Evening Star - Issue 2

SMALL LIFE IS HERE

Meet STANLEY!! Page 16.

BUS Rides.

WINKIE.

For more cats on ladders see Page 2.

I was rather fond of our two old pressing units.

With their green Hammerite casing and

Bakelite control knobs they looked like they

might have come from a Lancaster bomber.

They were made round about the middle of the

last century by "Danor of Southgate" –

according to the plate riveted on. We kept them

much longer than we should have.

Old Norris in Limehouse would refurbish

them every few years but recently declared one

to be “downright dangerous” and put it in the

skip. The other soldiered on until it would no

longer be coaxed into pumping up water.

The new boilers aren't much to look at –

encased in white steel cabinets on castors they

could be some form of medical equipment such

as kidney dialysis machines – and they come

with warnings about drawing water supplies

from ponds and wells. But the main thing is

copious steam, minimal fuss.

SMALL LIFE IS HERE

“With eyes that see the romantic in the familiar, we wander in search of excitements and satisfactions in obscure quarters…”

Geoffrey Fletcher spent a lifetime finding beauty in the mundane and overlooked, producing 18 books between 1962 and 1990 including London at My Feet, City Sights, Pearly Kingdom and his best known The London Nobody Knows. Best known because strangely it was made into a film with the actor James Mason giving a guided tour of Fletcher’s fabulously dingy domain. Whilst it’s nice to see the footage, the perfect medium for the subject is the drawing and description in his books. One of these, a scene in Limehouse, starts with the words: “Urinal, drinking fountain and gaslamp – all three under a grim railway arch: what could be better?”

With his descriptions of ruined squares of crackled stucco houses, cast iron area railings, terraces of sparrow brown houses or the odd bow windowed survival, his world crosses over with John Betjeman but without the snobbery and sentimentality. Fletcher sees at once the possibilities, the connections and goes for it with incisive wit whether it’s a doorway in Deptford, a Mayfair club or the meths drinkers of Vauxhall.

In the early books the descriptions are fairly brief, but in later years the restraint is gone and he lets rip in a fine irascible camp style. Geoffrey Fletcher was born in 1923 studied at the Slade Art School and contributed regularly to the Daily Telegraph and Guardian. He died in 2004. Much of what he described is gone and London is the poorer but much is still there. The important thing is his way of seeing which inspires one to look at new subjects in the same manner.

The DVD of The London Nobody Knows is currently available online and his books from every other second hand book shop. WmB

We are pleased to report that the two dogs abandoned in Wickham Market have found a new home in Old Town.

New owner Mrs Brown said: “As soon as we saw their photo in the Star we knew they were the dogs for us. They looked like such a lively pair.” SB It's a day I'd been dreading for a long time but I still

wasn't prepared for it when it came. I rang my order through as usual – 50 metres of

white, 50 of eau de nil, 50 of pale blue – only to be told the devastating news. No more blue.

What do you mean, no more blue? You've no more in stock? There’s some on the looms waiting to be rolled off? But no, the answer was that pale blue was finished. Kaput.

Turns out they haven't woven the fabric for the last 25 years They’ve been sitting on old stock which has finally run out. Apparently, when the schoolwear manufacturers moved over to polo shirts they were left with thousands of unwanted metres. Unfortunately for us they won’t consider cranking up the machines again for less than 2,000 metres.

I knew it wasn't worth telling them about all our customers who adore the fabric, the loosely woven cotton once widely used for sports and schoolwear and still generally referred to as ‘aertex’ (even though ‘Aertex’ is a brand name rather than the generic term for that type of cloth).

Over the years I've heard many emotional reminiscences about wearing the fabric - from happy holiday memories to jolly hockey sticks and crumpets to traumatising school changing room incidents. But one thing’s for sure, it draws more passionate comments than any other fabric we offer.

The cotton weaving industry in this country is all but finished. For the moment, pale blue is survived by his siblings eau de nil, white, navy and black but sadly not for much longer.

Page 2

THE CHOCOLATE

CHEESE MAN. By Will Brown.

The first time I became aware of him was by way of

a ridiculous pantomime cough he performed to

attract someone’s attention. Anyone’s attention. He

was happy to talk to any of the few people waiting

outside the Alliance and Leicester for the X5 bus.

The next time I saw him was early one morning

at the other end of the journey, in the seaside town

where I now know he lives. He did exactly the same

trick, coughed to attract attention and then was off

in his cheeky chappy style of banter with anyone

who would listen – the driver, the young mums or

the pensioners too early to use the free bus pass. He

stood smoking by the bus doors until time for the off

when he lugged a huge sports bag up to the back

and held court.

Cut price El Tel.

It turns out that he works via an agency for

supermarkets and small department stores

demonstrating or selling various products, hence

today the big bag of clinking bottles. “It’s an

alcoholic drink but it’s different ‘cause it’s made

from fruit”, he said, like he’d never considered

where wine, cider or schnapps came from.

I thought, he’s a character, like a vacuum cleaner

salesman or a costermonger. Also a rarity – there

are few people of working age who take the bus

round here unless they’ve been banned from

driving.

I’d say he was 50ish. Stocky, balding, his

remaining hair swept straight back, with something

of the look of Terry Venables. His face had that

shiny just shaved look and you could imagine him

slapping his cheeks with aftershave which he’d need

to combat the faggy smell which hung about his

black dandruffed coat with the too long sleeves

which the barrel-chested are often afflicted with.

This cut price El Tel could have been convincingly

played by Ricky Gervais. So I quite warmed to this

bloke with his barrel bag and matching chest and

Max Miller chit-chat.

Scotch Eggs.

I became the willing victim of his affected

opening salvo the next time I saw him. I asked him

what he was up to today. He said “Valentine’s Day

promotion. It’s cheese, but topped with chocolate.

No really, it’s nice. Unusual, innit?” The next time it

was bread “It’s good stuff this” he said patting his

tum. That’s beer I thought and had this vision of

him padding around a Pinteresque seaside flat in a

string vest before smartening up to go to the pub. In

fact I chanced upon him in a pub and expected some

good value as this was the environment he had

surely been made for, but no. He was very economic

with the verbal.

The last time I saw him he was off to tell the

citizens of Fakenham the great news about Uncle

Ben’s Garlic and Herb Wok Rice. “I’m looking

forward to Monday,” he said. “Morrison’s own

quiches and scotch eggs again, is it?” I asked. “No,

I’m off to Bangkok for a fortnight’s holiday.” I

didn’t press him further on the matter.

BINNY and DOLLY, Cromer.

DAISY, Rogate.

ALBERTINE, Saxmundham.

NADDLES, Midhurst.

FUGEE, Hackney.

WINKIE and JOE, Romford.

Page 3

The ordinary things are often the best. Here follows

a miscellaneous collection – subjective and

unabashed, of particular things that catch the eye, or

lift the spirits or warrant a mention.

Scrap paper.

It is hard to impress on some people the

importance of throwaway bits and pieces to the

collage maker. Two single sheets of paper saved

from the bin have been invaluable. The first,

whipped out from under a heap of Cox’s apples,

patterned with Union Jacks has kept me in jaunty

flags for half a decade. They billow in cut out

harbours and off paper rooftops from Scarborough

to St. Paul’s Cathedral.

More prized still is the second sheet, a

herringbone-tweed printed paper, once a wrapping

for a bunch of daffs, now the supreme found texture

ideal for a finch’s wing, a cockerel tail or a pigeon’s

back.

Pigeons.

Why cut paper pigeons? people ask. The humble

street pigeon is all around and overlooked I say. See

afresh its beauty – the rich subtle plumage

variations, blue grey with barring, mauve with

checked wing coverts and delicate iridescence at the

neck. Best of all a pied bird in the park: red legged

and white faced, its clear-eyed benign expression as

compelling as the splendour of some exotic

immigrant prized by the twitcher. The pigeon’s my

bird of choice every time.

Blood Oranges.

There is nothing better than a blood orange in

season, one which is wrapped in tissue perhaps with

a Spanish lovely peering out at you, or a fecund

orange grove ripe for the picking or memorably an

alpine Chamois poised on an Italian peak boldly

vignetted. Unwrap, flatten and retain the tissue.

Next unpeel the tawny russet skin and finally a

blood red sherbet sweet segment in the mouth.

Slow Travel.

Wherever possible I go by bike, sometimes with

my Patterdale terrier in the basket – his butter

wouldn’t melt in the mouth expression frequently

interrupted by furious outbursts at passing postmen,

skateboards or sitting cats. Slow pace travel is best.

When motoring I like to take the country route

and whenever possible cross the railway line at

Crambe (in North Yorkshire). You stop at a white-

painted-closed-wooden gate, ring a bell and wait.

Presently a pleasant man climbs down from his well

maintained signal box and opens the gate. You

thank him and proceed, admiring his tomatoes in

grow bags on the way.

A similar pleasure can be had navigating the

Yare at Reedham, a single car roll-on-roll-off ferry

chugs back and forth across the narrow river most

satisfyingly. Chains clink, you buy your ticket. A

life buoy is to hand in case of emergency.

The Post.

In praise of the post. A well penned brightly

stamped envelope is a joy to receive or send. Why

opt for a lone stamp? As a rule I select a raucous

mix of coloured stamps including at least one nine

pence stamp – a wonderful yellow, and arrange

them artfully to the bemusement of some members

of the post office staff. Snail mail perhaps, but post

that packs a visual punch is a must for me.

More besides.

Further related reading can be found in the

Saturday Books – with wonderfully eccentric and

acutely visual contributions from Olive Cook and

Edwin Smith – who note tissue orange wrappers,

pearly king costumes and much more besides.

Mark Hearld’s work can be seen at

www.stjudes.co.uk and at

www.godfreyandwatt.co.uk.

Treasure.

Spring comes in York with the first car boot sale,

an event rich with the smell of bacon sandwiches

and the promise of untold treasure, a field full of

wonderfully disparate artefacts and searching eyes

on the hunt for a find, a lustre cup, or wooden toy –

you never know till... you reveal a Victorian swan

spill vase at the bottom of a box. “Two pounds an

item. Any item two pounds.” “I’ll take this thank

you.”

Good things need not be perfect. I picked up two

Staffordshire figures on horseback (from the antique

shop opposite the Fitzwilliam in Cambridge). The

first a fine steed with a broken foreleg – as if injured

in battle. The other mount was sound, his rider once

decapitated now repaired was bought for a song, his

scars his history.

Must the Show Go On?

Morrissey, Britannia Pier, Great Yarmouth. 15th May 2009.

Monday, Albert Hall: show cancelled. Wednesday, Birmingham Symphony

Hall: show cancelled. It wasn't looking good for the modest Britannia Pier

Theatre Great Yarmouth on Friday.

Morrissey hadn't been well. He's had a fairly patchy record of turning up for

his own shows lately. There was no definite word on the internet so the journey

across the flatlands was made with small expectations.

The Britannia Theatre above the wide sands is utterly charming with its old

fashioned cinema style seating, usherettes with trays of sweets and a stage more

used to seeing the likes of Tom o' Connor and Roy Chubby Brown than the

former Smiths front man. A small open door to one side revealed a scene of

waves breaking on distant Scroby sands with its wind turbines.

There was a bit of a scramble for seats then journeys to and fro with wobbly

plastic pints before and during the warm up act which happened to be ‘Doll and

the Kicks’. The pixie like cavortings of the singer were wasted on this crowd but

what a story for her to tell the grandchildren - how she supported the Great

Morrissey back in the day.

They left to tepid applause and the curtain was raised to reveal a backdrop of

a muscular sailor. The all seated theatre became all standing with a crush to the

front and on came the old fellow, and how fantastic is he?

Voice a little weaker than his last time in Norfolk three years ago and the

band pulling more than their weight, which in the case of guitarist Boz Boorer is

considerable. He sang a few crowd pleasing Smiths songs and some from his

more recent and to my mind finest albums. The shirt came off and showed he

wasn't looking too bad.

Valiant stage invasions were repelled before the final number First of the

Gang to Die to which he added the words from Big Dee Irwin’s ‘60s hit

Swinging on a Star. It wasn’t the best I've heard him sing but as a Morrissey

moment it was perfect. WmB.

Page 4

JOHN STEED

WAS NOT MY

UNCLE.

By Will Brown.

This is the street, it's somewhere down here, left

hand side, a bit further along. It's the one on the

corner. Turn ninety degrees to get a good look at it.

That's the house I grew up in. I'm not actually there

of course, I'm looking at Google Street View.

I knew every inch of that house and garden and

to see it for the first time in thirty years feels very

strange. It was a large, detached, Crittall windowed

post war council house. Now it looks a bit smaller

and has all the usual kind of improvements. It‘s still

an average looking house in an average town.

Borehamwood, my old town, was famously dull.

Outsiders used to call it Bore-em-stiff but there was

one speck of glamour in our young lives - we had

the film studios.

My uncle Pete used to drive cars to the studios

when needed for filming and would occasionally

turn up at our house in a black and white 'Z car' or,

more thrillingly, the green nineteen twenties

Bentley that John Steed drove in The Avengers. In

my primary school playground word got round that

Steed was in fact my uncle.

For films and T.V. our local streets were

regularly cast in the role of 'Nowhere in particular'

which they played very convincingly. Even better

than Street View, I can watch the old clips on You

Tube and see the streets as they actually looked in

my youth. Marvellous thing the Netty.

There's Thelma, Bob's wife from The Likely

Lads working in my local library. There's Stan in

On The Buses heading into the launderette in the

parade of shops just around the corner from where

we lived. There's going to be a right old mix up over

some ladies underwear in a minute.

There's randy, blonde mulletted window cleaner

Robin Askwith cycling the length of our high street

behind the opening credits of Confessions of a

Window Cleaner. The same street where Dudley

Moore works as a Wimpey Bar chef in Bedazzled.

For a later generation the town and its studios

might be associated with Star Wars, East Enders

and Big Brother, but for me it's frozen in time as the

home of the low brow, smutty English comedy of

the seventies.

By Andrews of Arcadia.

Anyone with a good knowledge of regional

newspaper publishing in the last century will recall

the thrill of the appearance at five o’clock on a

Saturday of a sporting supplement known in some

towns as the Pink ‘Un and in others as the Green

‘Un.

Named after the colour of the paper they were

printed on, these were the newspapers of your

dreams – not littered with leaders, letters pages or

court reports but consisting of a couple of pieces

of folded paper bearing rushed and often

incomplete match reports and football results from

games played that very afternoon.

On those distant afternoons when rain fell in

front of floodlights and all football league games

except those being played at Tranmere, Torquay

and Hartlepool kicked off at 3pm, television, let

alone Sky television, didn’t exist in most homes.

The arrival of the ‘Un was as exciting and

comforting as the sound of Out of the Blue, the

BBC Sports Report theme tune, is today. A

constant, a life affirming moment in time that

marks the beginning of the weekend proper. The

perfect prelude to a pint of mild and a lock in at

the Royal Oak or a night in the parlour with half

a bag of chips and a loose cousin.

In Arcadia, a world where pints of mild still exist

and Out of the Blue is planned as a funeral march, I

still fantasise about the existence of a Sunday twin

supplement to the Pink/Green ‘Un dedicated solely

to fishing match results.

Printed on sky blue paper similar to the long

gone Fishing Gazette this great organ would carry

the result of the Pork Pie Classic at Gunthorpe

Bridge and tell the world who managed to scrape

half an ounce of bits from a flooded Thames at

Richmond. Reports and results from places where a

bream can break your heart, a bucket of bleak can

cheer you up and every public house still has their

own angling club.

The Blue ‘Un would be read at the table of The

Magpie after a blank day on the weir and used to

line the drawer where you keep your best worms. It

would be the week’s essential read, a telegram from

the lost world, carrying the day’s results in the

Sowerbutts Cup and a single quarter page strip

advert for the late Frank Murgett’s Maggotorium.

They say you don’t miss what you’ve never had

but that isn’t the case with the Blue ‘Un.

www.andrewsofarcardia.co.uk

You may have heard of the expression

"like a dog at broth" which means to

go at something hastily and

voraciously – which is exactly what

these two little scamps do when

presented with their favourite tea: Dog

Broth. This is how to make it. Take:

1½ kilos meaty beef bone

1 cup each of chopped cabbage, celery

and carrots

¼ cup tomato paste or blended

tomatoes (3 or 4 tomatoes)

Parsley, salt and water.

Pre-heat the oven to 175C. Put the

beef bones in a large roasting pan and

roast for an hour. Turn them every so

often so they brown on all sides.

Once done, drain out the fat. Put

the pan on the hob at a medium heat.

Add in ½ cup of water and loosen up

the meat from the pan. Make sure to

loosen all the browned bits left on the

roaster. Keep all these drippings.

In a large pot, heat the oil over a

medium heat. Add the cabbage, celery,

and carrots and stir until tender.

Add in the roasted beef bones,

reserved dripping from the roasting

pan, tomato paste, salt, parsley and 2

litres of water. Bring to a boil over a

high heat, cover and simmer for 2

hours.

To use as a broth, strain the whole

mixture, let it cool, and refrigerate.

Take off any fat from the surface and

either refrigerate this or freeze it.

To make soup, take out the beef

bones, and pour the vegetables over

some dry dog food.

Page 5

On a recent visit to London I arranged to meet Old

Brown at the Royal Festival Hall which like the rest

of the South Bank has changed considerably over

the last 15 years.

I'm not sure about midweek but on a Sunday it's

clearly a very popular meeting place. It's open plan

and spacious and seems to attract a lot of families

who can spread out in the modern way of things, sit

on low squashy sofas, read the papers and ‘bliss

out’. After sitting for a while with Old Brown

soaking up the atmosphere and reminiscing about

the days when it was virtually impossible to get a

cup of tea and a digestive on a Sunday we were

intrigued by an announcement which came over the

tannoy.

It was an invitation for anyone who felt inclined

to come onto the floor and with a musical

accompaniment express themselves through dance.

It was then I had a strange feeling of deja vu.

Butlins!

There are some differences, the most obvious

being the way the RFH celebrates its heritage – the

Skylon Restaurant and the gift shops stocked with

mid 20th century knick-knackery – whereas Butlins

seems to be doing its level best to distance itself

from any association with the 1950's. New chalet

blocks at Skegness are called the Hamptons

although I suspect you won't bump into George

Clooney while queuing for your full English.

But it was the similarities that were striking.

Butlins also has an area reserved for dance and

expression but the background noise is more likely

to be Rhianna, Beyonce or Girls Aloud rather than

an African drum beat. Both dance areas are

corralled by food outlets, albeit with different

menus. Triple chocolate Belgian muffins,

homemade granola, curried parsnip and apple soup

(Royal Festival Hall); Papa John's pasta and pizza,

Finnegans fish and chips and Burger King (Butlins)

The bars are identical but then bars usually are,

whether it's a cocktail in a glass (RFH) or cocktails

in a jug – get chilled! – Bar Rosso (Butlins), alcohol

transcends classes. Consequently the overall feel of

both places is very similar – a holding area for

families who can sit, eat, drink, dance and relax all

undercover while their children go berserk. MW

Miss Willey invites you to accompany her down the aisle.

If you want to cut down on your calorie intake you

may want to pay a visit to Budgens. The times I’ve

trawled the isles at 6pm ravenously hungry looking

for a tasty serving suggestion and more often than

not come out with bottle of bleach and some kitchen

foil. Possibly in the winter months I’ll be tempted

by a box of firelighters, but who could resist the

glow of Sunny Jim?

One of our customers came up with a good

slogan for them “Budgens – where you do some of

your shopping". Looking in the baskets at the till it

is indeed “some shopping”. Cat food, cheap booze,

gravy granules, fish fingers, milk and a big purple

one. Not like the trolleys you see loaded up in

Morrisons. Now that's what I call shopping!

Everything is massive, it's all on an industrial scale.

Sacks of crisps bigger than a small child, catering

tubs of margarine, huge vacuum packs of wafer thin

ham, bottles of fizzy pop and blocks of cheese that

could double as a doorstop.

There are a couple of things I particularly like

about Morrisons. One is the scotch pies, another is

the older gentlemen who work on the till who like to

comment on the contents your basket. “Oh, saffron.

Which plant does that come from? Don't tell me it

was on television the other night.” “Oh, olive oil.

That comes from Spain doesn't it?”

But the best thing is the Butlins style bing bong

announcements which are generally pie related,

something along the lines of “Welcome to

Morrisons. All of our pies are now half price.

Another good reason to shop at Morrisons.”

If it's top notch shopping you’re after then

please make your way to Larners in Holt, known

locally as the Harrods of the North Norfolk coast.

It's not a supermarket as such, more a purveyor of

provisions and groceries. The stock can look like it's

geared to a different generation – Epicure smoked

quails eggs, a whole shelf given over to anchovy-

based products, the full range of Tiptree jams. A

generation of retired colonels whose taste buds have

dissolved from too much whiskey and cigar smoke,

little wifey by their side daintily arranging Roka

cheese biscuits on a hostess trolley. Anyone for a

snifter? It’s stoically middle class and gentile,

shopping from a different era. Trolleys are kept to a

minimum, it's everyday shopping that fits neatly into

one basket.

Shopping in Spar doesn't even require the basket,

it can all be fitted in to the crook of your arm. Milk,

toilet roll, newspaper – leaving your right hand free

for your lottery tickets, 'bringing home the bacon'

and I don't mean the type you put in between two

slices of Kingsmill.

KNITTING AIN’T

SEXY. I love knitting and I think it's great that it’s

becoming more popular. I don’t even mind the

knitting groups that are being set up – Knit and

Knatter, Purl and Prattle, Cable and Carp (or maybe

that's a fishing group...) – but it’s just not attractive

to be seen actually doing it.

First, you have to sit in a 'good light'. For this,

read incredibly unflattering. You need to sit up

reasonably straight with elbows in – hardly languid

– and adopt the knitting pose – chin tucked in, so no

fine profile, and peer over the top of your glasses.

You put up a physical barrier around yourself with

wool, needles, pens and paper, patterns. And the

actual act of knitting is, well, quite spiky, with

elbows and needles moving about.

My friend Jane said that she was knitting the

other night with a rug over her knees and the cat on

her lap. Her husband Richard walked in and thought

it was his nan sitting there. Which is my point

exactly.

I should think it highly unlikely that anyone has

ever said "Put that wool away, you little minx. I'm

overcome with lust". (The response to which would

probably be "Hang on, I've just got to a tricky bit".)

And I'd put money on it that nobody has admitted

“Do you know, the first time I really fancied her

was when she was sitting there knitting those grey

mittens". Like many other pleasurable occupations,

knitting should be done alone. In private. Because it

just ain't sexy. AS

Dominic Thelwell, the 'Man in a high wind' has

moved. Familiar to Londoners and tourists he has

stood near the London Eye with his inside out

umbrella and trailing scarf for over ten years. He has

now appeared in Covent Garden Piazza.

When asked why the move? He replied (out of

the corner of his mouth) “'Mona Lisa in a picture

frame' has stolen my trade. I thought I'd try my luck

here”. Womb

Drawings by

KEITH VAUGHAN. 2

nd to 25

th July.

Catalogue available.

Abbott and Holder Ltd

30 Museum Street, London WC1

www.abbottandholder.co.uk

Page 6

I don't know if there’s already been a television

series and spin off book where a celebrity pensioner

– Michael Palin, Germaine Greer – travels

with a bus pass. It would certainly be a low cost

production. Perhaps it could be sponsored by

Windeeze.

I know the perfect bus route for the first

programme: the Norfolk Green Coast Hopper. It

runs between Cromer and Hunstanton, along the

cliffs and by the salt marshes of the Nort

Coast, shadowing at a discreet distance the coastal

path. If you haven't got a bus pass it’ll

breaking your journey as you fancy in the flinty

villages or seaside towns.

The buses run every half hour and they'll stop

anywhere along the route. So a bit of walking, a bus,

a beer, a spot of lunch at Morston, I'm sure you get

the idea. It's marvellous. I tried it once

crawl (in the name of research) but I'm not really

T’was the summer of 2008, which is almost a distant memory now, but the

summer it did be, and Salthouse we did visit.

Accompanied by our handsome, debonair young pup, I took a trip with my

wife, whose name I simply can not remember, and drove the two miles from our

fine, rustic lodgings, in our cramped but comfortable 4x4, to view the famous

harbour town. And even Pig Dickens, one of

within our dogs possession, engaged with the surroundings immediately,

meaning that we were in luck.

Having partaken of an incredible luncheon at Biscuits, or Crackers, or

Cookies, or whatever my wife says it’s called, the thr

for a while and enjoyed the surprisingly pleasant air which swept upon us from

the aged, underdeveloped seafront, and dreamt of glorious times gone by: times

when waste of any kind could happily be

By Will Brown.

been a television

series and spin off book where a celebrity pensioner

travels around

certainly be a low cost

sponsored by

I know the perfect bus route for the first

programme: the Norfolk Green Coast Hopper. It

runs between Cromer and Hunstanton, along the

cliffs and by the salt marshes of the North Norfolk

hadowing at a discreet distance the coastal

aven't got a bus pass it’ll cost you £5,

breaking your journey as you fancy in the flinty

The buses run every half hour and they'll stop

the route. So a bit of walking, a bus,

, I'm sure you get

once as a pub

in the name of research) but I'm not really

one for daytime drinking

sunburned even though you've been mostly inside.

Probably better is to get the bus to Wiveton and

have breakfast at Wiveton Hall.

walk up the drive like you own the place and you'll

come across the delightful outhouse

Honourable Desmond McCar

cafe. If you don't see him you’

at the dogs. You can have a fantastic home

style fry up sitting at tables under pine trees looking

out to sea over the marshes.

Now back to the TV

sitting on a rustic seat by a flint wall with

hollyhocks behind. She's doing her specky granny

look. The music comes up...

Armada...“If you're fond of sand dunes and salty

air, quaint little villages here

How's that for programme one? Next week Janet

Street Porter on the Isle of Wight.

In Praise of SalthouseBy Scott James Donaldson


summer it did be, and Salthouse we did visit.

by our handsome, debonair young pup, I took a trip with my



harbour town. And even Pig Dickens, one of the many literary pseudonyms



Cookies, or whatever my wife says it’s called, the three of us loosened our belts



be accepted by our great ocean without

Class 121: Special Family Interbreed Champions.

Class 122: Supreme

And so the list of classes in the agricu

programme went on.

were wandering around who looked quite special,

and who could certainly be interbreed champions,

but the classes, it transpired, applied

dairy cattle.

An expert on cows was giving a running

commentary as the a

“Just look at the lovely evenness of rump structu

here”, he said with relish.

udder definition anywhere.”

What fabulous names these animals have

Shadowfax Arabella, Dunmoor Mutfo

Gatterley Goldmine.

from a racy Victorian novelette.

would be the villai

while Shadowfax Arabella

swirly dress.

love Arabella, but be

not husband material, would

estate looking swarthy and diving into ponds.

On the other hand, there was a calf

Jordan Charmaine, up until now a name only heard

being bellowed by a woman wearing leggings in

Lidl.

Many people think the recital of areas in the

shipping f

Fisher, German Bight, Sole, Fastnet.

agricultural show we had the “sheeping forecast”:

Cotswold, Galway, Leicester Longwool, Teeswater,

Wensleydale and White Face Dartmoor. Beautiful.

The names, anyway.

beautiful and seem to urinate a

paraded around.

perhaps by next year, Gemini Jordan Charmaine

will have calves of her own and Shadowfax

Arabella and Dunmoor Mutford Mayday will have

finally plighted their troth.

The 63rd Aylsham Show will take place on Bank Hol

Monday, 31st August 2009 at Blickling Park

Aylsham, Norfolk

one for daytime drinking – you end up feeling

though you've been mostly inside.

Probably better is to get the bus to Wiveton and

have breakfast at Wiveton Hall. Yes really. Just

like you own the place and you'll

come across the delightful outhouse which the

Desmond McCarthy has turned into a

If you don't see him you’ll hear him shouting

You can have a fantastic home-made

style fry up sitting at tables under pine trees looking

out to sea over the marshes.

proposal. There's Germaine

tting on a rustic seat by a flint wall with

hollyhocks behind. She's doing her specky granny

s up...it's that one by Groove

fond of sand dunes and salty

quaint little villages here and there...".

r programme one? Next week Janet

Street Porter on the Isle of Wight.

In Praise of Salthouse By Scott James Donaldson


by our handsome, debonair young pup, I took a trip with my



the many literary pseudonyms



ee of us loosened our belts



threat of contamination or lawsuit.

Once the beatific Jack Russell Kerouac’s crab salad had settled within his

furry belly, we permitted ourselves a lengthy walk of almost fifteen minutes

along the stone-clad beach and, all things considered, this

fact, the woollen genius of Mr Dog-

collection of sticks, chewing of rocks and examination of the human soul in

distress, that we are now considering buying a house nearby.

And so, by way of conclusion, I would like to recommend to you fellow

adventurers, a journey beyond the city limits that is actually worth taking,

despite what you may have heard about life beside the sea.

Come to Salthouse: our dog really quite likes it.

Scott James Donaldson is co autho

Nobrow Publishing

By Jo Bunting.


Class 122: Supreme Interbreed Champion.

And so the list of classes in the agricultural show

programme went on. Quite a number of families



but the classes, it transpired, applied to categories of

dairy cattle.


commentary as the animals paraded round the ring.

“Just look at the lovely evenness of rump structure

here”, he said with relish. “You won’t see better

udder definition anywhere.”

t fabulous names these animals have –

hadowfax Arabella, Dunmoor Mutford Mayday,

Gatterley Goldmine. They sound like characters

om a racy Victorian novelette. Gatterley Goldmine

would be the villain, striding around in breeches,

while Shadowfax Arabella would float past in a

swirly dress. Meanwhile Dunmoor Mayday would

love Arabella, but being working class and therefore

band material, would just hang around on the

estate looking swarthy and diving into ponds.

On the other hand, there was a calf called Gemini




shipping forecast sounds poetic: Tyne, Dogger,

, German Bight, Sole, Fastnet. At the



ydale and White Face Dartmoor. Beautiful.

The names, anyway. Sheep aren’t actually that

beautiful and seem to urinate a lot when being

around. But it was a splendid day out, and




finally plighted their troth.

The 63rd Aylsham Show will take place on Bank Holiday

31st August 2009 at Blickling Park, near

Aylsham, Norfolk.



clad beach and, all things considered, this was not dreadful. In

-toy-evsky shone through so finely in his


distress, that we are now considering buying a house nearby.

nclusion, I would like to recommend to you fellow


eard about life beside the sea.

Come to Salthouse: our dog really quite likes it.

thor of The Bento Bestiary, published by


ltural show

Quite a number of families



to categories of


nimals paraded round the ring.

re

er

–

rd Mayday,

They sound like characters

Gatterley Goldmine

n, striding around in breeches,

float past in a

Meanwhile Dunmoor Mayday would

working class and therefore

just hang around on the

called Gemini




Tyne, Dogger,

At the



ydale and White Face Dartmoor. Beautiful.

Sheep aren’t actually that

lot when being

t was a splendid day out, and




iday

, near



was not dreadful. In

evsky shone through so finely in his


nclusion, I would like to recommend to you fellow


by

Page 7

inquire about Jayne, Janet or Juliette.

It's a bit nerve wracking at first getting the hang

of the steering (they have engines not sails) and

making sure you don't collide with other boats,

wherries, ducks or nesting birds and then the

potentially embarrassing bit when you come to

moor, between two stationary boats (best not to try

this tricky manoeuvre after a couple of pints of

Wherry).

But once you have the hang of that it's a doddle.

Then all you have to do is glide through reed beds

and lily pads looking for a suitable place to drop

anchor. It's all about nature and relaxing so stick to

destinations like West Somerton and Horsey, away

from the supersized pleasure boats.

Sailing with Norfolk Etc.

By Theo and George Lazarides,

schoolboys from London.

Every summer we sail for a week from Morston

Quay, with the company Norfolk Etc. Our

instructors are all teenagers who live in North

Norfolk and have sailed for years. They are really

fun and above all give us a sense of freedom.

We are actually allowed to sail dingys on the sea

on our own. We know someone is always watching,

in case we capsize or get hit by the boom (at least

once a day) but it gives us a real sense of adventure.

The way you are taught to sail is always through

doing it. We have races, play at pirates and are able

to leap from boat to boat. It is very safe but there is

something about it that makes it feel like the most

adventurous thing you can do.

The best days are the sunny ones but with

enough wind to be able to go fast, it is as though

someone has given you the keys to their car!! We

really love it, it is because of the adventure but also

because of how kind and friendly the instructors are.

The cold , rainy days when they all look after us

are still just as fun. We sail in groups but they make

sure everyone can do their best without you really

knowing that you are being taught anything.

At the end of the week when you see what you

have achieved it is hard to believe it. We are racing

this summer and really looking forward to it.

No. 10 10, Augusta Street, SHERINGHAM.

LUNCHEONS and SUPPERS.

www. no10sheringham.com

Reservations 01263 82440.

Fish at its VERY BEST.

FISH PIES - PATES

TARTS - FISHCAKES

Stable Yard, HOLT.

Telephone 01263 711913.

If you fancy a jaunt to this neck of the woods, Miss

Willey will be happy to recommend places to stay.

Here are her suggestions for places you might like

to visit.

North Norfolk Railway, Sheringham. Telephone

01263 820800.

If you feel like being adventurous and travelling

to Norfolk by public transport it can be quite a

memorable journey. The train from Norwich to

Sheringham gives you a glimpse of the Broads, a

number of churches and a couple of wooden

crossing keepers’ cottages.

If you time it right, you can then take the steam

train from Sheringham to Holt. This takes you

through Weybourne and across Kelling Heath which

is stunning gorse and heathland. Then twixt sea and

pine you arrive at Holt station. There’s sometimes a

no 38 Routemaster bus to take you to the town

centre, otherwise it’s a mile walk. Possibly a little

drawn out for some, but if the wind’s in the right

direction it’s marvellous.

St Judes Gallery. By the Village Shop,

Itteringham. Telephone 01263 587666. Open

Thursday to Saturday.

As well as Angie Lewin’s distinctive and

collectable prints, the gallery is a showcase for St

Judes fabrics and stationery. In the St Judes

tradition, collaborations will be in the offing with

other artists such as Mark Hearld, Johnny Hannah

and Chris Brown.

Richard Scott Antiques. High Street, Holt.

Telephone 01263 712479.

If you like pressed glass, Sunderland ware,

Staffordshire pottery, china tea bowls and Victorian

glassware you will like Richard Scott Antiques and

you'll also like the man himself. He always has time

for a chat and having worked in the restoration dept.

at the V&A he’s incredibly knowledgeable about

the stock. Not in a pompous way, more in a friendly

vicar meets Alec Guinness sort of way. He’s also

very good at impersonations. See if you can get him

to do the two cockney workmen employed to scrub

up priceless sculptures in the V&A stores, it's better

than any Pete and Dud sketch.

G.A Key's Auctions of Aylsham. Telephone 01263

733195.

Always worth a look at their general sale every

Monday, plus specialist sales throughout the year.

The cafe is full of old boy Norfolk types. Coats

belted with string de rigueur.

East Anglian Transport Museum. Carlton

Colville, Lowestoft. Telephone 01502 518459.

You don't have to be an anorak to appreciate the

delights of this transport museum - just an eye for

detail, a liking for moquette and a fondness for egg

sandwiches. Set in an unpromising suburb of

Lowestoft it succeeds in a way many bigger

museums don't. The scale of it is quite modest but

what they have on display is all top notch.

Started in 1962 with a Lowestoft tramcar body

rescued from its use as a summerhouse, it now has

on display trams from Blackpool, Amsterdam and

London, trolleybuses, vintage buses and, in a garage

awaiting restoration, a 1935 dustcart, a 1948

milkfloat and a 1935 bread delivery van.

Not everyone's cup of tea I know, but if it's a

cuppa you're after pop into the Terminus Tearooms.

Converted from a prefab, they have managed to

capture the atmosphere of a vintage bus station cafe

with a menu to match.

If you fancy a day poking around a greasy

garage, inspecting the interior of a road mender’s

sleeping wagon (a bit like a shepherd’s hut but with

shovels instead of lambs) and admiring authentic

street furniture, then I highly recommend the Bus

Event on July 12th. Vintage buses will be on hand to

take passengers from Lowestoft station.

Another date for you diary: September 12th and

13th, Trolleybus weekend. It would be a very cynical

person indeed not to be charmed by this delightfully

English Museum.

Martham Boats. Martham, Great Yarmouth.

Telephone 01493 740249.

I admit that holidaying on the Norfolk Broads

may not sound like an idyllic way to spend a week –

unless of course it's on a lovely wooden 1950's

cruiser with solid wood interior, green Formica

surfaces and cosy built-in cabin beds. If this appeals

then I suggest you contact Martham Boat Yard and

Holt. England : East

Norfolk : North

Market Town : Georgian

Population : Elderly. Memory: Hazy. Visibility : Poor

Small Shops : Abundant

Butchers. Fishmongers : Several

Dover Sole . Whiting : Plentiful

Coastline : Fair

Flint Cottages : Farrow And Ball : Widespread

Scattered Bungalows : White Gloss

Brancaster . Blakeney : Prosperous

Sheringham . Cromer : Moderate To Rough

Caravans Moving Across From Midlands : Imminent

Transport : Poor. Leading To Deep Depression

Page 10

Noteworthy “Old Style” Salads.

Telephone 01263 7405552.

.

20, High Street, HOLT.

Wet Shaves by Appointment

Telephone 01263 713020.

Drink Beer at the

“World Famous Cromer

Crabs Gather Here.”

Noted for their Sweetness.

Garden Street, CROMER

Can you find the ten differences between the two pictures?

Drawing by Beth Morrison.

By Miss Ellie Finlay from Gloucester.

Page 11

Caravans of Love?

weekend, even if it’s just for one night. We’ve

bought a wind up gramophone and a stack of 78's

from Key's auction and very quickly filled the

caravan with junk so it’s now resembling Freddie's

house.

Freddie and John are generally hanging around

the site, more often than not looking for some free

grub. An awful lot of caravan hopping goes on

which involves the pair of them disappearing into a

van and emerging some time later looking pleased

with themselves

Freddie is about 70 but it’s impossible to put an

age on John - he could be 25 or 45. When not eating

they’ll be mending nets or fiddling around in their

shed looking purposeful but always keeping an ear

cocked for the kettle going on. John in particular has

a sweet tooth and tends to linger a bit too long after

he's demolished half a Battenberg and swilled down

several cups of tea.

Fred enjoys a practical joke - like the time he

removed the wheels from our friend’s car. She had

to go to his house to reclaim them and answer

questions: Can you cook? Can you clean? I'm

looking for a wife. He even took part in the TV

programme Game for a Laugh. He had one of the

vans removed from the site to see the expression on

the owners’ face when they turned up for a relaxing

weekend. Oh how they laughed.

Evening walks are particularly lovely in the

summer, especially after a downpour. In the back

lanes of East Runton the air is sweet with the smell

of cow parsley and Alexander’s. Once around the

pier then back to the van to read or listen to

gramophone records. All together now "When father

papered the parlour you couldn't see Pa for paste,

dabbing it here, dabbing it there, paste and paper

everywhere".

Spring 1992

By now we've become smitten with Norfolk and

keen to move out of London. One weekend we see

an advertisement in the local paper for a shop in

Elm Hill, Norwich with a flat above. Within a few

months we’ve signed the lease and are on the move.

We hand the keys of the caravan over to Will's

sisters who enjoy it as much as we did...well, for a

short time anyway.

Freddie in his old age is getting difficult. He’s

chopped down the hollyhocks and poppies we’d

planted and lets himself into the caravan when no-

one’s there and removes things “for safe keeping”.

The final act comes when Will's sister Alice turns up

for an Easter break to find the van gone. It’s not

another practical joke – he’s replaced it with a new

one and sold it plus the pitch to someone else.

We report it to the police who are keen to get

him for something but Freddie has some story about

our caravan falling over the cliff edge. "It's probably

in France now", he muses. Strange, we think,

Holland you could understand.

It’s a sad and untimely end to our seaside retreat

but as the saying goes when one door closes another

one opens – or maybe it’s twelve doors in this case.

A couple of weeks later we’re reading the local

paper and an advertisement catches our eye: “1890's

railway carriage for sale, ideal restoration project”

...To be continued.

October 1989

“I have a van for you. Meet me at the site. Freddie

Love”. The note arrives in the post. The ‘van’ is a

caravan, the site is in East Runton just outside

Cromer.

We’d stumbled across the site when were out

walking on one of our weekends away from

London. It charmed us instantly. It was small – only

9 vans, a ramshackle toilet block, a wooden hut

filled with fishing nets and floats and a couple of

older style caravans, the rounded 1960's type. Hello,

we thought, this looks like our sort of place.

We made enquiries about the owner. Freddie

Love, we were told. Lives in West Runton but isn't

on the phone. You’ll have to go to his house. Bit of

a character. Even better, we thought, South London

prepares you for characters.

We found the house, easily identified by its

bright red door, the sign saying Buckingham Palace

and the line-up of dolls heads on broom handles in

the window. I hung back just in case he had a

Staffordshire pit bull (it really was time to move out

of London).

He didn't but it was still a bit scary. Freddie

opened the door, eating baked beans out of a tin,

followed by his son John and an overpowering

whiff of the crabs they were boiling up in the back

yard. With a house full of junk and Freddie in his

fisherman’s gansey and flat cap, they were the

Norfolk version of Steptoe and Son. We were

caught, hook line and sinker.

We explained that we wanted to buy a caravan if

one ever came up and left our address. He promised

to get in touch and a few weeks later he did.

We meet on the site and as luck would have it,

it’s the van we had in mind. Price £500. Freddie just

about manages to keep a straight face. We don't

care, we just need an escape from London.

Unfortunately it’s the end of the season so we can’t

use it until March, but we celebrate with a couple of

bevvies in the Hotel De Paris and make plans for the

great caravan makeover

Spring 1990

We've gutted the van and Will’s spent the winter

making new cupboard doors for the kitchenette.

They’re now a lively shade of green with chrome

handles. It was a bit of a struggle getting them up on

the train but worth it. The walls are cream and we've

used brown lino paint on the floor.

It has a double bed which cleverly folds up into

the wall (perfect for a caravan but somehow never

looks quite right in a studio flat in Knightsbridge) and

two single beds which double up as the seating area.

It’s primitive to say the least – an enamel bucket

serves as the lavatory – but we do benefit from gas

lamps. They have a distinctive smell which we

become very fond of.

It was a particularly frosty night in March when

we spent our first night under sheet metal and it was

like sleeping inside a fridge. Rule no 1: don't try to

replicate the 1950's holiday experience with blankets

on the bed. A 15 tog goose down duvet is essential

when the temperature outside is minus 6C and there’s

ice on the inside of the windows.

Within a couple of weeks though we’re fully up to

speed with the caravanning experience. I can even

knock up a fairly decent meal on the cooker and

changing the gas bottle has become second nature.

Summer 1990

Having the van has given us the opportunity to

escape from London which we do virtually every

Page 12

I like nothing so much as a summer carnival in a

seaside town. Starting with the build

scrutinising the photographs in the local pap

carnival queen contestants, whether or not we'll

have the Red Arrows this year, getting the pullout

map from the middle of the paper and tracing the

route.

The Carnival queen and her attend

chosen and announced. The Queen and one of her

attendants are invariably pretty and a completely

obvious choice. But they always choose a really big

plain girl as the second attendant, as if to say “

not just about looks, you know”

Then there's the frenzy of construction.

around town you turn a corner and come across a

huge lorry with seats and arches on the back and a

group of women winding crepe pap

everything and snapping at each other.

We're given weekly updates on

Angels nursery is going to decorate its float. W

hear that its only through the generosity of local

businessman Mr Whoever that Nature's Way health

shop can now be in the carnival after having all its

costumes stolen. We see countless pictures of the

carnival Queen visiting the local old people's home,

- her sash getting grubbier as the build up goes on.

Finally, it’s here. It's a gorgeous day, the sun

blazing down. The parade runs the length of the

promenade, hotels one side, the se

other. People start lining the route from three

o'clock, even though the parade doesn't start

until six.

The children are getting over excited, the men

(who don't want to be there anyway) are ey

the beautiful teenage girls wearing virtually nothing

and the women are either being ratty with their

husbands or admiring the local firemen (in dressed

down versions of their uniform) who wander up and

down the prom rattling buckets collecting for

benevolent fund, competing with carnival collectors

who have different coloured buckets.

It's six o'clock. The roar of conversation quietens

down to a hum of anticipation, as they await the first

sounds of the carnival music. And then

can hear it – the first far away sounds of the mos

annoying music in the world. Neither brass band,

fairground or pop music but a hideous combination

of the three, all blurred together. But it’s great.

it is! People start cheering and waving flags and

coins rain down from the hotel windows, as people

chuck money down to the waiting firemen

health and safety then).

By Alice Spencer.

g so much as a summer carnival in a

seaside town. Starting with the build-up –

scrutinising the photographs in the local paper of the

whether or not we'll

rrows this year, getting the pullout

paper and tracing the

The Carnival queen and her attendants are

The Queen and one of her

d a completely

se a really big

attendant, as if to say “it's

zy of construction. Walking

und town you turn a corner and come across a

huge lorry with seats and arches on the back and a

of women winding crepe paper around

how Little

s going to decorate its float. We

hear that its only through the generosity of local

businessman Mr Whoever that Nature's Way health

l after having all its

less pictures of the

people's home,

her sash getting grubbier as the build up goes on.

ous day, the sun

s the length of the

the sea the

g the route from three

arade doesn't start

The children are getting over excited, the men

are eyeing up

the beautiful teenage girls wearing virtually nothing

are either being ratty with their

admiring the local firemen (in dressed

down versions of their uniform) who wander up and

down the prom rattling buckets collecting for the

benevolent fund, competing with carnival collectors

The roar of conversation quietens

down to a hum of anticipation, as they await the first

And then – yes, you

the first far away sounds of the most

Neither brass band,

eous combination

’s great. Here

People start cheering and waving flags and

coins rain down from the hotel windows, as people

ney down to the waiting firemen (no

The Queen's float is at the front.

scaffolding lorry splendidly covered in white

crepe paper and glitter. There's a brass band in front

and the town crier walking alongside

his uniform. The Queen doesn't look too good either

– a bit green around the gills

as the night before she'd had to attend the Carnival

Ball at the Winter Garden

the five course dinner

finished the night outside the Viking nightclub

snogging someone she went to school with.

So the poor Queen’

concentrating on not being sick from the

fumes of the lorry, trying to for

thumping head (the brass band isn't helping

remembering to wave and smile at the same

time. All she'd wanted was a bit of glamour and

possible career as a model.

The floats roll past.

done up 1940s style. Actually, they're probably j

wearing their own clothes.

cheer, largely because they're almost naked and very

sun tanned. It goes on and on.

there were so many organisations

a town this size, let alone them all wanting to join

in.

Then that's it – it’s over.

last straggy little floats go past and frankly, you're a

little bit bored by the whole thing now.

off and there's just the whiff of hamburger and stray

bits of crepe paper

air. Tomorrow the carnival proper starts with a

display of gymnastics at the bandstand

of the Health and Beauty

1981 was a vintage year.

pram wearing nothing but a nappy and smot

Mr. Whippy ice cream.

when we got home, I found that the pram was full of

coins thrown down to the carnival collectors wh

had missed. And we had the Red Arrows

There's something essentially grim about

carnivals in English seaside towns.

celebration of a little heard of Saint in the smallest

village in Spain can make Queen Elizabeth's

coronation look like an intimate party, we are hard

pressed to come up with

of decorated vehicles and twenty quids worth of

fireworks. But then it only really matters to the army

of harassed women and red faced men

Guild, who are already planning next year’s event,

even though they swore this would be abs

last time they’d get involved.

LIFE’S A DITCH

The Ramblings of a Gentleman

Whether by pilgrimage to Canterbury, meanders

along the willowed banks of the Thames or rising

over Leith Hill, I walk along ancient track

for a thousand years by the ghosts of other

travellers.

And before night falls my thoughts turn to camp

when in a secluded glade I will draw a taught line

between two ancient trunks and cast over a tarp for a

roof. In an improvised hearth a warming fire is

struck to hang a billycan for tea, and a bedroll is

spread upon the ground. So satisfied with my lot I

rest weary bones, lulled into an honest sleep by

gentle breezes and

owl. For the life of the gentleman Roamer is much

as always has been in all respects bar one. The

matter of correct and appropriate attire!

The sense of what i

wonky as a broken compass and alas the finery of

the breech and knee sock are become rare. The

subtle hues of corduroys and woo

lycra and fleece assembled in a techni

mayhem. Nowhere is this fallen standa

manifest than in the region of the head garb. No

more the centuries old weather beaten wide

brimmed felt hat or the cowpat tweed ‘flattie’

usurped by the baseball cap. Sirs I must protest!

And the click of nailed hobs on the Tarmacadam has

sadly passed and the stick has become metalled and

telescopic.

Well I can report that there is a revolt afoot for

this gentleman of the road will not bow to this

modernism and is still to be seen striding over hill,

weald and down clad correctly for his trade in

breeches, high socks, and dependant on the climate,

a tam-o-shanter or deerstalker proudly a top his

head. Shrouded from the elements in a simple un

breathing rubberised cape and protected from

wayward dogs, roadside vagabonds and footpads by

a stout blackthorn 'knob' that will soon see them

away. Lower legs wrapped with canvas buskins or

puttees resistant against clawing mud and

disgruntled adders.

And so attired I will oft be found tramping in

suitable weather and inclement clothing.

ueen's float is at the front. It’s a

scaffolding lorry splendidly covered in white net,

There's a brass band in front

and the town crier walking alongside sweltering in

The Queen doesn't look too good either

d the gills – which isn't surprising

as the night before she'd had to attend the Carnival

nter Garden and was bored rigid by

course dinner and the speeches. She'd

finished the night outside the Viking nightclub

snogging someone she went to school with.

So the poor Queen’s feeling pretty grim,

ing on not being sick from the diesel

, trying to forget about her

he brass band isn't helping) and

ve and smile at the same

All she'd wanted was a bit of glamour and a

possible career as a model.

The WI float looks great,

Actually, they're probably just

wearing their own clothes. The lifeguards get a big

cheer, largely because they're almost naked and very

It goes on and on. You wouldn't think

there were so many organisations and businesses in

ne them all wanting to join

over. You've just watched the

last straggy little floats go past and frankly, you're a

bored by the whole thing now. People drift

st the whiff of hamburger and stray

bits of crepe paper floating in the still hot

Tomorrow the carnival proper starts with a

astics at the bandstand by the ladies

Health and Beauty Society.

1981 was a vintage year. My daughter was in her

pram wearing nothing but a nappy and smothered in

Mr. Whippy ice cream. It was all the above and,

when we got home, I found that the pram was full of

coins thrown down to the carnival collectors which

And we had the Red Arrows that year.

There's something essentially grim about

vals in English seaside towns. Whilst the

celebration of a little heard of Saint in the smallest

village in Spain can make Queen Elizabeth's

coronation look like an intimate party, we are hard

me up with anything more than a line

of decorated vehicles and twenty quids worth of

But then it only really matters to the army

arassed women and red faced men of the Town

Guild, who are already planning next year’s event,

swore this would be absolutely the

get involved.

LIFE’S A DITCH.

Ramblings of a Gentleman

Tramp.

By Romany Johnson.



over Leith Hill, I walk along ancient track-ways trod


travellers.


en in a secluded glade I will draw a taught line





st weary bones, lulled into an honest sleep by

le breezes and the distant serenade of a wise

For the life of the gentleman Roamer is much


matter of correct and appropriate attire!

The sense of what is proper and correct is as



subtle hues of corduroys and woollen replaced by

lycra and fleece assembled in a techni-coloured

mayhem. Nowhere is this fallen standard more






ssed and the stick has become metalled and

telescopic.




weald and down clad correctly for his trade in twill


shanter or deerstalker proudly a top his

head. Shrouded from the elements in a simple un



t blackthorn 'knob' that will soon see them

Lower legs wrapped with canvas buskins or


disgruntled adders.


suitable weather and inclement clothing.

.

Ramblings of a Gentleman



ways trod



en in a secluded glade I will draw a taught line





st weary bones, lulled into an honest sleep by

istant serenade of a wise

For the life of the gentleman Roamer is much


s proper and correct is as



len replaced by

coloured

rd more






ssed and the stick has become metalled and




twill


shanter or deerstalker proudly a top his

head. Shrouded from the elements in a simple un-



t blackthorn 'knob' that will soon see them

Lower legs wrapped with canvas buskins or



Page 13

How the Cornish Riviera Express will look in the 1950s.

By Matthew Loukes.

which has some faintly alarming straps to keep me

from falling, and immediately feel the need for the

corridor facilities. After a couple of short ladder

climbs and longer walks up the corridor, dressed in

a way that would get one removed from a branch

line, I lie under the prickly wool and cold cotton and

dream of a night’s rest, before emerging into the

Western world of Barbara Hepworth and brilliant

light.

After an hour of wobbly progress the train stops

in a siding. Through a plastic ventilation slide I can

make out some words on a white board. Slough at

night has much to recommend it, in that one can’t

see much of what drove the Poet Laureate to call for

the B-52’s and it tickles me to think that is where

the Riviera Express pauses for an hour or so, to push

the passengers over into the arms of Morpheus. It

might work better in daylight, though.

Six hours or so later, and an hour outside

Penzance, the man with the sideburns slides us in a

tray of tea, coffee and biscuits. The charm of this is

hard to overstate. Yes, the tea is too strong, the

coffee too weak to defend itself and the biscuits

wouldn’t trouble any infant dentition but so what?

There was an early Great Western Railways

poster campaign for the sleeper service where the

tag-line talked of experiencing one’s “own country”

because Cornwall and Italy had “similar shapes”,

“climate” and “natural beauties”, illustrated with a

pair of women in modest traditional dress, with the

West Country beauty winning the day with a racy

pair of bare feet. The feelings evoked by this poster

live on – in Paddington, in a Slough siding and in

the utterly British tea-tray. The attempt at being

exotic fails totally, of course, but that’s precisely

what gives it so much charm. Bravo, as they

probably don’t say on the Riviera.

Estrella Damn by Matthew Loukes is published by Soul

Bay Press.

Marianna Kennedy Resin Lamps.

Bookcloth Blinds.

Venetian Glass Mirrors.

3, Fournier Street, SPITALFIELDS.

www.mariannakennedy.co.uk

“Life is a Pig Sty”

The Finest Pig Arcs in the

Eastern Counties.

www.clarkesofwalsham.co.uk

Close to midnight, under the soaring cathedral of

Brunel’s train shed at Paddington Station, the last

drunken commuter has grabbed his pasty and

Standard for the journey. The reheated and the

obnoxious combining in newsprint and greasy

pastry. A few people stare forlornly at the

departures board, facing a five hour wait and some

cold stone to sit on. But we are standing on a remote

platform, tucked to one side, outside some sadly

dark offices that once had been waiting rooms. I can

see these rooms filled with smoke, steam, tannin and

well-buttoned passion. Now they contain blue crates

and have tape on the windows but that doesn’t stop

my imagination chuffing off up the track, imagining

Albert Finney bellowing “Stop That Train!” or

Marilyn doing a sidestep in front of a dragged-up

Curtis and Lemmon.

My reverie is broken by my wife nudging me in

the ribs as a guard beckons us towards the open door

of a carriage that looks more Leyton than Orient.

This is the Riviera Express to Cornwall, a sleeper

service to Penzance that has run, if that’s the right

term, since 1904.

The man greeting us wears a peaked cap

matching his dark blue jacket, a fine collection of

enamelled badges and regulation 1974 sideburns.

His face is a nice shade of post-box red, burnished

by the rushing wind through train windows and,

perhaps, the odd glass of Pale Ale at the end of a

shift. The look is a little bit like Bernard Cribbins in

the Railway Children, if he’d been a Teddy Boy.

Our guard shows us to a twin berth, which lies

behind a brown wood-effect door trimmed in

polished metal set into a corridor made from what

looks like white Formica. I try not to look

disappointed. Not because the interior isn’t the

polished wood of the Wagons Lit to Istanbul but

because what I’d been hoping for was the royal blue

plastic with ‘atomic’ cross hatching that was so

widely used on 1950’s rolling stock. But before we

get the full tour of our quarters the guard takes us up

the corridor and into what he calls “the lounge”.

This is a carriage done out with comfortable

chairs and a bar in one corner. It’s not anything.

like ritzy, having an atmosphere somewhere

between a dole office, a singles bar and a cross-

channel ferry, but just seeing a train carriage with

furniture that isn’t in rows seems to me to be

impossibly exotic

In the twin berth, private accommodation, our

man shows us the ladder for reaching the top bunk,

the chrome light switches, the red plastic heating

control and the coat hooks; all of which are worthy

of mention in any decent design history. We also get

directions to the bathroom and, of course, the sink

hidden under another slab of white industrial plastic

(what’s wrong with the blue?). The bedclothes

comprise heavy blankets in something nervously

approaching tartan, pillows slightly thinner than an

after-dinner mint and sheets that squeak with

cleanliness and starch, like a Conservative’s wife.

The “what do you do in the middle of the night”

question has to be addressed, I suppose. All I will

say is that one would need to be either male and

taller than five feet six, or a considerable gymnast,

to think about it with any degree of seriousness.

Back in the bar – sorry – the lounge, with the

train still some twenty minutes from departure, the

scene is not exactly one of abandon. The collection

of holiday makers and people who take this journey

as part of their job are forging some uneasy

alliances. A couple of what used to be called

commercial travellers are making talk small enough

to need a microscope, trying to ignore the family

beside them who clearly haven’t told their teenage

children quite what they meant by “Riviera”. I’d

love to ask the two men if they are sharing, but can’t

quite think of the way to express it. Sadly, the

operating companies are well on the way to

removing this relic of different times by phasing out

the “single berth” ticket where one would share the

tiny sleeping space with a stranger of whom the

train company would only guarantee they would be

”of the same sex”. I think when it came to choice of

bunks a coin was tossed.

In the privacy of the cabin, after some smuggled

drinks and sandwiches, bed-time coincides with the

slow pull out of Paddington. I take the top bunk,

Page 14

Gin palaces had their origins in chemist's shops back

when juniper flavoured hooch enjoyed a reputation

as an elixir. The liquor was mainly sold to take

away or to drink standing up in the shop. In the

1820's the shops got bigger, cut back on the

apothecary's remedies and increased the sale of beer

in an environment that combined high craftsmanship

with unabashed vulgarity. The Princess Louise in

Holborn is one of the last.

The front of the pub is a mixture of marble

columns, leaded glass, and enormous carriage

lamps. Inside an ornate ceiling and pearly globe

lights take one back to a time of mutton-chop

whiskers, foggy nights and the clack of walking

sticks on the pavement. The drinks come from the

Samuel Smith's brewery, which aren't to everyone's

taste but put that to one side pop in and go to the

lavatory.

It's not the first thing one thinks of when visiting

a public house – in some that I know it's the very

last – but the gents in the Louise are a treasure. The

combination of dark wood, tiled walls in cream and

green, mosaic flooring, polished brass and marbled

urinals make a visit an urgent requirement. ML.

1. Norman Balon, the Coach and Horses, Soho.

2. The Goldsmith’s Tavern, New Cross.

3. The Magdala Tavern, Hampstead.

4. The ones we had in mind were Sloane Square

and Liverpool Street but there appear to have

been more than that, so others were accepted.

5. A pair of trousers allegedly belonging to the

artist Walter Sickert.

6. The Metropolitan Tavern.

The winner has been notified. We would include his

name but we can’t find where we put it. All other

correct entrants will receive a small consolation

prize.

Neal’s Yard Dairy Branches in

COVENT GARDEN and

BOROUGH MARKET

We sell CHEESE.

For all of your BANJO

and UKULELE needs.

Earlier in the year Blackpool was in the news when

one of its famous landmarks Yates's (formerly

known as Yates's Wine Lodge) was burnt to the

ground. When the chap being interviewed said they

would restore it to its former glory my ears pricked

up.

I'm proud to say I remember Yates's before it

was refurbed, when it was still like a wild west

saloon. Long mahogany bar, staff in white waiters

jackets, sand or sawdust on the floor and they served

some muck out of oak barrels called Australian

white. It was basic and serviceable and really quite

beautiful.

Unfortunately in the 1980's it became

fashionable for breweries to introduce soft

furnishings into pubs. So out went the characterful

features and in came the swirly patterned carpets,

comfy seating, plus the faux collections of artefacts:

penny farthings, copper warming pans, flat irons

and empty stone beer bottles.

I'm hoping common sense will prevail. I'd like to

think that the original bar will be reinstated, along

with the bentwood chairs and Britannia pub tables.

Etched glass mirrors can be skilfully reproduced to

look as authentic as the original. If they do I will be

back like a shot.

I’ll also be on the look out to see if Robert's

Oyster rooms are still intact. Spartan mahogany and

marble Edwardian dining rooms selling seafood

platters and serving tea from plain white china. Well

at least they were in 1984.

The Duke of York. Roger Street, London WC1.

The inter-war austerity might have been painted

over but it's still there in the scuffed chequerboard

lino, dark panelled walls, crittall windows, Formica

topped tables and an exterior of cream polished

tiles. The Duke of York is tucked at the end of a

mews in Central London, built into a 1930's block of

flats.

Best experienced if one assumes a liberal

interpretation of when six o'clock actually is – I find

stretching it to about 4.30 is about right – and takes

up position in a dark corner, watching the sunlight

creeping across the floor.

It's not perfect; a change of landlords a few years

ago has brought in some new furniture and an

unwelcome emphasis on food. So go now, before

they start putting jugs of lemons on the bar or

installing a television. On the right afternoon, it's not

hard to imagine having a pint spilled on you by

Patrick Hamilton or catching Trevor Howard

squeezing the hand of Celia Johnson. ML.

The Powder Monkey, in Wallsend, part of the

Sizzlers pub chain. Happiness, not normally

associated with Mondays, being guaranteed due to

the price of a pint of lager being slashed by 83

pence, from £2.42 to £1.59.

Chinese Jimmy is normally first through the

doors. Owning a take-away appears to be the ideal

career for a committed socialiser. Jimmy will be in

and out at least a dozen times during the day. I'd

love to know where he keeps going to. I could be

wrong, but I suspect he's not sourcing fresh local

produce for the Pearl Garden.

Kevin Riley, a seriously depressing bloke, pops

in at about half past 12. Last December he was

sectioned and spent Christmas in St Nicks. He'd had

a protracted custody battle with his ex, over the pet

rabbit. He actually secured custody (he paid her a

grand for it!) but the strain was just too much and he

had a complete breakdown. The rabbit dying

probably didn't help.

Physically, if not mentally, things are looking up

for Kevin. His RSI is much improved since they

installed an extra 42" plasma T.V. at the other end

of the bar. He can now alternate his leaning elbow, a

real boon.

The food menu in the Monkey is huge and fairly

low maintenance – a quick wipe with a damp cloth

and it looks as good as new. I reckon at least half of

the choices involve oven chips and frozen peas.

You'd think it would be difficult to spoil oven

chips. Apparently not. Chef appears quite keen to

join his mates saving 83 pence on every pint, so I

suppose he does have an excuse.

Next time, Tuesdays in the Powder Monkey -

quiz night. Wilf

Page 15

By Arthur Dobson Willey, Pitman Poet

We have a little motor car

We’ve had it quite some time

But now its getting on a bit

Its long since passed its prime

When first we got our little car

We all were filled with glee

We used to clean and polish it

Each opportunity

We used to pile into our car

On sunny days and ride

Along the open leafy lanes

To sea or country-side

It used to skip along the road

At bends it never faltered

It used to romp up steepest hills

Its speed remained unaltered

It’s carried almost everything

That you can bring to mind

Including coals and bricks and sand

And folks of every kind

But time and tide has made its mark

On our small transport humble

It cannot face the littlest hill

Without a mightly grumble

The engine’s worn the steering’s gone

The paint-work is a joke

And everywhere that we go now

We leave a trail of smoke

The battry’s gone the light’s are dim

THEtyres bare and baldy

The radiators sprung a leak

And the carpets all are mouldy

So now we think the time has come

And parting will be hard

To send our little motor car

To some car breakers yard

If fortune smiles and we could buy

Another car so splendid

I doubt if it could bring the joy

That small Black Ford Eight car did

Drawing by Beth Morrison.

Brisling's an oily fish and supposedly very good for

your joints. Better than that though, it tastes great

and served on toast makes an excellent breakfast.

90% of the working population probably have a

sandwich for lunch. My favourite filling is without

question Pek. Cheap white bread, margarine and

pepper, thickly sliced Pek and just a hint of the jelly

from the tin. Absolutely superb.

Although ring pulls on tins are a bit Tomorrow's

World for me, they are invaluable when the tin

opener is lost/broken. I prefer a basic opener, not the

ones that you have to stab the tin with, but the next

model up. The really elaborate ones with white

plastic handles never seem to last long and there's

nothing more frustrating than an unopened tin of

ravioli and a tin opener that's just bitten the dust.

And don't get me started on those key mechanisms

found on tins of corned beef.

I had a real stroke of luck the other day when I

received a cheque from the CIS. I had sounded them

out with an extremely tentative claim for

compensation. They replied with an immediate offer

of £2,000 stating that it was company policy to

attempt to settle all such claims with the minimum

of distress to their clients. I thought this was

extremely generous, considering I was only

claiming for tomato sauce stains on my white Fred

Perry after the lid on a tin of sardines finally became

detached with that severe uncoiling action. As a

preventative measure, I normally put the tin inside a

carrier bag before opening it, but could only find a

'bag for life' and I thought that was a bit over the

top. Should you develop a fondness for all things

tinned, an industrial sized roll of Elastoplast will be

your friend.

Tinned fruit is another favourite of mine.

Mandarin segments on a Sunday teatime, served

with ice cream and plenty of the syrup to make a

wonderful sauce. Great for hangovers. I understand

you can now get tinned fruit in natural juices. Why?

Finally, the daddy of them all, gone but not

forgotten - Campbells Condensed Cream Of Celery

Soup. Mind you, I always thought that a full can of

water resulted in excessive dilution. Half to three

quarters produced a much more robust flavour. Wilf.

GOING UP IN THE WORLD.

A few years ago I saw old Black Pudding in the

doorway of Betfred looking pretty sorry for himself

in cap and muffler. He'd fallen off the menu in the

greasy spoon and was after the price of cup of tea.

Blow me the other day I ran into him in Sloane

Square. He'd just stepped out of a swanky restaurant

to smoke his cigar. “You've come up in the world

Black Pudding”, I said. "Boudin Noir to you" he

said. WmB.

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR.Sickert: slim not shady.

“Evening Star, you bring me everything – you bring

the wine, you bring the goat home, you bring the

child to its mother.” These lines of Sappho were

amongst Walter Sickert’s favourite quotations and

he had not even encountered Old Town’s excellent

publication!

Much as he would have enjoyed the last issue, I

think he might have been put out at the suggestion

that he had acquired such an out-sized pair of

corduroys as those illustrated on page 2. In the late

1880s, when he is supposed to have bought them, he

was as svelte as an acrobat and proud of it.

Publicans and old Music Hall artistes are

notoriously unreliable sources of information. They

are quite capable of inventing anything – for money,

or for the chance of a mention in a quality

newspaper...

All best wishes,

Matthew Sturgis

Mr Sturgis is the author of Walter Sickert: A Life

published by Harper Collins. Ed

Tootal Sympathy.

I would like to thank your newspaper for the recent

advice on what not to wear in Newscastle. You see I

too have a polka dot Tootal scarf and had every

intention of wearing it at Jimmy Nail’s H’way the

lads tour at the Gateshead Tram Shed Stadium,

though as my scarf and I go everywhere together, I

have decided to cancel.

Furthermore I would like to express my

symphathy regarding the name calling Will recently

encountered at the hands of callow, unsophisticated

yobs. Quote: “F*****g paedo”. I would just like to

add that here on the Isle of Man my Old Town dark

blue serge sometimes provokes similar reactions.

Though last week while judging the World Tin

Bath Championships, I had an uncommon surprise. I

had just pulled on my round horn rimmed glasses

when some young chav shouted “Oi, Le

Corbusier!”. It quite restored my faith in the youth

of today.

Yours faithfully,

PJD

Page 16

Stanley in cotton twill.

IT’S A BOY! We're delighted to announce a new addition to the

Old Town brood. He's called Stanley.

Stanley is the mutant offspring of Borough and

Marshalsea and a long overdue brother for Overall.

He’s displaying many of the characteristics of

Borough – 3 buttons, patch pockets – but without

Borough's generous, accommodating demeanour.

He’s already developed a rather rebellious streak

demonstrated by a cheeky inside pocket and

strengthening strips behind the pockets. Not

ignoring his feminine side, and in keeping with

Marshalsea's DNA, he’s a slimmer, narrower, and

an altogether closer fit than Borough.

We've high hopes for our Stanley and do hope

you like him. Please feel free to try him out in any

of the following fabrics: cotton twill, drill, canvas

and denim. MW.

Fabric? You Want

Fabric?

Instead of ordering fabric over the telephone from a

regular supplier we occasionally get the chance to

visit a fabric merchant. Invariably merchants are

Jewish and the buying process can be a beautiful

piece of performance art.

Merchants sell ends of lines, generally from a

factory or a manufacturer who has gone out of

business. Usually their stock is wrong for us –

polyester satin, fancy denims, fake fur, leopard print

lycra (no, we've never been tempted) – but

occasionally it’s possible to find a gem: tweed,

melton or fine cottons which have been hanging

around for 10 years or more waiting for the right

customer to come along.

Sadly many of the merchants have disappeared

over the last 20 years along with the decline of the

textile industry. Most were around Brick Lane – the

more memorable being Mark and Mencer (the Mike

and Bernie Winters of the shmutter trade), Halstucks

(Mrs with her lopsided wig), Gallia Textiles (stretch

denim a speciality) – but many have been replaced

by a new generation of curry house.

Some, like Empee, have moved out to

Edmonton. They used to be good for denim,

especially woven stripe or herringbone, so we paid a

visit recently. But other than an interesting journey

through Stamford Hill it turned out to be a waste of

time. Not a natural fabric in sight. It was quite

exciting though when Maurice set light to a piece of

fabric we thought may have been cotton, but which

the test confirmed was polyester.

We were more successful at Litvinoff, found

exactly what we wanted and got the real selling

experience to boot...

Enter through roller shutter door into freezing

cold warehouse stacked floor to ceiling with rolls of

fabric wrapped in polythene. Small office visible

behind partition, cluttered with fabric swatches,

heated by small electric fire. On the desk two jars

of nuts (cashews and pistachios), two bottles (Jack

Daniels and HP Sauce), framed picture of son’s

graduation. Next to the tea and coffee making

equipment a pile of empty pop bottles stacked up

like rolls of fabric. On the wall a signed photograph

of Maureen Lipman, adding a slightly theatrical feel

to the little den.

Man appears from office rubbing his hands,

possibly not from the cold.

Him: "Can I help you?"

Me: "We’re looking for some fabric."

Him: “Fabric? We don't have any fabric."

Me: "Ha ha ha".

Formalities over, we’re let loose on the stock

which was unexpectedly fruitful. We left very happy

with a heavy wool melton, Irish linen and a

beautiful piece of checked cashmere, a great find.

We’ll be back. MW.

Here at Old Town we’re often asked to provide

outfits for stage productions. We recently made

“Cow coats” and "Overall jackets" for a production

of Major Barbara at the National, "Vauxhalls",

"Lounge jackets" and waistcoats for Carmen at the

Royal Opera House. But apart from an episode of

Silent Witness when a schizophrenic gardener ran

amok wearing Old Town we rarely get asked to

provide costumes for television. Until a couple of

weeks ago when we had a phone call from the BBC

costume department.

What could they want? Maybe Jonathon Ross

was having a make over? It's about time he ditched

that footballer in court look. We were hoping for

Fred Dibnah: The Musical, or perhaps a remake of

Porridge – woven cotton stripe shirting and prison

issue wool serge being a speciality of ours. But no,

it was for an episode of Casualty.

The request was for a cotton drill overall jacket

plus an extra set of sleeves. The scene involved an

“artisan carpenter” who has an accident with a

bandsaw and has his arm ripped off. "As usual" she

said "there’ll be a lot of blood". MW.

Fernandez & Wells

43, Lexington Street, London W1

www.fernandezandwells.com

HAM CHEESE PICCALILLI

LEILA’s SHOP 17, Calvert Avenue, London E2

Coffee, Cake

Polish Sausages, Pickles

New Greengrocer’s Now Open

“...as I was saying, the traditional

Lincolnshire poacher’s jacket has two

inside pockets and adjustable gussets,

whilst the Suffolk horseman’s coat...”

Documents

Evening Star - Issue 2