Anecdote – John, books and dope

Posted on November 7, 2019 by Opher

Anecdote – John, books and dope

John, books and dope

John lived next door to us. He was quiet and retiring but not unfriendly. He was just exceedingly shy. You hardly saw him because he rarely opened his door. Indeed the only time I ever saw him out of his flat was when I invited him round for a coffee. I wondered how he managed to get his groceries. I certainly did not encounter him outside of the house.

He came in, took his mug of coffee, and started looking at our books. The walls were lined with them. It seemed to spook him out completely.

‘How did you find out about all these?’ he asked, astounded that anyone should have the slightest knowledge of literature.

He never came for coffee again.

John was in his thirties, a well cushioned fellow with long straggly fair hair and rheumy eyes. He’d achieved a First from Cambridge in English Literature.

John had a room with a very large square dark oak table that was pushed against the wall in front of the window. The only other furniture were two armchairs and large shelving units crammed with books. There were piles of books everywhere.

The large table was unusable. It was covered with a huge mound of roaches from joints that were piled up into a great peak resembling Mount Kilimanjaro. They reached to the edges and threatened to spill on to the floor.

John spent his days sitting in his armchair smoking dope and reading.

That was the sum total of his life.

Anecdote – the kids, red powder paint and attempted murder.

Posted on November 6, 2019 by Opher

Anecdote – the kids, red powder paint and attempted murder.

Kids and red powder paint

Back in the days when our kids were little we would go and visit our good friends in Bangor. They had kids of a similar age and lived in a pleasant cottage close to the monument. You went up a little lane into this delightful secluded garden full of flowers. We spent idyllic weeks in the place.

One bright sunny summer day when we were sitting around talking our two eldest boys, with a younger one in tow, decided to get up to mischief. I don’t quite know what was on their minds but they sure planned something out. I don’t think they even knew what. One thing led to another. I believe it was merely devilment.

While we were distracted one of them climbed through the open kitchen window and managed to get one of the big tins of tempera powder paint down from the top shelf of the cupboard. That was quite a feat.

They smuggled the tin outside into the garden.

Now the three of them had to decide what to do with a big tin of illicit powder paint.

Well the first part had been simple. Now they were flummoxed.

Somehow they got the lid off.

By the time we discovered them, after a period of quiet, they were sitting in a circle ladling big spoonfuls of dry paint on to each other’s heads. At the time they had longish hair and were wearing next to nothing as it was very warm. The powder found purchase. They had big cones of powder on top of their head. The game seemed to consist of who could create the biggest heap.

There was quite a scene. We were angry that they had done such a devious thing but we were also very worried that all this paint might get into their eyes and cause damage.

They were mortified as we started shouting at them. As their tears hit the dried paint on their body it left bright crimson streaks which only served to make us even more agitated and anxious. While my friend rushed in to get towels I led the kids over to the garden hose. I continued to berate them while I turned the hose on them which made them shriek and squeal. As soon as the water hit them the paint streaming down their bodies in great crimson rivers. I was desperately trying to keep it out of their eyes and continued explaining, in heated terms, just what idiots they had been, while grabbing them to stop them running away as they jumped around and attempted to evade the stream of water.

In the midst of this pandemonium I looked up to see a whole family peering down at us from the top of the monument. They looked utterly aghast. I realised that from their perspective there were three screaming kids who appeared to be pouring with blood being attacked by some raving adult. No wonder they looked so shocked.

I quickly hosed the children down and we dried them off. The family up the monument had disappeared.

We spent the rest of the day expecting a visit from the local constabulary. That never materialised.

Now you might have thought that the kids might have learnt their lesson but no such luck. It was apparent that applying cones of powder to their heads was all the fashion that summer. We later found them in a similar condition with cones of white snowcem on their heads.

This might have proved even worse for eyes and certainly required similar drastic treatment but this time, fortunately, the streams of white were not quite so dramatic and there was nobody up the monument to witness it.

After that the kids had either banished the desire out of their system or learnt their lesson. There were no further instances ….. that I know of.

Anecdote – Worse is often better!

Posted on November 6, 2019 by Opher

Anecdote – Worse is often better!

Worse is often better!

There is more to something than how technically good it is. Sometimes worse is better.

Ginger Baker was scathing about Hendrix’s drummer Mitch Mitchell and even the Who’s Keith Moon. But I cannot imagine the Experience or Who sounding better. Both Keith and Mitch provided excitement. I think Hendrix was always great when he had some passion behind him and Noel and Mitch provided that. The same is true of White Stripes. Meg isn’t the best drummer in the world but she created exactly the right raw backing.

Looking back over Rock Music I think it’s safe to say that many great moments have sprung from the loins of musical mediocrity while much boring tripe has been spawned from technical genius.

I think it’s safe to say that the Kingsmen were not in the musical elite but their version of Louie Louie was the best. The Sonics – Five Great guys – three great chords summed it up. Some of my favourite Punk is pretty basic.

Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band are the best band to come out of Rock Music because, despite the intricacy and sophistication of the songs, they still manage to capture that power and drive. The complexity does not detract.

I like a range of Rock Music. I like loud, raw and exciting and I like melodic, gentle and thoughtful. I like music that says some and music that is visceral. Roy Harper appeals to me because the lyrics are so poetic, forceful and pertinent and the music is brilliant too. He has power and intensity and is capable of sophistication and complexity without inducing catatonia.

It depends on mood.

If you want music that is brilliant technically you head for Classical or Jazz. Me – I like to Rock!

Anecdote – On the Greyhound back through Mexico, and Texas to New York

Posted on November 6, 2019 by Opher

Anecdote – On the Greyhound back through Mexico, and Texas to New York

On the Greyhound back through Mexico, and Texas to New York

After a pleasant few days in Venice playing music, talking through the night and putting the world to rights with a bunch of like-minded people, it was time to head off. We boarded a greyhound and headed south with the intent of checking out Mexico.

We stopped off at San Diego but the bus stopped downtown in a dingy, decaying area that was none too appealing. We stretched our legs, got some food and set off again.

Heading to the Mexican border was exciting, arriving rather less so. Being refused entry because of hair length was deflating. We stood and stared across at Mexico, we breathed in lungfuls of air carried on the breeze but we did not get to set foot in it.

The bus was our home. It trundled through the night as we dozed. It stopped in little towns and we set off to taste the air, eat, freshen up and clear our heads. In Texas we got hassled like a scene out of Easy Rider.

We stopped in some small town that seemed more like a frontiers town from the 19^th century. There were wooden boardwalks and hitching rails, cowboys in big ten gallon Stetsons, gun belts, yeans with cowboy boots and spurs. The strange thing was that these ‘cowboys’ then climbed into station wagons and drove away. You wondered how they could drive with those big spurs sticking out.

We only had forty minutes so we found a burger joint and sat down at the bar. After ten minutes, in which time we were studiously ignored while all around were served, we realised that we were not welcome and left.

Back on the bus a bunch of crew-cutted youths started taking the piss and baiting us. Everybody else on the bus studiously ignored it and for a while it looked like it was going to turn very nasty. Fortunately they contented themselves with verbal ridicule and disappeared at the next stop.

Texas hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of the States.

As we headed east we were seated next to a young American Indian girl and we started talking. Her grandfather lived in California and had contacted her. He lived in a log cabin built into a ridge that he’d hollowed out. He informed her that he would be dying shortly and wanted her to join him as he revisited all the places he’d been to say goodbye. She told me how they had gone on horseback around the countryside and performed little rituals at places of importance. When they had returned he had dug up some relics that he had buried in a skin in the floor of his cabin. He had given these to her so that they would be passed on. She would not show me them because she said they were sacred. But she did unwrap a large rock that was around eight inches in diameter and had a big groove worn round it. She explained that it was a weapon used in buffalo hunting. A leather thong was wound round the rock and it was swung in a circle. A warrior hunter would ride up alongside a buffalo and chase it down while whirling this heavy rock around and then bring it down on the buffalo’s skull. When it fell stunned he would jump down and quickly slit its throat with a knife.

I could picture the scene. A herd of buffalo, hundreds of thousands strong, stampeding along so that the ground shook and a warrior, bareback on a horse, hanging on to the mane with one hand, twirling the heavy rock around with the other and guiding the horse along with his knees to bring it right up alongside the chosen careering buffalo. Then the swing to crash it into the beasts forehead and it stumbling to its knees as, quick as a flash he leapt from the horse’s back to dispatch it.

I could not begin to appreciate the skills involved. I had ridden horses bareback and I knew that wasn’t easy. To become so adept that you could gallop and guide with your knees along while twirling such a weight as this was truly amazing. One slip and you would be under those hooves. To be able to kill an animal as big and powerful as a buffalo was awesome.

I found myself looking out of the window of the coach as we passed through the arid lands and marveling at the life of those nomadic tribes. It was tough and exciting, a million miles away from the life I led. I hankered for it.

We arrived back in Boston to say goodbye to our good friends. On the day of our departure Donna rushed in. She was a waitress in the Deli I had worked in and was clutching a newspaper – the Boston Evening Globe – the biggest newspaper in Boston. We were on the front of it.

Right under the heading was a big picture of Liz and I, taken from behind as we walked along Massachusetts Avenue with the caption – ‘a young couple in step with themselves and the times’. They must have been short of news that day.

We arrived in New York and headed for the subway with its graffiti covered trains. We’d worked out a way to get to the airport. We’d go to the furthest point the subway took us and catch a bus. On the way we stopped off at Macy’s to get a present for my little sister. We had worked out our fares and had one dollar and ten cents to spare. I found a little plastic clockwork duck. It was a bath toy that paddled its way across the bath. I thought she’d love it. It was ninety nine cents.

The girl made a mistake. She took my last dollar and gave me a dollar and a cent change. I nearly pointed out the error but I didn’t. It meant we could buy something to eat.

We left New York with seven cents.

Anecdote – The McDevits and the Glasgow mafia

Posted on November 5, 2019 by Opher

Anecdote – The McDevits and the Glasgow mafia

The McDevits and the Glasgow mafia

The flat in Manor House was a cornucopia of exotic characters. The most exotic of all was the McDevit family. They lived on the floor below us and expanded to take over all three bedsits.

The first to appear was Mr McDevit, a small middle-aged scruffy looking man with shaggy eyebrows and not a lot of personal hygiene. He arrived one night, moved in and established himself into a pattern that he maintained for the duration of his stay. That largely involved sitting on the bench by the park with a bottle of scotch in a brown paper bag. He always, regardless of weather, wore a long tweed overcoat. I later discovered why.

The next to arrive was Mrs McDevit. She was a larger lady with an assertive disposition. It was probably good that Mr McDevit spent most of his life outside the flat because he had been known to raise his voice and I think they might have killed each other.

Shortly after the other bedsits became vacant and various children of assorted ages, from around fourteen to late twenties, began to arrive.

They kept themselves to themselves but were friendly enough if you passed them on the stairs though utterly incomprehensible. Mr McDevit had such a strong Glaswegian accent that it would have been difficult to decipher at the best of times but when you factored in the perpetual slur from the alcohol it became merely a series of guttural sounds.

Shortly after Mr McDevit moved in all the telephone boxes in the area stopped working. This was because they had all been jimmied open. Within the recesses of the overcoat were a number of ‘tools’ one of which was a crowbar. This was deployed on phone boxes in order to replenish the stocks of alcohol. I found it interesting to imagine what the storekeepers thought when he came in to pay for a big bottle of whisky with those old many sided three penny bits.

The rumour soon went round the house that Mr McDevit was on the run. He’d had to flee Glasgow owing to a ‘dispute’ with fellow gang members. I do not know how accurate that might be but future events suggested that there might well have been some truth to it.

They were not there long.

The dry-cleaners across the road was broken into. There was no money so the burglars had stolen all the dry-cleaning.

One of the criminals had dropped an envelope with an address. The police visited the McDevits and discovered mounds of dry cleaning, along with a number of other stolen items. More worryingly they found a cache of guns under the mattresses.

No longer would I hear Mr McDevit’s greeting – ‘Arlriii thun?’ as I walked past the park bench.

Anecdote – On a Greyhound to San Francisco

Posted on November 3, 2019 by Opher

Anecdote – On a Greyhound to San Francisco

On a Greyhound to San Francisco

You can live on a Greyhound bus. It’s not easy. They have a habit of pulling into small places and dumping you off in the small hours of the night. But you can sleep, eat and watch the world. You meet a variety of people and you are kept at a nice temperature. They make regular toilet stops. The only thing missing is a shower.

We lived on the bus for a couple of weeks.

We headed out of Boston and up to Canada, stopping off at Niagara Falls for a peer over the rail at the spray and rainbows. Then it was up to Montreal where we wandered around and spoke French. I discovered that they didn’t understand me there either.

We headed off round the Great Lakes as the early Fall colours were just starting up and blotching the green with patches of red and gold. Then it was back down into America and across the vast ocean of the plains with its rippling wheat like waves. At one point we saw a line of huge combine harvesters crawling across the land. There must have been fifty of them, each one in line a length behind the other, serviced by a stream of trucks carrying off the grain. You could imagine their journey relentlessly motoring forward at a steady pace, day and night, leaving a wide swathe of stubble in their wake.

He hopped off the bus to hitch through Yellowstone to see the bears, geysers, steaming pools, bubbling mud and algae/bacteria stained deposits. Then on to Grand Canyon for a half hour peer into the chasm.

We hit San Francisco late in the evening and decided it was too late to check out our address so we hopped a bus up to Sequoia for a sleep and took time to stare at those majestic two thousand year old masters of the forest.

Walking through Haight Asbury we were home again. They had names up on the Fillmore West for the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane.

We were sick of Greyhound buses and needed a break.

Once again we found ourselves standing on a pavement with a scrap of paper looking for a fictitious person. The address did not seem to exist.

But this was the sixties (well 1971). Anything was possible.

A window went up and a girl leaned out.

‘Hey, you look lost,’ she shouted down to us. ‘Do you need a place to stay?’

We made new friends with Dave and Jack. They turned out to be the people who actually owned the place.

The Golden Gate Park and the Haight still had some of its magic. You could imagine the ‘Human Be-in’ and free concerts in the park. There was still the camaraderie and fun though the wheels were coming off, the hard drugs were there, the weekenders , young kids and junkies were all over the place.

We decided to head to Los Angeles. Given our experiences in Boston and San Francisco with addresses Jack offered to take us. We could have caught a Greyhound, we had tickets, but we decided to hitch, stop off at Big Sur and get down to this cove that Jack knew of called Pfeiffer State Beach.

It sounded cool.

Fifteen and hitching around France with Foss – the planning and execution

Posted on November 2, 2019 by Opher

Fifteen and hitching around France with Foss – the planning and execution

Fifteen and hitching around France with Foss – the planning and execution

It was 1964. Every day was bathed in the bright sunshine of possibility. There were no clouds in the sky and none on the horizon. I could do anything.

Foss was a fellow rugby player. He was a year older than me and was leaving school that year. I was fourteen and was up for adventure. We planned an adventure. It was meticulously worked out. It went like this:

We would hitch-hike down to the coast.

We would board a boat bound for France.

We would hitch-hike around France for the summer.

We would hitch-hike back, board a boat, hitch back home and reminisce.

What could possibly go wrong?

Our meticulous planning paid off. My parents were convinced that it was watertight. Foss, who was coming up sixteen, was so mature he would look after me. They were satisfied.

In hindsight it was probably more that they didn’t think we’d ever get it together. But we did.

The reality hit home. The ferries unreasonably demanded money for the fare. We were unable to hitch a ride on a boat. Then there was the small matter of food and shelter. We would no longer have access to the fridge and my bed.

It was OK. We could work it out. I had a sleeping bag and a rucksack. Foss had a tent. Admittedly it didn’t actually have a front to it but it would keep the rain off.

All we needed was a bit of cash. Neither of us was a musician so busking was out of the question. We set about delivering leaflets. That was fun. We ran down roads leaping over fences and hedges and stuffing leaflets through letterboxes. Apartment blocks were best. You could stuff a whole series of boxes with leaflets.

By the end of the first day we could see that we were not going to make a lot of money at this. No matter how fast you ran, stuffed, leapt and deposited we could not possibly deliver sufficient leaflets to make enough money. Not only that but we were knackered.

We came up with a solution. We would deliver to every other door and put three through each of the letterboxes. We’d miss out the odd street or two and dump half of the leaflets in the bin. That seemed to work.

We did this for three months and had amassed some cash. My parents were obviously impressed with my tenacity and subsidised my efforts.

We were all set.

I packed my big rucksack with essentials – a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush and the Rolling Stones first album and latest single. The Stones had just released it and I splashed some of my money on purchasing it. It could mean that we starved but at least we’d have good music while we starved (even if we had no means of playing it). When the sleeping bag was tied on the top the rucksack was nearly as big as me. Foss’s was even bigger. He had the tent.

We waved goodbye and set off cheerfully down the road. This was long before mobile phones. We would be out of contact for nearly two months. It was OK. We had a map, some rudimentary French, a bit of cash and a booklet about Youth Hostels in France. We were heading for the far south.

The sun was shining. Everything was good in the world.

I felt like Bilbo Baggins.

Anecdote – Wedding Number Three – The Pagan Maypole Fiasco

Posted on November 1, 2019 by Opher

Anecdote – Wedding Number Three – The Pagan Maypole Fiasco

Wedding Number Three – The Pagan Maypole Fiasco

As it was May 1^st and Liz’s twenty first birthday we decided to get a Maypole fertility symbol and do our own Woodstock gathering/pagan ceremony.

We invited all our friends and family.

Liz’s parents boycotted it.

Richmond Park would not let us put up a Maypole.

We couldn’t get a Maypole.

We had no money, food, drink or sounds.

So we sent out an invite (a photo of us with handwritten invite on the back) all our friends to a Pagan wedding ceremony in Oxshot Woods.

Everyone had to bring food and drink to share and perform something – A poem, song, mime, dance – we got the lot.

We found a clearing in among the trees, a friend set up a sound system from his van and everyone gathered- they somehow found us.

We had been a little concerned as the week before the heavens had opened and it had snowed. But it shined on us and was warm and pleasant. We set the woods alight with laughter, dancing, guitars, Rock, mime (? – yes mime), drama, singing and had fun. There was food and drink aplenty.

We’d collected these ice-cream tubs from cinemas which were like Greek goblets. They worked well.

It went like magic. It was magic. My parents sat serenely in the middle while everyone, long-haired and in the brightest colours, cavorted around. I have a mental picture of them sitting there enjoying it – my Dad with pipe in mouth and my Mum smiling.

Instead of a maypole we had a living tree. We had a big circle dance. It was crazy and mad. It was a fiasco that all went to plan!

That was the best Wedding of the three!

Anecdote – Wedding Number Two – The Registry Office

Posted on November 1, 2019 by Opher

Anecdote – Wedding Number Two – The Registry Office

Wedding Number Two

I enjoyed Wedding Number One. It was all up in the air and interesting. Nobody quite knew what was going to happen next.

Wedding Number Two was scheduled for the next week in the morning. We were going to make the whole thing legal, bring all the family into harmonious rapport, bring world peace and solve the Vietnam War. We decided to only invited parents and brothers and sisters to this one.

Liz’s father rang up the night before and begged her to call it off. Liz’s Mum boycotted this one as well. We were off to a good start – I still had hopes for Vietnam.

As Wedding Number Three – The Pagan ceremony – was in the afternoon we brought all the food in the back of the car. Liz had diced Cheese and butter, which was in plastic bowls, and cut French Sticks into slices. They adorned the back seat.

Unfortunately the car wouldn’t go. We were pushing it up and down the road in our wedding gear. Some guy offered to fix it for a fiver so we paid him – and he did.

We set off very late and hurtled round the North Circular – at that time unbeset by Speed Cameras. I was desperate to make up time as we were three weddings late.

We got cut up by some idiot and I had to slam on the brakes. We got deluged with cheese and butter and were picking lumps out of our hair. I think nerves were a little fraught and we found ourselves having our first (but not last) blazing row. I should not have jammed the brakes on!

We arrived only two weddings late.

Liz’s Dad was looking rather pleased. He thought we weren’t coming.

But we’d missed our slot.

Fortunately an old girlfriend of mine helped us out. She was getting married in th3e next slot and had forgotten to pick up the banns. We slotted in to her space.

It was rather a sober affair. We went in with just our family (minus Liz’s Mum) and said our words, signed the certificate and went out.

My Mum tried to add a wedding atmosphere by giving my little sister a little silver horseshoe to give to us. She may even have thrown a little bit of confetti.

Wedding Two was done and dusted!

Anecdote – Digs in Ilford

Posted on October 31, 2019 by Opher

Anecdote – Digs in Ilford

My digs in Ilford

I shared a tiny room in a flat with my friend Pete. It was so narrow that we had a single bed each side and there was a narrow gangway between. In that space we had a paraffin heater that was on constantly. It was one of those big round stove-like contraptions. We discovered that if we put a full kettle of water on top of the heater there was enough hot water left in it by morning to make two mugs of cocoa. That was breakfast sorted. We did not have to get up. We just reached, poured and drank.

The room was freezing. There was no such thing as central heating. At one end of our room were drafty French Windows. We blocked up all the cracks with newspaper but it was single glass and the heat disappeared through it like water through sand. The inside of those panes were coated with exceedingly pretty ice crystals. We heaped all our clothes on the bed for warmth. Looking back it is a wonder we did not suffocate.

At the other end of the room was a partition. The other side of which was Hans of the buzzsaw snore.

Pete collected harmoniums and had three piled up on top of each other against that wall. He also made musical instruments, light shows, and contraptions. He was an inventor. We had mandoyukes and ukolins, guitars and violins littered around.

We alleviated the gloom by putting posters up on the wall. These were on various social and environmental issues that took our fancy, cut out from magazines and collaged on sugar-paper.

I had my record player and a pile of albums that were communally played and not given the respect they deserved. I spent a lot of my grant on LPs from the second hand shops – there were a lot of Folkways albums in the old substantial cardboard covers appearing for a quid a go. A lot of my Hendrix, Traffic and Floyd, which seemed very popular, received a few too many scratches from that time.

Lipher, my pet rat, lived in, or rather on, her bird-cage. She would wander round the room and eat the soap if she could get at it.

We had a little sink with cold water.

It was a squalid, dingy, tiny, little room but did we have some times there! It rocked.

Anecdotes