Tom McGuinness – derrickjknight

The Manfreds At The Regent

Last night’s concert by The Manfreds at Christchurch’s refurbished Regent Theatre was a wonderful event.

Becky had left a letter for my old friend Tom McGuinness, one of the two original members of Manfred Mann, the other being Paul Jones, both men defying their eighty years. My daughter had informed Tom that I would be in the audience. Taking a break from marketing their albums at the interval, Tom joined us briefly in the foyer before returning to the stage for the second half.

The audience consisted largely of the generations for whom the classic songs were all familiar, and, as such, it wasn’t too difficult for Paul, who worked us brilliantly to have the choruses ringing away by the end of the evening.

I was permitted to take photographs, but not to use flash. Consequently a great deal of culling of my images was necessary. Here are

the most salvageable. Individual performers are titled in the gallery.

Later, I posted https://derrickjknight.com/2022/03/27/a-knights-tale-117-1-a-friendship/

This evening we dined at Lal Quilla in honour of Mothers Day.

With Becky and Jackie is Florence, here photographed by Ian.

For once I was not behind the camera.

A Knight’s Tale (117.1: A Friendship)

Firm friends at St. Mary’s, Russell Road primary school, Tom McGuinness and I went up to Wimbledon College together and gradually drifted apart because our adolescent interests were so different.

We spent many happy hours in each other’s homes, often swapping gruesome American horror comics. We made forbidden trips such as once when, still in primary school we got lost on Wimbledon Common. We couldn’t find our way home, and I did not return until 9 p.m., by which time my parents had involved the police in a search. Had we had a dog then my dinner would have been in it. I was sent straight to bed without a meal, but fortunately Mum relented and brought me a delicious tray of home-cooked food. Somehow that beats breakfast in bed.

We swam in the public swimming baths in Latimer Road. In many ways we were inseparable.

On my 69th birthday 1n 2011 a small party gathered for a meal at the home of Andy and Keith at Saint Aubin de Cadaleche, not far from Sigoules. We had a spontaneous U tube game. Each, in turn would choose a song or piece of music. Keith would then bring it up on U tube and we would all listen or sing along. One of my selections was a Manfred Mann number. Up it came, and there he was, Tom in all his ’60s black and white glory, complete with Hank Marvin specs. This reminded me of my discovery that my old friend, so soon after leaving school, had become a pop star. Turning on the television one day in 1964, that very same number was playing. Tom was a member of the group. His own website and that of The Blues Band or The Manfreds can tell you far more about him than I can. I will confine myself to my own memories.

It was thirty years before we were, thanks to Jessica, to meet again. He was then playing in The Blues Band. This was a group got together by Paul Jones for a one-off blues gig. Several decades on, they are still going strong. On stage Paul and Tom continue to defy their years. This group made an annual trip to the Newark Palace Theatre. Jessica got in touch with their agent, told him I lived in Newark, and Tom came up early and spent the day with us, providing tickets for the show. As Paul thought Tom rather skittish during the performance, he told the audience that they would have to excuse him because he had just met up with an old friend after many years. On another occasion, reminiscing on stage about his time at Wimbledon College, looking straight up at me in Malcolm Anderton’s box, Tom said: ‘Where else can you get an A level in guilt?’.

A talented guitarist, lyricist, and composer, Tom is also the author of a book, still regarded as essential reading for would-be popular musicians, entitled: ‘So You Want To Be A Rock & Roll Star’, a copy of which he gave me.

Elizabeth gave me another for Christmas 2021.

On 26th March 2022 Tom and I were to meet again when he performed with The Manfreds at Christchurch’s Regent Theatre.

A Knight’s Tale (36: Some Schoolmasters)

A most inspirational teacher, Mr. Millward dedicated his life to teaching history at Wimbledon College. He was one of those pupils who never really left the school, returning after university to take up his life’s work. Learning about the Tudors and Stuarts we would eagerly await ‘Sid’ striding into the classroom with a rolled up chart under his arm. This would be hung on the wall to illustrate the day’s lesson.

These were beautifully produced maps and diagrams which brought the subject alive. He had made each and every one. He was, like me, a cricket fanatic. I still have the history of cricket he inspired me to write and illustrate as a homework exercise. His nickname, ‘Sid’, was taken from a lesser known bandleader who once performed at Wimbledon Theatre. ‘No-one forgets a good teacher’ was once an advertising slogan for recruitment into his profession. It was so true.

This was his form photograph of about 1956. I am on our left of the middle row.

Quite different was ‘Moses’, whose remit was European History, so named because he was an ancient priest. His teaching aid was a small dog-eared, equally antique, exercise book from which, seated in his pulpit, never taking his eyes off the page, he would churn out notes he must have made much earlier, as if he were reciting an oft-repeated sermon. For some reason Moses always picked on me. Until one miraculous Monday morning. He didn’t actually know my name. He had decided to climb down from his perch and wander round the classroom. Passing my desk and glancing at my exercise book, reading the name, he asked: “Knight? Are you the famous bowler?”. “That’ll be my brother Chris”, I replied. “But didn’t you get eight wickets on Saturday?”, he continued. Well, I had. (I also got seven on the Sunday, but as that was in a club match I thought it best not to mention it). From then on the sun shone out of my backside.

Another priest who also used me as a butt was Fr. Bermingham. He did it so often that one of the boys ran a book on how many times this would happen in any particular lesson. Quite a bit of pocket money changed hands. Now, as I sat in the same place for both periods, in the centre of the front row because I was just beginning to realise I should have my eyes tested, I thought it might be politic to move. I therefore took up residence right at the back, to the left of his area of vision. As if on cue, quite early on in the proceedings, he opened his mouth to speak, looked in what he thought was my direction, closed his mouth, and scanned the rows of grinning boys. Eventually lighting on my similarly smiling face, he said: “Ah, there you are Knight, like a great moon over the horizon”. At least he knew my name. However, he had just given me another one. For the rest of my schooldays I was known as ‘Moon’.

Please don’t get the impression I was a victim. Most of the masters, like Bryan Snalune, actually liked me. In fact, Frs. Moses and Bermingham probably did as well. Their observations were generally meant to be humorous.

On the viewer’s far right nearest the volleyball net, Bryan Snalune crouches, ready to spring into action. I think I am at the back of this court in jumper and tie. I’m amazed that so many in the picture wore ties. Bryan introduced the sport to the school, and brought in Canadian Air Force players to teach us the game. He arranged a few fixtures for us. I have no idea how we fared.

This gentle giant, not much older than us, had that magic quality that demands respect whilst conveying equality as a human being. He was a lot of fun without losing his authority. I see his toothy smile and shock of fairish hair now. His subject was French, through which he guided me to A Level GCSE.

The smile mentioned above is probably indirectly responsible for my being awarded a punishment of two strokes of the ferula. The ferula was the Jesuit version of the cane.

A small, flat, slipper-like object consisting of leather with whalebone inside it, this was wielded by a punishment master not connected with whatever offence of which you had been guilty. ‘Two’ – one on each hand – was what was dished out to the little boys. If you were a recidivist and rather older you could progress to ‘Twice Nine’. But you wouldn’t want to.

Bryan Snalune was a keen amateur actor. During my group’s last weeks at school he performed in a play where his character was called Goofy. Clearly the casting director had also noticed the teeth. I cannot remember why, but I was not present at the performance, yet my classmates came back with this priceless information for a budding cartoonist. It felt natural to draw Walt Disney’s Goofy on the blackboard just before the French lesson.

Unfortunately our friendly teacher was not the next one to enter the room. Instead, Fr Strachan, S.J., the deputy headmaster found some reason to make a brief visit. Glancing at the familiar character depicted on the board, he demanded: “Who did that, Knight?”. Maybe he recognised my style. Although a decent enough man, Fr Strachan was not known for his sense of humour. On that day he displayed a rather quirky one. “Get two”. He proclaimed.

I don’t remember the name of the executioner, but I can see him now, a little round chap in holy orders whose beady eyes glinted behind his spectacle lenses. He was a little surprised at his prescribed task when I knocked on his door and extended my arms. My outstretched palms were at a level which put my fingers in danger of picking his nose. He, and I, were both even more surprised when, at each stroke, a wailing chorus set up an anguished howl in the corridor outside. Although my hands stung rather more than somewhat, I was able to open the door to encounter the whole of my class doubled up with laughter.

The year before this, when Tommy reigned in the cinemas, Bryan had managed the second XI cricket team of which he had appointed me captain. How Moses came to know my name is recounted above. It was for this team that the performance that brought me into his recognition was played. Bryan Snalune was the umpire. When five wickets had fallen, all to me for not many runs, “Take yourself off now”, he suggested sotto voce. He was the boss, so I did. Mind you, I doubt that his intervention as a supposedly neutral officiator was legitimate. When only two more had gone down and the game was, I thought, in need of my more direct involvement, I came back on and polished off the last three. Could that have been the day I would have taken all ten? I guess we’ll never know.

It was just before my fourteenth birthday that I had been introduced to playing cricket. Iain Taylor, the captain of the Under Fourteens team, and a friend of mine, asked the headmaster, who rejoiced in the wonderfully appropriate name of Father Ignatius St Lawrence, S.J., to give me a trial for the team. I had never played before, but Iain got me to bowl a few balls in the nets and seems to have been impressed. With ‘Iggy’, as the head was predictably known to the boys, standing as umpire I was instructed to send my nervously delivered missives down to the team’s best batsman. I bowled him four times before Iggy had seen enough. One of these dismissals was with a deliberate slower ball that turned sharply from the off – that is opposite the right-handed batsman’s legs – side of the pitch and hit the middle stump. The deviation was probably caused by the ball striking an extraneous object when it landed. Turning to me at the end of my spell, Iggy asked: “Did you mean the off-break?”. “Yes, father”, was my coolly delivered reply. All priests were of course our fathers. I was in. Later, out of earshot of anyone else, I asked Iain: “What’s an off break?”. In the picture above “Where’s Derrick?” (6).

As will be surmised from my interview with Fr Wetz mentioned previously, I also first played rugby at Wimbledon College.

The school playing fields were in Coombe Lane, Raynes Park. We always walked there from the school in Edge Hill to play rugby and cricket. It was here that my friend Tom McGuinness scored what I believe to be his only try. Tom’s eyesight was so bad that he could never see what was going on. One afternoon he found the rugby ball in his hands. ‘What shall I do?’, he asked me. ‘Run for the line’, I replied. ‘Where is it?’ enquired Tom. ‘That way’, I indicated. Tom sped for the line, fell over, and touched down. No-one saw him. The fact that we were playing in dense fog had levelled this particular playing field.

Our route to the sports fields took us through Cottenham Park where I once went scrumping on the way to rugby. Remembering throwing sticks into conker trees when younger, I had ingeniously decided to chuck my boots into an apple tree intending to knock off some fruit. Unfortunately it didn’t occur to me to untie the laces that bound them together.

Soon they were suspended like the socks that reminded me of this story when walking along the Wandle Trail almost 60 years later. More ingenuity was required to get them down. This involved the park keeper who was a bit put out. It made me late for the match. I couldn’t even invent a story which would present me in a better light. The news had been spread all round the changing rooms. Bill Edney, Geography master and rugby coach, was also a bit put out.

P.S. Keith Prince, two years behind me at Wimbledon College, has recently delighted me with e-mails offering some of his own memories of our teachers, and has agreed that I should add these to this post.

4th May 2024:

I agree with you about Sid Milward. Probably the most inspirational teacher I ever had. He installed an interest in history which is still with me today. Sid Milward and the Nitwits were the famous comic jazz group he was named after, but our Sid was no nitwit! He went on to write numerous history books.

I joined Figures 1 in September 1956. Our form teacher was Mr. Banyard, a trainee priest. “Bertie”, as he was known, later became famous as a poet, teacher and chaplain at St Aloysius College in Scotland. He was a very quiet, pleasant man who taught us Latin and English. He also had a sense of humour. It was Bertie who gave some of us our nicknames, including me. Buckley became “Buckles”, Terry Lee became “Tea Leaf”, O’Donnell became “Dogsbody”, Green became “Professor”, my best mate Mick Emmett became “Emo” and I inherited the title of “Bumble.” Like previous Bumbles, I was very short and fairly plump in those days. Bumbles were often victims of bullying, as was I at first. But I came from a rough neighbourhood and I could handle myself. One guy, Hogan, made the mistake of putting his arm around my neck to dunk me in a sink of water. My arm came over his shoulder and put him in an arm lock. It wasn’t me who got dunked that day! We became good friends after that and the bullies got bored and found someone else to victimise. That was a flame haired Irish boy called O’Reilly. Poor guy lost his temper and hollered very loudly which made them do it all the more.

I can still remember the entire roll call for our class. See if any of these names ring a bell with you. Aldridge, Bond, Boyle, Breck, Buckley, Burr, Church, DuBoulay, Earl, Emmett, Furlong, Gallagher, Green, Hogan, Johnson, Kitts, Lee, Livingstone, Loader, Mould, Newton, Nicholls, O’Donnell, O’Leary, O’Reilly, Prichard, Prince, Rickard, Sammons, Turner, Wadia, Warner, Whelan, Williams. Wow! 34 of us!

I remember Moses with a smile on my face. I only knew him by reputation but I think every pupil in the school could imitate his low, nasal, monotone voice. My first interaction with him was when I was about 12, in Ruds 1. He caught me in the playground with my hands in my pockets. “What’s your name, boy?” – “Prince, Father.” – Why are your hands in your pockets?” – “Because it’s cold, Father” – “Well write 100 lines saying I must not put my hands in my pockets!” Well, I was unlikely to be in any of his classes, and he was a dodgery old codger, and would never remember, so I didn’t bother doing his lines. Four years later, I was doing ‘A’ level history in Poetry Arts and he was our teacher. He got us to read aloud from a text book and when it came to my turn, he told me to stop. “What is your name?” he asked. “Prince” Father I replied. “Didn’t I order you to write 100 lines some time ago?” he continued. “Yes Father” I admitted. “But you didn’t do them, did you,” – “No, Father” I confirmed. “Well you had better take six ferulas instead.” I was amazed! There was nothing wrong with his memory!

Anyway, I duly reported to the punishment master who, on that day, was Father Leblique. Now he was the last executioner you wanted to get your punishment from. His whacks were as fast as lightening and worse than all the others. You had to give your name, number of whacks, the ‘crime’ and who ordered them. I complied with all this, including the full history of events, but mistakenly gave Father Moses as the judge and jury. “Sorry! Father Healey!” I immediately corrected myself, and I couldn’t help noticing a slight smile on Father Leblique’s face. I proffered my hands and he gave me three of the lightest taps on each hand. As I left the room, a hearty giggle emanated from the executioner’s room!

I also have some humorous tales to tell about ”Jack” (Father Strachan), “Batts” (Father Battersby), Father Mercer (a similar age to Moses) “Brum” (Father Bermingham), “Colonel” Naughton and others, if you would like to hear them.

Regards,

Keith Prince.

and

Before I continue, I forgot one name on our class roll call. Must be the onset of dementia (LOL!) His name was Burton. Of course, we all knew each other mainly by our surnames. The only exception to this was boys I came to regard as my friends, ie: Roger Burr, Mick Emmett, Peter Kitts, Terry Lee, Ken Turner and Tony Warner.

But I digress. I moved into Ruds 1 which had Father Battersby as our form master. Bats, as he was better known, also taught us Maths. He was regarded as a strict disciplinarian although I never had cause to fear him myself. Maybe this was because I was quite proficient in Maths. But he did have one queer trait. It was the number 9! He insisted that it should be written with a curly tail like an upside down 6. If you wrote it with a straight line like a reversed P, he would refuse to mark your work.

Bats also ran the boxing club which I joined but was certainly not proficient at. To be honest, I was better at ducking and diving that throwing punches. I only joined it because my best friend, Mick Emmett did. He was a brilliant lightweight boxer and fought very successfully for the school team. Here is a photo of the boxing club taken in 1957/58. I guess you could be in it somewhere? I am in the middle of the three boys on the right of the photo, looking miserable, like I don’t belong there. My best friend Mick Emmett is on my right, proudly displaying his maroon stripe signifying he had boxed for the school. On my left, looking just as miserable as me was Whelan, the only boy I actually boxed in an inter house match. I believe it was judged a draw. One boy on our class, Johnson was a mild pussycat. But he had an elder brother about 4 years older than us who was the club captain. Wow! He was lethal. I saw him knock out at least two guys in inter school matches with a single punch.

And on to Lower Grammar. The classroom was in the old building above the classrooms of Figures and Rudiments. As you entered the quadrangle, it was immediately on your left. Our form master was Father Bermingham or Brummie as he was always known. He also taught us English and English Lit. He would stroll into class and demand in a loud voice “Get out your Balls!” We would immediately open our desks and retrieve our English text book written by an author called Ball. I can’t remember too much about that year. Obviously nothing of much import occurred.

Brummie was a keen cyclist, as was I, and I would often chance upon him in Richmond Park in the holidays with a cheery “Afternoon, Father.” My heathen friends could never understand why I called him Father.

And so to Grammar 1 where Father Mercer was our form master. He was of a similar age to Moses with a shock of white hair. I don’t recall what his subject was but I do remember some of his daft lectures. He informed us that according to the statistics of averages, by the time we were 60, three or four of us would be dead, two of us would be in prison, another two would take holy orders and one of us would become famous for some reason. I can’t remember what he predicted for the other 20 odd of us, but fortunately, I seem to have avoided all his prophesies – although I was stupid enough to raise my hand when a visiting non Jesuit priest gave us a lecture about the priesthood and asked if any of us would be interested. Maybe more about that another time. Father Mercer also told us that if we had a sore or wound which wouldn’t clear up, it would be the dreaded cancer.

But he wasn’t all doom and gloom. The best thing about Father Mercer is that he instigated a kind of football pool. You could choose as many teams as you liked at a cost of 3d each. If their total goals scored on a Saturday was 11, you won or shared the pool. I always chose four teams for a bob and always included my home team Brentford FC and also Burnley FC who were doing rather well at the time. This was the 1959/60 season and Burnley won the league that year. I think I did rather well out of Father Mercer’s Football Pool and I’ve had a soft spot for Burnley ever since.

Further PS from Keith Prince:

You described Father ‘Jack’ Strachan as a humourless man. He did seem to project a drab, sombre aura. But I discovered a more kindly and considerate side of him. You see, I got stabbed twice in ten days!

No, don’t panic. They were both accidents – well kind of. I would have been 15 or 16 in Syntax at the time. The first was by a boy aptly named Savage. His intention was to prick me in my back with his penknife which had a half inch blade. But the blade was very sharp and just missed my spine. I soon discovered a lot of blood oozing out of my back. For some reason, I couldn’t stand up straight for a while and a couple of the guys took me to see Father Strachan. I can’t remember why. Maybe he was just the most authorative priest on duty. Anyway, Jack took me in his car to the nearest A&E – probably Kingston or St Helier. Luckily, no stitches were necessary so he drove me to the nearest bus stop to get me home. I believe Savage was expelled soon after. Not just for the stabbing. He had apparently accrued a large file of misadventures. He once announced that he had three ambitions in life: to rob a bank, murder a man and rape a woman. Such a nice character!

Just ten days later, I was playing football in the playground when a boy named Smith and I jumped to head the ball. We clashed and a kitchen knife he had in his inside breast pocket went into my back causing a six inch wound. It could just as easily have gone into his chest. This time there was a lot more blood so Smith himself escorted me to Father Strachan and confessed it was his knife. I can’t remember what his explanation was for having the knife but I know he wasn’t expelled. Jack disposed of my blood soaked shirt, saying it was something my parents shouldn’t see, and drove me to A&E again where I was stitched up. The several stitches were far more painful than the stabbing itself, which felt just like a soft punch. He then drove me all the way home to Ham, wearing my rugby shirt, and explained what had happened to my parents. Through it all, he showed a lot of concern and compassion.

A Knight’s Tale (34: Wimbledon College)

Firm friends at St. Mary’s, Russell Road primary school, Tom McGuinness and I went up to Wimbledon College together where we gradually drifted apart because we were in different forms and our interests were so different. We spent many happy hours in each other’s homes, often swapping gruesome American horror comics. We made forbidden trips such as the one described mentioned above. We swam in the public swimming baths in Latimer Road, Wimbledon. In many ways we were inseparable.

When I turned on the television one day in 1964, Manfred Mann was playing. Tom was a member of the group. His own website and that of The Blues Band can tell you far more about him than I can. I will confine myself to my own memories.

It was thirty years before we were, thanks to Jessica, to meet again. He was then playing in The Blues Band. This was a group got together by Paul Jones for a one-off blues gig. They are still going strong in the 2020s. On stage Paul and Tom look as youthful as they ever did. This group made an annual trip to the Newark Palace Theatre. Jessica got in touch with their agent, told him I lived in Newark, and Tom came up early and spent the day with us, providing tickets for the show. As Paul thought Tom rather skittish during the performance, he told the audience that they would have to excuse him because he had just met up with an old friend after many years. On another occasion, reminiscing on stage about his time at Wimbledon College, looking straight up at me in Malcolm Anderton’s box, Tom cried: ‘Where else can you get an A level in guilt?’.

Two postcards from the collection of my late brother, Chris, contain images illustrative of the history of my old seat of learning.

The school which I and my two brothers had, between us, attended from 1953 to 1978 stands on a site where in 1860 John Brackenbury had purchased two large meadows below the Ridgway known as Tree and Boggy Fields. Brackenbury had helped to run Nelson House School, in Eagle House, Wimbledon High Street. His success there was such that in 1859 he took out a mortgage on the land below the Ridgway and founded the Anglican Preparatory Military Academy in 1860, also known as Brackenbury’s. The grounds of this college were so attractive that the school was opened to the public once a week.

In 1892 the buildings of the Anglican Preparatory Military Academy were purchased by the Jesuits and reopened as Wimbledon College which had existed on other sites earlier that year.

One of Chris’s postcards is of the very first pupils’ school photograph of 1893. Note the heavy leather rugby ball, similar to which we still used in the 1950s and beyond.

The other is of the splendid Victorian building I knew.

The grounds seen in this photograph are just part of the sublime setting in which I was fortunate enough to spend my grammar school years. During the summer holidays in 1977 the main college hall burned down. It is not clear what caused the fire, but the kitchens were located in the basement of the hall and it was supposed that the fire started there. Many a time I sat at the refectory tables in that hall, lobbing bits of food at other unruly juvenile diners under the eyes of the Catholic martyrs of the reformation, Saints Thomas More and John Fisher. Patrick Reid, the famous Old Boy who escaped from Colditz Castle in World War II, also looked down on us.

Extensive renovation and new building has since been undertaken.

The college in my time was geared towards an Oxbridge further education. This meant a concentration on the classics with subjects like geography and biology being rather neglected second-rate subjects.

Vaughan, whose first name escapes me, was my partner in my first year at the College. Partner was a definite euphemism for what I now consider to have been a rather cruel incentive scheme. Boys were sat in pairs throughout the year. At the end of each term our marks for work were totted up and set against each other. The winners went on an outing called the ‘Victory Walk’. The losers stayed behind and wrote essays or something similar. I never went on a victory walk, and considering how hard I tried, with or without an incentive, that seemed decidedly vicious to me. Ted Sammons was our first form master. He was a kind and generous teacher, but, at the end of our first year he made the worst possible inaccurate accusation. He asked those who had not been on a victory walk to raise their hands. Of those who did, he singled me out with: “Sheer laziness, Knight”. I have never forgotten my piercing mortification.

There were two subjects in that first year that I could not grasp at all. These were algebra and Latin.

How was it that letters could represent numbers? Like Ballarat’s Dr Blake, “I [had] absolutely no idea”.

My Latin was so abysmal that, long before the O level stage, I was transferred to Geography, not then considered of prime importance.

Being top of the class in French, it was always a mystery to me that I could not grasp Latin. At school, I thought maybe it was because it seemed to be all about wars that didn’t particularly interest me. Not very many years ago, I twigged the reason for the imbalance. It was partially about word order, but more significantly about ignorance of grammatical terms. Without understanding these, I could manage the modern language, not that dissimilar in construction to our own. Meeting concepts like ‘subjunctive’ which were not considered needing explanation for passers of the eleven plus exam, I didn’t just swim, I sank.

Latin gave me up. And Geography teaching was hit and miss, so I failed that too.

Knickerbocker Glory

I did a little bit of dead-heading in the Rose Garden this morning, and watched the Wimbledon men’s semi-finals this afternoon.

Between matches, I took a break and wandered around the garden, particularly to see how the agapanthuses are coming along. The first image shows them against the backcloth of the Palm Bed, on the edge of which they are situated; the second looks out from that bed; and the third down the Gazebo Path.

Here is another view of the Palm Bed,opposite which we have this scene from the corner of Margery’s Bed.

Saint John’s wort glows at the entrance to the Rose Garden.

A fly also took a break on a white sweet pea.

Continuing with ‘A Knight’s Tale’ I added some new material and edited extracts from ‘Mugging’

and from ‘Tom’

The picture of Tom has been extracted from this school photograph featured in ‘Did You Mean The Off Break?’

This evening we dined on Jackie’s superb steak and onion pie in proper short crust pastry, with new potatoes, crisp carrots and spring greens. I drank more of the Fronton, then became rather excited when I thought dessert was to be knickerbocker glory, but it turned out to be

hydrangea in a vase, so we settled for a Magnum each.

Tony and Anne, Trevor and Jan

Clearance of the future rose garden continues apace. Yesterday Jackie uprooted several unproductive fruit bushes, and this morning I removed the last of the box hedges and a photinia that had been well rooted for a few years. This latter plant required the use of a grubber axe. It had to come out because it has the potential to grow into a huge tree. There is one in the jungle garden next door which is so high that we get the benefit of it.
After this, I took my now customary route on foot to Milford on Sea, taking a diversion through a nature reserve on the way back. Having passed through Shorefield, I met Mike, the postman, who confirmed that he was indeed more comfortable in the front garden next door, photographed yesterday. He was also very helpful about the problem I have been having with misdirected mail being delivered to The Old House, Lymington Road. This is yet another difficulty with MyBarclays, who hold my French bank account. They will only accept proof of address from my New Forest Council Tax bill. This gives our address as Lymington Road, rather than Christchurch Road. I am engaged in a frustrating exchange of e-mails with the bank. Until this is resolved, Mike suggested I might explain the problem to the residents of The Old House, which is not on his round, so they may readdress my statements.
The Solent is now calm enough for leisure yachting. People were walking babies in buggies, and sometimes frisky dogs on foot. From the cliff top Tony pointed out the Isle of Wight to his wife Anne. We conversed about my photograph and the general state of the cliffs. I have mentioned before, the superb view The Beach House has of the island and its lighthouse. Today I shot it through their mature conifers.
On the way back out of Milford on Sea there is a footpath on the right. I have speculated about where it might lead, but had not had the confidence to try it before. Today, however, I noticed Trevor enjoying a cigarette as he basked on a bench in the sunshine. Crossing a footbridge over a stream, I asked him where the path led. He directed me along it, telling me how I could pick up the coast road. As I walked back over the bridge, an attractive woman came into view. This was Jan, who looks after the administration of the Community Centre cafe. She is a blues fan and particularly likes The Blues Band, especially Paul Jones and Tom McGuiness. This discovery enlivened our conversation somewhat.
Crossing a road along the footpath I entered the Nature Reserve through which it ran, leaving it on a slope up to Woodland Way on the left. This led to Delaware Road, and thence the cliff top. The path, beside which cyclamen blooms among dandelions, does extend further, and one day I may explore it more.
Tonight we dined at our old haunt, The Family House Chinese restaurant in Totton. We ate our favourite set meal, and both drank T’Sing Tao beer. Like many Asian restaurants they juggle, very successfully, with serving diners and taking down takeaway orders.

The Swinging Sixties

This morning I began reading Jacques Suffel’s preface to Gustave Flaubert’s timeless novel ‘Madame Bovary’. This introduction seems to be doing a good job of putting the work into historical and social context. Hopefully, having read an English translation should help me with this original version.
This was another day of steady rain, so I decided to scan some ‘posterity’ pictures. Just one colour slide took approximately three hours. When I turned on my iMac a big grey box with a large X in the middle of it on the screen prompted me to download what I soon realised – or at least hoped – was a new operating system called, of all things ‘Mavericks’. Being an American organisation I suspect Apple were thinking of unbranded calves rather than independent-minded persons. They must have run out of wildcats which is what all the previous systems’ names were.
I was informed that the download would take 51 minutes. Fortunately much of this time was taken up by a welcome phone call from Sam in Perth. I will leave him to update friends and family with his own news.
The system was downloaded successfully. This involved a change of the previous galaxy photograph as wallpaper to what could loosely be described as sweeping waves. I suppose I’ll become accustomed to it.
I was now able to start on my scanning. Not. A box told me my Epson Perfection V750 PRO had quit unexpectedly and prompted me to try again. And again. And again. Probably ad infinitum if I hadn’t decided to call a halt and ring Apple Care
Naturally I was answered by a machine operated by my voice. She and I had some difficulty. Maybe it was the questions delivered in a broad Scots accent. Yes, an American system with the diction of those living north of the English border. Perhaps my London speech was the problem. We got there in the end and I was at last in a very short queue to speak to a real live person. Whilst waiting I had the pleasure of listening to Johnny Cash singing ‘Ring of Fire’ – by far my favourite ever bit of holding music. After Johnny came something weird. But, as I said, it wasn’t a long wait.
Carolyn, another Celt, was a very helpful adviser. We established, as I thought, that Mavericks was the problem. It didn’t know I had a scanner that its predecessor had been quite happy with. In fact it stated that I didn’t have one, which I thought rather presumptuous of it. My helper sent me an e-mail with details of a link via Apple to Epson’s web pages. I tried it. Epson didn’t seem to know about my new Mavericks. I fiddled around in their system for a while then returned to Apple Care.
Carolyn had left clear information and James was able to pick up the story. I think he knew a bit more about Epson and sent me another link direct to that company. I needed, apparently, to download new software – the type that can recognise independent minded people. It was done successfully, although it took some time.
James clarified a puzzle for me. The problem with the first link had been that it provided a (very long) list of software that would be automatically downloaded by Apple if we used ‘Software Update’. I had done so and nothing happened. James said that was because the list was for hard drives and I needed software. Aaaaaarrrgh.
Anyway, before we set off to New Milton and Bashley I scanned my slide and put it into iPhoto.
Not so fast.
I had to update iPhoto first. But I managed that.
I have written so often about driving through deluges over the last couple of years, that I will not risk repetition. I will just say that the clatter of rain on the car’s external surfaces, and the whoosh of spray sent up by our wheels every time we went in for water-skiing drowned out all the other normal motoring sounds, such as the sweep and grind of the windscreen wipers.
Setting off in mid afternoon for a trip to a bank and a farm shop is not usually to be recommended. The bonus of the weather was that both establishments were virtually deserted. I was in and out of the bank before Jackie, having dropped me off, had returned from parking the car;and I was able to photograph the shelves of the Ferndene Farm shop. Previously I have been inhibited from producing a camera and potentially photographing crowds who wouldn’t like it. That was not a problem today.
Once we were home again I was able to return to ‘posterity’. Carnaby Street in July 1967, where I took a photograph of Jackie in the entrance to a closed clothes shop, was at the centre of the universe. It was where all the world came to buy their garments so they could be part of the London scene in that swinging decade. We didn’t have the money for such extravagance so we had a look one evening just to say we’d been there.
John Stephen had a shop in the street, where this tie, dating from 1966, was bought in the year Jackie leant against the wrought iron. I wonder whether Mick O’Neill has one like it in his superb collection.

In July 1967, ‘Ha Ha Said The Clown’, an earlier hit in the UK, was number one in Germany for Manfred Mann, in which band Tom McGuinness played from 1964 – 1969. Did he, I wonder – top right in the picture – buy his outfit in Carnaby Street?
This evening, ‘once more unto the’ storm did Jackie drive. This time to Ringwood for dinner at the Curry Garden, which was very full. I enjoyed lamb hatkora with a plain nan; Jackie chose prawn korma with pilau rice. We shared a sag paneer and both drank Kingfisher. Afterwards Jackie ate Walls ice cream with chocolate sauce and I had a pistachio kulfi. It was still raining as we drove back along the A31.

‘Did You Mean The Off Break?’

Today’s advent picture is again of the Regent Street Lights from December 1963, showing yet another differently coloured central star. I think there were none exactly the same.

The early picture of me that I worked on this morning is not a ‘through the ages’ one. I was actually looking in my old print file for one of those, but Elizabeth still has the originals from which she produced an album for Mum and the later digital set for me. She’s only had them for twenty years, so I must be patient.

The forgotten treasure I did find is a Wimbledon College school photograph from about 1956. It has enabled me to illustrate posts featuring Richard Millward, in the centre of the picture’s front row, and Tom McGuinness, fourth from the right in the rear tier from the viewer’s perspective. I stand on the far left of the middle row, with an expression that I clearly didn’t think too flattering at the time my sister raided my album for Mum’s 70th birthday set. I have retained the creases across the image, because they add some authenticity to the period. The print probably came home stuffed into a satchel.

Certain further memories came to mind when perusing this image. Iain Taylor, standing on the far left of the bench supporting the back row, was the captain of the Under Fourteens cricket team who secured me my first matches. Being a friend of mine he asked the headmaster, who rejoiced in the wonderfully appropriate name of Father Ignatius St Lawrence, S.J., to give me a trial for the team. I had never played before, but Iain got me to bowl a few balls in the nets and seems to have been impressed. With ‘Iggy’, as the head was predictably known to the boys, standing as umpire I was instructed to send my nervously delivered missives down to the team’s best batsman. I bowled him four times before Iggy had seen enough. One of these dismissals was with a deliberate slower ball that turned sharply from the off, that is opposite the batsman’s legs, side of the pitch and hit the middle stump. The deviation was probably caused by the ball striking an extraneous object when it landed. Turning to me at the end of my spell, Iggy asked: ‘Did you mean the off-break?’. ‘Yes, father’, was my coolly delivered reply. All priests were of course our fathers. I was in. Later, out of earshot of anyone else, I asked Iain: ‘What’s an off break?’.

Fifth from the viewer’s left at the back of the picture, stands a lad I cannot feel so smug about. This is Vaughan, whose first name escapes me. He was my partner in my first year at the College. Partner was a definite euphemism for what I now consider to have been a rather cruel incentive scheme. Boys were sat in pairs throughout the year. At the end of each term our marks for work were totted up and set against each other. The winners went on an outing called the ‘Victory Walk’. The losers stayed behind and wrote essays or something similar. I never went on a victory walk, and considering how hard I tried, with or without an incentive, that seemed decidedly vicious to me.

Not a very gifted academic, Matthew Hutchinson, the fifth boy from the left of the middle row, was the first person of whom I was truly envious. I can draw a bit, but Matthew was the most talented natural artist I had ever met. What I would have given for his free-flowing skill. I do hope he made something of it.

Now we come to the brains of the class. No-one could emulate the two who flanked Richard Millward, which is probably why they did. Gordon and Rogati came top in everything and I swear they didn’t even break into a sweat. Given their names I think my readers will have no difficulty in determining which is which.

With minimal help from me, work continued apace on Christmas decorations.

Once the stepladder had been put away, we dined on Jackie’s chicken jafrezi and pilau rice which greatly enhanced the bottle of Isla Negra cabernet sauvignon reserva 2013 which I opened and from which I drank a couple of glasses.

Tom

Since Tom has been on my mind since yesterday’s rugby story, I walked down to Hartfield Crescent (see 17th July). On Maycross Avenue, from the shelter of a fir tree above, some birds had produced an action painting. I wondered what would happen if I were to dig it up and put it on the art market. You never know, Mr. Saatchi may be tempted. More likely, I would face a criminal damage charge, so I thought better of it.

In Mostyn Road a tree surgeon proffered his card. I said I didn’t have a garden. As he looked rather disappointed, I said ‘Unless you want to come to Southampton where I tend my sister’s garden’. When he brightened at this, looked thoughful, and informed me he used to live in Portsmouth, I realised my quip had backfired. I told him she already had a tree surgeon and we went our separate ways.

I was unable to pass the secondhand bookshop next to the Mica cafe around the corner from my goal. Inside, on the top of a pile of books, I found a 1946 edition of Walter de la Mare’s Peacock Pie, illustrated by Edward Ardizzone. This could not be resisted. Into the shop came a young woman with two small boys. She wondered if they would like a donation of three black bin bags of books. Of course they would. One of her sons gleefully spotted a Harry Potter book. I told him he was like my son who hardly ever left the municipal dump with less than he brought there. I didn’t mention that Elizabeth was the same.

Firm friends at St. Mary’s, Russell Road primary school, Tom and I went up to Wimbledon College together and gradually drifted apart because our interests were so different. We spent many happy hours in each other’s homes, often swapping gruesome American horror comics. We made forbidden trips such as the one described on 10th. July. We swam in the public swimming baths mentioned in passing on 3rd. July. In many ways we were inseparable.

On my birthday last year a small party gathered for a meal at the home of Andy and Keith at Saint Aubin de Cadaleche, not far from Sigoules. I think they knew I could not manage 69 on my own. We had a spontaneous U tube game. Each, in turn would choose a song or piece of music. Keith would then bring it up on U tube and we would all listen or sing along. One of my selections was a Manfred Mann number. Up it came, and there he was, Tom in all his ’60s black and white glory, complete with Hank Marvin specs. This reminded me of my discovery that my old friend, so soon after leaving school, had become a pop star. Turning on the television one day in 1964, that very same number was playing. Tom McGuinness was a member of the group. His own website and that of The Blues Band can tell you far more about him than I can. I will confine myself to my own memories.

It was thirty year before we were, thanks to Jessica, to meet again. He was now playing in The Blues Band. This was a group got together by Paul Jones for a one-off blues gig. At least thirty years on, they are still going strong. On stage Paul and Tom look as youthful as they ever did. This group made an annual trip to the Newark Palace Theatre. Jessica got in touch with their agent, told him I lived in Newark, and Tom came up early and spent the day with us, providing tickets for the show. As Paul thought Tom rather skittish during the performance, he told the audience that they would have to excuse him because he had just met up with an old friend after many years. On another occasion, reminiscing on stage about his time at Wimbledon College, looking straight up at me in Malcolm Anderton’s box, Tom said: ‘Where else can you get an A level in guilt?’.

This evening Jackie and I dined with Becky and Ian at the Wimbledon Tandoori in Ridgway, Wimbledon Village. Although we had frequented this restaurant during the year we lived in Ridgway, before moving to Links Avenue in April last year, we had not been there since. This was why we were most impressed that they remembered us, where we lived, what I ate, and what we drank. None of the staff here today would, of course, have remembered our last period of visiting there. They were not even born when Jackie and I were first married, and she would save ten shillings (50p) from the housekeeping to take us out for a curry. If she had done really well we could have a bottle of wine for nine shillings. This vast sum took some time to amass, so our visits were special events. I really can’t remember enough to rate their meals in the old days, but they are top notch now.

The Hornby Train Set

Today I walked to Kingston to meet Geoff Austin (see 22nd. June post) at the Canbury Arms. Jackie had used Google Earth last night to find the route for me. She is very good at taking the walk through locations, and I was amazed at the pin-sharp pictures showing me the roads I needed to walk down, and picking out the landmarks like Wickes at the corner of London and Gordon Roads. Taking the Martin Way route, I crossed Bushy Road into Sidney Road, turning left at the end and on to Raynes Park Station; went under the bridge and along to Coombe Lane from which it is more or less straight through to Kingston; arriving at the pub with an hour to spare.

Almost opposite Raynes Park Station still lies, now undergoing refurbishment, the establishment where Bob Mitchell treated the young Jackie and me to fish and chips after cricket matches and drinks in the Raynes Park Tavern. Bob was a free spirit who enlivened matches more by his antics than by his cricketing skills. He was instrumental in my one and only loss of temper on a sportsfield. I once won the club single wicket competition. This is a knock out event where members play short individual matches against each other with their colleagues doing the fielding. In one of the earlier rounds I was up against Charlie Moulder (see 13th. July). Bob decided to even things up a bit. When I had scored just one run, as umpire, he gave me out caught by the wicket keeper. My bat had been nowhere near the ball. I’d like to say that I was a little upset. Unfortunately that would be dishonest. I was in a blinding rage, especially as Bob laughed when I walked past him. Normally I opted to bowl up the hill at Cottenham Park, because that would slow me down and give me more control. This time, I knew I would have to bowl as fast as, or even faster than, I could. So I chose to come down the hill. Still fuming, I scared the life out of a really very nice man, tearing down with my hair, at that time halfway down my back, streaming in the wind. The first ball knocked out two of Charlie’s stumps. Bob was quite unashamed in acknowledging what he had done. Jackie, on the other hand, was very ashamed of me. Mr. Cool had got too hot under the collar and behaved disgracefully. Now I’ve grown up a bit, I too, am ashamed of that performance. Bob was an incorrigible ladies’ man. When, in his nineties, a couple of years ago, he arrived at the club’s 60th. Anniversary Dinner with a very attractive young woman in attendance, the story was that she was his carer. But we all knew better. We knew that our Bob had not lost his touch.

Along Coombe Lane this morning I passed Wimbledon College Playing Fields. We always walked there from the school in Edge Hill to play rugby and cricket. It was here that Tom McGuinness, mentioned on 10th. July, scored what I believe to be his only try. Tom’s eyesight was so bad that he could never see what was going on. One afternoon he found the rugby ball in his hands. ‘What shall I do?’, he asked me. ‘Run for the line’, I replied. ‘Where is it?’ enquired Tom. ‘That way’, I indicated. Tom sped for the line, fell over, and touched down. No-one saw him. The fact that we were playing in dense fog had levelled this particular playing field.

I could tell a schoolboy cricketing story or two, but perhaps the one above is enough for Judith’s tolerance in any one post.

The grandeur of the houses along Coombe Lane West, and those on the private roads off it, contrasted with the more humble dwellings and shops in Norbiton, where now live a number of people from Korea. Among those catering for the incomers, there are still traditional shops near Norbiton Station, including a butcher’s with a novel way of announcing its presence. The trails of pigeon droppings crossing the road on either side of the railway bridge caught my eye. I decided they had been made by rows of birds perched on the top of the bridge, rather than one unfortunate with the runs. I thought it best not to look up.

Passing Warren Road, one of the private ones mentioned above, I reflected on ‘Shern’ children’s home which was once there. (On 25th. August I post a correction to this. ‘Shern’ was in fact in New Malden. It was the baby nursery in this location.) On the far side of Norbiton are council estates which housed many of the families who were clients of Kingston Children’s Department, as it was in the ’60s, before the Seebohm Report led to the creation of Social Services Departments. Whilst it would not be appropriate for me to publicise any of their stories, I have fond and clear memories of those who were my responsibility in my first employment as an Assistant Child Care Officer. With time out for training, I was there six years. During my first summer every one of the boys resident at ‘Shern’ was on my caseload. They thought it strange that on each visit I would only see one of them. Eventually they grasped that this was my way of emphasising the importance of each individual. This, of course, meant that I made rather more calls to this establishment than was the norm.

Whilst waiting for Geoff I spoke to Louisa on the telephone. Yesterday she had published on Facebook a photograph of Jessica and Imogen playing with a Hornby Train Set the girls had found in their garage. This antique toy, in full working order, was still in its original box. Winding it up and setting it going was giving hours of pleasure. Suddenly the parents of little boys were asking if they could come and play with my granddaughters. Louisa had asked me if the train set had been mine. Well, I suppose I am antique enough. I knew it was not mine, and that it had been a find of Grannie Jess’s. Yesterday I hadn’t been sure whether this had been in a car boot sale or on a skip. Overnight I had recollected that this treasure had been salvaged from a skip outside a house that was being cleared.

Geoff and I had an enjoyable time over lunch reminiscing about our days in Westminster; a couple of games I had played for his cricket club; and rugby at the Old Whitgiftians. He told me about his period in 2011 as Deputy Mayor of Kingston, during which he officiated at 202 events. I was shown a selection of some of the more interesting photographs in which he and his wife, Sheila, generally had smiles on their faces. As a Councillor, this long time resident of Kingston was required to research much of the town’s history. He was able to tell me that the residential development on the opposite corner of Elm and Canbury Park Roads to the pub lay on the site of the former Hawker factory. This was where all the First World War Sopwith Camel airplanes had been built. By the outbreak of the Second World War the old factory could not cope with the now larger planes that were required, so the enterprise was moved further down the road. But no-one told the Germans, which is why the area suffered heavy bombing. The propeller from a Sopwith Camel is mounted in the grounds belonging to the residences. Anyone wishing to seek more information on this should visit www.kingstonaviation.org/

Miraculously the Canbury Arms survived. It was therefore able to provide us with lunch of sweetcorn and tarragon soup followed by beef and mushroom pie, chips, and salad. We each made the same excellent choice, and drank a local brew called ‘Naked Ladies’. Neither of us could manage a sweet.

The K5 bus which took me back to Morden is a ‘Hail & Ride’ facility running once an hour. This means that, on certain sections of the route, you just hail it like a taxi, or, if on board, ring the bell and it stops for you. It is one of Geoff’s achievements as a Councillor that this threatened service has been retained.