It's been drawn to my attention - by Sebastian - that my publicity photograph shows me holding a book upside down. Well, Sebastian, for your information, it's supposed to be upside down. I am a huge fan of the ancient and honourable art of upside down book reading (I'm a green belt, thank you very much). The reading of books up the wrong way is as old as time itself and even gets a mention in the Doomsday Book. As a devotee I attend evening classes on the subject at my local college. The course I am attending at present is called: 'Reading Upside Down.' and includes the following bumph:
Do you like reading books the wrong way up? If the answer to that particular question is yes, then this IS the course for you. We will show you some (one) time-tested technique(s) for reading your books upside down without the need for standing on your head.
* No more aching necks.
* No more unsightly scuff marks half way up the living room door.
* No more having to wear track suit bottoms underneath your dressing gown.
PS. If time permits we'll also be looking at evidence that proves beyond all doubt that Mama Cass-Eliot and Jimi Hendrix both choked to death on the same pork pie crust.
Thursday 16 September 2010
Fab New Picture
Hi all,
as you can see I've uploaded a photograph of myself for those of you who have no idea just how fabulous I look. This picture was taken by my agent. Yes, I have an agent now. He's not a literarary agent, he's a look-a-like agent. In an attempt to shore up my faltering income I've signed up as a famous person look a like. For this picture (I think it's called a publicity shot) I'm supposed to be Sir Winston Churchill, Alf Garnett, Phil Mitchell's dad, a peanut or Michael Stipe after a particularly heavy pie-munching session outside Devon Savouries in Swindon. I'm also down as a Brad Pitt/David Beckham or George Clooney look a like. The last three were my suggestion but Sebastian, my agent, didn't seem to think I'd get much work if I just included Pitt/Becks/Cloon on my CV. Tosser.
as you can see I've uploaded a photograph of myself for those of you who have no idea just how fabulous I look. This picture was taken by my agent. Yes, I have an agent now. He's not a literarary agent, he's a look-a-like agent. In an attempt to shore up my faltering income I've signed up as a famous person look a like. For this picture (I think it's called a publicity shot) I'm supposed to be Sir Winston Churchill, Alf Garnett, Phil Mitchell's dad, a peanut or Michael Stipe after a particularly heavy pie-munching session outside Devon Savouries in Swindon. I'm also down as a Brad Pitt/David Beckham or George Clooney look a like. The last three were my suggestion but Sebastian, my agent, didn't seem to think I'd get much work if I just included Pitt/Becks/Cloon on my CV. Tosser.
Monday 6 September 2010
THE BLACK VELVET BAND
Ah! Ha! Just when you thought you could sneakily delete your name from the blog list without anyone knowing it, I turn up again, all eyeballs and where are they and what are they doing.
I've no excuse for not posting anything sooner but I think you should all be thankful for that. The truth is I've been very busy enjoying the summer holidays: writing, restoring furniture and holidaying in Broadstairs. But now I'm back and raring to go. During my visit to Broadstairs I paid a visit to the council house where I was born, a half hour bus ride east of the more glamorous Margate. I didn't go in or anything, I've no idea who lives there now, but it didn't look that much different from how it did when I was a boy. So, I sat for a short while on the bus stop bench opposite and before I knew it one memory after another came to me. The following story (or memoir) is a result of my visit.
NB. I think I should quickly add that the following story is a combination of fact and fiction or, 'friction' as I've just christened it. Christ but I'm clever. Friction! Who'd have ever thunk it?!
I'd also like to add that each and every individual in the story was and still is much loved by me.
THE BLACK VELVET BAND
1966
One of my happiest memories is of Sunday nights sitting in front of our second hand black and white TV with my brothers, sisters and parents. Around half past seven with 'Sunday Night at the London Palladium' about to start, Mum would get comfy on the floor in front of Dad's armchair and, for the next half hour he would brush her hair. I don't know why, but I liked seeing them there together like that, perhaps it was because it made me feel safe in some way. The sound the bristles of the hairbrush made as my Dad’s calloused hands pulled it through my Mum’s shoulder length hair is a sound that has stayed with me ever since.
After a while Dad would put down the brush and Mum would tie her hair back with a thin piece of black ribbon, remaining where she was until it was time to herd us kids up to bed.
1973
The sexual revolution roled into Westgate about ten years after it had started some seventy miles up the road in London. Soon after it arrived Mum ran away with a little fat Italian called Mafia Lou.
For Dad it was a blow to his pride as much as anything else and being the type of man he was he withdrew into himself. Despite my occasional attempts to talk to him about it Dad never spoke to me about Mum's departure except to say that from now on I’d need to clean up after myself. Dad and I rolled along together okay but it was fairly obvious to me that he wasn't over Mum yet.
Then one bitterly cold November evening there was a knock at the front door. Dad was in the kitchen so I answered it expecting to find one of my mates out on the step. Instead I was confronted by five wild-eyed men wearing Donkey jackets, gruby jeans and steel toe-capped boots.
‘It’s the Ganger Man we’re after looking for, son,’ the smallest of the five men said winking a twinkling blue eye at me. ‘Is he inside?’
Before I had a chance to reply the five of them pushed past me, filling the tiny hallway with the smell of tarmac, rolling tobacco and Guinness.
Now, it wasn’t a regular occurrence for my Dad to get into grief but, on the other hand, it wasn’t unheard of either. And so my immediate thought was: are these five paddies here to beat the bollocks out of my Dad? Although I knew my Dad could handle himself: I’d once watched as he battered two men unconscious for spoiling a works outing: I was pretty sure even he couldn't manage five men.
Fortunately for Dad, and me, the paddies hadn’t arrived at the house intent on caving his head in. In fact, the opposite was true. As we were both ushered out of the front door, Dad told me that these five men were the O’Dowd Boys. I’d heard him talk about them before. They were members of Dad's road gang and had come over from County Kerry in Ireland in search of work some months before.
Stepping out into the cold night I was hauled into the back of a waiting lorry by three of the brothers while Dad, as guest of honour, sat up front with the other two. As we drove off towards Margate I was told to sit on what remained of that day’s tarmac. 'It'll keep your arse warm,' Mickey O’Dowd assured me.
Ten minutes later we arrived at The Benjamin Beale, a spit and sawdust pub situated on Margate seafront directly opposite the pier. Inside, the pub was full to bursting with hard-faced men and their equally tough looking women: the booming sound of working class people having fun filled the air.
At the bar the O'Dowd's ordered beers and I was told to make myself inconspicuous. As a reward I was passed half a brown ale and a packet of Woodbine cigarettes.
I watched, from the safety of my corner, as the five Irishmen brought my Dad out if himself. Despite their rough exteriors it was clear that the O'Dowd Boys not only understood what my Dad was going through but also cared enough about him to want to make him feel better again. They did that in the only way they knew how, by filling him with beer and surrounding him with the people he felt most comfortable with.
It was around half past ten when we moved positions in the pub and my Dad’s rough hand guided me through the sea of drunken bodies over to an area in the pub where the O’Dowds had congregated. One of the brothers produced a banjo and began to play. As a teenage boy growing up in the seventies I was used to Slade, The Sweet and David Bowie, I had never heard anything like the O'Dowd Boys. They sang with such passion and harmony and about such wonderful things that I fell in love with Irish folk music that night, so that now, whenever I hear: The Irish Rover, Whiskey in the Jar and Sweet Molly Malone, I always think of my Dad and his five Irish mates.
Just as we were about to go home I saw my Dad asking Mickey O'Dowd if he'd persuade his brothers to sing one more song. A short while later they sang the song that will forever remind me of my Mum and Dad and the times when I would watch them in the front room as he brushed her hair. Although the song is a sad one my Dad seemed to pick up after that night out and eventually he found happiness again.
Click on the link to hear the song the O’Dowd Boys sang. (And no laughing at the beards!)
I've no excuse for not posting anything sooner but I think you should all be thankful for that. The truth is I've been very busy enjoying the summer holidays: writing, restoring furniture and holidaying in Broadstairs. But now I'm back and raring to go. During my visit to Broadstairs I paid a visit to the council house where I was born, a half hour bus ride east of the more glamorous Margate. I didn't go in or anything, I've no idea who lives there now, but it didn't look that much different from how it did when I was a boy. So, I sat for a short while on the bus stop bench opposite and before I knew it one memory after another came to me. The following story (or memoir) is a result of my visit.
NB. I think I should quickly add that the following story is a combination of fact and fiction or, 'friction' as I've just christened it. Christ but I'm clever. Friction! Who'd have ever thunk it?!
I'd also like to add that each and every individual in the story was and still is much loved by me.
THE BLACK VELVET BAND
1966
One of my happiest memories is of Sunday nights sitting in front of our second hand black and white TV with my brothers, sisters and parents. Around half past seven with 'Sunday Night at the London Palladium' about to start, Mum would get comfy on the floor in front of Dad's armchair and, for the next half hour he would brush her hair. I don't know why, but I liked seeing them there together like that, perhaps it was because it made me feel safe in some way. The sound the bristles of the hairbrush made as my Dad’s calloused hands pulled it through my Mum’s shoulder length hair is a sound that has stayed with me ever since.
After a while Dad would put down the brush and Mum would tie her hair back with a thin piece of black ribbon, remaining where she was until it was time to herd us kids up to bed.
1973
The sexual revolution roled into Westgate about ten years after it had started some seventy miles up the road in London. Soon after it arrived Mum ran away with a little fat Italian called Mafia Lou.
For Dad it was a blow to his pride as much as anything else and being the type of man he was he withdrew into himself. Despite my occasional attempts to talk to him about it Dad never spoke to me about Mum's departure except to say that from now on I’d need to clean up after myself. Dad and I rolled along together okay but it was fairly obvious to me that he wasn't over Mum yet.
Then one bitterly cold November evening there was a knock at the front door. Dad was in the kitchen so I answered it expecting to find one of my mates out on the step. Instead I was confronted by five wild-eyed men wearing Donkey jackets, gruby jeans and steel toe-capped boots.
‘It’s the Ganger Man we’re after looking for, son,’ the smallest of the five men said winking a twinkling blue eye at me. ‘Is he inside?’
Before I had a chance to reply the five of them pushed past me, filling the tiny hallway with the smell of tarmac, rolling tobacco and Guinness.
Now, it wasn’t a regular occurrence for my Dad to get into grief but, on the other hand, it wasn’t unheard of either. And so my immediate thought was: are these five paddies here to beat the bollocks out of my Dad? Although I knew my Dad could handle himself: I’d once watched as he battered two men unconscious for spoiling a works outing: I was pretty sure even he couldn't manage five men.
Fortunately for Dad, and me, the paddies hadn’t arrived at the house intent on caving his head in. In fact, the opposite was true. As we were both ushered out of the front door, Dad told me that these five men were the O’Dowd Boys. I’d heard him talk about them before. They were members of Dad's road gang and had come over from County Kerry in Ireland in search of work some months before.
Stepping out into the cold night I was hauled into the back of a waiting lorry by three of the brothers while Dad, as guest of honour, sat up front with the other two. As we drove off towards Margate I was told to sit on what remained of that day’s tarmac. 'It'll keep your arse warm,' Mickey O’Dowd assured me.
Ten minutes later we arrived at The Benjamin Beale, a spit and sawdust pub situated on Margate seafront directly opposite the pier. Inside, the pub was full to bursting with hard-faced men and their equally tough looking women: the booming sound of working class people having fun filled the air.
At the bar the O'Dowd's ordered beers and I was told to make myself inconspicuous. As a reward I was passed half a brown ale and a packet of Woodbine cigarettes.
I watched, from the safety of my corner, as the five Irishmen brought my Dad out if himself. Despite their rough exteriors it was clear that the O'Dowd Boys not only understood what my Dad was going through but also cared enough about him to want to make him feel better again. They did that in the only way they knew how, by filling him with beer and surrounding him with the people he felt most comfortable with.
It was around half past ten when we moved positions in the pub and my Dad’s rough hand guided me through the sea of drunken bodies over to an area in the pub where the O’Dowds had congregated. One of the brothers produced a banjo and began to play. As a teenage boy growing up in the seventies I was used to Slade, The Sweet and David Bowie, I had never heard anything like the O'Dowd Boys. They sang with such passion and harmony and about such wonderful things that I fell in love with Irish folk music that night, so that now, whenever I hear: The Irish Rover, Whiskey in the Jar and Sweet Molly Malone, I always think of my Dad and his five Irish mates.
Just as we were about to go home I saw my Dad asking Mickey O'Dowd if he'd persuade his brothers to sing one more song. A short while later they sang the song that will forever remind me of my Mum and Dad and the times when I would watch them in the front room as he brushed her hair. Although the song is a sad one my Dad seemed to pick up after that night out and eventually he found happiness again.
Click on the link to hear the song the O’Dowd Boys sang. (And no laughing at the beards!)
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