Good Night.

For a little while – well quite some time to be honest – when I first went to America I had never actually been in to anybody's house. Never crossed the portal which separated their public and private lives. I had seen inside their houses many times through the magical world of the movies but that was fiction.

Sometimes I would sit and look at a family sitting at an airport or restaurant and try to listen in to their conversations to see if they would somehow drop the American accents and call each other mate. When the great Australian writer (and broadcaster) Clive James first came to Britain he would think the same about the English accents but he was listening to received pronunciation (RP) like Stephen Fry or John Cleese and I was expecting the more common type like Liverpool, London or even oo ah rural. But that wasn't the only thing I listened for; I couldn't believe that they actually said 'have a nice day' or 'have a good one' or even called each other honey or hun!

I would look at their clothes at the airports and wonder if the men were dressed for golf or travel as their clothing seemed strange; all the naff things from Britain seemed to be acceptable in America: baseball hats and white socks, for example.

I used to love the 1950s movies where white socks were worn – Martin and Lewis films; Superman, White Christmas etc. I longed for those fashions when I went to America and in Los Angeles I found them. I loved the 1950s look of LA, the Superman buildings downtown, the 1950s architecture and the fantastic winged motor cars on their never ending freeways but do you know what I never heard? The phrase 'good night.'

Straight away I'm going to be called a romancer or someone having problems with the truth as I did hear it from time to time, but when I stayed at various people's houses I didn't hear it at all.

I was listening to David Sedaris on the radio last night, who was talking about his family and it reminded me of this phenomenon; he said 'my family never said good night; they just disappeared.'

That's what I mean; David Sedaris lives this side of the Atlantic now and has probably noticed that over here people have the manners to excuse themselves when leaving a room and if they're not coming back it would be 'good night' or 'goodbye.'

When I stayed with people over there, or even lived with them when I first got there, I would notice that when it was bed time, they would just disappear; never a good night, kiss my arse or nothing.

One time I was watching TV with the landlady, when I first arrived and I went to the loo. I was out of the room less than three minutes and not only did she not say good night, she turned the TV off and left the room in darkness; not thinking that I might want to finish watching the programme or even moving my stuff from the chair I had been sitting on.

Sometimes she would disappear for weeks – never saying where she was going or even when she would be back; not that it was my business but you know what I mean.

That was when I first went to America; for the first eighteen months I was by myself; living in a shared house at first and then in an apartment by myself. I had gone from evenings of my children kissing me good night to me having to kiss my own arse for company and in this season of good cheer let me be one of the many people to wish you good night and if I'm the only one, you'll have to do what I did – kiss your own arse goodnight.

Which reminds me of a few lyrical lines from the days when everybody expected to be blown up by a nuclear bomb:

So when the nukes come raining down
It's great to be alive, well
World War Three can be such fun
If you protect and survive
Protect and survive

For they give us a four-minute warning
When the rockets are on their way
To give us time to panic and Christians time to pray
So when you hear the siren's going
Place your head between your thighs
Whilst maintaining this posture
You can make a final gesture
And with a little muscular pressure
You can kiss your arse goodbye

Happy Christmas.

Peter O'Toole.

 Peter O'Toole.

I had to put this up today; this is not becoming an obituary blog, I didn't mention Nelson Mandella, even though he was probably the greatest man that ever lived, but I am repeating this little piece I wrote about 4 years ago:

I hadn’t played cricket for years when I suddenly got a call from a friend; he was coming up to Northamptonshire to play and there might be a game for me if I turned up: “Oh by the way” he said - Peter O'Toole is playing.

The call came on a Sunday morning and the game was to be that afternoon; I searched around for some kit and found my old cricket boots, a white shirt and my cricket sweater; no white trousers, I’m afraid, but I didn’t want to look too keen in any case; that wouldn’t be cricket.

The things people like about playing cricket are batting and bowling and when you get a game with a new team those are the two things they never let you do; you have to field and go in at about number nine or ten; and as for bowling? Forget it!

Looking back on that now it amazes me the way we stood for it; when people ask if you will help them out and make up a team you should say “yes! If I can bat or bowl.” But again – that wouldn’t be cricket.

I had promised my son that when the famous England international cricketer, Ian Botham, came to Northampton to play the local team I would take him; I asked him if he wanted to come and see Peter O’Toole but it was met with a negative response – who is Peter O’Toole?

The field, where the match was due to be played, was in another village but was easy enough for me to find as I was very familiar with most of the sleepy picturesque villages of Northamptonshire.

A few of the players were already there when I arrived and it was good to see my friend Nick; we first met when we appeared together in a national tour of a Mike Harding play “Fur Coat and No Knickers” but I hadn’t seen him for about a year.

My cricket boots and sweater were in the car when we greeted each other and I asked him how he got involved with Peter O’Toole: - It's his nephew’s team; he said he plays quite often.

About ten minutes or so later Peter O’Toole arrived; he didn’t just turn up in a car with others or sneak in, he arrived in the truest sense of the word; he arrived; he was with his nephew in an open top sports car; even before he got out of the car he dripped with charisma, eccentricity and just basic star quality; there was no mistaking that this was Lawrence of Arabia.

He didn’t look too healthy; a bit thinner than I had imagined and very pale; but it was Peter O’Toole all right; he smiled as he emerged from the car and headed towards the dressing rooms.

As he greeted everybody it became obvious that this was no mere mortal; this was the bon vivant on his day out, smoking a cigarette through a long holder and not sparing anyone in his wake that charming and attractive smile.

I was glad I had left my cricket gear in the car as both teams were in full attendance and all members were fully dressed in their whites; I would have stood out like a sore thumb in my jeans in any case.

I managed to get a bit of a “field” in the warm up though; the part where everybody throws the ball as hard as they can at each other to see how brave or foolish they can be. Peter O’Toole seemed to be catching the ball okay which surprised me as I didn’t even know he played cricket.
While we were having the warm up a few cars arrived and out of the cars came a few strange looking people of all shapes and sizes; yes the press and local radio reporters.

When they spotted Peter O’Toole the cameras and the shutters started buzzing and snapping; this was in the nineteen eighties when the paparazzi didn’t quite have the reputation they have today so nobody was that alarmed.

The time came for the toss: Peter O’Toole’s team would bat first and Peter and his nephew would open the batting. The opposing team took the field and went into the ritual of trying to knock each other’s heads off with the cricket ball; the umpires, who in that class of cricket came from the lower order batsman of the batting side, took to the field and we were ready to go.
When Peter O’Toole and his nephew emerged from the dressing room there were two other batsmen with them each carrying a bat and each walking towards the middle with the nephew and his Uncle Peter; it seemed that both Peter and his nephew had leg injuries and needed runners.

It was a strange sight seeing the four of them heading towards the middle followed by about three or four press photographers; they surrounded him snap snapping and flash flashing as he took his guard and when he was ready he looked at them; he didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to; they got the message and sloped off to the sidelines.

The opposing bowler had marked out his run and was making adjustments to the field as everybody waited for the first ball; Peter O’Toole looked valiant as he waited for it, his runner was standing out at square leg and his nephew’s runner was standing next to the umpire at the far end with the nephew, himself, standing as far out as his uncle’s runner. At one point it looked like more batsmen were out there than fielders; everything was ready to go.

The press kept quiet and we all looked to the field as the bowler came bounding in; when he reached his maximum speed, which coincided with his arrival at the wicket, he let the ball go at the top of his arch and the ball seemed to bounce at lightening speed half way down the pitch; Peter saw it coming and played it defensively on the back foot and it travelled towards a close fielder: “stay” “no” “stay” “wait” could be heard and then everybody laughed.

If they kept that up through the game it would be like the Reginald Perrin yuppies “super” “great.”
The batsmen and runners got together; they had to make up their minds as to who was going to do the calling when a run was possible; they huddled conspiratorially together then they laughed again and went back towards their places; suddenly they stopped and got together again with a kind of “don”t forget the…..’ then they were in a huddle again till they laughed and parted to take their positions.

Peter O’Toole played a straight bat throughout; he was exceedingly accomplished and hit a few cracking shots against bowlers who were trying really hard to get him out; I particularly remember a few off drives and a couple of boundaries.

Each time he did this the bowlers tried even harder to get him out and the few onlookers cheered and jeered.

Eventually it had to happen; he was out. I’m not sure how many runs he scored but it was a good knock and he got a tremendous round of applause as he walked off with his runner trailing behind.

The press pathetically took his photograph as he reached the edge of the field and he very obligingly smiled and acknowledged the applause by raising his bat as he headed for the dressing room.

A girl radio reporter, with tape recorder on her shoulder followed him in.

I was sitting just outside and I’m not sure what Peter O’Toole said to her – it sounded like geee yaa ferr yah here! Whatever it was the girl radio reporter came out of the dressing room like a greyhound from the trap.

After a while the great man emerged; carrying the cigarette and holder, and wearing a small towel around his neck; he came and sat next to me and as his limbs hit the bench I could feel the heat from his body permeating the air.

The girl radio reporter came and stood in front of us blocking our view of the game “Darling! Do you mind?” he said.

He was very nice and she moved away. I was very envious that I wasn’t playing and sorry that I hadn’t played for years as the smell of the willow and surgical spirit mixed with the cool Northamptonshire air, the general camaraderie of the players around me and the general atmosphere of the day, made me want to seek out a team that was looking for a has been.

The conversation for the next hour consisted of “well played” “that was never out” “how many do we have now” to “oh well; it”s our turn now.’

And there they were; going on to the field to try and bowl the other team out.

Peter O’Toole was the wicket keeper and played a good game in the field too. There didn’t seem to be any sign of a leg injury; but why would there be? This was the man that took Aqaba by land and the opposing cricket team would be easy meat for such a legend and the team did indeed collapse giving the Peter O’Toole XI the game.

He came back to the dressing room and when it was time to go, he warmly shook my hand; as he did this he seemed to look me up and down as if he was the major and I was the trooper under inspection.

Then off he went to China to work in The Last Emperor; he didn’t see his photographs on the front page of the Northampton Chronicle and Echo the next day; the photos made him look about twenty years younger and twenty pounds heavier.

The day coincided with Ian Botham’s visit to play Northamptonshire County Cricket team in their annual game at Wellingborough School; in this game Botham hit a record number of sixes which was on the television news that night but there wasn’t one photograph in the Northampton newspapers to record this great feat; the photographers were all taking shots of Peter O’Toole.

Horace.

Here's a little tale – it came to me; some of it's true but it's laced with a bit of imagination: it's a character I have been playing with – see if you like it; I must have written it about ten years ago and never progressed.

Horace Melia had one fifth of his sight in his right eye and his left eye had no sight at all; he needed a hearing aid as his hearing was bad too. If he watched television he would have to sit next fo the set and watch from a distance of two or three inches, just to the side so as not to block his wife’s view; the sound on the television had to be on maximum volume and his neighbours learned to know his favourite programmes. They didn’t like to complain as they knew he had no choice. He also listened to the radio at full blast and had been an avid fan of ‘The Archers’ since they started in the nineteen fifties.

His neighbours bought a walkman radio for him so that he could listen on head phones but his wife complained that she wanted to listen to it with 'her Lol,' as she called him; in any case he couldn’t hear properly on the head phones as he said when he put them on he couldn’t get them close enough to his ears; one of the neighbours tried to get a walkman radio with an attachment that would plug straight into his hearing aid but Horace couldn’t work it out.

The hearing aid Horace used was the old fashioned kind which had a device with wires which went to his ears.

The young children loved Mister Melia, as they called him, because he was a very good conjurer; once in a while, if any one visited him with children, Ada Melia, his wife of fifty three years, would ask her Lol to do a few tricks.

He had one trick which involved a handkerchief and a match: he would take a match, wrap his dirty handkerchief around it, break the match and when he opened the handkerchief again, lo and behold the match was still in one piece. His handkerchief was usually dirty because he would shine the brass door knocker every time he went in and came out of his front door even though he could hardly see it.

Another thing he used to do was throw a coin into the air and find it behind a child’s ear. It was easier when pennies were in circulation but with decimalization in nineteen seventy one Horace had to practice his tricks with smaller coins and eventually the pound piece; Horace would always give the coin to the child at the end of the trick so decimalization made his tricks more expensive.

He would rise very early and clean out the fire place; then he would put the ashes in a special metal bin and go back in to the house and light the fire. He did this the old fashioned way with loads of newspaper, a few fire lighters, bits of wood and coal. Sometimes when the fire was burning in the grate he would throw on a few chopped logs.

Ada had the habit of sitting too close to the fire and, consequently, her legs were permanently red.

As the pipes, which came from the water boiler at the back of the fireplace, spread their heat through the walls to the bathroom upstairs and the kitchen downstairs the house got hotter; so from about eight thirty onwards the fire would blaze in the fireplace and warm the whole home.

This is when Ada would wake up.

Every one in the village knew when Ada woke up: they would hear her call to Horace:

“Lol!”

No answer – don’t forget Horace was deaf.

A little louder:

“Lol!”

That one had two syllables – Lo – ol.

Still no answer – he’s still deaf.

Now again but a little louder:

“Horace!”

Then almost at once:
”Horace.”

Horace would be sitting at the table with a magnifying glass trying to read the newspaper.

“Horace! Horace!”

Then she would lean out of bed, pick up Horace’s spare white stick and bang the floor – bang bang bang bang!

Horace would hear this; it happened every day so he would be expecting it; then he would go to the foot of the stairs and call up:

“Yes, my love.”

“I’ll have a nice cup of tea,” she would say “two slices of toast and marmalade . .”

And then she would roar:

“And don’t burn the bloody toast!”

Everybody in the cul-de-sac heard this; they heard it every day. The cul-de-sac consisted of ten houses and apart from the ends of the blocks they were joined together.

Horace and Ada had lived in the house since it was built in nineteen fifty and they had lived alone for twenty five years since their only son, Ralph, had moved to San Francisco upon his marriage to Jill, an American girl he had met on his first holiday abroad. Not only was the trip to Spain Ralph’s first holiday abroad, it was the first time any one in the cul-de-sac had ever travelled out of the country; but he never came back.

Ronald Hunter; RIP

Ronald Hunter: 1943 - 2013

I took that photograph of my friend, Ronald Hunter, a few years ago; I called it Ronnie Christ and when he came to our apartment to celebrate his birthday one year, with a few friends, after dinner I presented him with the framed photo. I don't know if he ever put it on his wall but it brought a tear to his eye.

He died yesterday, in Los Angeles, after being ill for some time; he fell asleep, as I was told, the way he wanted go. The main thing is he wasn't in pain and didn't suffer.

I met Ronnie Boy, as I called him, in 1997 when we were both in a play at Santa Monica Playhouse, California, and we both won an award – so we were 'award winning actors' – we kind of clicked and swapped stories in a sports bar on Wilshire Boulevard after each show.

Since then he has always been a true friend and if we didn't see him for a few days he would call each day just to see how we were. He would take me out to dinner on my birthday; I had stopped celebrating it years ago and he would take my wife out on hers too; since we moved back to London we would always speak on those days.

Ron was a really good actor; he came to Los Angeles to do a series with Louis Gosset Jr called The Lazarus Syndrome, he liked the weather so he stayed. He also worked with Al Pacino on a few occasions on Broadway, notably in Richard III.

A few years ago he was very ill, and we thought we had lost him then, but he recovered and gave a brilliant nuanced performance in a play called The Unexpected Man in Los Angeles barely six months after being at death's door.

But it was as a human being he will be most missed. He was a friend who wouldn't let you down and I will miss him – may he rest in peace.

TV Directing: a Cautionary Tale.

Can't think of a photo so . . .

An advertisment for my song.

Here's a cautionary tale – or even a tail – about knocking people on the way up – you may meet them on the way down and you may need them

I remember seeing the film 'Carrie' – the original one – and loved it; especially the end when the whole cinema erupted; then we went to the pub and talked about it, trembled and rushed to get that last pint as this was in the day when pubs closed at 10.30 pm – and I was working at a theatre in Cheltenham where 10:30 closing time meant 10:30 closing time and as the film finished at about 10:24 it was quite a rush.

The director of that film was Brian De Palma and even though he has made good movies since he has never quite fulfilled the promise he showed earlier on and do you ever wonder why? No! I didn't think you did because you're not like that, are you?

I saw Michael Douglas on a talk show once; he was chatting away about this and that and he was asked a question about Brian De Palma and, even though I can't remember the exact words he used, it seems he had stood in the way of Michael getting a role and Michael said 'he didn't know who he was dealing with' or words to that affect.

De Palma had obviously upset him not knowing that Michael Douglas was to become one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood -so maybe that's why he didn't fulfil the promise he showed earlier - or maybe his films weren't that good after all.

I'm not sure if I could be that vindictive; I had the chance once to get my own back on someone once who had treated me badly and I didn't take the opportunity. One thing you need to know is that in the 40 years I have been an actor I have never been involved in any big arguments or been treated nasty by a director, producer or big star but I remember one day I had a call from a producer at the BBC. He was Gerard Glaister who produced a lot of quality television series from the late 1950s up to 1991; in fact it was in 1990-91 that I had the call from him.

It was completely out of the blue; I may have written to him at some point, I don't know, but when I met him he told me he was doing a television series about horse racing. He actually gave me a cup of tea – or he sent for one – and we chatted about the series and what he was going to do with it. He had some pictures on the wall of some of the actors that were due to be in it and he showed me plans and shooting dates.

Then he said that as some of the money was coming from Ireland he would like an Irish actor in the series to play a trainer and he said he thought I would be right for the part. Wonderful, I thought, but I had been acting for 20 years so I never put any reliance on anything anybody said to me unless it was the time of the first rehearsal.

Let me check on something, he said, and he got on the phone and asked to speak to the director, who was called Jeremy Summers; I'd like you to meet him, he said, and when he (Summers) answered the phone they arranged it between them.

I was told he was on the floor below and down I trotted to see him.

When I walked in the first thing he said to me was - What's this about?

What's this about????

I explained that Gerard Glaister had said they would be looking for an Irishman to play the trainer and he interrupted me and said - who said he was Irish?

I told him that I was told by Gerard Glaister.

- We haven't decided yet what he should be, he said, and what were you doing with Gerard Glaister?

I explained that he had called me in and he said – why would he call you in? Did you write to him.

He said that as if Gerard Glaister was an idiot and called everybody in who wrote to him; maybe he did, who knows.

We were not getting on!

I can't even remember leaving the office; I had been swimming along, minding my own business when a hand came in to the water and picked me out. Oh what a nice little fish you are, the hand said, I'll feed you and show you to my friend. Then the hand showed it to his friend and said – do you like this little fish and the friend said no; throw him back in.

I just looked on the IMDb and noticed Jeremy Summers only directed the one episode of Trainer, which is what the series was called and it was just my luck to meet the shit bag on that day.

But that's it I'm sure the person he cast in the role did it splendidly and had loads of charisma and star quality but then . . . .

Some time later I was with a company in Percy Street and I was involved in a TV series. If you saw my little movie The Scroll, it was based on the two characters in that and was set in some of the most exciting countries in Europe.

I devised it, as I had created the characters, and it was called Hard On Their Heels; the two main characters from The Scroll would follow two girls who had conned them out of money and a private detective was following the boys (us).

I took the pilot to Cannes and we talked to a lot of people and on a few occasions we nearly got it off the ground – but it didn't happen.

One day, before we went to Cannes, my partner was sitting in the office after partaking of a very heavy liquid lunch and the phone rang. It was a casting service, rather like The Breakdown Services in Los Angeles. They were after information to publish so agents could submit their clients for roles etc.

One of the characters I wanted in my series, was a French Count – a smooth kind of playboy and my partner told the casting service about this character. He told them that I was directing the series but my first priority was to cast this particular part.

From the following day the mail box was full of suggestions from agents and actors after this role. I didn't do anything about it and if anybody ever called I would explain that it was a mistake.

The submissions were from all kinds and not necessarily for the 'count' – I had letters from composers, who wanted to do the music for the series, actors and actresses for other roles and agents with lists of clients; one agent wrote and said their client would be a great director and would I consider him – his name? Yes – Jeremy Summers.

I was so tempted to call him in and mess him about but, as I aforementioned, I don't think I could be vindictive.

In Flanders Field II

I will always know when memorial day is coming up because I get a lot of hits on the post I wrote about the poem In Flanders Field. I think I wrote that piece about 3 years ago and it still gets read.

I think it's good to remember (lest we forget) the fallen from all wars. In a week where so many people have lost their lives because of a natural disaster it seems so futile that man treats man so abominably. As I write this I know that women can't walk home alone in Sri Lanka without the risk of getting raped by the authorities; that men in the same country are continually being tortured and murdered unless they pay bribes to the police. Can you imagine that? I don't think we need to pat our own police on the back because they don't do it.

There was a man in Sri Lanka who was being tortured and it continued awaiting a bribe from his family. They inserted a tube up his anus so they could insert barbed wire which gave him internal injuries. So he was sent to hospital where surgery repaired some of the damage so they could send him back for more torture – till his family paid a bribe; doesn't bear thinking about does it? He will never recover.

I remember the journelist Clive James saying that he was part of the first generation that would not expect to go to war. In fact up to The Faulklands War the only place the British soldier went to was the so called Northern Ireland.

There is a lot of money to be made from war; the depression of the thirties was eventually ended by the second world war.

Anyway here is my piece from two years ago and as I write this the time is 11:11 am on 11/11 – peace!

This is for today; November 11th; it would be great if it was published at eleven minutes passed eleven but that comes at different times in different countries; it was the time and date of the armistice in 1918; the end of the first world war which started in 1914; so I will get this as close to 11:00 am as I can.

The poem, which titles this post, was written by a Canadian John McCrae – so it's not only the English who wrote great World War One poetry; some of the great poems of the first world war were pro-war for example Rupert Brooke as opposed to the anti-war poems by others including Wilfred Owen.

There are two photos above as you can see – one clearly has the first line as 'In Flanders Field the poppies grow' which was hand written by the author and in the other one, taken from the publication In Flanders Field and Other Poems clearly says as poppies blow. I believe the hand written one was written from memory and is a mistake; but I always thought it was grow.

At this time of year in Britain most people wear red poppies in their lapels; this is to remember Armistice Day lest anybody forget and the people buy the poppies from poppy sellers in the streets; they're also usually available at your school and place of work and the money collected goes to a charity.

I leave you with a great poem and ask – is it pro or anti-war? Throwing the torch?? Discuss????

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Morrissey.

Morrissey.

I'm a bit late this week with my post because I've been getting my Christmas song ready for release on iTunes and other sites on the Internet and that's a bit complicated. I-Tunes use MP3 which is quite a poor quality and that is quite simple. I just send the song electronically to my distributor and they take if from there. They have all the art work etc and, as a matter of interest here it is and it's called Every Day is Christmas Day - http://tinyurl.com/old9xu3

The complication happens with the hard copy which cannot be sent over the Internet and I have to send it as a hard copy to another company on the west coast (USA) by snail mail. The reason for this is that it is 266 MB which is huge. The MP3 is only 5.54 MB so you can see the reduction in quality. The hard copy version also has another track which is a love song called, appropriately enough, I Love You.

Oh here's the love song - http://tinyurl.com/nss6l3n

You may have to copy and paste.

They are only on Amazon.com and not Amazon.co.uk as yet; that's a pisser isn't it?

Now what has this got to do with Morrissey, I hear you ask – well absolutely nothing; I'm just chatting. By the way John Lennon said that the word 'just' is a complete waste of time and I tend to agree with him; I just used it – oh there I go again!

But there he is up there; Morrissey – I don't know a lot about him but what I have heard is not too positive, in fact most of what I have heard has been fairly negative. But I have heard him sing, I have heard some of his records and songs and I really like what I hear; he was in a group called The Smiths and what I've heard from The Smiths I quite like too.

They seem to record songs which have a different rhythm from the musical backing, a technique which I have always liked.

I can't quite figure out how The Smiths, in their hay day, passed me by; I was a great fan of rock and pop music right up till the late nineties so what happened? I even liked some hip hop and rap but then suddenly . . . I went off it. Looking back the songs, CDs, records (whatever the current vernacular is) that I liked weren't hits; they fell by the wayside.

What I plan to do now is get some Morrissey and The Smiths tracks and maybe enjoy them but recently Morrissey has written an autobiography and it is published by Penguin Classics.

I am not a great fan of pop autobiographies or sports ones; in fact I think sportsmen and women are the most boring self obsessed people there are. One only has to look at Andy Murray smashing yet another racquet to realise this; I think I blame the sporting commentators for the way they describe the actions of some of the sporting super stars.

There used to be a shot-putter in Britain called Geoff Capes – who was a copper would you believe – and a commentator called David Coleman would build him up to be some kind of funny tough guy 'Geoff Capes has knocked over one of the East Germans in the tunnel; good old Geoff!'

But let me get back to Morrissey before I go completely off the subject; his autobiography has been published by Penguin Classics!! Yes they're my italics! Penguin Classics are usually reserved for Classic books, such as Shakespeare, Jane Austin and the like so how can a new book – a new title or whatever – be deemed to be a classic when it had yet to be published?

The reason, apparently, is that Morrissey wanted it that way. Isn't that some kind of blackmail from the reclusive, cult of a pop star?

I saw him one day in Los Angeles. Where? At the Farmers' Market, of course; a place I have written about on more than one occasion: there is a tiny street that separates the two parking lots that serve the Farmers' Market and the bloody 'eye sore' called The Grove (I don't even have to describe it do I, for you to picture what it might be like – yes Abercrombie & Fitch, The Gap, The Apple Store), and the parking lot the furthest away from The Farmers' is the one I used to use.

On the side, next to a bank, is the post office and out of there, one day, emerged Morrissey. He was with a small woman who might be described as on the plump side – that's nothing against her as I like plump women (well sometimes – it depends on what they want me to do). Because she was so small he looked very tall.

He looked very serious as if he had been over charged for a stamp at the post office but now I know he must have been thinking what to put into his classic. They got in to a mini and drove away and I went about my business not realising I had been in close contact with a cult!!

Now when I say I don't particularly like pop autobiographies or sporting ones I did like the Bob Dylan book Chronicles; I loved the way it was written and I am looking forward to volumes two and three. In it he tells of his friendship with the pop singer of the sixties, Bobby Vee, who was always one of my favourites – anybody who sounds a bit like Buddy Holly was in my record collection which is why I liked The Beatles.

Come to think of it when Bob Dylan picked up his GRAMMY he mentioned Buddy Holly. He said he saw Buddy Holly in Duluth when he was about 16 years old and he was three feet away from Buddy and he said 'he looked at me.' And he said that look inspired him when he was making his GRAMMY winning album.

So you never know; Morrissey's book might be good; who knows? I haven't read it yet but I know it has received 'mixed' reviews. One of the critics on a radio review show last week said he wasn't going to give it a 'mixed' review – he said it was the worst book he had ever read!!! He obviously hasn't read any of mine!!!!

Peaky Blinders.

A Television series called Peaky Blinders has just finished in Britain; just six episodes so I suppose in American terms – or indeed international ones – it would be deemed a 'mini series.'

When we were children in Birmingham, my dad would tell me about the Peaky Blinders; they were part of the mythical past of the city and I was reminded about them when I worked with older people. I don't know how my dad had heard of them, as he was a newcomer to Birmingham and nobody in our immediate or historical past had ever even 'been' there – as far as I know.

So it was no small wonder that a series about the gang would eventually be made for television; what was surprising, to me, was that it took so long. The Peaky Blinders were so called because they would wear caps with razor blades sewn in to the peak, and if you got in to a fight with them, or they had a violent dispute with you, they would doff their caps and slash you with the armed peaks, consequently blinding you if they caught you in the eyes. Yes, I hear you say, nice people.

I was never sure when they ruled the streets; I had heard before the series started that they were from the late 19th Century but the series was set just after the ending of the first world war and the Peaky Blinders were made up of men returning from the front; some of them shell shocked and others not too pleased at the way things were going in a country they had fought hard to preserve. In one of their escapades they stole guns from the BSA (yes folks, the same people who make the bikes; Birmingham Small Arms) and Winston Churchill was worried that the Irish revolutionaries had stolen them and sent a Belfast cop to investigate.

So what did I think of it?

Well I liked it; there was the usual complaining about some of the accents not being authentic but as I have said before 'put two British actors together and soon they'll be talking about accents.' A good friend of mine said this to me in America which got me to thinking that it's true.

But I did like it with certain reservations; look at the photo above; looks great, doesn't it? There is Cillian Murphy – him of the high cheek bones and blue eyes – and his character was the Mister Big of the family that dominated the gang. He played it with a great deal of authority and there was no mistaking that he was head and shoulders above the rest of the cast with a few exceptions.

Now I know Birmingham very well; some parts I know like the back of my hand, as I delivered telegrams there for two and a half years and for nearly a year after that I delivered mail to some of the locations mentioned; namely Deritend, which is old English for Dirty end, by the way.

I had no problem with either of the two accents used in the series – Irish and Birmingham – but I have to say that there is a similarity in some of the vowel sounds of both of them – oh dear, I've lost you, but stick with it for a while – for example the 'U' sound in words like 'Dublin' – there is also in a Dublin accent the sound to rhyme with cow as in round and about which are similar and the Dubliners say the letter 'R' – as in RTE – as awe; just like in Birmingham. Both accents are very contagious and you will be slipping in to them if you spend any time in either place.

To finish off my point about the accents it will not mean diddly squat to the world wide audience, outside the immediate area, and Brummies have been portrayed, for a change, as strong, romantic and interesting in this series so they should not be moaning about it on the Internet Movie Data Base, as they have been doing. I would like to have seen more humour in it as stories need it -  in fact I would liked to have seen some humour.

If you compare this series with some of the American series, for example Mad Men – which is also a period peace – or Homeland, it looks as if the British one is not so slick. I know there are many here who think that British acting and production facilities are superior to the Americans – and indeed they are, at least, equal in movies technically. Look at one of the top movies in America at the moment, Gravity with George Clooney and Sandra Bullock, and others of the past such as Superman, Star Wars and so on; all made in Britain.

I know the budgets in America are bigger as they seem to have lots of money to throw around but why do the British make things like Law and Order UK, and Hustle, look good and not things with better scripts and acting? Also they take things like Peaky Blinders and other things quite seriously and the aforementioned two series like a light hearted walk in the park as if it is beneath them.

Maybe the BBC could put more money in to drama instead of the many millions they spend on cookery programmes, antique programmes and programmes about buying and selling houses?

I'm only asking, I don't know.

In Peaky Blinders it didn't seem as if anybody else existed in Birmingham apart from the people involved in the story. No people in the background. I heard neighbourhoods like Sparkbrook, Small Heath and the aforementioned Deritend being mentioned but it could have been anywhere outside the pub – could have been Istanbul outside for all we knew.

Too late now to complain, really. Especially as I wore one of those caps in a small film earlier this year – here I am:

(actually it was from Bates of Jermyn Street, as you connoisseurs will have noticed) ) so maybe they should have thought of me – but it's too late now, unless there's another series.

The Cops, the plebs and the Bike Riding Toffs.

10 Downing Street is where the Prime Minister lives; it is a little street off Whitehall and I have been there many times – when it was a street. It's still a street but since Margaret Thatcher, the street has been blocked off with heavy gates and now you can't even drive a tank down there – can't get down Downing Street; sorry.

They put the gates there for security reasons which didn't stop the IRA bombing the back garden a few years ago when John Major was the Prime Minister.

Because the street is now blocked off, and full of police, the big gates have to open to let vehicles in – like a cabinet minister, or the Prime Minister, or maybe some visiting head of state or the head of state of Britain; the Queen.

A lot of people actually walk the fifty yards or so to number 10 but others don't.

One of the things you are not supposed to do is ride a bike down Downing Street – or even up Downing Street - as there is a tiny gateway for pedestrians to get in and out of the street which makes it a bit difficult, and in any case they just don't want people riding bikes down that street; it's their street!!

A few months ago, an MP (Member of Parliament) in fact the Chief Whip, rode his bike along Downing Street.

The whole place is stinking with cops so he, Um Big Chief Whip, must have thought he was above the law but one of the cops told him to get off the bike and push it.

Now what he said and what he didn't say at this point has been up for debate ever since. We know he used the F... word many times, and other colourful language, which is against the law if you say it to a police man in anger or as an assault, and we know that he has used the word pleb on many occasions in the past. In fact on TV the other night one of his ex colleagues, Michael Portillo, said so.

Mitchell has admitted using the offensive four letter words, which seems to have been forgiven by the police, but the police said that he also called them plebs – which he has denied.

And this is what all the fuss is about whilst people starve, wars are killing people and there are despots and piss pots to take care of.

Let me ask a question – how did the police know that this man (a pleb himself) had the word pleb in his regular vocabulary?

Here he is and to me it looks like he is actually saying the disputed word:

He was sacked from his job as Chief Whip and there is to be a police enquiry as it is thought that he was fitted up; this man that has used that word on many occasions wanted to ride his bloody bike.

He could have walked down the street like the Chancellor of the Exchequer, George Osborne – there he is walking, doesn't he look dashing:

 and there he is pretending he is a performing seal:

 

Many years ago I was in a play called Spokesong; I think it was the best role I ever played and this was at The Haymarket Theatre, Leicester – here I am all those years ago (with a bike around my neck).

The director asked me to grow a moustache to make me look older – oh for those days eh!!

It was a huge, varied role and the character was a guy called Frank who ran a bicycle shop in Belfast during the 'troubles' – there is a wonderful line in the play (I didn't have to say it) where the para militaries bomb a pet shop and the line is 'For one wonderful moment it was raining cats and dogs.'

Because, at the time, the centre of Belfast was under threat from terrorism from both sides, car bombs were used and Frank had the idea of banning cars from the centre of the city putting bicycles in certain places so people could just take one and leave it at another designated place.

It was his idea to stop the car bombs – people laughed, then thought about it, then went about their way.

Well today, in the city of London, there are bikes all over the place – look:

Just as Frank Stock said in Spokesong.

Here is an idiot riding one:

He is the Mayor of London, one Boris Johnson, an old Etonian and friend of David Cameron and George Osborne – all members of the Bullingdon Club. Remember this picture, Osborne, Cameron and Boris:

Wonderful aren't they. The men who run the country.

But let me get back to the bikes – they were Boris's idea; he did a deal with his banking friends at Barclay's. It seems a good idea, and is, till you get close to them and look at the cost and conditions.

First of all you put your credit card in to the machine near by; this charges you about £4 per hour and on up £50 for the day. If the bike is damaged at all £300 gets taken off your credit card.

This is what you can also rent for £50 per day and it is insured:

Hope you enjoyed the pictures.

SPOKESONG by Stewart Parker. 1941 – 1988.

Pleb = Plebeian:

belonging or pertaining to the common people.

of, pertaining to, or belonging to the ancient Roman plebs.

common, commonplace, or vulgar: a plebeian joke.

noun

a member of the common people.
a member of the ancient Roman plebs.