An English Country Garden.

A Humming Bird.

The story so far in case you are not familiar with this blog: this is the first time for many years that we have lived in this climate; the climate of Great Britain with its four seasons.

We have been here for quite a few Christmases but that was only for a week at the most, but this time we are here all the time; there is no reprieve from this climate so we have to grin and bear it.

Some people like the four seasons, but I have never thought about it apart from appreciating it since we've been back. It was lovely to see the autumn leaves which had fallen from the trees and, indeed, I didn't mind sweeping them up and putting them into 'gardening' bags for the council to collect – they are due to collect this coming Monday and I have three full bags as there were a lot of leaves; and that was only from the front yard and the side where we park the car.

There is room for about four or even five cars at the side where we park and that is part of this property, so you can imagine the leaves, as the little car park is surrounded by trees; the car park or drive is about twenty five to thirty square yards and is surrounded by a small brick wall and a wooden fence which sheilds our rear garden.

Since we have been back, the winter has been relatively mild; not any where near as mild as Los Angeles, but we have seen a lot of sun; the sun is very weird here in the winter as it's so low in the sky it blinds you as you drive.

As I walk in this weather the fresh air hits me in the face and, because I'm walking fast, my body is warm and the thrill and comfort of getting back indoors is quite stimulating.

We are very fortunate to have central heating so the house is reasonably warm when we wake in the mornings and, indeed, I go in to the garden scantily dressed – but I wouldn't dream of sitting out like that.

I go out for a second or two to put food down for the birds and squirrels; when I do this I come back indoors and look through one of the windows, and the first thing I see is a robin; the robin must live close to where I drop the food as he or she is there in seconds.

He hops onto a step looking all around, then hops down to where the food is, takes a morsel, jumps back onto the step then flies up to the nest.

Then it goes quiet for a few minutes; next up will be a sparrow who doesn't come near the food but prefers to stay in the grass and look for seeds or whatever. Now as soon as I come in I hear the crows squawking above as if they are telling each other there is food.

The sparrow seems to ignore what's going on above but is hooshed off by the squirrel when he arrives; he eats more nuts than seeds and sits upright with whatever he is eating held between his two paws; apparently squirrels are either right or left handed. I was thinking of this when I was watching one the other day and wondering how we know that – and why!

As the squirrel eats, the crows above squawk louder and louder and I have seen a couple of crows land quite near to the squirrel to frighten him away; the few times I have seen this, the squirrel has eventually high tailed out of there with his tail – high!

As soon a he starts to run the crows take off again, their job done.

I can't stay there all day but I do notice over the hours that all the food goes; maybe the crows wait for me to go to eat.

The feeding of the birds and squirrels is only for my amusement; they wouldn't starve without me, but when it snows the state of affairs will be different; also if the ground gets hard with frost they might need me.

In Los Angeles I would see different birds on our balcony; there I would see humming birds; when you see a humming bird first of all they look a bit like big bumble bees but when you get close you can see how beautiful they are; they are the only birds who can fly backwards and that's amazing to see.

In Los Angeles, the crows eat the humming birds, so I am told, and I am also told that the crows eat 'road kill' here in the UK.

Above rock'n'roll Ralphs in Hollywood is a parking lot, and one day, whilst I was going into Ralphs, a crow flew quite close to the elevator door and flew straight into a class petition; as soon as it hit the glass it fell to the floor. I went over and picked it up and as I cupped my other hand around it I could feel he was limp, but eventually he came to and started to move. Then he turned his head right around and looked in to my face.

Someone came up to me and said 'he's full of fleas' but I could see he wasn't; then a woman came to me and disagreed with the first person and said she had nursed a few crows and they were very clean.

As soon as I felt the crow was fit I let him go and he flew to the end of the car park, by the Ralphs lifts again, and straight into the same window.

I had to pick him up again but this time, when he came round, I walked to the top of the car park, where there were no windows and when I let him go he flew off to freedom.

There were always crows by our building in Hollywood, and I noticed that sometimes they would make a clicking sound; I don't know what this meant but when I did it a few times to them I took a chance that it wasn't a mating call - but it seemed to make them quiet.

I don't know much about birds and nature and I'm sure the birds and animals of the wild don't know much about it either and don't know the names that man has given them.

One time in Hollywood I was standing on the top of a building having a few drinks with someone who was leaving the company in the building; he was keeping a couple of large owls. He worked for the wild life preservation people and it was time to let the owls go – had to set them free.

He brought one of them up to the roof and I seem to remember he had it wrapped in some kind of sheet and wore gauntlets.

The owl looked at peace and the other people that were there, inquisitively looked at the bird with caution and puzzlement; the fella holding the owl held it up and let it go.

The owl kind of dropped, then lifted up and flew into the distance flying north towards Mullholland Drive and a group of trees maybe a few miles in the distance. As soon as it took to the skies, other birds came from nowhere; crows, of course, and other birds which were a lot smaller.

It was as if the birds had the area under guard and as soon as they saw an alien – a bird of prey - they took to the skies; the owl steered its way through and a few birds went close to it but the owl carried on.

The guy told us that he knew that would happen and the same thing happened when he let the other owl go; that too flew steadfastly on.

It reminded me of the time I worked as an ice cream man in Wolverhampton, when I took the ice cream van to a new area and was approached by an Italian Mister Softie who didn't want me there and . . .. but that's for another day maybe; maybe.

Peter McParland

There he is at the top of the page, there; Peter McParland: he's the fella on the right with the Villa shirt and he's about to cross that ball out of the reach of the Chelsea fella with him.

He was in all the papers last week as it was his 91^st birthday and he's in them this week as he has died. He waited for the Villa to win again, after the disappointment with Man City and PSG, even though Villa played great in that game.

Aston Villa left winger. Number 11, and the last of the winning FA Cup winning team on 1957 to die. I always remember him with that number eleven on his back, like Georgie Best, which many people are mistaken as they think he was number seven 7.

Every time I saw Georgie play he was eleven with Morgan at number seven.

Peter McParland played in the days when, if the ball came across and the goalkeeper caught it, it was okay to shoulder charge the goalie into the back of the net, with the ball, as long as his feet were on the floor. This is why a lot of keepers punched the ball out which made for faster end to end football.

The goalkeepers since have been a protected species. One time there were not allowed to run with the ball in their hands unless they bounced it and I remember in one game Georgie Best timed his shot so well that when Gordon Banks bounced the ball, wee Georgie kicked it out of his hands and into the goal. NO GOAL, they shouted, you can't score a goal like that, you can't kick it out of the poor goalkeeper's hand like that. Not to Saint Gordon Banks.

But back to Peter McParland who was the first player I saw playing for Aston Villa when I entered Villa Park with my dad, who wasn't much of a football fan and who had taken me the week before to the dreaded Birmingham City who played Lincoln City.

The rest of the Irish in Birmingham supported Aston Villa and that's where we went.

So goodbye to Peter Mc P and thanks for everything.

Memorial Day in America.

 I wrote this some time ago and I am publishing it again as it reminded me of the LA I used to know, the LA I hope returns one day and there it is above.

Memorial Day in America is a national holiday; what you would call in Britain a bank holiday, and when I first moved there I would go to a big house in the San Fernando Valley (The Valley) to celebrate with a friend of a friend.

The friend was a guy called Hank; everybody called him Hank but his real name was Chaim – pronounced Hime, with that guttural sound on the aitch – but people called him Hank. It wasn't that he wasn't proud to be Jewish but Hank was easier for goys to remember and pronounce.  

Now 'goy' is a Yiddish word and if there was one thing I liked about Hank it was his use of Yiddish; I learned what a schnorrer was, a schlemiel, a schlepper and all the other uses of words not so complimentary but colourful and interesting.  

I also got used to hearing those words from his other friends and when I went to the world première of the movie Showgirls (don't ask) with him I met all the guys in the producer's office and learned their humour too.

When they heard my accent they'd say 'Where you fram – Joysey??'

In fact if there's one thing I miss about LA it's the Jewish humour – not Jewish jokes but Jewish humour – you know: Woody Allen, Seinfeld etc. 

The Jews here in Britain, seem to play gentiles ever since David Kossoff died. The closest thing Britain ever got to a Jewish series, since Never Mind the Quality, Feel the Width was a series made by Indians called Goodness Gracious Me which had that fish out of water, matriarchal, Italian/Jewish/Irish feel to it, even though it was from a country so far away.

Back to memorial day and my pal Hank.

I went to the house twice in the valley and it was the same story each time; when we arrived we met Hank's pal and he would be sitting in the big house by himself. He would take us in to the rear of the house where there would be loads of food and drinks all set out on a garden table next to the pool.

'The others will be here soon' he would say 'Hey Chris – when we have time maybe you can explain to me the rules of cricket.'

And I would say 'They're quite simple it's . . . '

'When we got time' he'd say; then we would sit around and take a drink.

A little while later his daughter would arrive, by herself, and sit at the table. She had the same conversation each time and that was to do with the 'valley' seceding from Los Angeles.

That's all she was interested in and, in fact, one of the years they had an election and the people of the valley decided to stay in Los Angeles.

After that the fella's ex-wife would show up. She would sit with the daughter and the fella would say 'how about some food' and as we were helping ourselves the son would arrive.  

He wouldn't say hello to anybody but would get in to some argument with dad and the arguments would usually spring from the fact that mom and dad were no longer a couple, mom no longer lived in the big house and neither did the kids.

So each Memorial Day this fella would get ready for a big garden party that no one went to; the son was embarrassing, the daughter was a typical 'valley girl' and the poor mother would try and hold on to the remnants that once were her family.

Each time we went there we ended up playing darts and leaving most of the food.

One year, Hank brought along his wife – that was a new one on me and I think he married her so she could get a green card.

She was a make up assistant in the film industry and Hank and his pal were assistant film directors; they were always setting up one big film after another none of which ever happened and if there's one thing to know about the Los Angeles film industry it's that most people have a script in their pocket, a project they are working on and, as an actor, I have been offered stardom more times than I can remember.

It was usually 'I want your voice in my movie' – my voice? Maybe I can get in to it too aye?

Hank asked me to join him when Memorial Weekend came about again – some time in May, as a rule, before the weather got really hot and the sun reflecting on the pool would blind you with its glare and when I would go indoors to get away from it the image of the last thing I was looking at would stay with me – but I passed as it was just too embarrassing.

I never completely lost contact with Hank; he would call me every Saint Patrick's Day and offer his services as a nominated driver. He drove a 1963 Chevy Nova convertible with red seats and white body work and in the winter, even though it was LA, it was cold, as he couldn't get the hood to work – or the top or whatever it's called - so we were forever in the open.

When I started to do my one man Irish Show on St Patrick's Day in the year 2000 he came to see it and one year he brought along the guy from the valley.

'Nice show, Chris; listen when we get time maybe you can tell me the rules of cricket.'

'Yeh – when we get time' I'd say.

I did the show each year up to about 2010 and each year I'd send Hank a flyer and he would call to say he was available as a nominated driver.

As well as the Yiddish, Hank had a very rough voice with a thick Brooklyn accent; he would talk about his 'dawdter' and his 'mudder an' farder' and one day when his daughter showed up she turned out to be quite a beauty. It was strange to see something so beautiful with such a rough looking man – let's face it he looked like a gangster.

One year one of the flyers came back – not at this address, so I feared the worst.

Hank had called me one day, when I got back from New York; I saw his name on my 'caller I.D.' thing on the phone and meant to call him back but I was rushing out so I didn't. He probably wanted to know how his home town was.

I felt guilty not calling him that day as I knew what the returned envelope meant, which I kept in the car; one day when I was travelling through Culver City, I called at his address and what I had suspected was true.

The manager of the building told me he had died; he had a heart attack one day and that was all he knew.

All the stuff I knew died with him: his daughter, his mother in New York, his money worries, the very cheap places to eat he had found all over Los Angeles and his Chevy Nova convertible, which he called Betsy – all gone.

Took me a long time to get over the guilt of not calling him that day – but I did think of him just as I think of all my friends, like you, that I will call one day.

Just as one day I'll tell you the difference between baseball and cricket.