Memorial Day - one year on.

Burcot Grange (above) built in 1890 and my home for a while as a young child.

The blog has been down for the past few days due to some kind of bug and I am repeating a post from last year's Memorial Day as there are still things, anniversaries and people to remember.

It's Memorial Day here; Memorial Day Weekend with the actual 'day' being on Monday and who do I remember? I remember lots of people as I am fortunate to have a good memory. On a site in the UK called Friends Reunited I looked at the people in my class at school and there were just a few; one or two of them got in touch with me, the memory man, and one or two wrote to me that I had forgotten; so not too much of memory man after all. All the things I write on here are from memory and sometimes I look on the Internet for some details like the road where such and such happened; one guy I wrote to, wrote back and said he couldn't remember anything about school at all. If you mention his name to anyone from my class they certainly would remember him as he would sit back on his chair in full view of the rest of the class and . . . well maybe if I put that in it will be picked up as a metatag and draw porn readers to the site – so he forgot all about school did he? The teacher (male) of the class must have seen him but what could he do? What could he say? **** put that thing away? That boy is probably a grandad now and what would his grandchildren think? A year or two before that, a boy at school suddenly stopped coming to school; nobody said anything and we didn't notice that his name had been taken off the register; his name was Michael Holmes. He came to our house to play a couple of times and I got to know his sisters later on; after a few weeks we found out that he had fallen into the canal and drowned. It was a shock but the school didn't let us know; I don't know what age we were but I would guess around eight or nine; I was in the Junior School in any case – Clifton Road Junior School. Now I don't need memorial day to remember Michael as he springs into my mind quite often. What happens here this weekend is the same in Britain only in Britain this weekend it will bank holiday weekend – I think it was called Whitsun at one time and on this American Heathen word processor on this computer it comes out as a spelling mistake – there now I've added the word to the dictionary so it's officially in. In Britain remembrance day is in November and people wear poppies to signify the ending of the first world war at 11/11. That's when Britain remember their heroes. The heroes they remember, of course, are the dead from wars. I think they go back to World War One which started in 1914 and ended in 1918 and there is hardly anybody left who actually fought in that war – the great war the war to end wars. I heard recently that the last one died either here or in the UK. The other world war started in 1939 and ended in 1945; I have to put those dates as some people here have different dates when the Americans joined in; here they might say 1941-1945 and 1917-1918 – I have heard both and, indeed, people just might not know. I hate the idea of war as it has always been young men fighting old men's battles and even though I had a small amount of military service war heroes have never been my heroes; they are everybody's heroes and should be; they paid the ultimate sacrifice and they should never ever be forgotten - but my heroes have always been pioneers and not necessarily people who fight. I am more impressed by ideas and most of the long conversations I have are about ideas; once a week I meet a pal for breakfast who majored in philosophy and we have many an interesting tête-à-tête and I have read books by Nietzsche for example as a result of our meetings; I have another friend I meet once a week for lunch to talk about politics; I talk British politics and he responds with the American version; another friend I meet intermittently and we talk about the theatre. I feel quite privileged that I have experienced both worlds and can't think what I would have done without that knowledge; I would never have written my novel, for one, and I don't think I would have started my one man Irish show in the theatre – A Bit of Irish. But I have always been curious; I watched a film once called The Land That Time Forgot and I remember one line from it - Plato was right and I wondered who Plato was and researched it; I put this curiosity down to my lack of formal education so when I look back I don't regret anything about my education or experience. But the four men I admire the most (no not the Father, Son and Holy Ghost) are Muhammad Ali, John Lennon, Bob Dylan and Roger Bannister. I really admired the way Ali stood up to authority, forfeited his world championship for his beliefs and finally, in the end, won. A lot of people disagreed with him including Jackie Robinson who was also a black pioneer in baseball – his own business, of course, but I know very little about him. John Lennon was just a hero because he was a singer; I stood within three feet of him once in a bar after seeing the Beatles at the Ritz Ballroom, King's Heath, Birmingham. Looking at him then, and you could see the Beatles were destined for something, I wasn't sure if he knew what was going on; The Beatles came from a middle class background; John wanted to be a 'working class hero' but he was middle class; they were art students and up to that time art students – students in general in Britain – liked jazz. When I say students I mean mature ones as the Americans tend to call everybody at school students as opposed to pupils in the UK. When I was a student – a mature one – we liked The Beatles. Later on John might have been misguided by Yoko Ono but I think he was a man that did more for peace than is generally realised; I know Beatles fans dislike Yoko and he loved her but I love my wife; I wouldn't take her to work. Bob Dylan I just find the most talented poet I have ever heard or read; I like lyrics by Chuck Berry and John Lennon but Dylan has so much imagery in his work - just look at any of his lyrics – look at these I ran into the fortune-teller, who said beware of lightning that might strike I haven't known peace and quiet for so long I can't remember what it's like. There's a lone soldier on the cross, smoke pourin' out of a boxcar door, You didn't know it, you didn't think it could be done, in the final end he won the wars After losin' every battle. I woke up on the roadside, daydreamin' 'bout the way things sometimes are Visions of your chestnut mare shoot through my head and are makin' me see stars. You hurt the ones that I love best and cover up the truth with lies. One day you'll be in the ditch, flies buzzin' around your eyes, Blood on your saddle. I have been more influenced by Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochran when I know, as an actor, it should be Marlon Brando and Laurence Olivier. So who have I left out? Ah!! Roger Bannister.

Roger Bannister broke the 4 minute mile barrier in May 1954; I was a little boy watching my friend nearly drown at Moseley Road Swimming Baths and finding out that another friend had died. I lost a lot of time at school as I suffered from conjunctivitis (in the eyes) which developed into ulcers; I remember seeing the horrible white things on the blue of my eyes and I was told that this was because I rubbed them; I couldn't face the light and water would consistently run from my eyes.

So that was the end of my education as I failed the secondary exams - but that's only an excuse as I can clearly remember sitting to do a paper for the 11+ and not putting anything at all on to the sheet of paper.

Then one day on the TV, the news came on and it said that the 4 minute mile had been achieved; the race came on and there were only 3 runners in the race; the other 3 were invisible. Christopher Brasher was ahead with Bannister behind up to about half a mile and then Chris Chataway took the lead with Bannister second to him up to half way around the final lap and then on the final lap Bannister took the lead and made history; to a ten year old boy this was like an orgasm. Later in the year the Bannister/Landy Miracle mile and that was the best mile race I have ever seen – do yourself a favour and look for both races on YouTube. I won't give you the result of the latter race but John Landy of New Zealand broke the world record after Bannister and then they had to meet in the Empire Games. Have a look - it will bring a tear to your eye and a lump to your throat.

So I had to go a place called Burcot Grange - above; this is a very large house in Bromsgrove, Worcestershire. It is a very large Victorian House and had been donated to the Birmingham Eye Hospital by its owners giving prolonged treatment of children suffering from inflammatory conditions of the eye associated with harsh city life. It was also a place where squint operations were performed and a lot of the other children had lost an eye. It was at Burcot Grange that I was introduced to elevenses which was a snack at eleven-o-clock; maybe a biscuit (cookie) and some orange squash. It was like being let loose as there were 5 acres of grounds; so we played cowboys with real hills, valley and bushes to hide behind. The other thing I did was run; I was going to be a Roger Bannister and I ran around those acres every day. My mother came to see me with a tear in her eye, and encouraging one in my infected ones, every week and I cried when she left and then forgot her for a while. Of course one of the nurses was my girl friend; she was nurse Hollingshead and maybe 15 years older than me. She wrote to me for quite some time after I left and when I did they presented me with a book by Enid Blyton called, something like, Around the Year. It was a nature book and they wrote in the inside cover to Christopher with lots of love from Burcot Grange. I still have the book which is at my daughter's in Suffolk. As we sat there in the sun the nurses would 'time' me as I ran around the grounds. I remember I could get around in about three minutes; one day one of the nurses, who had timed me, called another nurse and said 'Hey! Is it the four minute mile or the four mile minute.'

I can just imagine the four mile minute. When I got home I would run around the block – where we lived – and I managed to get a sucker to beat. He was Roger and looked more like Roger Bannister than I did and I would let him run ahead of me so I could run along the back straight which ended just by the lane where we lived in South View Terrace on Moseley Road. So Roger Bannister is my hero; he ran for many years after that to keep fit although he retired from competitive racing early after the 'Golden Mile' to continue his studies to be a doctor where he worked at Northwick Park Hospital as a neurologist and later as Director of the National Hospital for Nervous Diseases in London and a trustee-delegate of St. Mary's Hospital Medical School in Paddington. A few years ago I bought his book called The Four Minute Mile, of course, and just as I was coming up to the Golden mile on page 224 about the Empire Games, where he met Landy, I found the page was blank. The next page was there and from there till the end of the book many pages were missing and there was only an intermittent report from that section. I called Amazon, where I had bought it, and they referred me to the publishers, The Lyons Press, and when I called them they hung up on me. So there we are – there are my memories on this memorial day; I wonder what yours are?

Landy and Bannister Statue in Vancouver; the scene of the Miracle Mile.

My first bicycle; the Atomic Flier!

My bicycle resting in the sun today.

I was listening to the radio today as I was restringing my guitar and there was an Englishman called Robert Penn who purported to have cycled every day for the last 36 years and owns 5 of them; bikes that is.

The commentator said that even though he owns five bikes, has written a new book about them and uses the bike every day, he can't remember the first bicycle he ever owned.

I remember the first bicycle I owned; the first grown up one, not the little toy ones we got from Santa Claus in our giant stocking.

My first bicycle was called The Atomic Flier!

When I was about 12 or 13 we lived a very comfortable life in South View Terrace, Moseley Road, Birmingham, in a terraced house.

I attended Dennis Road SMBS; that is Dennis Road Secondary Modern Boys' School. These schools produced factory fodder for industry or shop assistants; some boys would be lucky enough to serve an apprenticeship if they showed an aptitude for something in particular; maybe a toolmaker, a butcher or a barber.

I wanted to be a barber as my dad used to be a barber in Dublin. It was the reason we lived in England as he couldn't get enough heads to cut to make a living.

I called in to every barber's shop in the area and I was very fortunate to have failed to get any kind of job that I would have eventually hated; just like my dad.

But back to the bike; even though we were quite comfortable living in our terraced house in South View Terrace, I couldn't afford a bike of my own. My dad had a bike which he would ride to work each day – a Raleigh.

A lot of kids at school had bikes; some with dropped handlebars, some with straight handlebars and some that were a very strange shape; rather like the shape of some of the Harley Davidson motor bikes we see now and again cruising around Hollywood.

A lot of these bikes would have their handlebars taped with a kind of white sticky tape; this would cover up various imperfections such as rust.

I had to walk to and from to school every day and it seemed like miles from the house; I could walk along Moseley Road for about two hundred yards or so then turned left into St. Paul's Road which went all the way down to Ladypool Road, which must have been about 400 yards and then another long walk through a park and into Dennis Road School; even if I'm wrong with the distances it was a bloody long walk.

Or I could go all the way along Moseley Road to Brighton Road and walk to the bottom till it became Taunton Road then do a right into Dennis Road and go into the school; this way took me passed Irene Tabone's house at number 12 Brighton Road. Irene Tabone the love of this 13 year old's life who was very well developed for her age, Greek and who smiled very sweetly at me every time I saw her.

In fact every time she smiled at me I melted on the spot!

I met her first when I was about 11 or 12 and we played and fought and wrestled and I would let her pin my shoulders to the floor – but we never really spoke after that formally; she just smiled sweetly when I passed her in the street; sometimes that would be very near number 12 Brighton Road.

One day my dad came home from work and said there was an old bike at the place he worked; all I had to do was to go and ride it home.

He was the manager of Lawley Street British Rail Goods Depot which was relatively a long way from where we lived but one day I made it there and found my dad's office; he took me across to the shed where my bike was waiting for me.

There it was leaning against a wall and I could see it hadn't been moved for years as cobwebs were attaching it to the wall; the whole thing was very rusty and it didn't have dropped handlebars or even straight ones; it didn't even have cable brakes and basically looked like this:

A very old bike with 'sit up and beg' handlebars but you know – at the time I was delighted with it.

I rode it home and got to work on it; I bought a bicycle pump, some white tape from the bicycle shop on Moseley Road and some 3 in 1 oil together with some new brake blocks and a sticker for the crossbar; the sticker said Atomic Flier!

After working on it over the weekend I proudly rode it to school on the Monday; I went the Brighton Road route and as I passed Irene Tabone's house I looked across to her door – but she wasn't there.

At school I told my mates I had a bike and heard one of them answer back 'you should see it!'

Yes they all came out at playtime and laughed at it; to a man – or a boy – they stood there and laughed and then one of them saw the sticker Atomic Flier! That was the cue for everybody to laugh; including me; suddenly I thought it was hilarious.

Irene Tabone attended a girls' school somewhere else – I don't know where – but because I now had a bike I could get to the corner of Brighton Road and Moseley Road sooner to gaze upon her beauty and be the recipient of her radiant smile as she walked home from school – all thanks to the Atomic Flier!

Roach Coach night in Venice California.

A typical view of Venice Beach.

Venice, in California, is so named, I suppose, because there are canals there with very nice houses on their banks but Venice is known for much more than than; it is a vibrant, independent city which attracts the hippies of yesteryear and the trendies of today.

It is a place where Starbucks and MacDonald's have yet to conquer although there is a Starbucks on the corner of Washington Boulevard but I think that comes under the city of Marina del Ray.

Movie stars and very rich Americans have houses on the beach front and those houses are not just houses – they are works of art. As you walk passed them you can see inside and see the very sparsely furnished front rooms. Maybe just a box or a sea chest and rope – that kind of thing.

On the first Friday of each month the food trucks, fondly called the roach coaches, descend upon Venice in a street called Abbot Kinney. There are hundreds of food trucks in Los Angeles and restaurants usually complain when they stop in the street near them. I don't think this is the case with the shop keepers, restaurants and gallery owners of Abbot Kinney; Abbot Kinney is the person who founded or developed Venice, by the way.

The food trucks line up in Abbot Kinney.

I went there last Friday and the place was packed; it starts in the evening at about 7:30 or so; I don't know how they decide who is going to go where or whether, indeed, it is organised at all, but as we walked from one end of Abbot Kinney to Venice Boulevard we had the choice of an assemblage of things to eat: there was an Indian truck, numerous Mexican trucks, Chinese, Vietnamese, Italian, Japanese and others too numerous to mention.

We walked passed a barber's shop and inside a guy wearing a trilby hat, adorned with a feather, was standing at a microphone playing the guitar and singing. Nobody was having a haircut but people were sitting in the shop, and outside in the front yard, listening and maybe waiting their turn.

Other shops art galleries and boutiques were open and we could see the work in the galleries from the street; sometimes a one man show, a one woman show and some of the shops and galleries looked to be converted houses.

We went into one shop which sported minerals and smelled like The Body Shop and noticed that some of those minerals, like the ones we have in our apartment, are worth hundreds of dollars.

There was a boutique with trendy clothes but most of all there was all that food.

People tucking in to the wonderful food.

The trouble was we were simply spoiled for choice; I enjoyed what I ate but I could have had a lot of other things; I had a French Dipped Spicy Pork Sandwich and my wife had Dim Sun and Peking Duck in a soft Taco; maybe I'll have next time.

If you're in the area it's the first Friday of every month.

Here's one of the boutiques: