Camberley, which is not what I’d describe as a suburb; I’d call Camberley “home counties”.
I also discovered that the lead man in The Members took Nicky Tesco as his “nom de punk”. Not very punk in my view, next to names like Sid Vicious and Rat Scabies.
Hence my adaptation being, “The Sound Of Home Counties” – a mash up of Sound Of the Suburbs with Tell me Daphne by William Byrd.
My nom de punk is Ged Waitrose
Rohan Candappa said, “never explain”, but then I don’t listen to everything Rohan says.
Rohan also said, “Ian, you’re a Rock God”. I’m rolling with that idea; Rohan talks a lot of sense sometimes.
Here’s The Sound Of The Suburbs by The Members:
While here, believe it or not, is the version of Tell Me Daphne with the highest number of YouTube hits in the whole of the webosphere:
When Rohan was organsing this evening, he sent round a note asking us to “pencil in” this date.
Now I’m not one who is naturally disposed to doing what I am told…
…so I joined the small band of pencil-resisters and informed Rohan and others:
I have written “Rohan Thing?” in big letters in my diary, in ink. If my inflexibility in the pencil verses ink aspect deems me ineligible for the event, I quite understand.
Rohan responded:
Ian, it’s mainly your hat that I’m inviting. But, apparently, it can’t make it without you wandering about underneath. As for ‘Rohan Thing’ – that makes it sound like you’d met me at a party the night before, but can’t remember my surname. Despite all this, I still want you to come along.
Now I know what some of you are thinking. You’re thinking that I am buying time here, in a rather pitiful way, by quoting Rohan’s witty remarks while avoiding actually telling a story of my own.
Well, y…
…NO! Not at all. But that bant does form part of my story.
Let’s start with Rohan’s initial reference to my hat. Now it seems to me, that Rohan was, rather obviously, dropping a heavy hint that he wanted me to tell the story about the day I bought this hat.
And in many ways it is perfectly understandable that Rohan should try to coax me, kindly, gently, directorially towards telling that story. Because it is a darned good story. Within three minutes of buying this hat, from Lock & Co. in St James’s, in early June 2016, I was afforded the opportunity to accost Boris Johnson while he was on his bicycle and had to stop for me at a pelican crossing on The Mall. I waved my real tennis racket at Boris – an implement which, I have subsequently been told, has the unfortunate look of a sawn-off shotgun when in its archaic canvas bag. It wasn’t my intention to seem quite so threatening. Oh well.
Here are some of the items for you to peruse
Anyway, I let Boris know what a knob he was being by supporting Brexit, endangering our economy and potentially causing geopolitical mayhem. My noble gesture was temporarily cathartic for me but ultimately, it seems, futile for the nation and the world.
I could milk that anecdote into a full blown dramatic…or perhaps I should say tragi-comic recitation…
…if I wanted to…
…but as you know, I’m not one who is naturally disposed to doing what I am told…
…or even what I am kindly, gently, directorially coaxed towards doing…
…so I’m not going to talk about the June 2016 hat.
Instead, I’m going to talk about the trousers I bought four weeks earlier. These red trousers.
I made an emergency trip to the Retro Clothing Exchange shop at 28 Pembridge Road in Notting Hill Gate, to try and find an appropriate pair of trousers for a 1960’s party. Actually it wasn’t for any old 1960’s party. It was for my wife, Janie’s party.
The likely source of the party trousers was the basement of that retro shop. Despite its change of purpose within the “Exchange Empire”, I recognised the space immediately as the old bargain basement of Record and Tape Exchange.
[On with Sisters Of Mercy]
I inhabited that basement a great deal in my youth. Initially and several times subsequently, those visits were with my Alleyn’s School friend, Paul Deacon.
It was probably the pull of Record and Tape Exchange and my resulting familiarity with Notting Hill Gate that drew me to move into that part of London ten years later, almost exactly 30 years ago, when I was ready to find my own place. A most fortuitous draw, as I have been profoundly happy living there.
Now as some of you might know, I indulge a retro-blogging habit, writing up my diaries and memorabilia in the form of a life blog going back as far as I can go. Ogblog, I call it.
So, when I got home with my bright red retro trousers, I did a diary trawl of my 1970s second hand record shop expeditions, in order to Ogblog those memories.
Paul Deacon and I first succeeded in visiting that shop in late April 1978. I bought several records which had a profound effect on me. Most memorably from that first batch, a CBS sampler album, The Rock Machine Turns You On, which had, amongst other treasures, Sisters of Mercy by Leonard Cohen. I remember the hairs on the back of my neck standing up when I first heard that track. I played it over and over again, to the irritation of my parents who wondered why I was hell bent on playing “such dirgy stuff”.
But the dusty and musty smell of the 28 Pembridge Road basement actually reminded me most about a visit some three months later, during the school holidays, not with Paul, but with a young female known as Fuzz.
[Off with Sisters Of Mercy – On with Me & Mrs Jones]
You might recall that Rohan thought the term “Rohan Thing” appropriate for someone you met at a party whose second name had evaded you. Of course, back in 1978, when we were 15/16 years old, it was not uncommon to get rather friendly with someone at a party without ever finding out their second name.
But I must confess that Fuzz, with whom I’d had a gentle squeeze at Anil & Anita Biltoo’s party a couple of weeks before she and I made that July 1978 Pembridge Road visit, has a unique place in my junior romantic canon. Because I don’t think I even found out Fuzz’s real first name, let alone her second name.
How we arranged that “date” at Pembridge Road is a bit of a mystery now…but nowhere near as much of a mystery as her name. “Everyone calls me Fuzz”, is, I think, as far as I got, name-wise.
But in other ways, Fuzz and I got a little bit further. I was on the lowest foothills of learning about romantic entwinement that summer, but I had discovered tonsil hockey a few months earlier and was quite keen to practice that sport when the chance presented itself.
During one of the quarter breaks in our tonsil hockey match at Anil and Anita’s party, I inadvertently overheard Fuzz excitedly telling her pals, that…
…I blush to report this…
…words to the effect…
…I was the best tonsil hockey player she had ever encountered.
[Off with Me And Mrs Jones]
Now please bear in mind, folks, I went to the sort of school where the only feedback you got from games masters, even if you were one of the best sporting boys the school had seen in years, was a phrase such as, “you’re uncoachable”, delivered with a clip around the ear…
…and I was far from being one of the best sporting boys the school had seen in years…
…I was one of those boys who would try hard at sport, but whose abundant enthusiasm could not compensate for my dismal shortages of athleticism and talent.
Not that my school sporting career was completely devoid of success. Oh no. Three years earlier I had, famously, defeated the mighty John Eltham – who was certainly one of the more sporty boys – in the fives quarter finals of 1975. I even have a “winning quarter-finalist” trophy emblazoning my drinks cabinet, a trophy mysteriously uncovered by a certain Rohan Candappa, as evidence of that victory.
But my point is, I was not used to hearing encouraging sporting words at all and I had, until that juncture, the low confidence of a novice in the matter of tonsil hockey. My previous experience at that sport (otherwise known as French kissing) could, in July 1978, have been counted on the fingers of one hand. Possibly even the finger of one finger. But I was hearing it on good authority that I was already up there with the very best exponents of the sport globally. Wow.
Of course, it occurs to me now that Fuzz’s prior experience of tonsil hockey might have been as limited as mine, or even less so, making “best ever” a somewhat meaningless comparative term. Oh well.
What Fuzz might have thought of my sartorial talent back then is lost in the mists of time, but it is very unlikely to have been good news. Baggy flared jeans and a yellow PVC waterproof garment, which my youth club friends teasingly described as “Ian’s Banana Jacket”. Little did those folks know that I was, in fact, a proto leader of the yet-to-be-formed gilets jaunes movement. The non-violent, social justice, French chapter. Not the Neo-Nazi English chapter that likes to describe centrist Tories as Nazis. But I digress.
Anyway, back to my date, on a hot day in late July, with Fuzz, in the bargain basement of the Record & Tape Exchange shop where, years later, I bought these red trousers. I suppose I became engrossed in my gramophone record searches and it seems that Fuzz became overwhelmed by the mustiness and dustiness of that Notting Hill basement. Fuzz fainted, banged her head while collapsing and needed to be revived by worried staff in the shop.
But apart from that, young Mr Harris, how was your hot date?
Reflecting on this ill-fated first (and perhaps unsurprisingly, last) date with Fuzz, I realise that it could have been a truly disastrous incident. Had Fuzz lost consciousness and needed attention from the emergency services, I might have had some explaining to do to the other type of fuzz when trying to assist them in identifying the young woman and notifying her next of kin. I don’t think the answers “Fuzz” or “Thing Thing” would have gone down terribly well with the fuzz.
Roll the clock forward again to May 2016, the day I bought these retro red trousers and a month before I accosted Boris Johnson while wearing this hat…
…I wrote up those 1978 Record and Tape Exchange memories on Ogblog and corresponded with Paul Deacon over the next couple of days, tidying up and expanding some of the text.
Paul emigrated to Canada some years ago now, where he now pursues his career as a voice-over actor, music archivist and part-time DJ.
As an aside to our e-reminiscing, Paul asked me if Janie and I had listened to his weekly broadcast on The Grand At 101 lately, which is available on-line. I had to admit we hadn’t. The show is on Saturday afternoons in Ontario, therefore Saturday evening in the UK. Janie and I are almost always out on a Saturday evening.
But, as luck would have it, our Saturday evening plans that weekend had, for practical reasons, been switched to Sunday lunch. So I told Paul we’d tune in. A few other old school friends also tuned in that evening and we had some fun with Paul, messaging in obscure requests for shout-outs and spins.
Paul then messaged us to say that John Eltham (yes, he of the historic fives quarter final in 1975) would be joining Paul at the studio “any minute”. I was aware that John Eltham was due to visit Paul, but I hadn’t twigged that the visit was so imminent, let alone that day. Then another message from Paul:
John’s here now! He’s just told me about the Rohan Thing…
Thus we learn that there is more than one Rohan Thing. Indeed, there are many Rohan Things.
And as for my red trousers, you must be wondering whether they worked with my 1960s party get up?
Well…
[Remove hat and jumper to reveal bandanna, party shirt, CND medallion and don the CND whacky specs]
…the red trousers were a groovy happening thing amongst many groovy happening things at that party, man. Peace and love.
Footnote: At the end of the evening, Rohan ceremonially handed out a lengthy thread to all who had performed, to symbolise the thread of story-telling that leads from Chaucer through Shakespeare and Dickens to our evening and evenings beyond.
Ben Clayson captured that moment and has kindly consented to me publishing a Photoshopped version of his photo here – (not that Ben knows it at this actual moment, but if the photo is still here when you look, then he probably has actually consented):
Thanks, Ben – and thanks Rohan for organising it all.
David Wellbrook (standing) loudly performing, Rohan Candappa (seated) quietly reading
Many thanks to David for allowing me to publish his performance piece as a guest piece on Ogblog. The version below is not only a thoroughly enjoyable piece, but it also explains the context to Rohan’s show, which means that I don’t have to write that bit.
Anyway, here is David’s Threadmash piece on clothing:
From my perspective, it all began with a photograph that I had stumbled across whilst clearing out some old stuff a few months ago. It was taken in 1978 at Chris Grant’s sister’s wedding and depicts four young men for whom the word “fashion” was no more than a theoretical concept to be explored by others.
The excellent Rohan Candappa, author of numerous best-selling titles, and now Edinburgh Festival stalwart, decided than an evening of story-telling, with a theme around fashion, would be a good idea, upstairs at a London pub on a wet Tuesday evening in February.
And lo, it was so. There we all were. Nine of us, with stories to tell. Rohan decided that I would go on first. “You’re the Status Quo of our Live Aid extravaganza,” he assured me, giving my left buttock a gentle squeeze.
“Whatever you want,” I replied, “whatever you like.”
And so, with my “just-in-time” reflections, this is what I said: Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen. Hopefully you all have an envelope. (I had handed out a number of envelopes by this point.) Please resist the temptation to open the envelope just yet because my piece is entitled “The Story Behind the Photograph” and indeed within that envelope, almost as if it was planned, is the photograph in question. Now, you may find the photograph amusing in it’s own right, who could blame you, but you will have no context and in this instance, context is important. As the famous Italian philosopher Rigatoni Tortellini, once said, and I believe I’m translating from the original Hebrew, “Contexti esti importanti.”
I might have just made that bit up.
Anyhow, The Story Behind the Photograph:
Rohan has dragged me…invited me along here this evening to talk to you about the thorny subject of fashion and how, in the wrong hands, these hands, it can all go cataclysmically wrong. As you can tell from my underpants, I take fashion very seriously. I always have and I suspect I always will.
But where to begin? Marianne was seven years older than us and by a strange quirk of arithmetic and no one having died, she still is seven years older than us. Marianne is also my mate Chris’s big sister. (It was fortunate that Chris was in attendance as I now had someone to blame). My mate Chris has two big sisters and Marianne is the bigger of the two. Certainly in terms of age. She’s seven years older than us as I think I might have mentioned.
But what has this got to do with fashion you may ask?
(I waited a few moments at this stage and as if by magic, everyone shouted: “BUT WHAT HAS THIS GOT TO DO WITH FASHION?”)
Well, since you’re so kind as to ask, let me explain. Marianne decided to get married. To Alan. I had met Alan several times before and despite originating from north of the Watford gap he seemed like a decent sort of chap. He, Marianne and Chris had managed to get me drunk a year earlier, and at the tender age of fifteen, had dumped me on my parents’ doorstep, had rung the doorbell, and had FUCKED OFF. Not that I bear grudges you understand. With their nuptials fast approaching, I was invited to Marianne and Alan’s wedding (an expression of guilt if ever there was one), along with Chris’s three other friends, Ben, Nigel and Paddy Gray. Chris may very well have more than four friends, but I’ve never met them.
So, and my point is, at sixteen years of age, what to wear to the wedding of someone seven years older than us? I’m obviously looking at this from a singularly personal perspective, and I’m sure Ben, Nigel and even Paddy Gray suffered an equal number of sleepless nights dwelling on the same dilemma.
I didn’t own a suit, other than the suit I wore to school. I didn’t own a dress either, and although I could drag up quite impressively, to wear a dress I didn’t even own at someone else’s wedding, seemed a little self-indulgent. No one wishes to upstage the bride now do they?
So, what to wear? I went through my wardrobe and having come out the other side, concluded that there was very little of interest in there. C.S. Lewis had promised so much and yet had delivered so very little. At this point I would normally insert a scathing joke about Brexit but I fear I would alienate 51.9% of the audience. If I haven’t already.
So, like most 16 year olds vexed by a matter of clothing, I turned to my parents. Unfortunately, they had already left the room, and so I had to wait a good three or four hours before they came back in again.
“What’s up with you?” they said realising that I was still there.
“I’m worrying about Chris’s sister’s wedding on Saturday?” I cried.
“I have simply nothing to wear.”
In all matters costumery, my parents would often defer to Mr. Schindler. Mr. Schindler was a family friend who owned a gentleman’s outfitters. He was a kindly old man as I recall with a beautifully waxed Hercule Poirot moustache, and a lisp. Mr. Schindler bore his speech impediment with a stoicism that was no doubt forged by his own wartime heroics, and, you know, much like his more illustrious namesake, Oskar Schindler, I’ve always hoped that someone, someday would make a film about Schindler’s lisp.
(There was some genuine laughter at this rather contrived gag, but the groans of comedic pain knocked me onto the defensive).
Look, (I said), this is a cracking joke. (I feigned disgust at the lack of appreciation for such a beautifully crafted punchline). In 2009 I did this joke at the Cheltenham Womens’ Institute and, you know, one woman fainted she was laughing so much. This is possibly the funniest joke in the whole piece. Umm…I might have peaked early just so you all know. It may be all downhill from here…
(I cracked on)…
Anyway, not entirely trusting the wise words of Mr. Schindler, I decided to have a ring around. With a phone. We didn’t have texts in 1978. We had Teletext which was altogether something quite different and we had telex which had a similar number of letters and also an ‘x’, but we didn’t have texts. So, the phone it was. I rang Ben.
(Ben, by the way, was sitting in the front row, and could clearly see where all this was going).
“What are you wearing on Saturday?” I asked. It was a sensible question to start with as it was the only reason I was ringing.
Ben ummed and aahed a bit and then said: “Probably my blue leather jacket with Chelsea tie to match.”
I briefly considered Ben in church with nothing on other than a blue leather jacket with Chelsea tie to match and so I very quickly rang Nigel.
“Light brown three piece suit in wool,” he replied to much the same question as I had thrown at Ben. Nigel was probably the sensible one amongst us four, which kind of speaks volumes for the rest of us.
I rang Paddy Gray. “Pad the Lad”, announced that he would be wearing his big brother’s work suit because the wedding was on a Saturday and his big brother didn’t work at the weekend. I wasn’t at all sure what Paddy’s big brother actually did for a living, but prayed he wasn’t a professional clown, a waitress or the rear end of a pantomime horse.
None of this actually got me any further but it wasn’t really until Friday lunchtime that I began to panic. Mr. Schindler had tried to fob me off with a blue pinstripe suit which he assured me would look really good for work if I was ever kicked out of school early. Mr. Schindler clearly new his clientele.
I went through my wardrobe again and much like my previous journey there was no lion or even a witch, but what I did find was a brown and white striped shirt with white collar, a huge velvet brown bowtie, a pair of green synthetic flared trousers and some brown cowboy boots. Put all this together with my fawn coloured print jacket and they’ll still be speaking about me in forty years time, I thought.
I put it all on. It looked horrendous. “Perfect,” I decided. But actually, there was still something missing.
I rang my girlfriend.
“Can I borrow your school boater for tomorrow’s wedding?” I asked.
“Of course you can,” she replied, clearly either very much in love with me, or not worrying one way or the other whether I looked like a complete cock or not.
So, come the big day, there we all were. Chris looked me up and down and shook his head, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. “Have you been experimenting with the old wacky backy?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, “this is all my own work.”
The wedding, by contrast, went off without incident. Ben’s blue leather jacket with matching Chelsea tie escaped unhurt, Nigel’s light brown three piecer survived unharmed, and Paddy Gray’s big brother’s business suit caused no major international terrorist alert.
Not that that could be said for my brown and white striped shirt with white collar, huge velvet brown bowtie, green synthetic flares, cowboy boots and printed jacket. The boater, which I had chosen to wear at a jaunty angle, proved to be something of a hit however and I’m led to believe that many of the guests were heard to comment on my bravery in wearing such an outfit in public.
Now, many of you here this evening, will question the veracity of what I’ve been talking about. Particularly those of you that know me. I have in the past been accused of exaggeration, of hyperbole, of low perbole, and indeed all manner of perbole. But somebody took a photograph that day, and so in those envelopes is evidence, evidence ladies and gentlemen of the jury, of a young man’s desire to shock, to stand out from the crowd, to present himself as a fashion icon for the 70s; a match for such luminaries as Mick Jagger, Bryan Ferry and Arthur Mullard. Feel free to open the envelopes and marvel at the vestmental mayhem.
(Envelopes by this point had begun to open and a mixture a gasps, laughs and general disbelief filled the room).
How I was ever allowed out of the house dressed in such a fashion remains a mystery to me. I suspect social services cannot be alerted retrospectively particularly after forty years and so I’ll need to cope with the emotional fallout in my own way. But all is not lost. As you can see from the photograph, there appears to be a shaft of sunlight cascading down from the heavens illuminating my bowtie, and so I shall have to console myself with the knowledge that at least somebody up there loved me.
Feel free to keep the photo. Use it as a bookmark. A coffee table coaster. Show it to your friends and neighbours and use it as a warning against ignoring the advice of old men with lisps and recreational drug use.
Thank you all very much.
(I made an exaggerated bow and exited stage left, to raucous applause and a general relief that it was all over).
Long ago arranged and long looked forward to, the (ir)regular gathering of old boys from Alleyn’s seemed to be looming as normal (Walrus & Carpenter followed by Rajasthan), when out of the blue we received a missive from our (un)official organizer, John Eltham, with some unexpected changes.
There are 15 people signed up for our festive evening. PLEASE NOTE NEW VENUE – 200 YARDS DIFFERENCE 7.00PM Hung, Drawn & Quartered pub – 26-27 Great Tower Street… 8.00PM Sripur restaurant – 25 Great Tower Street – yes it is next door !
The change would be more than a little discombobulating for some. Let us not forget that Nigel Boatswain, for example, a few years ago, struggled to find a new venue that was described to him as “right in front of the Monument”, because he couldn’t figure out a landmark from which to navigate. Mike Jones, who had been our Geography teacher back in days of yore, must have found his former charge’s geo-spacial shortcomings somewhat chastening.
In fact Mike Jones was one of several people who was listed to attend this 6 December gathering but latterly dropped out. He might have found the name of the pub an affront to his liberal arts background. Not only does the name describe a particularly barbaric medieval form of capital punishment, but a grammatically flawed rendering thereof. In my minds ear, I can hear Mike Jones gently correcting…
…hanged, drawn & quartered, NOT hung. Paintings are/were hung, people unfortunate enough to be executed that way were hanged.
Execution of Hugh Despenser the Younger, …[from] the Froissart of Louis of Gruuthuse (Public Domain picture https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanged,_drawn_and_quartered)
That barbaric punishment was reserved for high treason and was abolished nearly 150 years ago, although the hanging bit stuck around a lot longer and treason only (technically) ceased to be a capital offence 20 or so years ago.
In these troubled times, of course, who knows what legislative changes our so-called leaders might make in the crime and punishment department. Further, many of us who gathered have been known to say publicly things that certain tabloid newspapers might deem to make us “enemies of the people”…which is to say, treasonous.
Personally I have far less to worry about than most of my compadres, as I am a Freeman of the City of London. Thus, if I were to be hanged, I could choose to be dispatched with a silken rope, not the common or garden rubbish rope that my co-conspirators would doubtless suffer. I find that thought incredibly reassuring in the present political climate.
But I digress.
In the end, nine of us gathered and a jolly good gathering it was too, although those who were unable to attend were, of course, sorely missed. In no particular order, the nine were: Ben Clayson, David French, David Wellbrook, John Eltham, Ollie Goodwin, Paul Driscoll, Paul Spence, Rohan Candappa, me.
It was an incredibly mild evening, enabling us to take our pre-dinner libations in the street, although John Eltham did complain about feeling cold at one juncture. But then again, John had removed his coat for some reason.
The Sripur Restaurant was heaving and our group of nine was clearly at least one more than the restaurant was expecting. To be fair, the booking for 14 which had descended to “probably 8-10” in some ways deserved its relegation. We all nine squeezed round a table that would have been comfy for six and just about OK for eight. It didn’t really matter.
The food was pretty good. Perhaps not quite as flavoursome as the Rajasthan (he says based on one main dish and some sides), but similar quality.
The Sripur Nine were all in pretty good form. The bants and reminiscences flew around the table like a metaphorical food fight with poppadom-Frisbees.
Towards the end of the meal, Rohan Candappa solemnly announced that he had a sports trophy to award. he noted that most of the people in our group had been pretty sporty at school; only one or two of us had not. But, as Rohan pointed out, there should be sports awards for exceptional performance even when it comes from someone less naturally sporty than most.
Rohan then passed an engraved trophy around the room for everyone to read, much to the mirth, one by one, of the readers…one by one, that is, to everyone except me. Once John Eltham had the prize in his hands, he was instructed to hand it to me.
9 June 1975 – Fives Quarter Final – Ian Harris beat John Eltham
What a moment in my less-than illustrious sporting career. A trophy. Of course, Rohan was right. I had never personally held a trophy for sport of any kind. That quarter-final win remains the pinnacle of my achievement at an individual sport.
Left to right: John Eltham (just in picture), Rohan Candappa, Paul Driscoll & Ollie Goodwin…with MY trophy centre
I proudly took my trophy back to the flat and have placed it in as suitable a location as I can currently muster – in the drinks cabinet section of my built-in book shelves and cabinets, between two personalised krugs (beer steins).
But I am not expecting my sporting awards (belated and future) to start and end here; why on earth should they?
…and who knows what future glories are to come in the world of real tennis, where I have managed quarter final berths (albeit losing ones) in each of the two years I have been playing internal tournaments at Lord’s. And occasionally representing the club:
So, my dear old school friends, especially the sporty ones, I need your help. I mean, obviously the drinks cabinet will do for the time being as a temporary resting place for my trophy, but clearly I need to have built a bespoke trophy cabinet for my current and potential future collection of sporting trophies. You fellows, accustomed to the world of sporting trophies, surely can advise me on the size and shape of trophy cabinet that will serve me best.
But that is about me and the future – this article is primarily about the splendid gathering of old boys eating, drinking, banting and making merry in the City. As usual the time flew by, until several folks with trains to catch realised that their choices were starting to diminish and that the evening should come to an end.
As usual with this group, we managed to avoid the dreaded bodmin, although some suggested that we should play the game of spoof to saddle one “boy” with the whole bill. We decided against, but I note on reading up on that (unfamiliar to me) game, that some play spoof for prizes and trophies. Perhaps I should get into spoof at a competitive level – I was a dab hand at bridge back in the old school days.
It was a great evening – I’m already looking forward to the next one.
One of the great things about being friends with someone like Rohan Candappa is that you get to see some of his creative pieces while they are works in progress.
…but not so far back that the term “back in the day” didn’t even exist…
…Rohan told me about a short performance piece he was working on, working title “The Last Man Cave”, which was about going to the barber’s. That idea would sound like complete rubbish coming from most people, but coming from Rohan, I guessed that he was onto something eentertaining.
Rohan also asked me to look at a short fragment of a female performance piece he had worked on with the actress Lydia Leonard, which he had given the working title “Pigeons” and had filmed:
I thought there was real merit in that fragment.
Rohan agreed and told me that he had expanded it into a complete but short work, working title: ‘And You Are?’, which he planned to have performed alongside his comedic barber’s piece.
Don’t be put off by the title “Trailer long” in the above trailer – it’s 74 seconds long.
That’s not long.
My hair is long…
…but that’s because I have an aversion to going to the barbers – an aversion formed when I was very small – a story for another time. Rohan’s barbers and bars stories are far more interesting than mine.
Based on the preview I, together with a few other lucky people, saw at the Gladstone Arms in November, One Starts in a Barber’s. One Starts in a Bar. is a really good show. It’s funny, sad and thought-provoking in equal measure.
…another very enjoyable day at Lord’s, this time with Rohan Candappa.
The contrast, in truth, is that Ian is a cricket lover who found the idea of meeting up at Lord’s especially enticing, whereas Rohan isn’t particularly keen on cricket, but we wanted to meet up for lunch that day and there are far worse places for lunch and a chat than a county championship day at Lord’s.
Ahead of the day, I was a bit concerned about Rohan – one of life’s natural comedians and rebels – rising to the challenge of the pavilion dress code. So I sent Rohan a link to the code and left him to it.
I wondered whether his eye might fall on the “national dress” exception to the jacket and tie rule. Rohan could (just about) claim to be Burmese and turn up in a longyi with hnyat-phanat. Mind you, given the sweltering weather, I wouldn’t have minded sporting a longyi with hnyat-phanat myself, and do still have a range of such garments in my collection:
Me and my longyi (wrap)…and hnyat-phanat (flip-flops), Burma, 1998
More worrying, was the thought that Rohan might don “THE” jacket, as opposed to a jacket. When Rohan took his wonderful one-man show, How I Said ‘F*** You’ To The Company When They Tried to Make Me Redundant, to Edinburgh last year, he promoted his show by walking around that elegant city thus:
Technically compliant jacket for the pavilion?
Actually, Rohan turned up in a fine linen number not dissimilar to my own. We must have looked like Our Men In Havana…or, given the extensive Moncada Barracks references in Rohan’s “F*** You” show, Our Men In Santiago de Cuba.
I recalled, while waiting for Rohan, that he had written a rather scathing short piece about gap years and their dilution through ubiquity, in his book University Challenged…
…and wondered what Rohan would make of Ian and Sally’s mature gap year. Then, when Rohan arrived, I clean forgot to raise that point with Rohan. Perhaps Rohan will chime in about that latterly.
Rohan and I are old mates from Alleyn’s School. In the couple of days leading up to our meeting at Lord’s, I trawled the diaries for sporting references to Rohan, but only could find one, relating to fives, previously Ogblogged:
…plus references to my own (previously forgotten) glories playing field hockey that same term, plus my cricketing annus mirabilis (or should I say terminus ludum mirabilis?) the following term, both of which I shall aim to Ogblog very soon.
But I should be honest about me, Rohan and sport. I don’t think either of us will be remembered at Alleyn’s for our sporting prowess. Enthusiasm and willingness to muck in with sport?; possibly. Enjoyment of the competition without taking sport (or indeed most things) too seriously?; I hope so. But prowess?
Whoops – did someone speak out of turn to Rohan Candappa?
Anyway, so there I was, in the Lord’s Long Room, cricket’s holy-of-holies, with Rohan. We watched briefly in there (he’ll need to be able to say that he has done that; watched first class cricket from the Long Room) but soon moved outdoors to backache central – the pavilion benches, on the shady side of the pavilion.
We discussed ancient matters of sporting derring-do (or lack thereof). We agreed that we secretly resented those boys who were not only exceptional at sport but also exceptional at chess/academic stuff and who were also good blokes. I think we agreed that we are almost (but not quite) over that now.
In some ways the next few hours resembled my previous day with Ian T; Rohan and I similarly stuck to water and some cashew nuts ahead of a late lunch in the Long Room Bar. Today’s bap was beef rather than pork (also top notch). I perhaps made the mistake of having a glass of red rather than white today.
…so we rather sped our way through the post-lunch pavilion tour, view from the top deck and then some views from the rest of the ground. I showed Rohan the “front of the Lower Compton” view that I often enjoy for test matches, which shows the pavilion in all its splendour. Rohan commented that his late father would have very much enjoyed such a day at Lord’s.
Rohan’s one man shows are good…very good. This photo from Edinburgh 2017
I sat in the Warner Stand for a few minutes, when a wave of excess heat and fatigue hit me. I rather regretted the glass of red and even considered going home to hide from the hottest part of the day. But instead I steeled myself and returned to the pavilion top deck, seeking a little breeze and the opportunity to see a potentially exciting ending.
I chatted with a couple of regulars up on the top deck. Then, when the final wicket just wouldn’t come, I decided to decamp to the Long Room in the hope of inducing that final wicket and witnessing the end of match ceremony from there…
…well that did sort-of happen, but not before a further 45 or so agonising minutes had passed. I ran into one of my real tennis friends in the Long Room, who was giving an old pal of his, who lives in Dubai, the Lord’s experience for the first time. We discussed, amongst other things, cricket, politics in Pakistan and where the twain meet in the form of Imran Khan.
After witnessing the Middlesex win, we decamped to the real tennis area, where I had left my kit for safe-keeping. The other two stuck around for only 5 minutes, but I watched a rather good set of doubles while the crowds and the rush hour died down, before hailing an Uber and stepping out into the sunshine once again.
While waiting, I saw an elderly gentleman, whom I recognised, keel over while sitting on one of the benches in the shade. A member of catering staff went to his aid immediately and, once I had seen his condition at closer quarters, I told her that I thought it was serious and that we should summon medical help straight away, The staff and stewards sprung into action very rapidly, summoning a para-medic and an ambulance, at which point I thought my presence was superfluous (I am not a first-aider) so I retreated. My cab arrived just moments before the ambulance – very impressive speed from call to arrival – must have been well under 10 minutes.
The gentleman, who did not survive despite the rapid attention, was J T Murray, a great Middlesex wicket-keeper from before my time – his last playing season was, coincidentally, my 1975 annus mirabilis. JT was a regular supporter at Lord’s in the years that I have been going to Middlesex matches. A sad end to my two days at Lord’s in some ways…
…but not in others. A great former sportsman died peacefully, in his 80s, just after witnessing an exciting finish in which his beloved Middlesex team won a fine match against the odds.
The bittersweet irony of that ending won’t be wasted on most readers; it certainly won’t be wasted on Rohan.
“You could have said no”, said Daisy, as I prepared to leave Noddyland ridiculously early on a non-working day, with reference to the 9:00 game of real tennis I had agreed to play as a late substitute, in addition to my 10:00 game. “Two hours of singles on the hottest day of the year is not a very bright idea”.
“I’ll drink plenty of water,” I mumbled.
Two challenging hours they proved to be; one against a newbie whose handicap has clearly not yet settled in its firmament way beyond my level, then my anticipated hour against a familiar adversary with whom I tend to have very close battles. Today was a very tight battle until the last 15-20 minutes which went resoundingly his way. The experience probably did more for my strength and conditioning for tournament play than it did for my confidence.
Soon after that 2017 visit, Ian gave up full time work and disappeared for a gap year with his good lady, Sally. I love the rationale behind the Ian and Sally gap year; such things had barely been invented when we were younger (or rather, they were beyond the means of most), whereas their kids had taken gap years before starting formal work; why shouldn’t Ian and Sally have a gap year when concluding their formal careers?
Anyway, they went to New Zealand, then Japan and then – or should I say, at the time of writing, now – the canals of England. This adventure, which Ian and Sally have almost completed, they are blogging as Living In Hope…
…not to be confused with The Rutles classic, Living In Hope:
So Ian thought he had his work cut out pulling together suitable attire for the pavilion, given that his former life possessions are mostly in crates…
…except that, being Ian, he had kept one business suit and tie accessible for “just in case” – and this was such a case.
More challenging, for me, was the space in the pavilion guest book where the member records the visitor’s address. I have often wondered whether anyone ever pays heed to this box, which is often filled in with only the scantiest details…
…indeed I would question its GDPR compliance these days – organisations are not supposed to record personal details they don’t need…
…anyway, I merely wrote “canal boat” as the address in the book, so I am living in hope that no-one hauls me over the coals for some rule breach or another; not least the rule that says “though shalt not bring persons of no fixed abode into the pavilion as guests”.
Ian had never been in the pavilion before, which surprised me as I know he has quite a few MCC members in his circle. Still, this gave me an opportunity to give him an informal guided tour and witness a cricket lover taking great pleasure in watching cricket from the inner sanctum that is the Lord’s pavilion.
Ian was a little disappointed, though, with Ryan Sidebottom. He was expecting a hairy Yorkshireman who used to play for England, not a tidy-looking Victorian who used to play for Victoria.
Side on, Sidebottom
So, to please Ian and Ryan Sidebottom fans generally, here are two short vids of recently-retired Yorkshireman Ryan Sidebottom’s biggest moment; his hat trick against New Zealand in 2008 – a “language-strewn” hand-held shot of the moment (which I have discovered on YouTube) follows:
The second of these vids is one of the most absurd/extraordinary stop-frame animation films I have ever seen – by Are You A Left-Arm Chinaman? – the Ryan Sidebottom hat-trick starts around 3:30 and is well worth waiting for or sliding the dial towards:
But I digress.
Dewey-eyed I was, as we stood up soon after the umpires called lunch; not with emotion you understand, but two hours of tennis followed by those rump-racking pavilion benches was telling its toll.
Actually we decided to stick around that pavilion spot and continue munching cashews and taking on water, until about twenty minutes after lunch, by which time there is usually room to sit reasonably comfortably in the long room bar and take some proper lunch. Bap of the day was a wonderful pork jobbie with crackling and a sort-of sausage meat stuffing to add to the general porkiness. I had a glass of white while Ian opted for a beer.
After lunch, Ian fancied trying the new Warner Stand, where the seats are far more comfy than the pavilion and the view is still very good. Then, come tea-time, we returned to the pavilion, enabling me to conclude Ian’s guided tour of the pavilion with the upstairs bits, ending up on the top deck, where we enjoyed a cuppa and a breeze to provide slight relief from the heat of the day.
Ian needed to leave an hour or so before stumps, whereas I fancied seeing that last hour of cricket, so we parted company at the pavilion door – I decided to watch the last hour from the comfort of the Warner Stand seats.
It had been really pleasant to catch up with Ian over lunch and cricket; not least because chatting about some of his gap year experiences added an element of colour that no blog (not even Ogblog) can provide.
When I got to the Warner Stand, I spotted Ed Griffiths watching solo and asked him if he minded me joining him. He didn’t. I hadn’t really watched cricket with him before, despite having spent a fair amount of time with him, not least over the London Cricket Trust initiative. While it was very interesting to watch and discuss cricket together, unfortunately Middlesex’s improving position went into reverse while we were watching together, leaving matters seeming very precarious overnight.
The urgency, it seems, was that Rohan had read a super review of this place and thought , “I always read these super reviews and never actually try these places. This time, I really must…”
Yes, Rohan, I was there for you. I just hope that you would be there for me in a similar emergency.
Indeed, Rohan’s stipulations went beyond the location…
we’re having Yum khao tod, Peek gai sai and menage phuket. They’re three small plates from the menu. You can choose the rest.
Actually, when I looked at the menu, all three of those starters were probably the very ones I’d have chosen, so I suggested that we both choose the mains, which was an equally easy task – we both liked the sound of the stuffed squid with mushrooms and the slow-cooked pork belly.
In truth, it was a near miracle that we were able to eat the Peek Gai Yud Sai – stuffed chicken wings.
When I pointed out to Rohan that this Thai restaurant was possibly the only source of Kentucky fried chicken wings in London…
…while he was eating his Peek Gai Yud Sai…
…Rohan couldn’t stop laughing for quite a while.
In truth, the culinary highlights were:
Yum khao tod starter, which was a sort-of sophisticated Thai-style chat;
Moo hong – Phuket-style pork belly.
But of course the highlight, more than chewing the pork belly fat, was chewing the fat conversationally with Rohan. A bit of reminiscing. A bit of swapping notes on the stuff we are writing.
Rohan clearly appreciated the fact that I had responded to his emergency call, as he presented me with a kindly gift – a book named Pop Sonnets – click here.
I’d like to show the image of Pop Sonnets cover, but sadly that image is subject to copyright, so all I can do is encourage you to click the above link and show you the image and vid below:
As we left Supawan, Rohan and I took a look at Keystone Crescent – click here – an extraordinary place – which I took to be late Georgian but is in fact as recent as 1855 – not that much older than my own place.
A fun evening – happy to have been able to help in your time of need, Rohan. Any time…within reason.
When I got word that Rich “The Rock” Davis was to be over from Canada for a short while in mid November, I thought I’d probably miss out on the resultant gathering. I explained to John Eltham that I only had the one available evening throughout the period on offer.
But this was one of those occasions when the timings went fortuitously. Not only could I make the appointed day, but it transpired that Nigel Godfrey would be visiting from New Zealand and that Paul Hamer would be visiting from an even more remote and obscure corner of the Great Dominions; Southampton.
Indeed, also by happy chance, Paul Hamer’s earlier engagement in London was in Paddington, within spitting…well, in truth, walking, distance of my flat.
So Paul and I spent an enjoyable couple of hours late afternoon catching up at the flat; it’s only been 37+ years. Chat was interspersed with the odd business call and a short baroq-ulele recital by yours truly, before we journeyed across London to join the others at the Walrus and Carpenter.
Paul Hamer, top left, a few hours after the baroq-ulele recital, still visibly, profoundly moved by the heavenly harmonies, while those who sadly missed out on the music are smiling in blissful ignorance
It ended up quite a large gathering this time, with a few people I hadn’t seen for decades; in particular Justin Sutton (peering from behind Perry Harley in the above picture), with whom I chatted at some length at The Walrus, plus David Leach, who arrived towards the end of the Walrus session.
A rare sighting of David Leach, third left, on the “water polo quartet” side of the table
I was also graced by a brief audience with Sir Nigel Godfrey at the Walrus and Carpenter. I had always thought that his gong was for services to the beauty pageant industry. I hadn’t realised that he is actually “The Right Reverend Sir Nigel Godfrey”, presumably honoured for clerical services to the New Zealand laity.
Nigel explained how irritating it is for people, like himself, who wish to use multiple titles, that on-line drop down boxes tend to offer only “The Right Reverend” or “Sir” but not “The Right Reverend Sir”. A tad first world, that problem, but I hope I looked suitably doleful and I audibly sympathised.
A characteristically low-key appearance by The Right Reverend Sir Nigel Godfrey, third left in the above photo (half-tucked behind Rohan Candappa) and (in theory) third right in the photo above that, entirely obscured by Leigh Parkes.
Once the Rajasthan eating session was in full sway, Nigel also chimed in with a story about a near-disaster with window-leaning and errant train doors on the journey to school, back in the day, before the health and safety brigade quite ludicrously took such character-forming matters out of the hands of school-children. The resulting conversation about such disasters (real, near and imagined) was in the worst possible taste and those of us who were laughing should be thoroughly ashamed of ourselves. Really.
I shall also delve into my diaries as soon as I get the chance to recover some other memories of train journeys to school (with Justin Sutton, Andrew Levinson and Rupert Jefferies) and also at least one teenage adventure with the Levinson siblings, coincidentally very near the scene of this evening’s “crime” – the old Billingsgate Fish Market (just across the road). For the latter, I have photographs.
Everyone seemed to be in good form and good spirits; as usual the evening flew by. I should also mention Phil (one of John Eltham’s colleagues, top left in the final photo above) who joined us again this time and is excellent company. Also a thank you to John Eltham for organising, as always.
Plus a massive thank you to Perry Harley – it was great fun sitting next to you again this time, Perry – even more fun watching you deploy your accounting skills so diligently and indeed so very many times over, to avoid successfully the dreaded bodmin, ensuring fair play and fair pay.
