Charlie's War

Last Remembrance Sunday, I posted a piece about my Great Grandfather, 'In Search of Private Butt', who was killed in 1916 at The Battle of the Somme. The story featured in this month's edition of 'The Brummagem' magazine edited by Birmingham historian Carl Chinn.

 This year I thought I'd write another family story linked with the First World War, about my Great Uncle, who served in the Royal Navy at the rather tender age of about fourteen.

 Hope you enjoy reading it.

 Charlie Blackmore was only a boy when the Great War began in August 1914.

 All across Britain, thousands of eager volunteers answered the national cry to take the fight to the Kaiser, with no more enthusiasm than the lads of the West Midlands.

Born in Birmingham in about 1900, Charlie was too young to join the army, but the following year he enlisted in the Royal Navy, where after completing his training, he was assigned to the battleship HMS Thunderer.

 

 

  Before setting sail, Charlie took leave to visit his family (maybe for the last time), especially his younger brothers Harry and Daniel, who had skipped off school to see their sailor brother.

 In May 1916, in the bleak North Sea, Thunderer, as part of Admiral Jellicoe’s Grand Fleet, met the German High Seas Fleet, where steel dreadnoughts clashed at the Battle of Jutland. The teenage Charlie was taking part in the biggest naval battle since Trafalgar - 111 years earlier (where another Thunderer had served).

 Charlie’s ship certainly thundered, firing her big guns in anger, however, she was lucky and survived the battle unscathed. Others weren’t so fortunate, and over 6000 commonwealth sailors were lost, including Admiral Hood and the tragic Jack Cornwell, a boy seaman of Charlie’s age, who was posthumously awarded the VC.

 The German fleet limped back to port in Wilhemshaven, 2500 sailors had been killed, and the Royal Navy (although battered) still controlled the North Sea – it was a high price for a stalemate.

 The Great War finished in November 1918, and the German ships surrendered at Scapa Flow. Charlie remained at sea, serving as a gunner, on the ill-fated HMS Hood; before he left the navy in the 1930s, to begin a new job as a postman back in Birmingham.

 

                            At sea between the wars, Charlie is the sailor second from left.

  This career change was to be short lived, and following the outbreak of World War II, he returned to sea once more, where as an experienced sailor, he saw service on armed merchant ships before finally demobbing in 1945.

 Many of the young servicemen and women serving in Afghanistan today are only a few years older than Charlie was when he fought in the Great War. Let’s hope they get back home to their families safe and sound.

 Family photo (c.1930) with the children appropriately dressed in sailor suits!

 

A Day at the Games

We're off to see some athletics at the paralympics tomorrow, so I thought I'd post this short piece which I wrote last month about our last Olympic trip back in August - better late than never!

 It was day eight of the 2012 Olympics, a sunny Saturday, and I was lucky to be in London to watch some world class sport – well, table tennis to be exact.

  Sue and I, had spent the day sightseeing in the capital, and after a picnic lunch in Hyde Park we made our way by bus, train and trainers to the ExCel Arena in London Docklands.

 As we arrived, we were greeted by some cheery Olympic volunteers who directed us to security entrances, where smiling staff gave us an airport style check, before letting us in to catch some sporting action.

 Our event was the quarter finals of the women’s team table tennis; we were a couple of hours early so we took the time to wander around ExCel and sample the Olympic ‘cuisine’ on offer. This was a choice of feeble fish and chips, slimy noodles or a soggy pie  - all for the princely sum of about £8.50 each (!).

  Soon it was time to watch the table tennis, but just before, we watched the end of the women’s 3km team cycling pursuit on the big screen, where a roof-raising cheer was made as Team GB’s ‘Three Sisters’ stormed home to gold.

  Table tennis may not be the most nail-biting of Olympic sports, but the ladies from Hong Kong, Singapore, North and South Korea battled it out and treated the crowd to some first class play.

 

 

There were some lively supporters from Singapore, who gave their team some noisy but much needed support, while the North Korean fans (all three of them) made up in enthusiasm for what they lacked in numbers.

 The girls from Hong Kong and North Korea fought a hard battle, but the other teams had the edge. Singapore and South Korea went through to the semi-finals, where they would meet the table tennis aces of China and Japan.

  It was late as we left the stadium, and caught the train back from Docklands to the city centre. Next to us, a group of cheery young students, dressed in Team GB kit and wearing brightly coloured wigs, were happily chatting about which bars and restaurants they would visit to celebrate the nations’ sporting success. I wished I had their young energy; after an Olympic day out, I was simply looking forward to getting home to indulge in some championship sleeping.

The First Day

It's September and the start of new term for all those schools and colleges, so here's a piece of appropriately themed writing. It's twenty eight years since I started High School - and that does make me feel my years a tad!
 

September,1984

  It was the start of our first year at Netherworth High School and the new timetable had begun. I was in Class S, which was one from bottom, or the scuzzers class, as my big sister affectionately described it. The School appeared to be in the throes of a Mod revival – either that or we were twenty years behind. Parkas adorned with badges were popular and formed a khaki contrast to the uniformed new bloods. One lad - possibly the parka boy pin up, proudly rode through the gates astride his trusty Vespa scooter. Faces both curious and hostile watched as we entered.

   ‘Ahh, look at all these cute 1st years.’ A girl simpered.

    Others weren’t so friendly and bashing a ‘cute’ 1st year seemed to be a popular sport. Although I was small, I managed to avoid this treatment – probably not worth their effort. However, as we made our way over to the L Block, a blond 4^th former in a short skirt and bomber jacket clutched hold of my arm. 

   ‘Excuse me mate, I need to ask you something.’ The blond paused, her pretty face creased with concern, ‘But have you got a big willy?’

     My face flushed scalding hot, and the girl, joined by her cronies, laughed at my discomfort.

    ‘Wahay! You’re in there Rob.’ Teased Jamie

    ‘Think I’ve got more chance of copping with Cyndi Lauper.’

    Bet Indiana Jones wouldn’t have blushed, I thought despondently.

     Outside the L Block the 1st years had started to gather. On one side, were us kids previously from Netherworth Francis School whilst on the other, were the crowd from Netherworth County School. Two tribes – just like in the Frankie Goes to Hollywood song.  These tribes never went to war though; they just eyed each other in mutual suspicion.

    Our first lesson was maths with Mr Biddle.  The classroom was next to the Craft and Home Economics areas, where the smell of baking pastry competed with sawdust and wood glue. My friend Jamie Green gazed around at the unfamiliar surroundings. ‘I saw that new Indiana Jones film last night and the Temple of Doom just reminds me of this place. What do you reckon this Biddle bloke’s like?’

   ‘Don’t really know,’ I replied. ‘My brother says he spits like an angry camel.’

    The sound of deliberate foot-steps echoed down the corridor towards us, as they grew louder, Jamie nudged me in the ribs. ‘Shit, it’s Judge Dredd.’  

    Mr Biddle, Head of Byron House, strode into view. He wore his glasses around his neck, like the comedian Larry Grayson – but there all similarities ended. This solid six footer; with his craggy face and twisted nose, looked more like Henry Cooper. Gold fillings glinted as he surveyed the new bloods. ‘Class S? Well, you lot are with me; aren’t you the lucky ones,’ he growled as we were ushered us into the classroom.

    ‘Where did they find this warhorse? I whispered

     Jamie shook his head, ‘He was probably here with Shakespeare.’

    We around looked for places to sit, I found a battered chair and began to move it next to Jamie.

  ‘Are you a member of the National Union of Furniture Removers?’

    I looked up – straight into the wolfish eyes of Mr Biddle.

   ‘Don’t think so sir.’

   ‘Then kindly leave that chair where it is!’

    Fortunately I was out of his spitting range, and I found a solitary desk and sat down. It was scored with graffiti from decades past, and the lid seemed to be welded shut with chewing gum. It also had an ink well – complete with an empty packet of Frazzles stuffed into it.

  Furniture? I thought derisively. Most of it would be better on a bonfire!

   Mr Biddle then put on his glasses and examined the specimens he’d been landed with. ‘Now if any of you want to start a row, just let me remind you of all the big guns lined up behind me. I’ve got Mr Morton the Head, there’s also you’re Head of House and your form tutor. That’s enough to blow you out of the water before you even start,’ he looked ominously in my direction. ‘So if you’re thinking about a row forget it,’ his voice then softened a little. ‘Now you’re the kids that find learning that little bit difficult - you’re not thick,’ he added hurriedly, ‘It’s just that much harder for you.’

   With these choice words the opening lesson of High School began....

Book Tower

Last week, we took the kids to visit Sudbury Hall - home to the Museum of Childhood. As I struggled up the grand entrance steps, wrestling with Josh's pushcair, I had a feeling of familiarity, as if I'd been here before.

 Of course I'd been here before - several times, I first came here when I was nine for a school trip back in 82, but this was something different - where had I seen that door before?

 ... and then it struck me (not the door) - it was from the Book Tower!

 For the nonplussed, The Book Tower was an ITV weekly kids' programme, aimed at getting children interested in (not surprisingly) books and reading. Sort of like BBC's Jackanory, but not so straight faced.

What most people will remember about The Book Tower is the theme music. This was a particularly creepy number (written by Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber), played on an organ, accompanied by zoom shots of a gothic house which wouldn't have looked out of place in an M R James story. You could almost imagine Vincent Price hunched over the keyboard in Dr Phibes fashion.

 As the titles finished, you were greeted, not by Vincent leering into your living room, but grinning former Time Lord, Tom Baker (a pretty close second).

 In fact there was a bit of a Dr Who feel to the whole thing, in its 10 year run there was a steady succession of eccentric presenters, including two former dads of Adrian Mole - namely Stephen Moore and Alun Armstrong, Neil Innes (Puddle Lane, The Ruttles) followed by poet and fellow GRIMMS member, Roger McGough and finally Bernard Bresslaw (I only arsked) and Timmy Mallet (look at the camera and say BLAIR!).

 Unlike Jackanory, the stories were partly dramatised, and I can recall one quite disturbing scene of an old woman drowning a cat from (I think) The Nine Lives of Montezuma by Michael Morpurgo. Another book featured was The Warlock of Firetop Mountain by Steve Jackson and Ian Livingstone from the Fighting Fantasy gamebook series, where I vaguely remember Stephen Moore and a kid dressed in sword and sorcery clobber exploring a paper mache dungeon.

 One item I didn't see, but would have liked to, was Neil Innes' interview with Lucy Boston, the children's author of the Green Knowe series. She would have been in her nineties then - quite a remarkable lady.

The Book Tower closed it's doors back in 1989. Since then ITV seems to have slowly shut up the shop on children's programmes, finding it easier just to import cheap cartoons to drain kids' brains - but that's only a bookworm's opinion.

Ah well, as Tom Baker would say, 'Goodbye until next week, ha ha.'

Never Look Back

I'm putting my 40 year frame through a half marathon in October, and I thought it was only fair to do it for a good cause. So which one of the needy charities did I pick?

The idea for my chosen charity, came at the end of my recent birthday party, when (slightly inebriated)  I was chatting to my mate Jason, about 1970s celebrities, (Frank Bough, Dicky Davies etc), when he promptly put down his glass and announced wide eyed.

 'Rob, recharge the glasses - we must make a toast.'

 Not needing much encouragement, I sloshed a generous measure of scotch in each glass, and we raised them high.

'To Sir Richard Stilgoe!' intoned Jason

 We clinked glasses, toasted good Sir Richard and knocked the whisky down the hatch.

  It was only in the cold light of day, with a fiery hangover that I thought about that toast. 'Sir' Richard Stilgoe?

Richard Stilgoe was the resident pianist on Nationwide, the 1970s topical magazine show. A merry minstrel, able to knock out a witty ditty in a minute's notice. In addition he's also penned lyrics for West End musicals, and hosted Finders Keepers, a childrens' game show in the 80s for swotty kids based on 'Battleships' (Alpha Four!). All jolly clever stuff - but does it merit being made a Knight of the Realm?
 
Well,  Mr Stilgoe was knighted for his charitable services - in particular his work with the Orpheus Centre. Orpheus? Wasn't he the legendary poet and musician of ancient Greek myth, who had a can-can tune written in his honour? Intigued, I decided to find out more...

The Orpheus centre was founded in Godstone, Surrey by Richard Stilgoe back in 1998.

It is a registered charity, and enables young adults with learning/physical disabilities to learn performance arts (dance, drama etc) with productions that help promote confidence and self esteem.The students are also taught life and employment skills to live independently. This seemed a worthy cause, so I e-mailed Orpheus, and (after a cheery reply), a sponsorship pack, dropped through the letter box two days later.

No going back now - best start getting some training in for October!

For more information about the Orpheus Centre and forthcoming students' productions, visit their web site.

http://www.orpheus.org.uk/

Back to the 70s

I was born in 1972, so when I hit the 40 mark back in June, I decided to celebrate with a 1970s themed party.

 My first thought was drinks - what was the choice of tipple back then?

  Remembering the Leonard Rossiter & Joan Collins adverts, Cinzana Bianco sprang to mind along with Campari (Lorraine Chase -  nah, Luton Airport!) and Advocaat for mixing with lemonade to make those snowballs.

  70s party goers seemed to have a sweeter tooth when it came to wines, so Chardonnays were out and Matteus Rose alongside Blue Nun (of course) were in.

  Non alcoholic drinks were also needed, so alongside the booze was a selection of softies including classics such as dandelion and burdoch, ginger beer and Tizer (we can tell it's Tizer when our eyes are shut!)

  So much for the beverages - but what about the food?

  A cheese and pineapple display graced the table, along with Black Forest Gateaux, scampi (the cavier of the 70s) and an assortment of nibbles including twiglets, frazzles and chipsticks.

 There was also the all important question of what to wear, a friend pointed us in the direction of Lichfield to a shop that sold all manner of retro clobber. After happily rummaging around the clothes racks one saturday morning, I knocked together a 70s outfit consisting of a pair of beige flares, a pointy collared shirt and a cravat to top it off.

Facial hair also seemed to be popular back then - not just goaties or ratty beards but bona fide moustaches as sported by Dicky Davies, John Cleese et al.

 Most people got into the 70s spirit (quite literally!) and arrived sporting retro gear (charity shops did well that weekend) and a great party was had.

We discovered that Campari and soda is definitely an 'acquired ' taste, while Matteus Rose got the thumbs up in the 'moreish' stakes.

 I also tried (unsuccessfully) to introduce my kids to the delights of  70s 'flying saucer' sweets. I did assure them that after the initial taste of damp cardboard, it does get better.

The next morning I had a (surprisingly) mild hangover, and after several cups of strong coffee I was ready to face middle age!

A Gothic Evening - Part Two

As promised, here's the second part of the story.

    Town on a Monday evening was like a Wild West ghost town with October leaves and crisp bags that drifted sadly about. The Art Centre was closed and silent, a skewed poster on the window informed that ‘Soul Scream’ would be playing live at the Queen Caroline in Stafford – coach leaves at 7.30. We sat down on the wall and Ant chucked us each a fag, he made a grand gesture of lighting them with his new Zippo lighter, and nearly burnt his fingers for his efforts. Matt looked thoughtful as he took a drag of his ciggy, then he turned to me with a wry smile.

   ‘Hope you don’t mind Rich mate, but as you and Emily are no longer an item – you don’t mind if I have a crack at her.’

   I felt a sharp wrench inside. Yes I mind, and well you know it you bloody vulture.

   ‘Not at all, good luck to you.’

    ‘That’s cool, cause I’ve already asked her out!’

  Ant must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm, as he added his own eloquent two penn’orth, ‘Rich’s just miffed that he never got the chance to get into her knickers.’

   A four letter retort sprang to mind but I said nothing.

    ‘Never mind mate, perhaps you’ll have more luck with these Goth chicks.’

    I’d recently listened to a new Bon Jovi song called ‘Blood on Blood’ about kids being friends for ever and all that. I thought it could have been written about me, Matt and Ant - but now I wasn’t so sure. We’d turned sixteen and something had changed.

   A few cars had pulled up outside the Art centre and a number of black clad folk with palid faces and impossible hair had started to trickle in - the gathering of the Goths had begun. There seemed to be quite a few girls, notably more than found amongst the metal crowd.

    ‘Wonder what she uses to get her hair like that?’ Ant gestured to a nearby Goth girl, she seemed to be wearing a sort of floral dressing gown and her raven locks stuck up wildly in all directions.

   ‘Go and ask her!’ Matt nudged his arm, ‘I wouldn’t mind gelling her hair for her.’

   Typical Matt humour - sort or Eric Idle crossed with David Lee Roth.

    ‘Good you could make it lads,’ Justin had arrived and was making his way through the throng. He had been in our last year at school but had left early (some say expelled) in slightly mysterious circumstances. I hadn’t known him too well, but he’d seemed an ok sort. In honour of the occasion he’d donned his old school jumper, although now it was tactfully adorned with slashes, and (bizarrely) a Cadburys Dairy Milk badge - there was also a hint of make-up. He seemed to know a lot of the Goth crowd and paused to flirt with a girl before joining us.

    By the time the venerable coach pulled up a small crowd had gathered and the smell of hairspray and petula mingled with diesel fumes. We clambered on board and headed for the back seats, they were of the old fashioned bristle type and smelt faintly of disinfectant.

   ‘How are you doing at college?’ I asked Justin.

    ‘Oh great they did me a favour expelling me from school.’

     We were joined on the back seat by a Goth lad and girl. The lad seemed a few years older than us and wore a greatcoat that looked like it had last seen use at the Battle of the Somme, his acned face was part hidden with a pair of dark shades. The girl was slim and surprisingly she had red hair rather than the usual black dyed locks. She was quite cute too, with large brown eyes, she flashed us a smile before sitting down.  The coach was now full and the driver pulled away from the Arts Centre and headed towards the A5. I glanced across at Matt, and he shot me a questioning look. I could tell what he was thinking. What on earth are we doing on this coach in the company of a tribe of Rocky Horror Show rejects. The lad fished around in his greatcoat and like a shabby conjurer produced a bottle of Strongbow cider, ‘Here you go lads.’

   Not wishing to appear an outsider I took a swig from the bottle, inwardly grimacing at the warm, sour taste. As I passed it across to Matt, I certainly hoped it was just only cider. The girl wandered up the aisle to talk to a friend, Ant leaned forward and in a low voice whispered ‘I want to do it with her!’

   ‘Do what?’ said Matt, ‘Breakdance? Ride a Tandem?’

   ‘No,’ Ant Frowned, ‘You Know.’

She wandered back and tumbled into the lap of the lad, and in a haze of cider fumes they started to snog noisily, while Ant stared fixedly out the window and fumed silently.

Back in our Day - Into the Labyrinth

This was a 1980 offering from HTV about the adventures of three time travelling kids.

  The kids, Phil, Helen and Terry have been recruited by sorcerer Rothgo (grumpy but good) to help him in his quest for the magical 'Nidus' stone. Unfortunately, Rothgo has a nemesis, in the form of the witch Belor (fearsome but foxy) who will stop at nothing to get her hands on the Nidus.

  Following the spooky theme tune, the kids would arrive in a different time zone (Dark Ages etc). Rothgo (delightfully played by Ron Moody) would be in disguise ( as a dotty druid or something) and be able to help the kids in their search. The downside being that Belor (a sultry Pamela Salem) was also in the zone (normally disguised as a cunning - but cute courtesan) and out to nail those pesky kids.

 The Nidus would be hidden as an everyday object and once the kids had found it, Belor would appear cackling maniacally as her witchy self, to scream out her famous line "I deny you the Nydus!" Kids and Nydus would be flung into a different time zone and the quest would continue...

  As with Dr Who, time travel is always a good theme for a story. Unfortunately the show was made on a very shoestring budget - Dr Who was almost Star Wars in comparison. The way to get round this was to use the same polystyrene cave set every week, with different costumes and period decorations. Surprisingly, this worked quite well and gave an eerie background to the adventures.

 What made the series, was the on-screen chemistry between Salem and Moody, who seemed to enjoy playing the feuding wizards, squaring up to fight 'astral duels' with lightning bolts.

 Even for the time, the special effects were a little limp, and are fairly comical compared to today's CGI magic. However, 'Into the Labyrinth' was certainly entertaining (better than watching Blue Peter)  and definite nostalgia for a child of the 80s .

A Gothic Evening - Part 1

A bit of a Blue Peter style post this week (here's one we did earlier). This is the first part to a story extract I posted a while back called A Gothic Evening. I'll repost the second part (without the opening blurb) to keep the story in sequence. Hope you enjoy.

 What do you wear to a Goth concert? That was the question I pondered as I stared forlornly into the wardrobe looking for suitable clobber. After some deliberation I decided upon a faded pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with the logo ‘Anthrax!’ across it. Goths wore make up and stuff didn’t they? I thought briefly about borrowing some of mum’s black eyeliner – and rapidly dropped the idea. Best not to give my sister too much ammo, she frequently muttered comments about bottle blond brothers with girly hair; too trendy my sister - what with her Erasure tapes and all that.  A knock at the door interrupted these musings. Before I answered, I made the finishing touch to my Goth rock look – a ‘Motorhead’ pendent in the shape of an iron cross. Not strictly Gothic – but who cares?

   At the front door were Matt and Ant, who, like me, were togged up in their ‘metal’ gear. Matt wore denims and a ripped ‘Metallica’ t-shirt, while Ant sported a tasselled leather jacket and a pair of black spandex trousers over his long legs - the image of a Liquorice Allsort sprang to mind. As he dramatically flicked his hair over his shoulder I caught the sickly whiff of petula oil. Yep, no doubt he’d been on a shopping spree at the ‘Oasis’ indoor market – he always did have more dosh than the rest of us.

‘Wahay!’ said Matt grinning, ‘let’s get going - we’re meeting Justin outside the Art Centre!’

   ‘Enjoy yourselves, girls!’ as we walked down the drive, my sister's voice called mockingly from her bedroom window.

Fallen Angels - Coward’s Classic

 

Haven't posted for a few weeks, so I thought I'd try something a bit different. This is my first bash at a play review, and it's Fallen Angels performed by Intimate Theatre.

Intimate Theatre staged their version of Noel Coward’s ‘Fallen Angels’ at the George Hotel in Lichfield on the 13^th April.

  This was a ‘double first’ evening for me, it was the first time I had seen an 'Intimate' production and the first time I had seen any of Coward’s work performed.

  In fact, my knowledge of Coward is pretty limited to smoking jackets and ‘Don’t put your daughter on the stage Mrs Worthington,’ so I was looking forward to this play.

  With a minimum of props, and the song‘La Mer’ playing in the background, the Garrick Suite was transformed into 1950s elegance.

  The story centres on two young friends, Julia and Jane, whose husbands Fred and Willie prefer the Golf course to their wives. The girls receive a post card from a mysterious Frenchman, Maurice Duclos (charmingly played by Ian Henderson), whom they both had a fling with before married life, and who is returning to stay in London.

  With the guys away on a golfing weekend, Jane joins Julia at her flat for dinner, where they agree to push their stuffy husbands aside and surrender to the Gallic charms of Maurice, when he arrives. However, the drinks are flowing, and a tipsy (but bitchy) rivalry, is soon in full swing.

   The girls are played to perfection; Nicola Bannister showed clever timing as ice maiden Jane, who melts into drunken hysterics after numerous glasses of fizz, while Amanda Robertson excelled as the elegant – but neglected – Julia.

  Robin Lewitt gave a stylish portrayal of Julia’s golf loving, frustrated husband Fred, and Richard Bannister played the priggish Willy (complete with Oxford bags) to full bombastic effect.  

  

   To say any more would spoil the story, but a special mention must be made of Sue Evans who plays Saunders, the knowing maid, who certainly has the edge over her naïve employers.

  This was an enjoyable performance, and I hope to see more of Intimate Theatre’s productions in the near future.

Valkyrie

Back in the 80s, Heavy Metal was a musical genre lacking a feminine touch. Of course, there were artists such as Ann and Nancy Wilson, Pat Benator or Joan Jett but they were more rock gals as opposed to 'proper' ladies of metal.

  An exception was Doro Pesch, frontlady of German head bangers Warlock. With Valkyresque looks and a line in slinky black leather, Doro was something of an icon for spotty adolescent rock fans such as myself. Sugary pop chicks such as Sinitta or Kylie (as she was then) just didn't cut it compared to this metal maid.

  Easy on the eye, Doro could also belt out a few tunes, whether screaming like a banshee on anthems such as 'All we are!' or showing her melodic side on the haunting ballad 'Fur Immer'.

  I saw Warlock back in 87, (my first gig!) when they opened for Ronnie Dio (RIP) in Birmingham at the NEC. Nearly three decades on, Doro is still recording/performing and - apart from the odd foray into classical - still rocking.

 Whether you love or loath Heavy Metal, Doro deserves some respect for surviving in the fickle music business - long may she continue.

Picture by rock photographer, Ray Palmer (1955-2002), it (or something very similar) probably graced my bedroom wall, circa 1988.

Wake up without the coffee

A guy at work was rubbishing Camp Coffee.

'Absolute dross, on a par with some of the worst supermarket cheap, chicory crap!'

  I have an affection for this sticky beverage, so I beg to differ. A cup of camp made with hot milk is as fine a drink as any (except a good scotch). It's not bad in cakes too.

  So if there's a bottle lurking at the back of your cupboard (probably stuck fast with congealed gunge), give it a go, you may be surprised. It evens boasts a new label with the sepoy and highlander sitting down and enjoying a cuppa together.

 Allright, it's not coffee, but then it's never claimed to be.

 Before this blog turns into a free advert, I must explain the coffee theme. For two weeks now I've given up drinking coffee.

  At work this is dead easy, the coffee comes in those big economy tubs, where after a couple of weeks the contents have the resemblance (and probably the taste) of a tray of cat litter. At home it's more tricky, I like fresh coffee, made in a cafatiere, that fills the kitchen with a fragrant aroma and gives you that morning kick up the derriere.

 I didn't think you could get withdrawal symptoms from coffee, but over the last few days I've had cravings as bad as any when I packed in smoking ciggys.

  Ah well, I have a few more weeks to go yet, so best grit my teeth and enjoy my cup of Redbush tea.

Tying the knot

There was an article on the BBC website about ties, apparently school kids are now showing a new rebellious streak by knotting their ties in outlandish fashions.

 I wonder what school the writer went to? This revelation is nothing new, and for years kids have been wearing school ties in any number of weird styles.

  At my school, the fashion was to tuck the fat end inside your shirt and just show the skinny length; often the tie would be pulled down barely visible, to your jumper neck. A few years earlier, when my sister was at school, the trend was the opposite and ties would be worn in a freakishly fat knot - with the tie often as wide as it was long. Uniforms weren't compulsory at sixth form, and my tie probably ended up in the clothes rag-bag along with the rest of my old school clobber. I now had a tie free time until I started work.

   My first 'job' was a YTS placement at John German chartered surveyors, where the senior partner bluntly told me to cut my hair and put on a tie if they were going to suffer my presence in the office (a bit rich - considering they were getting me for gratis). At my next office, open necked shirts were also taboo. If you forgot your tie, the senior draughtsman would lend you one of his spares. These were a selection of 1970s kippers garishly decorated with paisley swirls - and a surefire incentive to remember your tie!

  I don't where a tie to work now. If media presenters, (seen by millions on national TV), don't bother, why should I - working on an industrial estate? I must admit though, seeing a middle aged TV presenter, shirt askew, as if he's had a rough night on the razzle, isn't too inspiring.

 So the ties have been consigned to the wardrobe, only to venture out for weddings and interviews etc; and if I look hard enough, I'm sure I'll find a paisley number lurking at the back somewhere...

Running for 40

This is the 20th post - and my first mile stone in blogging; so a big thank you to everybody who's taken the time to read my ramblings - much appreciated.

  My 40th birthday is approaching rapidly, and I wanted to do something to mark the event. So, in a moment of madness I signed up for the Great Birmingham Run in October.

 Why not something different - like Machu Picchu by spacehopper?

  Well, it's been nearly 10 years since a younger and fitter me last ran a half marathon, and I want to see if the old dog can still do it.

 Why not go the whole hog and run a full 26 miles?

   Good question - I've ran the Newcastle Great North Run three times and each time I've  reached the last mile along the South Shield sea front, things were starting to hurt. Thighs were rubbed raw, knees protested, and the idea of running another 13 miles didn't appeal.

  I trained for the Great North Run with my friend Steve. We ran a weekly circuit of country lanes and villages on summer evenings. A fellow friend, Jason (my old brandy drinking companion), suggested an alternative route.

  'When you get to the village on the hill, don't turn left, go straight on. There's a nice little route - I've tried it, it'll only take you about ten minutes.'

  So we gave it a go. The fields were bathed in the evening sunshine, and we chatted about everything and nothing as we ran -  it was a pleasant route indeed.

  J R R Tolkien wrote 'The road goes ever on'; well this road went on and on - and then some. A ruler straight run, heading off into the sunset. Eventually we emerged (somewhat wearily) onto a main road, where we were about 8 miles from home. There was nothing for it but to trot back to blighty. I came home footsore with 'joggers nipple' and a craving for a large cheese sandwich.

The next time we saw Jason we mentioned his little detour.

   'I thought you said it would take ten minutes,' quizzed Steve

   'Well it did - driving in the car.'

    Hmmmm - not quite the same thing, but never mind.

What the Dickens...

Tuesday was the bicentenary of the birth of Charles Dickens, and I must confess that I haven't read any of his books.

  That's not entirely true - I've read a Christmas Carol and a couple of his other ghost stories, but the rest of his great works, Oliver Twist, David Copperfield etc, remain unopened.

  I did tentatively start 'Great Expectations', but I never ventured pass Miss Havisham and her mouldy wedding breakfast. One thing I did enjoy though, was the BBC adaption of Bleak House.

  Bleak House has a complex plot (which I won't do justice trying to explain in this Blog) which centres around the heroine, Esther Summerson (played by Anna Maxwell-Martin) and her search for her parents' identity.

  Costume dramas (particularly the Austin variety) can sometimes have a 'fluffy' feel to them, but this was very different. A dark brooding story set against the hopeless background of the London chancery courts - where families are broken by endless legal quarrels. 

  The adaption featured an all star cast, with Charles Dance, as sinister lawyer Tulkinghorn, and Gillian Anderson (in a very 'un-Scully' role) as tragic Lady Deadlock.

  So what am I waiting for? Grab a copy, get reading, and reacquaint myself with characters such as 'Conversation' Kenge, Harold Skimpole and the sleuthing Inspector Bucket.

Jobs for a Junior

My first proper job (excluding YTS slavery) was with a firm of consulting engineers in Birmingham.

  I was a junior working in the drawing office. 'Drawing office' was a loose description and the lads frequently took on the roles of handymen and general dogsbodies.

  These other duties included changing light bulbs and shifting sacks of rubbish down to the skip. I often wondered why we didn't wear boiler suits rather than shirts and ties.
 
 Occasionally more novel tasks would crop up. I once fetched a bottle of scotch for the chief draughtsman (12 year old single malt no less) and placed a horse racing bet on the strength of a tip (PG?) from the tea-lady (came nowhere -  must have read her tea leaves wrong). However, the job that sticks in my mind was when the juniors did a stint of 'guard duty'.

  The firm had been involved in the design of an unpopular road bypass. As a result, protestors had shown their dissaproval by scrawling graffiti and daubing s**t over several of the firm's offices. This triggered a minor panic amongst the Birmingham management. We could be next - the Goths were at the gates of Rome! (well Goths in Brum, possibly).

  I was first on the sentry rota. Armed only with the office mobile phone, (which could have doubled as a club) and a Colin Dexter Novel, I sat in the foyer awaiting an invasion of New Age protesters. If they had decided to storm the office Bastille style I don't know what I could have done. Perhaps fended them off with a cleaners mop while frantically phoning, 'Help! The Crusties are here!'

 In any event nothing happened, Morse solved his case, and I went back upstairs to a boring afternoon  at work.

Bob's your Uncle

I was sad to hear on friday that Bob Holness had died - another face from my childhood has gone.

  Bob had a long broadcasting career, but is best remembered as the presenter of Blockbusters the tea time quiz for sixth formers with its famous signature tune, hand jives and the eponymous catchphrase 'Can I have a p please Bob?'

 On the face of it, Bob was a unlikely choice as a host. Rather than a young trendy presenter, Bob was a rather avuncular figure - grey haired, bespectacled and smartly dressed. He reminded me of a kindly old lecturer- a little authority, but not patronising in a Jeremy Paxman way.  

 A girl from our sixth form went on Blockbusters, she didn't quite get to the 'Goldrun' stage but went away with the concilatory sweat shirt and dictionary (like the Blankety Blank cheque book and pen, but more use). I wonder if she still has them?

 For myself, being a Blockbusters contestant was about as likely as dating Madonna, but I did see Bob once, as part of a studio audience when he hosted the revamped 'Call my Bluff', with team captains Sandi Toksvig and Alan Coren (sadly also gone).

 Bob you were an 80s icon - I raise a glass to you, 'Lets play Blockbusters!'

Robs Reviews - 'Clips from a Life'

Happy New Year everyone!

I haven't made any resolutions, apart from to buy some new trainers - quickly! My old faithfuls will be soon be nipping out the back door for a run on their own (if my wife doesn't sling them in the wheelie bin first!)

  Something new I would like to introduce is the occasional book review, and my first one is Denis Norden's 'Clips from a Life'.


  Growing up in the 80s, Denis was the laid back host of 'It'll Be Alright on the Night' and`Clips from a Life', is a selection of humorous prose from Denis's long and varied career.

  Rather than an old school autobiography, Denis provides a series of snapshots, covering his early days working in cinema and subsequent RAF service, through to his writing partnership with Frank Muir and later television work (It’ll be Alright on the Night etc.)

  As one reviewer noted ‘Clips’ is padded out with a large glossary, which isn’t really necessary, and naturally there is some crossover with Frank Muir’s book ‘A Kentish Lad’.

  Minor criticisms aside, Denis’s anecdotes are very funny and ‘Clips’ is the kind of book to dip into and have a chuckle when you are feeling a bit down.