York, York Minster and Dick Turpin.

One of the gates to the city of York.

We went to York recently which is about 200 miles south of Edinburgh; it is a city I had always wanted to visit and I wasn't disappointed.

One of the reasons I wanted to visit York was that I knew it was a walled city and I wanted to see the city walls; I also wanted to see the little inky dinky streets with the tiny fairytale like bent buildings and the historic magnificent York Minster; it is a wonderful building and it takes some time to actually walk around it.

There were one or two disappointments and one of these was the appearance of charity/thrift shops and a pound stretchers shop within the city walls and some other franchise shops; but there were only a few of these.

Recently, in our lives, we have eaten a lot of Italian food and we longed for a French meal and found a nice little French Restaurant where the food was a delight.

I will presume there was a French cook but there were local waiters and waitresses and I asked one of them if they knew where Dick Turpin was executed.

Dick Turpin was a famous Highwayman of the 18^th century, famous for the phrase, I suppose, Stand and Deliver; he was also famous for his ride by horse from London to York which is about another 200 miles, in less than 24 hours; his horse's name was Black Bess.

Of course a lot of his exploits were legend and maybe some of them should have been attributed to other highwaymen, especially the ride, and it has always amazed me that a movie hasn't been made about him – he truly is the stuff of legend, like Robin Hood, but, unlike Robin Hood, there is proof that he actually existed.

The waitress in the French Restaurant didn't know anything about him and he was the first thing I thought about when we decided to go to York.

The waitress called another waiter in and he said, “Dick Turpin? - No! They hung him in London!”

Well they didn't – they hung him for being a horse thief at York Racecourse – his body was stolen by body snatchers to add to the legend; so why no movie? There was a British TV series in the 70s or 80s but no movie.

Come on Jack; look him up on Wikipedia and get your script to me!!

The legendary Dick Turpin jumping a 'toll' gate on Black Bess.

Very near to our hotel was the gate of the city and we went around the walls looking through the battlements, imagining we were in the olden days and looking across the (dried) moat to modern cars and life.

The City walls of York - it is a 2 mile walk all around.

There was also a Richard III museum and I almost started to recite 'Now is the winter of our discontent' but stopped through modesty.

It was a rare show of modesty, I might add; when I visited the Taj Mahal, in Agra, I tapped danced on the marble floor and played the drum in a tiny Indian village.

A 'rare' show of modesty which I will fight off the next time it raises its ugly head!!

York Minster Cathedral; completed in 1260.

Follow up to Modern England and our smiling cat!!

Ealing aftermath.

Well after my post with my opinions about modern England I had quite a few emails in response to it; I'm glad to say that people agreed with me so I obviously don't have many hangers and floggers in my readership.

It might be an idea to put your comments into the comments box if you want to throw things open to others where we might generate a discussion. I don't censor any comments whatsoever so whatever you write will be up there.

The other thing I have not asked people to do before is to 'follow' me; then you will get your picture, logo or whatever at the top of the page and be able to leave comments easily; do that if you wish.

A few blogs ago, I had some emails returned. These are the emails that go out automatically when I write a post; these emails were returned from the same source namely the American Military. It was the post with the word 'cock' in the title and I got in touch with them and they thought it was spam as the URL was from Columbia; well . . . . it wasn't.

The URL is actually either from tinyurl.com or someone called deliver it who put my blog directly on to Twitter; the reason for this? Twitter have a maximum of 140 characters including spaces so if you want to point out a news item on Twitter you need a small URL so you go to a tiny web site and convert it.

The last post, for example, had a url this seventy eight characters long - http://storytelleronamazon.blogspot.com/2011/08/modern-england-my-opinion.html and that is a bit long to put onto Twitter or even the notification email that goes out.

There was something that I didn't point out the other day and it was the fact that there was no rioting this side of the border; it seemed to stop there. The young people in Edinburgh, where we are, were doing other things, had other things to do or were . . . . again I don't know.

We have been in the UK since July 13th when the ship came in and our cat, El Grande, has been in quarantine since then.

Animals coming into Britain have to be quarantined because of the rabies law. So far they have kept rabies on the other side of the English Channel but now there is a tunnel. . . . .

Here is a picture of our cat – it has been on here before but look; he's smiling for you.

The smile of our cat.

Modern England; my opinion!!

The situation in Ealing, west London.

What a title aye? Bit pretentious perhaps but my opinion is just that – my opinion.

People who read this blog on a regular basis will know one thing about me; I am not an expert on anything. That has never stopped me giving an opinion, of course; I know a bit about acting, a little bit about directing and I used to have an encyclopedic knowledge of pop music – I could tell you the songs on the 'b' side of a hit record from the 50s and 60s but all that has gone now.

Sometimes I hear an old song on the radio and immediately I can tell you that A One Way Ticket to the Blues by Neil Sedaka is on the 'b' side of Oh Carol. - let's hope I'm right!!!

I used to be quite an expert on military side/snare drumming in fact I used to teach it many many years ago, I was a solo drummer, and I also taught map reading.

I taught those 2 things in the Army Cadets; this was not the private schools' version which was the Combined Cadet Force (CCF); we were attached to a regiment and in our case The Royal Artillery.

At one time I was even in a gun team; those are the big guns which took (I think) 8 of us to operate. I think it was called the L70 – I may be wrong there too and I think I was number six which meant I was behind the big gun and had to run around if the aim was changed drastically.

Here's a picture of an Israeli L70.

Yes Number Six – maybe I should have gone into the TV series The Prisoner (in joke there for Prisoner fans)..

I think the army cadets attracted a lot of inner city kids who didn't want to join The Boy Scouts and who kind of thought they were going to have to do 2 years national service and it gave a lot of us the chance to get rid of the jingoistic and militaristic feelings men get when they are youths; but the camaraderie you get with a military organisation is life lasting; you learn how to get on with people and learn self discipline.

Watch that word camaraderie as I think I will be using it later.

I am not going to advocate the return of national service – the draft as they call it in America – because I saw what the end of it brought; it brought us artistic freedom, it enabled the youth of the day to develop a taste for something and anger against the establishment and it brought us The Beatles!! who nearly ended the class system; before The Beatles all the people on TV spoke with plummy accents; another one of my pet projects.

The parents of The Beatles generation have been described by Tom Brokaw, amongst others, as the greatest generation – the greatest generation produced the 'baby boomers' who still rule the roost; make no mistake about it; Steven Spielberg, Paul McCartney et al are still with us and still call the shots no matter who Justin Beaver is.

So where am I going with this?

We have returned to the UK after spending 16 years in Los Angeles; we spent two and a half weeks in England and then left for Edinburgh and since we have been up here all hell broke loose in England with the riots.

Who are those kids? Those kids in the riots aged between 11 and 17? Forget about the one or two middle aged professional idiots who were found looting and the gang members in Birmingham who fired guns at the police, concentrate on those kids; who are they?

Those kids weren't here when we left for the USA 16 years ago but they are the children of the greediest generation of them all. Thatcher's Britain with the 'loads a money' mentality; the Keith Joseph, via Milton Friedman, economic policy which seemed to be a miss interpretation of Adam Smith's classic economics.

Before then John Maynard Keynes economic policies were used but when stagflation came along the economists didn't understand how that could happen – high unemployment and high inflation?Couldn't happen, the Keynesians said.

According to the preaching of Keynes that couldn't happen but maybe they forgot that 60 years after the lost generation the 2,000,000 people, that died in world war one, who didn't retire in 1976 and leave 2,000,000 vacancies for the school leavers.

In the early 70s inflation seemed to be a hobby and when those 2,000,000 jobs suddenly didn't become available for school- leavers unemployment increased!!!! They couldn't retire in their masses because they didn't live!!

The greedy generation, who have produced these kids, are around 40-45 now and their kids are the children who have been forgotten; so what did you expect?

We hear the opinions of the so called pundits as to why these kids were so unruly but a lot of them belong nowhere.

Their parents spent all their loads a money and left their kids to fend for themselves and those who didn't spend it just threw money at the children with no love.

Since we have been in America something strange happened in English schools; some politically correct teachers or parents or both got rid of team sport; so where do boys get to play football and cricket?

Where do the girls get to play netball and hockey?

Where do they all experience the camaraderie of belonging to some kind of organisation?

Nearly everybody likes to belong to something – look at the camaraderie (that word again) amongst the homeless. They have moved the homeless out from their tent city (more like blanket city) in London and I have read interviews with some of the homeless saying that the thing they say they miss most is the camaraderie.

The kids who used to play team sports at school left school and joined football teams at youth clubs or sports and leisure centres; a lot of kids actually returned to school just to play the team sports if they couldn't find a team out of school.

Boys could play football and cricket at all levels right up to the millionaire professional; I mean I even played and I was terrible.

There were always opportunities, and always will be, for people who wanted to play middle class games like tennis or track and field sports – those people will always find a way and it's a bit of a waste of time introducing things like fencing or other minority sports to state schools.

That's not the whole reason they are rioting and looting; one of the reason they do that is because it's fun. It's great fun to smash a window; if ever I have worked on a movie or TV show and a window needs breaking people seem to line up to do it.

If they had other things to do which were as much fun they would be doing it and not rioting; it doesn't have to be sport; if they were all geniuses they would be holed up in their bedrooms, contemplating their navels, inventing or discovering things by themselves – that's okay and that's what the geniuses are doing.

A good upbringing and a good education cannot be taken away afterwards so, for arguments sake, the private school cannot take the education back if the parents don't pay the school fees!

By the same token a bad upbringing and the lack of education has a permanent impact and it could be too late for all of those kids; they truly are the lost generation.

If you are unfortunate enough to live in a place which has been a victim of the riots ask yourself what you have done in the past for the youth of your neighbourhood and what you are going to do about them in the future.

It's no good turning a fire hose onto them or putting them in gaol – I don't have the solution I am not an expert.

Kate Copstick review in The Scotsman for Eddie Ramone..

This is another review; this time it's from Kate Copstock who, I am told, is not always easy to please and it's in The Scotsman which is nothing to be sneezed at.

So thank you Kate if you read this.

Theatre review: The Two Sides of Eddie Ramone
By Kate Copstick Published: 22/8/2011

This is a sweet, sad, lovely little play - partly the comedy act and partly the internal monologue of one Eddie Ramone, once a Big Comedy Star and host of a game show, now playing the cruise ships on autopilot (him, not the ships) and going over and over in his mind the train of events that led him to this point.

A tiny piece, but telling, it is written and performed by Chris Sullivan, an actor known to fans of Emmerdale and Bergerac. His is a face you can believe has lived the whole life of Eddie Ramone and the performance is wholly believable, nicely underplayed and cleverly nuanced. The change in Sullivan as he crosses the dramatic line from internal monologue to stand-up is subtle but tangible. This is a lovely gem of a show - a proper fringe play and very well worth an hour. The story Eddie tells is unexpected, and Sullivan absolutely takes you with him on Eddie's journey. Go. You won't regret it.

• theSpaces at Surgeons Hall (venue 53)

Posters in Edinburgh - I AM NOT THE BOY and Cock-gate!

Guinness poster from about 1973.

There are loads of posters around Edinburgh of me advertising my show; not getting blasé about it but I tend to ignore them after a while. When the Guinness poster was all over Britain in the early seventies I learned to get used to it and that was in every city and town throughout the UK. I remember standing underneath one waiting for a bus talking to a drunk and we took no notice.

That poster was around twenty feet high but these are A3 and I have often wondered why nobody has ever drawn a moustache or a beard on my face; maybe even a pair of glasses.

So yesterday I came upon one and someone had put a sticker over my mouth which said 'I AM NOT THE BOY.' - I thought 'I've arrived!'

A bit later on we found a lapel badge 'I AM NOT THE BOY.'

There is a campaign here called Cock-gate; little symbols of a penis and a pair of balls have been stuck to loads of posters - again I was left out; I trust I don't offend anybody by showing this

most of all the publishers of this blog; if it disappears after today you will know why.

These people have a show here and may win an award for their cheek – if you look up 'cock-gate' on Google it will explain all.

If I see another review I will put it up – sorry this is so short but you know the Woody Allen joke – 'that restaurant is terrible; the food is awful - and such small portions.'

I AM NOT THE BOY poster.

Review: The 2 Sides of Eddie Ramone.

Still flying in Edinburgh.

Hi folks: here's a review from the publication Three Weeks.

Sunday August 14th, 2011 22:47

ED2011 Theatre Review: The 2 Sides Of Eddie Ramone (Chris Sullivan)

In this thoughtful piece, Eddie Ramone (Chris Sullivan) reflects on the strange duality of a comedian’s life where one moment he may be the darling of a crowd, and the next, sitting alone and gloomy in a darkened bar. His initial 15 minute stretch of bad stand-up is revealed to be purely an act when he begins to slip between his “autopilot” stage persona and his ongoing internal thoughts. He holds the rapt attention of the audience throughout the story of his personal life, but the true interest of the show lies in the contrast of his shallow stage persona with the gradually revealed pain and sorrow which colour the life of even some the most successful show-people.

theSpaces at Surgeons Hall, 6 – 27 Aug (not 7, 14, 21), 6.00pm (7.00pm), £5.00, fpp307.
tw rating 3/5
[zg]

Tags: Chris Sullivan, theSpaces at Surgeons Hall

Sections: by Zulekha Grace - ED2011 Theatre Reviews - tw rating 3/5 | No Comments

Trevor Nunn, Jimmy from Liverpool and 100,000 wet fringe fliers!

"Flying" in Edinburgh.

Well here we are in Edinburgh and I have never seen so much rain. Ordinarily I don't mind a bit of rain here because it doesn't exactly rain hard in Britain as opposed to Los Angeles where it comes down like a monsoon but when there are things to be done outdoors it becomes a bit of a pain; the rain, this is.

It's dangerous for the street performers; the fliers and posters peel off the walls, water runs down the necks of the people working outside trying to grab the week when their earning potential is high and it eventually becomes frustrating.

We have been putting posters around a kind of totem pole in the middle of The Royal Mile and they stay up for maybe an hour before people put posters over the top of them. One of the days last week when it rained really hard for 24 hours most of the posters were washed off the walls, the hoardings and our totem pole – which is one of about eight I might add.

As the posters peeled to the floor, to be taken away later by council sweepers, one of my posters from the last day without rain appeared under the sludge like the grand masters appeared under the sewers of Rome for that brief second in Felinni's film Rome. As with what happened in that film my poster disappeared soon thereafter by someone putting something over it.

So it was a welcome bit of sun on Saturday when I headed towards The Royal Mile to stand in front of some posters of myself and hand out postcards.

In Edinburgh at the moment there are approximately two thousand people handing out fliers; they do not work very well as most of them end up in a bin at the top or the bottom of The Royal Mile. Also people doing half of their show in the open or going around dressed as a character from it are not cost affective; it's a bit of fun but that's it.

People are constantly told to be selective as to whom they are giving fliers to but they are not, hence the full bins and the 100 thousand wet fliers in the bins.

The one thing I did not notice on Saturday were any official 'paid for' posters of my show in any place apart from the exterior of The Surgeon's Hall where I am appearing; I called the poster company a few times and sent them a few emails but I had yet to see even one.

So when I saw a couple of guys putting posters up on my way to The Royal Mile I stopped and had a chat with one of them; he was Jimmy from Liverpool and I told him I hadn't seen any so he asked me for a post card and when I showed him one he said he had seen some of my posters and would put them out 'tomorrow – where do you want them?' I said 'around here.'

We exchanged phone numbers and he said he would let me know.

Around the corner from Jimmy I went through a crowd of leaflets and fliers and as I passed one of the venues I saw Trevor Nunn going in – he had walked through many people giving out their stuff and they didn't recognise him so left him flierless.

I didn't realise till that moment that he was about the same size as me but . . . he was dressed almost the same as I was too – dark blue cotton jacket, jeans and a pair of pumps; he is heavy around the eyes, like me but he has a beard. Unerving!! Maybe he was the version of me on the road that I didn't take and I was the other version of him? Who knows?Let me add for people who don't know, that Trevor Nunn is one of the most influential people in the British Theatre – in fact the International theatre having directed on Broadway and The West End and he was one of the artistic directors of the RSC – The Royal Shakespeare Company.

Trevor Nunn, the one guy who could change any of their lives with the offer of a great acting job, was not even approached by a single person giving out fliers – as for me??? I should have had a post card in my hand and as he climbed the steps of the venue I should have shouted gently 'Trevor?' and as he turned around I could have put a flyer into his hand; but I didn't!! L'esprit de l'escalier; – or more like L'esprit le boulevard??

So I went up to The Royal Mile and as you can see above I held my hand up and waited for people to come and take them from me hoping they might be more interested in coming to see the show if they took a post card from me instead of having one forced into their little mitt; I did this for about an hour.

On the way back I saw, coming the other way, Trevor Nunn and he passed me again. But I wasn't having Le spre l'escallier again so I ran into the middle of the road and passed him. Then when I got to two telephone boxes I dodged ever nonchalantly between them hoping to be walking the other way from him but this time with a post card in my hand but as I did this he had the same idea of going between the two boxes and I put my post card straight into his hand – 'there we are' I said ' I recognise you but you don't recognise me!'

'What's this?' he said – then he saw it 'Ah!' he said ' best of luck with this' and gave me a hug!!!

No he didn't give me a hug but gave me two pats on the back from the front – nearly a hug!

I didn't think I would hear from Jimmy from Liverpool again but when I walked up the street on Sunday the streets were full of my posters; Jimmy turned out be genuine and even called me to ask for more posters and he did it for the oldest reason in the world; he recognised me! Unlike Trevor!!

So Trevor, my terrible twin, might see one of the posters or even read the post card I gave him and come and see my show; but I doubt it.

By the way – no I don't know why they call it The Royal Mile but that's what it's called so I call it that too.

The glamour of the fringe!!

Gullane.

I did some rehearsals last week in a beautiful village on the east coast of Scotland called Gullane; it's about 20 miles from Edinburgh and could probably qualify as a small town.

I have a cousin who lives there, Patrick Tuite, and spent time there in my youth with my brother and Pat's mother and father; Tom and Peggy Tuite.

It's a wonderful village and we bought some meat in the local butchers which came from local farmers; we also bought some black pudding and white pudding and I had some for breakfast this morning with a sausage and egg. I have to say it's not as good as the white pudding you get in Ireland but I would, chauvinistically, say that wouldn't I?

I must have been about 16 when I was there as a youth with my brother – also named Pat – and we managed to get a job at a visiting fairground. We collected the money on the dodgem cars; this involved going from car to car, standing on the bumpers and leaning across to the young girls, trying to impress them and taking their money. Then we would jump, very dramatically, to the next car trying to impress those girls too; if they were girls.

We would hold that bar at the back, the bar that took the power to the ceiling of the structure which pumped the power into the cars. The bars were quite safe to hold onto but if you went from car to car and held the bar an both cars at the same time you got a nasty shock down your arm and up the other. When you're feeling this sensation you are trying to look sexy as the girls can see you leaping from car to car like Tarzan and they probably mistook that yell of pain from the electricity for a Tarzan yell and probably looked at us with a whatareyoudoing look on their faces.

The people who worked full time at the fairground tried to teach us how to give the punters the wrong change.

The idea was that the people in the cars gave you their money; the cars are ready to go as everything has to be quick so you give them the change quickly after showing them the correct amount in your hand – when you turn your hand over, you keep a tanner between two fingers, and they will just dump the change into their pockets and drive away without checking it.

A tanner by the way for anybody under about 50 was a sixpence.

We didn't swindle anybody a) because we were honest and b) because we couldn't do the act of prestidigitation even if we had wanted to.

Our cousin Pat, by the way, and I'll call him Part to distinguish him from my brother Pat, as that is what his name sounds like in a Scottish accent was even tempered, tall and always wore a black mac which was double breasted and belted. In fact from a distance he looked like a cop.

When the day came for us to get paid we went up to the boss for our money and we were sent on a wild goose chase from one person to the other.

Then we reached Mister Big – the boss - and he said that "ye're no' getting paid today; come back tomorrow!"

We knew that they would not be there 'tomorrow' as the fair was moving on – and we told them that.

"Och!! ye thank we gonna make off wicha bliddy muney do ye? Eh? See you - wicha blidy money . . ."

Pat and I then realised we either had to go and forget about it or stay for a kicking!

A shout “Hey Christy – Pat?”

We turned around and it was Part; dressed in his copper's mac.

"Who's thart?" said Mister Big "the blidy polis??”

"That's our cousin."

He took a queer look at Part.

" Yer cousin!! Yer blidy cousins . . . Here!"he said "here's your blidy money."

And he gave us the money.

Off we went with Part.

He is still in the village and we bumped into him in the street before we even went around to knock on his door.

His mother Peggy, our aunt Peggy, used to be Ronnie Corbet's housekeeper as he lives in Gullane.

Her husband Tom was from Dublin, my mother's younger brother – they died within a day of each other – joined the Royal Air Force as a lad and retired, with Peggy, to Gullane. He worked at Muirfield golf course and Part worked at the other golf course in Gullane. The whole place is crazy about golf.

When you see young kids with a basketball in Los Angeles or a football in London, in Scotland you see them with golf clubs; they play golf on waste ground, parks and anywhere they can hit a ball.

I don't know if many golf champions are Scottish but it surely is the national sport of Scotland.

After we met Part in the street the other day we walked up to where the fairground used to be – and there, lo and behold, was the visiting fair once again (above).

The toilet, Amy Winehouse and The Little Chef!!

The Little Chef: somewhere in Yorkshire.

Further to my piece the other day about the word toilet and my piece about being near to where Amy Winehouse on the day she died.

First of all I went into Little Chef on the way up. They have the worst food in Britain without a doubt but I only stopped in there to use the loo and buy some coffee.

Look what I found – they call their lavatories loos; isn't that wonderful? At least they do something right.

When I came out with my coffee I passed some people sitting at the tables out front. I asked if they were eating food they had bought there or whether they had brought their own; they were AMERICAN!! They did what a lot of Americans do when they travel the roads in Britain – they'd stopped at a Little Chef – no wonder they think English food is bad if that's what they eat!!

Now to Amy Winehouse: I can't help being disgusted with some of the comments on Facebook and YouTube from nobodies – Amy Winehouse had an amazing voice. I know people who were within a few feet of her when she sang who said she was amazing and I have heard some of the songs she wrote and they were brilliant.

People are saying things that she didn't deserve – it's easy to write things anonymously (I've had things said about me on YouTube) and hide behind a nom-de-plume but it isn't easy for those nay sayers to say anything else as they have no empathy and having no empathy is the first sign of a psychotic so maybe these critics should keep quiet before someone takes them away.

I'm rehearsing this week and getting ready for my opening but I'll write again soon.

The late Amy Winehouse.

The Toilet!!

The lavatory pan; invented by Thomas W Crapper.

I have been here just over two weeks and it seems like a lifetime; all my pals will be thinking I've deserted them as I haven't been able to call them yet but I've been so busy travelling, rehearsing and, more than anything else, doing the logistics and publicity for my show in Edinburgh. That has been a full time job and I have spent most of my time in the position I am in at the moment that is sitting at the computer and typing.

My wife has been a bit sick and so have all the babies – sore throats, colds, the flu, tummy bugs and the like and so far I have escaped it. I have been here, there and everywhere and a word I didn't hear too much in America has raised its ugly, unattractive, naff head; the word is toilet.

There are some things I agree with the upper classes with and one of them is their abhorrence of the word; they would sooner their precious little snooty offspring use the word bog instead of toilet even the shit house.

They hate the nicety words like the little boys room, the bathroom, the rest room and the like – they prefer the loo or the correct word the lavatory; and why wouldn't they?

The Americans don't use the word toilet in the same vein as they do in the UK. They use it to describe something gone bad and I love the way they use it: My career is in the toilet etc.

So where does this terrible word come from? It came from the middle class bourgeois primary school teachers the children met when they started school - later when they went to the dentist children were asked 'do you want to go to the toilet' in a whispered voice before they met the mad psychopath with the pliers!

I hate to agree with the tiny minority of upper class people but the words they hate I hate; I mean calling a living room the lounge is the height of misguided hypocrisy carried out by the arch advocator of middle class madness Mrs Hyacinth Bucket from the TV series Keeping up Appearances; the doily user whose sister has room for a pony.

I'm not much of a hater of anything but there are some silly things the upper classes do and without the upper classes there would be no Monty Python.

The upper classes go out on very cold days for picnics; they gather around some portable stove trying to cook sausages and keep their tea warm whilst their children stand there with snot dripping from their noses, winging and crying, longing for the warmth of their cars – their houses are always cold – and dreading the food that they are about to be served.

They say Dayentry instead of Daventry, deteriate instead of deteriorate and the way they pronounce charabanc beggars belief.

Oh to be in Yiggieland, drinking Yiggelish beer!!

Next stop Edinburgh – aha Celts at last!!

Shaftesbury Avenue, Camden and Amy Winehouse.

Amy Winehouse.

Walking along Shaftesbury Avenue in London's west end is an absolute delight for me; I have walked along lots of famous thoroughfares – O’Connell Street, Dublin; Broadway, New York; Sunset Blvd, Los Angeles – even the walk up to the Taj Mahal in India – but nothing is quite like walking passed all those famous theatres in London's west end and see their facades depicting what is playing and who is in it.

I haven't seen or heard of Simon Williams since his days in the original series Upstairs Downstairs but I see he is starring in Yes Minister – or maybe Yes Prime Minister. It's strange how that TV series really got it right with the shenanigans that are going on now in the seats of power.

When we were first married, in 1966, we went to a west end theatre for the first time; it was at the Criterion, which is the first theatre you see when you get out of the tube at Piccadilly Circus; it's not in Shaftesbury Avenue itself but the other side of Eros which is the famous fountain on the island there which is the start of Shaftesbury Avenue.

We saw Loot, by Joe Orton; it starred Simon Ward and Michael Bates played Inspector Truscott; the role was written for Kenneth Williams, who played it at other times I think, who was a friend of Joe Orton and mixed with him and his gang.

It was very funny but the one thing I remember about it, all these years later, is that the female lead seemed to deliver most of her lines to the audience facing downstage; it's something I have come across many times – there you are on the stage, having a conversation with somebody and they are showing you the side of their heads.

The show went well last night at The Lord Stanley in Camden but just as I was driving up the street, maybe a quarter of a mile from the theatre, in a really nice part of Camden, we passed a 'Police incident;' the police had taped off a whole park and it seemed they had turfed everybody out of this particular park. We thought there must have been some sort of attack or mugging but it wasn't that kind of neighbourhood.

There were a few people with long lens camera pointing across the park to the street on the other side – about 100 yards or so. We thought no more about it and went to The Lord Stanley.

Our daughter arrived a few minutes after we got there and told us that they had found Amy Winehouse dead – that's what all the crowd was and the paparazzi.

It came as a bit of a shock just before my show; it shouldn't have been because anybody that knows anything about her would be half expecting it. I don't know much about her material but I know she was tremendously talented – and self destructive.

She consumed something in her short life that didn't agree with her; a chemical imbalance that it's very easy for us who don't have that unfortunate illness to criticise - and there was nobody to help her.

The 2 Sides of Eddie Ramone at The Lord Stanley.

Here I am in London and we landed quite safely; I'll be busy re-rehearsing my show from today and will reply to all my emails very soon.

I would also like to thank the comments that were made on this site concerning our departure from America.

This blog is read all over the world and I'm really delighted with that and I wish everybody that reads this could come along and see the show; it went well in Santa Monica and now for London – then Edinburgh – but if you are in London or know somebody there or can travel there yourself this is for you.

I would love you to come and see my new play in Camden at The Lord Stanley Pub.

Above is the post card; it's a small theatre so I would beg you to book in advance. I can't manage a 'comp' I'm afraid as there aren't any but if you know me intimately I might buy you a drink in the bar afterwards - if I can catch you before you run away.

I'm taking this play to Edinburgh so it will be a chance for you to warn your Scottish friends about it.

I believe the tube station is Camden Town then you take a bus up to the Lord Stanley or walk it if you are fit and well - which I hope you are.

Of course your chauffeur may drop you off and wait for you and if this is the case - maybe you can give me a lift home.

I think the easiest way to book tickets would be via the phone number above as I have heard it's a bit difficult on line. That number is - 07966 597190.

Hoping to see you next Saturday (23rd) and if you don't know me personally and come to see the show please stay behind for a chat.

Farwell America! How were ya?

Margaret on our balcony with the binoculars and drinking Champagne.

. . . well it was great; 16 great years. We had our ups and our downs and now we are in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean I can sit and contemplate the situation.

I know I will miss my friends there and two of them in particular whom I would meet once a week just to talk; I will miss those conversations as those two fellas really knew me and I got to know them so we could second guess each other with just the right amount of ball breaking, fun and seriousness. It will be hard to replace such relationships and I don't suppose I ever will.

I think the secret at the basis of those relationships was that we were from different countries.

There are many reasons why we are going back; if our children had have come over to live in the USA we would have stayed because the standard of living is definitely higher but I think it's about time I changed my work and pursued work in Britain.

In Los Angeles we were in a 'company town' – a place run by the film business; in our building of about 55 apartments we could have made a movie; there were enough actors to cast it, there were cinematographers, sound men, producers, directors, film score composers, grips, make-up and various other crew members.

At the auctioneers, where my wife worked, the porters, as they are called at other auction houses in London for example, are called 'the crew.' So the vernacular overflows into the general populous.

So all this goes through my head as I relax on deck; I have described the train journey, which was a long train journey by anybody's standards, and I have often wondered about the other train journeys of the world and I thought before the first train pulled out of the station that I would be sightseeing through the windows watching wonderful and weird sights whizzing passed in to my past (to push a spelling point: discuss) but that is not the idea; you do see things whizzing passed – although not that fast as these are not high speed trains – but the idea is to meet people. I talk for a living, and as a hobby it seems, but by the time I reached New York I was as dry as a bone.

The other people on the train were there to meet other people too; they were talkers and listeners and it was a pleasure to meet the people in America that I didn't know existed; maybe they are the unknown America? I met very few – in fact I have to say I met no Republicans. All of the intelligent people I spoke to supported Obama so let me tell Los Angeles and New York – there are others out there; Obama has a lot of support.

The work situation in the UK is going to be as hard as it is in the USA; but being an actor is always hard. It has never been easy in fact there was talk amongst my relatives that the only reason I became an actor was to take advantage of the 'resting' periods. I don't know if they use that expression or ever have in America but it was always the opening line when anybody found out I was an actor – 'resting are you?'

I did loads of films in Los Angeles; a lot of them never saw the light of day. They were small independent films, I would get paid so there was never a problem, but I cared about what I did. I know some people just take the money and run and don't care if they never see the movie again – well I don't.

The main thing I did lately in LA on movies was voice work; this would mean replacing a line in a movie that was not recorded properly. I have done loads of people. That voice you hear from some of the stars is not always them – it's me. I did Jason Statham, Sean Connery, some fella in Spider Woman, Alistair Sim and lots of others. The other voice work I did was general looping. This would be a voice for the extras; when the main protagonists walked through a hallway, for example, they might pass a couple sitting having dinner – I would be one the people in the 'loop group' who would put a little bit of chat there and if it was a period film with bows and arrows etc we would make the noise of the breath going out of the body as an arrow entered it – urgh!!

Very good money and residuals but like commercials not the work I necessarily want to do.

I am writing this on board The Queen Mary 2 on Saturday July 9^th at almost 2:00 pm ship's time which is almost half way across the Atlantic; if you look on a map we are about level with the bottom point on Greenland but many millions of miles south heading in a north east direction at 20 knots which is about as slow as you travel in a car on the side streets.

We have done 1426 miles from New York and have about 1810 miles to go to Southampton; 2:00pm ship's time is 9:00 am Los Angeles time and 5:00 pm London time today; we put put time pieces forward one hour each day apart from the fist and last day.

We have plenty to do; we dress for dinner most nights with dinner jackets (tuxedos) and bow ties and yesterday, for example, I went to lecture on the Enigma Machine by one of the boffs at the Bletchley code breaking centre Frank Carter who is a code breaking expert and historian and I've just been to his second lecture now. I also went to a classical guitar recital and last night after dinner we listened to a big band.

Across America in a train; adventure and tragedy!!

We are on a train and stopped in Albuquerque, New Mexico where the temperature between the inside of the train and outside is vast. We were out walking along the platform, looking at the array of Indian trinkets, blankets and the like and as we were doing this it was over ninety degrees.

The journey, so far, has been entertaining. The priority of time on this train has taken a back seat to the attention to detail, the running of the system and the pleasure of travel.

There is no wi-fi on the train so I will write this in bits over this journey through America from Los Angeles to Chicago; unless anything extraordinary happened between Chicago and New York I won't write about that part of the journey as I've already written On a Train in England in March, or so, of this year.

The first thing we heard last night when we got on was a message over the speaker system from Chip the lounge car attendant telling us he was delayed slightly getting his groceries and had a problem with his fridge and asked us to give him a break and that he would be starting shortly with a bill of fare which includes coffee, beer, pizza, burgers and potato chips.

After a little while he came on again to say he was open which meant that everybody on the train went to Chip the lounge car attendant and lined up; his little lounge car is like a mini Seven Eleven – maybe about 30 feet long with passengers seats on either side – so you can imagine the hustle and bustle.

On the menu it said that they had 'freshly brewed' decaf coffee but when I went there afterwards he told me they were out of decaf!!!

After that we heard from 'Jackie in the Diner' – she was asking people if they wanted to make dinner

reservations; she would say 'this is Jackie in the diner – would anybody wishing to book for dinner make your reservations now.' This voice would come on at various intervals asking people to come in for dinner, lunch or whatever.

Then Chip from the lounge car would come on again telling us he was going on a break so if anybody wanted anything they needed to hurry up and come and get it.

Things were swinging along and we were travelling then Jackie came on the speaker system again and wanted to know if people could hear her as the system didn't appear to be working. Chip from the lounge car came on to say he could, in fact, hear her.

When he said this a woman, sitting close by, used her mobile phone and speaking quite loudly in a New York accent said 'This is Dolores from Delaware; I need to speak to Mr Jefferson.'

This sounded interesting but Jackie came on the speaker system again saying 'I can't hear you at all, Chip; you're not coming through.'

Then again 'This is Delores from Delaware! Can you put me through?'

Then 'This is Chip from the lounge car – I am back from my break; if you want bagles or drinks now is the time to come.

Whilst this was going on over the speaker system a ticket collector interrupted all by saying he was coming around for tickets and 'don't forget to sign them in the top left hand corner.'

Each time he took a ticket from someone who hadn't signed it he would say 'I need you to put your autograph in the top left hand corner.'

Jackie came on again 'This is Jackie in the diner – am I coming through?'

'I can hear you, Jackie' said Chip from the lounge car.'

'This is Delores from Delaware – is Mister Jefferson there?”

The ticket inspector approached us puffing and blowing after climbing some stairs 'those stairs are killing me' he said.

'This is Jackie from the diner; I will be coming around to take dinner reservations, starting with the sleeping section and then couch.'

I sat reflecting about my years in America knowing that they are contemplating an all electric super duper rail system which will get you from point A to point B faster than a speeding bullet and wishing they wouldn't do it as it would spoil this lot.

The food in the lounge car was ropey to say the least but the food in the diner was excellent and

reasonably priced.

There are four seats at each table so you are forced to face the other two people which more or less forces you to communicate with them.

On the first evening at dinner we sat with a Navajo professor and his wife; he was quite famous as he was the first Indian professor – I don't know if he was the first in the state or the country but he told us he had celebrated his 67th birthday recently by walking down one side of the Grand Canyon, along the flat bit and up the other side; he was a very fit looking 67 years of age and he told us he does 10K runs and used to be a baseball pitcher. I don't know if he was a major league pitcher or just played at college as we never got that far but they were getting out at Flagstaff, Arizona the following morning at 4:30.

The next morning at breakfast we met Tom and Jenny from Victorville California famous for the place where Roy Rogers used to live and have his western museum; I remember his horse, trigger, nearly stepping on me at the stage door after I saw Roy Rogers live at a theatre.

Tom and Jenny were also an interesting couple having cycled the world, by all accounts, and regular train travellers.

In the Observation Car I met another Navajo Indian but this one lived on the reservation. As we sat watching New Mexico flash by he pointed out lots things about the area and showed me some black stones which he said were from the top of 'that mountain' which exploded with the help of the volcano hundreds of millions of years ago. He went on to say that they used the black stones (he had a name for them which I have forgotten) in their sweat lodges.

He was going from Gallup, New Mexico, to Albuquerque to meet his son; he was sending his son a message using the modern equivalent of the smoke signal; his Blackberry.

He said he was proud of his son as he took the decision to leave the reservation and set up by himself 'abroad.' He said he had lived 'abroad' for a short time – abroad was anywhere off the reservation.

Indeed it is abroad as the reservations have their own sovereignty.

Later that day, Saturday, we had dinner with two people on their way back to live in Chicago from Los Angeles – we wished them well on their journey and they did the same for us.

Before we met them for dinner – in the usual accidental way – a man two seats in front of us was

getting leery; he had been drinking all day and his voice was sounding very horse.

Whilst we were away he called everybody names and started shouting; someone called the conductor who came and told him off; he sat in his seat for a moment but when she went he started again. Then the same things again but this time he was really screaming so the conductor, a young woman, threw him into his chair, called the cops and they threw him off the train and into gaol somewhere; we were oblivious to all this as we were at dinner.

Chip in the lounge car came on the loud speaker as we pulled in to Fort Madison, Iowa, to say that he was running out of food in the lounge car; he was out of bagles, pizzas and most of the cheese and ham sandwiches.

As the train pulled out of Fort Madison the train suddenly stopped; we had run over somebody. We were travelling at about 15 - 20 mph and apparently the person was killed. We don't know anything about it at the moment but within two or three minutes a cop car arrived and scaled a six feet fence outside; then he was told where the body was by some kids outside.

The latest news is a few young guys tried to cross the tracks and the last one was hit and killed by the train; there's no need to describe what we know or what I saw but you know what train wheels are like; they were all in their twenties.

As we sit here waiting to move a voice in the background is heard: 'This is Delores from Delaware; I am just north of the train station in Fort Madison, Iowa. Today a man was killed . . . .”

As if oblivious to everything, whilst this was going on, another voice was heard ' this is Chip in the lounge car – I'm just back from my break.'

July 4th New York.

There is our train engine resting in Chicago after the two day journey from Los Angeles.

Cops look at the body whilst paramedics call the coroner.

Last Day in Hollywood,

We are here in Hollywood for only one more day; tomorrow we take the train to New York so my next blog will come from somewhere between here and there – if they have wi-fi on board.

The apartment now is empty and bear and we will be sleeping on the mattress for the third night on the trot.

The mattress is in exactly the same place as the bed used to be and when my wife got out of bed yesterday morning she looked about eight feet high – I had forgotten I was a few feet lower.

Our moving sale didn't do very well – we sold the bedroom suite but nothing else big; we sold a lot of small stuff though and a few books.

The trouble was there is nowhere to park around here; you can only park outside if you have a permit so the stuff had to go to a thrift shop. Not many of them collect so we had to make many phone calls.

At one time it was the easiest place to park but Runyan Canyon became so popular that various people campaigned to get the parking stopped outside their houses - one of them Sheryl Crow; when she got the parking stopped everybody jumped on the band wagon so thanks Sheryl - thanks for the bad moving sale.

At the moment I am taking the rest of the stuff to the Goodwill thrift shop on Beverly Blvd in the Fairfax district as the people on Tuesday couldn't get it all into their van; I've done two trips and one trip to Glendale to drop some books in my friend's house.

I'm only writing this because my wife has nipped out and wants to come on the next run.

There she is above dusting the bed after we took the box spring and the mattress off - yes dusting!!

I will have to go and look for her now so until I write again when in transit – in the meantime there is our empty apartment - as empty as it was when we came here all those years ago; toodleloo!

The 2 Sides of Eddie Ramone.

I have a few minutes to spare whilst waiting for a phone call so I can do a quick post.

I went to see the Beverly Hills Ear/Nose/Throat specialist about my loss of voice and he said I had swollen vocal chords – no polyps or cancer, which is a relief – and it was the result of a cold I had the week before.

I was told to rest it – which is something I didn't want to hear as I'm rehearsing my play which opens on Friday; 3 days from now!!!

As he is also a plastic surgeon he also said he could do something about the bags under my eyes – obviously he had to try.

So I am having to confine my rehearsals to this week. I got so far with it before the cold and loss of voice and I'm not starting from scratch but I am hard at it. I don't tend to learn all my lines till I have worked out how to play them and as it's a new play I am re-writing all the time in any case.

There are a few sound cues in the play with my voice and I had to wait till yesterday to record them; I can't try them out in any case for timing till I get to the theatre on Friday morning so I hope to see you there if you are in the area.

Hollywood actor and novice novelist!

I am supposed to be a Hollywood actor and novice novelist, according to the blurb about this blog, but I rarely take it any further than just having it in the aforesaid blurb.

So we will explore that slightly with this post. People with great memories of this blog will know that a few months ago, when I was in England, I announced that I am taking my new play to London and then to the Edinburgh fringe festival; well before that I am due to perform it at Santa Monica Playhouse in June this year – oh it is June; I am due to open next week on the 17th and this week I have completely lost my voice!!

Towards the end of last week I started a cough and yesterday I started to croak; today I woke up and could hardly make a sound.

I don't think it will last till next week and tomorrow I have an appointment with an ear/nose/throat specialist in Beverly Hills; what he will do I don't know.

Whilst hanging on today on the phone his message says he also specialises in plastic surgery, hair line transplants, non-evasive thyroid removal and – what am I letting myself in for?

So watch this space.

Presuming, of course, that my play opens in Santa Monica okay, and I get my voice back, we are due to leave here by train on July 1st and move to England then on to the Queen Mary to Southampton; Queen Mary 2 that is – we have had a great 16 years here and we are sad to go as we have so many friends, interests, a way of life and a culture we have grown to love – so why are we going?

Well I think I might get more work there; I know all my pals in the UK will be wondering how I'm going to get what they don't get; well I'm just putting myself into the pool to see what happens.

I am going to take the gold that I have found here and take it back – if it doesn't work we will come back. What gold? I hear you ask.

The first thing I learned here is that actors know it is a business and in the UK actors just don't.

If you look at the Internet Movie Data Base you can usually spot the British based actors; they're the ones who don't have photos above their names.

I looked up Martin Clunes today to see how long the series the TV series Doc Martin lasted and he hasn't got a photo above his name. He would sooner pay a fortune to an actors' directory called The Spotlight. Over here we use The Academy Players Directory which costs me $36 per year – compare that to The Spotlight.

The Internet Movie Data Base (The IMDB) is used by casting directors here; it can't be faked like you can with a resumé or CV; well I take that back as I'm sure it can.

So I hope to take my knowledge back there as the only work I seem to be getting here is in low budget independent films and voice matching, looping and dubbing on main features – that and my one man show.

Don't get me wrong I don't think it's going to be easy but I have a few ideas and at least I'm starting with a new play!

There are other consideration; there is no health service here and our family in Britain is getting bigger by the year and we want to be in on it; we have tears every time we have to part and that has to stop; it wouldn't be so bad if it didn't cost a fortune for the babies to come across.

But I'll still be the Hollywood actor at heart and I aim to be back a few times a year and I'll let you know how my voice progresses.

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.