I Am Sixteen, She is Twenty-Two

One of my earlier posts.

Palaces of Romance, The Cinemas of Croydon.

In the 1940s and 1950s Croydon boasted some of the best cinemas in the UK. 

The Davis Theatre was largest, seating almost 4000, probably the finest cinema/theatre I have ever been in. A truly magnificent building both inside and out it.  Demolished in the late 1950s and replaced by some nondescript pile of drabness - a disastrous loss to Croydon!

THE DAVIS CINEMA/THEATRE

(Photo courtesy Google) 

Other cinemas of note were the Savoy in Broad Green, The State Cinema (later The Granada) in Thornton Heath, The Regal and The Astoria, both in Purley. These were well-designed and comfortable places, with the Savoy being the earliest of my cinema memories. The Savoy was almost opposite Hathaway Road, thus being a couple of minutes walk from my home. It was near Sumner Road, with a café on the corner, then a sweet shop and then the Savoy. 

Adjoining the Savoy, during the war, there was the Civic Restaurant where I sometimes had a very cheap midday meal. I remember the plates they used for us kids; they had a picture printed on the plate which encouraged you to clean the plate entirely to see what the picture was. Not that I ever needed any encouragement to clean every morsel from the plate! Young boys usually have gargantuan appetites and with rationing in place food was never wasted, (although I hated cod liver oil, yuk).

There were many smaller cinemas, such as The Eros and The Odeon in West Croydon, The Palladium on the corner of Surrey St., and Scarbrook Road, The Hippodrome in Church Street and, of course the wonderful little CLASSIC in South Croydon. This last named cinema will forever have a place in my heart and I'll tell you why (but please keep this to yourself, especially if my wife is around!).

In October 1951 Stella and I were cosily ensconced in the dark back seats of the Classic.

 Now a bit bolder than earlier as we'd been "going steady" for a few months and we had spent many hours in Stella's doorway porch kissing and hugging for far too long after an evening out. 

Stella is seated next to me, my left arm around her shoulder. Now and then her face would tilt towards me and we gently kiss in the darkness. 

And then it happened!

Stella slowly guides my left arm from her shoulder, pressing my hand on her breast. 

This was the most exhilarating experience of my life at that point. We kissed, passionately, with my hand caressing her breast. Time stopped it seemed.  A wonderful rapturous moment.

Of course, I was inexperienced in those days. 

Wouldn't have dreamt, or dared, to fondle a girl's breasts then, even though the temptation was usually quite strong. 

Things seem to go a lot faster today in the dating and sexual exploits of the youngsters but in my day we seemed, generally, to be more restrained.  Anyway, from that point onwards our lingering in the porch, or elsewhere, now included the caressing of Stella's bosom. 

No wandering below the waist, or stroking the thighs and stuff like that. Whether Stella wanted me to venture further I know not. Possibly she did, but being such a gauche or unpolished lover-boy, I just didn't feel it right to risk such a thing as groping "down below". So now you know. Keep this secret. I wouldn't want anybody else to know all this!

We went to the cinema about once every week or ten days. I remember one film in particular, at the Regal in Purley: "An American in Paris", starring Gene Kelly and Georges Guetary singing "I'll Build a Stairway to Paradise" - which fitted my mood perfectly as I felt I'd already entered Paradise.

I'm now 17. Stella would have expected my call-up to National Service because I'd lied about my age when we first met.

I decided to confess by writing her a goodbye letter, lacking the courage to tell her face to face.

We never met again until some 55 years later.

Pat and I had a nice meeting with Stella, her husband and family.

Sadly, her husband died of cancer; Stella died three years later.

Never look back some say. They are wrong!

A Man in a Million

It's nearly three years since my wife Pat and I decided to move from the Scottish Borders back to Lincolnshire.  This was prompted by some bad news on the health of our youngest daughter.

We spent almost twenty years in the Borders, a beautiful part of the UK.  Tranquil, peaceful, sparsely populated.  What more could a retired couple want?

We got to know some truly lovely people there.  One in particular was Alan Parkes.  I mentioned this chap some years ago when posting something about him. I befriended Alan in an unusual way and was terribly sad when receiving news of his death.

If you care to read that old post and to see a BBC video of Alan then here is the link:  http://bit.ly/1MkZmqx

Sensuous Rumba, danced to a Superb Song

Have your sound on, keep your eyes glued to this wonderful dance exhibition.

I have always loved ballroom dancing and especially this one particular Latin dance, the Rumba.

I've seen many couples demonstrating this dance of love but this one is so erotic as well as beautiful.

Not your cuppa tea?  Forgive me, but I just had to share this one and risk it.

801 Wandsworth Road London

BBS (before betting shops) I worked in the 'credit office' owned by Albert Cook and Son.  Manning one of the eight phones, I took the client's bets and later worked them out, along with nine other members of the office.

Recently Google told me that this old building was now a newsagents.  I telephoned them and learned that when Albert Cook senior died they bought the premises from his estate. I felt sad about this as I'd hope the business was still operating under Albert Cook junior.  However, I asked the lady on the phone if she knew how I could contact young Mr. Cook only to learn that he too had died.  I was really sad now. 

This kind lady then said she could give me the phone number of his son, whom I'd met a few times when he was a schoolboy.  So I managed to speak to him on the telephone. He told me his Dad had died a few years ago of a stomach problem. I asked if I could phone his Mum but he just said that she lives alone in Bournemouth, declining my request for the phone number.  I quite understood and said cheerio to him.

This all reminded me of a day way back in 1960-ish when the 'Sausage Incident' occurred, involving the now deceased Mr. Cook senior (my boss) and his son, now deceased.  I wish now that I'd not felt the urge to backtrack to those days but that's life.  The link to the 1960 incident is below.

http://bit.ly/1bv0mrW

I no longer eat sausages, unless they're veggie ones.

Chronicle of a Croydon Boy: The Sort of Stroke Flossie did NOT Want!

Again I am in a reflective frame of mind, caused by a friend of ours who lives in Eastbourne who sent us a photo of her dear departed pet called Bonnie.  Bonnie reminded me of another old canine friend of mine called Flossie, owned by Alice who then resided in the East Lodge cottage at Mellerstain.  Flossie was a simply divine and beautiful Border Collie whom I loved so much about five years ago.  Here's a video I took of Flossie when she was recovering from a stroke.  I hope it still plays OK even though poor Flossie no longer plays on the green green grass of Mellerstain.


Chronicle of a Croydon Boy: The Sort of Stroke Flossie did NOT Want!

Remembering a Day in Scotland

After reading the blog "Sixth in Line" by Elisabeth in the land of Oz, I harked back to one day some six years ago when we had to go to the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary to see a lady doctor who outlines a procedure my wife, Pat, was going to have.

We travelled in our small KA car to Earlston and then caught the bus for the main part of the journey.

I did a little video of part of the bus journey and then the final part of the return to home, where we encountered a slight traffic jam - but not the sort that a city dweller experiences!

Here's the link back to 2009: http://bit.ly/1z7SWkg

RAF Wickenby - Now just a private airfield

On Sunday 22 March we took a drive to this airfield, just to have a cuppa coffee, a chat with whomsoever was unlucky enough to be collared by Yours Truly and having a chinwag about whatever aeroplane they had just flown in for, literally, a flying visit.

As usual, I nip upstairs after having a coffee in the 'NAAFI' kaff, to meander around the mini-museum here.

This airfield was home to squadron 12 and squadron 626 of Bomber Command during the 1943-1945 period of WW2. I always think of the many hundreds of young men, over 1000 aircrew, who flew out of here and never made it back. What a huge waste of life and the subsequent heartbreak for thousands more who loved these brave lads.

My somewhat sepulchral commentary is poor and the video is very amateur; forgive me for that.

A week or so back some low-life scum removed the two bronze plaques of the two squadrons from the memorial at the entrance to this airfield.  All of us in the Friends of Wickenby Museum and Airfield were thoroughly sickened by this damnable theft.  To the thieving toe-rags who stole these plaques for scrap I hope you can sleep well.  If you never wake up again then that would be just reward for your deplorable action last week!

The Voice of Racing

I've just been listening to Sir Peter O'Sullivan on BBC radio 4 and so many memories came flooding back.

You may not know this chap but he is still known in horse-racing circles as 'The Voice of Racing'. He celebrated his 97th birthday a few days ago and to listen to him on the radio again was marvellous.

He was born in 1918, in Ireland, and became the BBC's best ever racing commentator. I think the then Queen Mother loved him just as much as she loved having a punt on the races. He was everybody's favourite. 

You could hear every word he uttered when calling the race. The noise of the crowds and the excitement of the race never affected his commentary.  He also owned some classy horses, one of which was Be Friendly.  Attivo was another top class thoroughbred.

Peter O'Sullivan also was the racing correspondent of the Daily Express for many years and tipped many winners for his followers.

I 'knew' him, so to speak, when I worked in the bookie business, from 1956 to around the early 1970s.  I first spoke to him when I was working for Albert Cook & Son, turf accountants, at 801 Wandsworth Road, London in the early 1960s. He had an account with us.

One morning I picked up the phone on my desk and this mellifluous voice said to me:  "Good morning. Would you please ask Albert (my boss) what is the best price he can offer me on Gay Don in the National."  (Gay Don is not the real name of the horse, I cannot remember this far back).

I then asked my boss, saying it was Peter O'Sullivan asking for the price.

The boss scanned the Sporting Life lists to see what the average price was.  He said to me that if Peter was interested then he must have some inside info on this horse.  The price the boss came up with was 33-1 and said so to Peter O'Sullivan.

"Is that the very BEST price he can offer?" asks Peter.

I relayed this question to the boss.  He then said 'Oh well, tell him 40-1 is the absolute tops', which I duly gave to Peter.

I heard quite a hearty chuckle on the end of the phone line then Peter said: "Well, thank Albert for his very generous offer but tell him I shall NOT be wanting to back Gay Don at this price. He died yesterday!" and then he put the phone down.

What a great sense of humour he had, and still has I reckon.

Happy 97th Sir Peter, and when you get to the 100th, which I am sure you will, I will send you a VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY message then.

I enjoyed a lot of my time in the bookie world. One met so many notable people, good and not so good.  Sir Peter was the best of all. Ronnie and Reggie Kray were way down the list, having met these two notorious guys on more than one occasion, each time in a friendly way I'm glad to say.  The racing world is full of larger than life characters.

Here's a link to an example of Sir Peter's professionalism as he commentated on a race in which his own horse, Be Friendly, was running.  He gives a clear and unbiased account of the race and is typical of this great man's skill in calling the race.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NuZNtwyxnz4

SUNDAY TRADING LAW IN ENGLAND

What a ridiculous situation in England where retail stores over a 280 square metre floor-space are forced to close their doors at the end of SIX HOURS continuous trading on Sunday.

This means that large stores, supermarkets etc., must close their doors by 4 p.m. if they started trading at 10 a.m.

The latest they can stay open is 6 p.m. if they started at midday but most stick at 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.  The stores that advertise 24 hour opening have to comply with the Sunday law and thus they close at 4 p.m. and re-open at one minute past midnight on Monday.

This stupid law, some twenty years old now, makes no sense to me.  Employees are protected if they do NOT  wish to work on Sundays. An employee CANNOT be dismissed or treated in an unfavourable way for choosing not to work on Sundays.

This Sunday trading law seems to be something to do with religion, in my opinion.  If it is, then what about Jewish employees who are contracted to work on Saturdays?  If it is NOT about religion then what?  Why should Sunday be any different from the rest of the week.

All our political 'leaders' claim to be believers in God or some other deity as far as I know.   Most of them seem to me to be somewhat two-faced or downright liars.  If Janus were still a God, as the Romans once thought, then politicians would most likely kowtow to Janus, usually depicted with two faces!

Stuff the Sunday laws!

(I'm nipping out to Asda before they close!)

Transformation - from Gay Pop Group to God

Do you remember Bronkski Beat, The Communards, Jimmy Somerville and Richard Coles? The Eighties,  the sounds, the attitudes and so on? 

I certainly do.  Remember "Smalltown Boy" being belted out in a 'gay club' in Swansea in the mid-eighties.  The place was packed with writhing bodies moving to the music of Bronski Beat.

No, I wasn't part of the joyful crowd.  I was a VAT officer making an out of hours visit as part of my inspection of this business.

I certainly liked the music.  Jimmy Somerville's falsetto voice and the bouncy disco backing made me a fan of this genre of such music.  Bronski became The Communards and the backbone of this band was Jimmy Somerville and Richard Coles, a classically trained pianist of real talent on the keyboards.

The 80s was the time of HIV Aids for which the Gay fraternity were largely blamed.  It was a sad time for many when some notable 'stars' disappeared from the music scene because of Aids, Freddie Mercury of  'Queen' being one of the most notable.

The Communards split up.  Jimmy Somerville continues as a solo artist but although he has a devoted fan base still he is not the force he once was.  He has recently reprised "Smalltown Boy" which can be seen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CNhLOfUPHa8

But what about 'the other half' of The Communards - Richard Coles, the gay pianist?

Well, he's still 'gay' but his role is now as a Church of England priest!  Quite a transformation, from pop to priesthood.  He lives with his gay civil partner, the Rev David Coles and their four dachshunds.

He seems to be a very likeable and HONEST person.  He not only moved from the pop world to priesthood but on his journey he was a Roman Catholic for some 10 years but reverted to Anglicanism about a dozen years ago.  He is certainly 'one of a kind'. He held an atheist funeral for Marjorie 'Mo' Mowlam, an outspoken MP of the late 1980s and also a Cabinet Minister in the Labour government.

I write all this because I've just seen an excellent programme on BBC1 tv about Richard Coles and found it extremely interesting and entertaining.  My one regret was that Jimmy Somerville declined an invitation to take part if this.  Still, you can't have everything I guess.

Baby Bob - 1-year old lapdog??

Well, here's Bob - now just over a year old.

He's not really allowed on the settee but it's OK if Andy, or me, is there first.

Bob is finding his voice now. He is not so timid as when he first came to Andy and Clare's house.

He has a deep, bass, and LOUD woof!  Very refined, in my opinion.

He's going to be MUCH bigger than dear departed MARLEY MOO, but not so much drool ... and so affectionate.

Happy birthday Bob, and many more of 'em!

BABY BOB

Bob, just 10 months old.  Getting used to his new and loving home.

Just a tad nervous when a sudden sound occurs, like a loud click or some other noise.  The stupid fireworks that idiots have been wasting money o

n for the Guy Fawkes 'celebrations' just seem to start around the stupid Halloween crap and is still going on today.  Really upsets a lot of animals, including ME.

Sad-faced but HAPPY inside his noble head.

I shall keep you posted as to his progress.

New Adoption - 10 months old, Dogue de Bordeaux

Daughter Clare had to say 'Goodbye' to her lovely Dogue de Bordeaux 'Marley Moo' a couple of weeks ago.  A hard step, but also the kindest, to take him to his final sleep.

Yesterday, Clare drove two-and-a-half hours to Manchester to collect a 10-months old 'rescued' puppy and is over-joyed with this 'ginger bundle of joy'.

So pleased that her sadness at the loss of Marley Moo has melted into gladness with re-homing her new charge.

Wonder what his name will be? Hmm... I'll find out today.

Marley Moo - The Big Sleep

My daughter Clare had to take the terrible step of having her wonderful Dogue de Bordeaux put to sleep.  He had a bad growth on his back leg and his hips were troubling him too.  He was seven and a half years old.  This is a good old age for this breed but he still acted like a puppy at times. 

 

He had a wonderful loving nature.  He looked fierce but he was as gentle as a lamb. He just loved to play tug-of-war with a toy; to charge after a ball thrown in the yard. 

 

Clare is heartbroken yet knows there was no option.  It's all very well to say "You have to be cruel to be kind" but it's so difficult to follow that adage when it comes to the crunch.

 

Xmas 2013

 

 

These are Clare's words:

 

​Kenmileven Red Dragon (aka Marley Moo:    06/04/07-14/10/14)

Sixteen long hours we have now been apart

Nothing in the world will heal my heart

I know there was no choice, I had to let you go

But I'd give anything to have you back here you know

My sweet gentle giant always wanting to please

You took your last walk with us amongst the trees

No matter how poorly you would wag your tail

But on the last day, you tried but it failed

With one hour left, the clock ticking down

Your last act of bravery had my heart on the ground

You tried to play ball one more time with a fight

But two seconds later you were out like a light

Did you know Marley Moo when you got in the car

That it'd be your last journey too short, yet too far?

The wind in your face breathing in every scent

With that wise old look we both knew what it meant

The time has arrived, I don't want you to leave!

Such pain in my heart, I'm struggling to breathe!

You took your last breath still so dignified

I buried my face in your neck as I cried

I love you so much Moo, can't believe that you're gone

This house is so lifeless, it's empty, it's wrong

I don't want to cry as I know that you'd hate it

But I'm dying inside at the moment, I can't take it

You were the best ever Dogue, such a precious boy

You filled out our lives full of laughter and joy

I hope you're OK now, having fun and pain free

Deep in our hearts, forever you'll be

Miss you so much Gummy Bear

Love Mummy, Daddy, Jake and Ellie

NIGHT BOMBERS RAF HEMSWELL LINCOLNSHIRE 1943

On Saturday we drove to Wickenby Airfield, near Lincoln, as we have done before a few times.

This was once the home of two RAF bomber command squadrons: 12 and 626.  Lancaster bombers were housed and flown from RAF Wickenby during WW2 and from other airfields nearby.  Lincolnshire was known as Bomber County in those 1940s wartime days. 

RAF Hemswell was another bomber station not far away. It was here that a unique film was made, in colour, of the preparation for a night-time raid on Berlin by 40 Lancaster bombers and their crew of seven courageous men.

We all know much about the Spitfire and Hurricane fighters and rightly so.  These pilots undoubtedly deserve all the praise heaped upon them by Winston Churchill and others and I used to watch their vapour-trailing 'dog-fights' when I was a kid, but when one sees what these bomber crews went through I am overcome by emotion and pride. 

This 60 minute film is quite outstanding. Even if you have no connection with the war or the RAF it's so informative as to be un-missable in my opinion.  The average lifetime of a Lancaster bomber and crew was about 40 flying hours. Thousands were built and thousands were destroyed.  Only two survive in the UK, only one of those is still flying.

Here's the link: https://archive.org/details/NIGHT-BOMBERS

SECRET GARDEN - ADAGIO

Music is so subjective of course.  What is a masterpiece for one is just a noisy sound to others.

However,  this piece is to me so relaxing and beautiful I'm just hoping that somebody who stumbles upon this blog will find it worth a listen.

It is by Secret Garden and entitled Adagio. Best in FULL SCREEN - just click in the square bottom right-hand corner of the video screen.

My Brother David Has Died

After months of defying lung cancer David faded quietly and peacefully from this life at 17.40 today, 21st June 2014. The longest day. 

He showed amazing strength and resilience since he left hospital because there was no more that could be done to fight this cruel lung cancer.

His partner Margaret looked after him at home for months. He did not want to go into a hospice.  Living with pain-killing drugs, oxygen and help from the St. Christopher Nurses his life was a life that most of us wouldn't wish upon our worst enemy.

Now free of all worldly pain and indignity his passing is not only a relief for him but, I'm sure, his family and friends.

Well fought David.  The odds were totally against you and it took many hard rounds in the biggest fight of your life before the final bell called time.  Brave battle Dave. Goodbye.

Will You Donate Your Body to Medical Science?

My brother David is dying.  Cancer is the killer. He will not have a funeral when his life ends, which will be sooner rather than later.  He is in torment and death will be better for him than life.

He and his partner have already made arrangements for David's body to be donated to a London teaching hospital so that medical students can learn by using David in whatever way is required. 

They can delve into his illness, his lungs, his brain (he also has dementia now) or anything that will enhance their knowledge of the human body.

I think this is a wonderful way of leaving this wicked world. It obviates the need for lining the pockets of funeral companies, and of meaningless church services and all the paraphernalia that dying involves. 

It provides something USEFUL in life. It may provide valuable information about these diseases.  It is a way of giving something back as one pegs out, so to speak. I am all for it.

Well done David, and Margaret.  You are both suffering greatly at the moment but when it's all over you will know that out of the evil of cancer and dementia something GOOD will emerge because of this donation of David's body to science.

Amen to that, if you get my drift.

My Brilliant Daughter Clare

Clare is back on the road, actually and figuratively speaking.

She has kept clear of seizures for well over a year, thanks to the good epilepsy specialists in Hull hospital so she is now able to drive again.

Not only that, she has been sculpting her wonderful fairies again, as beautifully as ever.  She has gone a step further of late by sculpting a model of her Doge de Bordeaux, Marley, and is now in the process of making copies for other owners of this large breed.

Do have a look at her website, www.fairytasia.co.uk to view some of her amazing creations.

Another Brother About to Die

My younger brother David is seriously ill with lung cancer. He is at home waiting for the end.

The hospital was unable to help him any more. They did cut out the cancer in his throat but it had spread to both lungs. He was sent home, along with a hospital bed and other equipment, to be tended by his partner Margaret and the palliative care team.

My hope is that his pain and suffering will be mercifully short-lived. 

David is 72, about eight years younger than I.

My dear brother Geoff died five years ago, again of cancer.

My youngest brother Michael died aged 45, of a severe brain haemorrhage, thankfully swiftly with no lingering pain.

We humans generally take pity on our animal friends and pets and don't allow them to linger on in hopelessness and pain. Why do we not afford human animals the same privilege?

I do not know.  Do you?