Sexism and Racism.

First World War Soldiers

(Guardian photo)

There is a lot of talk about the first world war as it is the centenary of the start of it this year – August I think – and what a lot of people don't realise is that most of the men who fought and died in that war didn't even have a vote – here are a few facts/dates:

1884 Representation of the People Act. Any male occupying land or property with an annual rateable value of £10 could vote. 24 adults out of every 100 could vote.

1918 (End of the war) Representation of the People Act. All males over the age of 21 were given the vote. Women over 30 got the vote. Women could sit in the House of Commons as MPs. 75 adults out of every 100 could vote.

This discrepancy was intended to ensure that men did not become minority voters as a consequence of the huge number of deaths suffered during the war.

1928 Representation of the People Act. Uniform voting rights were extended to all men and women over the age of 21. 99 adults out of every 100 could vote.

99 adults out of every 100? I wonder who the 1% were – convicts?

There is also a lot of talk about female suffrage, when we can clearly see that men got a bad lot too so it was more a class things than a sexual preference.

This arrest is of a suffragette arrested in the street by two police officers in London in 1914 doesn't say anything about the male vote or lack of it.

 Neither does this poster and it was from 1911:

But I love the photos.

However, women have fought for their rights and in my lifetime I have seen a huge difference both in attitudes and law. 

When I worked for the post office, after I left the motor bikes and before going to college, I worked in a postmans office in Birmingham with about 60 or 70 other postmen who delivered the 60 or 70 'walks;' there were supervisors (PHGs) and a couple of Inspectors and drivers etc.

Out of all those people there was one middle aged male Sikh, one male West Indian and about two women. 

 

When it came to allocating overtime there was an attitude that the women didn't need the over time as they were only working for 'pin money' and they didn't like the Sikh working overtime either as the general feeling was 'those blokes work till they drop where they come from.'

Men would also complain that women never loaded or unloaded the vans – well neither did I if I could get away with it!! They would also wonder who was cooking the dinner!

I wrote a post about 18 months ago here about the publicity my mother attracted when she was made a company director – the same questions about house work were asked; have a look: http://storytelleronamazon.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/my-mother.html

Now those are terrible attitudes both sexist and racist; I find it hard to believe that they even existed and I know that some people still think that way – that the woman's place is in the kitchen and other antediluvian attitudes. 

 

I expect everything – pay, opportunity, workload, - to be equal. I don't know whether women should be in the front line but there again, I'm not sure if men should be there either! (100 years ago my granddad was newly married, my 18 year old grandmother was expecting my mother and as they were hard up in Dublin my granddad joined the British Army and was gassed in The Somme for his troubles and although he survived, it did prevent some of his sons coming over and joining up for the second world war.)

So it's really crazy isn't it that in some countries it appears to be the 'norm' to gang rape young girls, stone women to death because they have married someone of another faith, lost their faith or even been gang raped by enemy soldiers; yes stoned to death and mostly by their own families.

The other thing that kind of gets to me is that at a time when over 200 girls have been kidnapped in Nigeria, The Guardian newspaper, my favourite newspaper, a paper that prints everything from the 'F' word to the 'C' word, the 'N' word (but won't print the word actress) published an article about the use of the word 'girl' in a BBC programme which attracted 1298 comments before the comments were suspended. Yes that's right GIRL; isn't this word fascism?

The last one comment, by the way was this:

'An old work colleague - female and I'm male and we're both long retired - has stayed in touch with a number of other female colleagues. When I asked her a few years after retiring "How are the girls?" and then said "Oh I suppose women's lib means I shouldn't call you 'girls'", she nearly became apoplectic.
"We are 'the girls'; we were always 'the girls'; everyone knew who 'the girls' were. I'm not having other women saying they've liberated me and then telling me what I can call myself!" '

It's all barmy though, isn't it – racism, sexism, prejudice. It isn't against the law anywhere for you to not like a group of people – women, Jews, Irish, Latinos – but it is against the law for you to make professional decisions based on that prejudice, either positive or negative. You can hate them if you wish, although that would be paranoiac and delusional and – come on such a waste of time.

Because of the recent UKIP earthquake in Britain a survey was carried out to see how many people here consider themselves racist (although they'd probably call it racialist!); it turns out at an alarming 30%. 

 

By the way it turns out that the broken hearted man whose wife was stoned to death in Pakistan by her relatives strangled his first wife to death to marry the 2nd one.

Politics.

Grab yourself an adage

Farage is a cabbage.

Now politics – or politics now!! What do I know about politics? Well not much more than the next man – I look next to me and there is a small child; I'm in Starbucks; he looks and stares. 

 

Does he know more about politics than I do?

Probably.

I hear him whisper to his dad 'a real pirate!'

He's seen my patch; he has a little sister with him and she asks me where my ship is.

I tell her – 'on the south coast.'

The dad tells them 'it's near the beach.'

The boy would like a photo taken with me but when his dad asks him he goes shy so I ask him if I can have a photo with him; he sits next to me and his dad takes rather a good photo; maybe I should have asked for a copy as it was better than some of my head shots.

Off they went and the boy was a lot happier than when he came; in fact they all were.

Someone complained that the country had changed; all the old traditions have gone!

They were referring to immigrants, of course and of course I didn't agree – but then; if the traditions have changed here they have been for the better but I know what they're getting at.

Being out of the country for 17 years in America I return and I see that if the traditions have changed or are changing they are influenced by America.

Instead of hanging around in pubs all day men tend to go to a coffee shop. I was in Starbucks the other day and a really big Irish Labourer came in and asked, in a broad Cork accent, for a grandé skinny mocha. Before I emigrated he would be in a pub.

That to me is an improvement in fact people take food into Starbucks to eat with their coffee – they don't seem to mind.

Going back to immigrants – before the Uganda Asians were kicked out of their country, settling in Britain, in the seventies you couldn't buy an evening newspaper after about six-o-clock. Most of the grocery shops, as well as the newsagents, closed at that time too – now you can shop quite late; so that's another plus, as far as I'm concerned.

I could go to the doctors without an appointment – free – go to railway stations and get on any train without having to book way in advance, mail a letter at the post office without any fear of my reply being lost by a private mail company (lots of letters are getting lost by a private company every day) and not have to pay council tax or poll tax but the rates – which had to be paid if you owned a house AND could afford them.

My three year course at drama school was paid for with a government grant – fees and living allowance.

I could go on, I suppose, but that's what I know about politics – none of those things are available any more.

And whose fault is that?

Well this is the time I play the 'blame game.' Or is it? No!

It's about time we stopped finding things or people to blame and tried to fix things and look to the future and that doesn't mean warning people that there might be an influx of undesirables coming in to the country. I for one welcome everybody here so they can pay tax and keep me in my old age in the custom I have become used to.

I have paid enough tax both here and in America – ah America! The land where everybody is an immigrant; a land of milk and honey where hundreds of people die every year trying to reach; in fact I think it's thousands.

They perish in the desert when there is a little walk between Tijuana and San Diego; the weather is so hot in the desert that they become disorientated through dehydration and die.

And this is because the Americans built a big wall to stop them but do you know one thing: the so called 'illegal' immigrants who make it are like the strong sperms that make it to the uterus so maybe they should be welcomed; because they'll do all the work.

There's a fella called Nigel Farage in Britain – Farage rhymes with the way you say garage but I have noticed on the BBC they are saying it like cabbage – he is the leader of a right wing political party called UKIP; they (or he) has caught the imagination of the population as they are fed up with the posh boys who are the leaders of the 2 main parties here and the Deputy Prime Minister who's party is holding the Conservatives up.

Right Wing I said – they are to the right of the Conservatives and maybe even to the right of the Republican Party and the Tea Party in America.

They have one policy and that is for Britain to leave the European Community and to curb immigration; right wing, I said, and right wing means privatisation (the NHS, the post office, the prisons, the railways etc); capital punishment and the jack boot – let's face it that's where it will end up.

Or will it?

Mr Turner at Cannes . . and a bit of eye trouble!

Mike Leigh's Mr Turner.

Do you know I used to love to go to Cannes; I can hear people say 'lucky for some' but it was one of those recreations that I jumped at; okay it was supposed to be work but I relished it; and I went four times for at least a week.

I was there to try and sell my short film as a TV pilot but it wasn't to be – or not to be!!

This week the Cannes Film Festival is taking place and it is a part of our business that some actors hate; well more fool them when they are sitting around in their dotage saying 'I could have . . .' or more likely 'I should have . . ' - personally I have no time for actors like that; actors are story tellers and meeting people – and the press and paparazzi – is all part of the job.

This year I would love to be there to see, what I think, will be an amazing film; I am talking about Mike Leigh's Mr Turner starring Timothy Spall. It's about the painter, of course, (JMW) and will probably win all the awards – from now on right up to the Oscars.

Mike Leigh is one of the great directors and his muse, Timothy Spall (who looks a lot like him; well the same type) fits in well with Leigh's filming technique.

I know this will fill some screen and TV writers with horror, but Leigh gets his actors to improvise as he devises his piece. That's what he does; even his classic stage play, Abigail's Party, was devised as an improvisation.

I am not talking about the improvisation you see on TV sometimes or the things they do at The Groundlings in Los Angeles but the kind you see Robert de Niro doing or Al Pacino. The building of a character through that technique.

I have worked on a short film for the BBC where we devised the film over a period of some days and improvised the dialogue. After a week or two of doing the same thing the improvised dialogue gets honed and shaped till we more or less know it without losing spontaneity; that is the secret as actors we are not reciting.

I have seen some of Ken Loach's films, who I also like a lot (but not as much as Mike Leigh's) and who is also at Cannes this year but the actors in his movies are not always professionals. Sometimes this works but they wouldn't be able to go through the process of devising and doing it over and over again.

I met Timothy Spall a year or so ago in Soho; I was having coffee with a pal and he poked his head around the coffee shop door and said 'what's going on here?'

He had come to see the owner of the place, as they had a gallery in the building, and he wanted to exhibit some of his work; so he can paint and I wish him, and the movie, a lot of luck.

Now then: since last week I have had a few emails and phone calls to see how I am after my surgery. Well I'm fine and really grateful for people's concern. It was an eye operation which was carried out using a local anesthetic (they just froze my eye).

The reason I didn't want a general anesthetic or sedation is 1): I don't think people of my age should 'go under' too much no matter how much of a thrill it is and 2): I wanted to find out what went on.

The surgery lasted two hours, which was longer than I thought, so I felt a little bit of discomfort – some pinching and stitching – but there was an amazing sensation at the end of surgery.

Because there were some tears I needed stitches and they put gas in to my eye (don't ask me why); this caused a bubble which temporarily blinded that eye.

I always thought that blindness would be dark; it isn't! It's dead – no sensation not brightness or darkness just dead. It was about a day before some kind of light came back.

The surgery was to straighten out a membrane on my retina rather like the skin on rice pudding or a fold in some Sellotape (Scotch tape in America).

That's all I want to say about it apart from what I see at the moment which is fascinating; the gas is still in my eye and it's slowly going.

At the bottom of my eye is the gas and as I walk it moves as if it's water – through a gold- fish bowl – I had to lay on the right side in bed and bow my head forward whenever I could for five days.

Now what I see is this:

See the gas at the bottom like a magnifying glass and the top being clear – ish! And when I walk the bottom moves so it's like walking through water - and that curve goes vertical when I lie down.

I took the photo through our sitting room window putting a close up mirror in front which is a good representation of what I see – and that's why I have to wear a patch.

Let's hope that by the next time I write Nigel Farage has been forgotten about; I live in hope.

Great rock song - Shakin' All Over.

I had eye surgery earlier this week; I'm not going to go on about it, it wasn't for cataracts but for an epiretinal membrane scrape; you can look it up if you wish.

So I sent the photo (above) to the kids to show them daddy as a pirate and it reminded me of one of the greatest rock'n'roll records ever made; by this bloke:

That's right! Johnny Kidd of Johnny Kidd and the Pirates and his great record was Shakin' All Over – here it is on You Tube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n327ncoU_ZU

I hope you can click on to that.

As you will see, his right eye had the patch, and mine is on the left.

Shakin' All Over wasn't really a hit outside Europe but it was covered in Canada by a group from Manitoba called The Guess Who – and I know someone from Manitoba – where it reached number one in 1965.

Johnny Kidd's original version (which he also wrote) was released in 1960 and it was one of those records which was totally original; in those days all British singers tried to sound like Elvis – well not all of them but most did – and Johnny Kidd really sang from the heart.

They had other hits – I'll Never Get Over You and Please Don't Touch – the latter being their first single, but sadly, the life and career of Johnny Kidd was cut short when he was killed in a road accident on October 7th, 1966 near Bolton in Lancashire when he and his "Pirates" were driving away after a performance.

The guitar part on Shakin' All Over was played by the session guitarist Joe Moretti and whilst it is not a great piece of guitar playing it is, and was, for the time, original. Just the right amount of echo, reverb and wow wow, on the opening guitar picking, which I think might have influenced Hank B Marvin playing guitar for the Shadows track Wonderful Land.

I remember when I went to the various 'Caverns' that sprung up in the British cities after The Beatles made the one in Liverpool famous, groups playing 'Shakin' All Over' nearly every night and I suppose thinking back that Johnny Kidd was the link between the teeny bop of the sugary British pop songs of the late 50s to the Beatles and the hard rock and blues that came later.

Johnny Kidd sang Bo Diddley songs way before The Rolling Stones.

Johnny Kidd and the Pirates – a group that preceded Alice Cooper; they were as theatrical as AC - and as Johnny didn't play an instrument on stage groups like Led Zeppelin and The Who felt they could have a solo singer who didn't carry or play an instrument; there's also footage or recordings of Led Zeppelin playing Johnny Kidd songs.

Click on to the link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n327ncoU_ZU

ABBA - The Beatles.

I'm sorry but I'm going to write about The Beatles again; this time comparing them to ABBA.

Now there was a time when I wouldn't have dreamt about mentioning the two groups in the same breath and I think that is a generational thing. People of my generation usually compare The Beatles with The Rolling Stones but I have never really been much of a Rolling Stones fan.

In the 60s I saw them on stage twice; once at my local dance hall and even ventured in to their dressing room where we had a long chat with Bill Wyman and Charlie Watts.

Over the years, I liked a few of their tracks – It's All Over Now, Get Off My Cloud etc – and I even worked with Mick Jagger's brother, Chris, in a film called Lifeforce for a few months so I don't think I am that qualified to compare the two groups as I would be biased.

I am (nearly) the same age as The Beatles so my experience of them is first hand. I know what it was like before they came along. I remember the very snobby days before their arrival and I remember Buddy Holly being on the Ed Sullivan Show (which I didn't see 'live', of course) and this great, great guitarist and brilliant song writer, this inspiration for the Beatles and loads and loads of major pop artists, was asked by Ed Sullivan (yes a relation, apparently) if he (Buddy) was still at school as if he would go on to something else, more worthwhile after he had sewed his wild oats with his “banjo” plinkety plonk thing. Buddy Holly in his tuxedo standing there in New York City being asked questions by a talentless vacuum cleaner in a suit.

The Beatles appeared on that show in their suits too but it changed eventually.

Before The Beatles politicians in the UK would address journalists by their surname as if they were squaddies in the army but then the silent revolutions came with interviewers like Robin Day who asked all the awkward questions that WE wanted to know the answers to.

I wrote on here before about how I found the first LP – Please Please Me! - the climax to the phenomenon known as The Beatles. After that, in my opinion, they became more of a commodity and certain elements in the group pursued that or rejected it.

I think Lennon veered away from it first, McCartney kind of loved it and wanted to be a pop star; George probably saw the writing on the wall with the astronomical success of the Lennon/McCartney song writing partnership in that his own musical aspirations would have to take a back seat and Ringo carried on playing the drums.

I'm not going in to the silly argument as to Ringo's drumming ability but suffice it to say he played drums on Lennon's later albums and to settle things listen to his drumming on Day in the Life as opposed to McCartney's drumming on The Ballad of John and Yoko.

Over the years since then I have had stars in my eyes with regards to The Beatles; to me they did no wrong. I was on the John Lennon side of things and as the years progressed I drifted further and further away from Paul McCartney and sometimes even looking back at the young John Lennon (he was only ever young) issuing naïve statements about peace and praising Yoko's singing to the heavens I found him, sometimes, cringingly embarrassing.

Somebody once asked me what things might have been like if John Lennon had survived; I answered that for his reputation he was better off dead as we don't know where he would have drifted but I would like to think he would have just settled down and not been an embarrassment like Paul McCartney – no matter what he achieved in the past.

I think the same of Buddy Holly, James Dean and all the other good looking corpses along the way.

So to compare ABBA to The Beatles!!!

How can I?

I played some Beatles tracks recently and, of course, there is always the mood and the moment and I also played some ABBA tracks.

I got a bit fed up of We Can Work It Out and other Beatle tracks but when I played some ABBA songs – on another day, I have to say – I found them very interesting.

Back in their day, I didn't really like them much but my daughter owned the albums, knew the lyrics and played them all the time; so when I saw the stage musical Mama Mia my eyes were opened.

The stage version was very operatic – the singers had very powerful voices, even though they were 'miked' - and the chord sequences together with the naïve lyrics made a very pleasing sound to my ear.

So what's my verdict?

You can't beat I Am the Walrus, can you? Or I Want to Hold Your Hand and Hello Goodbye but if I hear Hey Jude again I'll scream!!!!

Roger Bannister and the missing pages.

This may seem familiar to you but it should become clear. I wrote it as a post about heroes and Memorial Day in America but I just stole some of it from that post, maybe corrected (edited it) added some more thoughts and then got to the reason I used it again – see what you think:

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 by drowning in one of Birmingham's infamous canals.

I lost a lot of time at school as I suffered from conjunctivitis 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 so much but I couldn't help it; the pain and the itching added to my problems facing the light and water would consistently run from my eyes.

That was really the end of my education as I failed the eleven plus - but that's only an excuse as I can clearly remember sitting the examination and looking out of the high windows at school and handing in a blank sheet of paper.

One day the news came on the TV, reporting the first sub 4 minute mile; the race came on and there were only 3 runners in the race that we could see; the other 3 were invisible.

Christopher Brasher was ahead with Bannister just behind, up to about half a mile, and then Chris Chataway took the lead with Bannister close by 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 was 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.

 

John Landy of New Zealand had broken the world record for the mile and then the two of them met in the Empire Games. Have a look - it will bring a tear to your eye and a lump to your throat.

Because of my eye trouble, I had to go a place called Burcot Grange; this was, and still is, a very large house in Bromsgrove, Worcestershire. It is a Victorian building and was donated to the Birmingham Eye Hospital by its owners to give prolonged treatment to children suffering from inflammatory conditions of the eye associated with the 'harsh city life.'

It was also a place where squint operations were performed and a lot of the other children had eyes removed because of inoperable eye injuries. Some of those children would take the patch from their removed eye socket and look in to a looking glass for their lost eye. 

 

One said to me that he could clearly see his missing eye 'in the corner' he said 'can you see it?' - of course I couldn't but I said I could. He had been the victim of a stray dart thrown at him in the vicinity of the renowned Birmingham inner city monstrosity called Saint Martin's Flats.

It was at Burcot Grange that I was introduced to elevenses which was a snack at eleven-o-clock; maybe a biscuit and some orange cordial.

It was like being let loose as there were 5 acres of open grounds; we played cowboys and Indians with real hills, real valleys and real big bushes to hide behind.

The other thing I did was run; I ran and ran every day just like Tom Courtney in The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner; I was going to be a Roger Bannister and I ran around those acres every day.

My mother came to see me every week, with a tear in her eye, and encouraging one in my own infected ones; I cried when she left and then forgot about her for a while when I ran.

One of the nurses was my girl friend; she was nurse Hollingshead and maybe 15 years older than me. She was very kind and wrote to the little boy that was me for quite some time after I left; I was presented with a book by Enid Blyton called, Round 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 could complete the course 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!! - 240 mph!!!!

When I eventually returned home I would run around the block and I managed to get a sucker to beat every day. His name was Roger and he looked more like Roger Bannister than I did; I would let him run ahead of me so I could run passed him along the back straight which ended just by the lane where we lived at South View Terrace on Moseley Road.

We would do the Bannister/Landy race which meant he had to look over his shoulder as I overtook him round the other shoulder; when I approached each day I would shout 'now' to make him look one way as I overtook him. Each day the race would take twenty minutes as I would time it from the public clock outside Clements the chemists; maybe more than a mile, I reckon.

That's why Roger Bannister has always been 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 as a doctor; 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 I found the page was blank. The next page was there and from there till the end of the book many pages were missing.

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.

A few years ago, I wrote an article about Harold Pinter, which was published by the magazine The Oldie and since then they have sent monthly invitations to their Literary Lunches. When I came back from America I decided to go to some of them and this month one of the guest speakers was none other than Roger Bannister.

I sorted my Bannister book out, the one with the missing pages, and arrived at Simpson's in The Strand with ample time before the lunch.

 

Sir Roger, for that is what he is now, sat behind a table and I was the first one to take a copy of his new book for him to sign. I asked him to make it out to 'Chris' – which he did – and then I told him that I used to play 'Roger Bannister'- “You played me?” he said, as if I'd played him as an actor and I said “No. I would run around our block pretending to be you.”

“When I first started” he said “I would run around the streets and people would shout at me 'Who do you think you are, Sydney Wooderson?' Later, many years after I had retired from running they'd shout 'Who do you think you are, Roger Bannister?”

We both laughed and I found him very tactile, tapping my hand and laughing – then I showed him the book with the missing pages - “I couldn't help that” he said “must have been published by the Australians.”

He signed my book in the missing pages saying 'sorry about this' and when he got up to speak, later, he paid tribute to his wife to whom he had been married for 60 years; he said she didn't know anything about sport, before he met her, and thought he had run four miles in a minute!!

Scotland.

Here's a map of the British Isles with the 'none UK' bits in green. Note how tiny the so called Northern Ireland is and that some of Southern Ireland is further north than Northern Ireland.

I'm not sure if the rest of the world know that Scotland are going to the polls in September to vote for independence. It is a yes/no vote and I really wonder whether they will succeed in breaking away from the rest of the United Kingdom; they have been part of the UK since about 1707 and I also wonder what the political party UKIP will call themselves. They are a kind of British 'Tea Party' with nationalistic, jingoistic, anti-immigrant and other right wing loony policies and UKIP stands for the United Kingdom Independence Party.

The other thing on the line is that if Scotland do break away will they be able to retain use of the pound (£) sterling? The three main parties in Britain don't want Scotland to have the pound – or the BBC or any other British stuff – but I have to ask myself if three individuals have the right to tell anybody within the union whether they can have the pound or not! The three are the Chancellor of the Exchequer and his two shadows. If this was in America there would be a constitutional argument but as there is no constitution in Britain where is the rule book?

What's that I hear you say? Britain? Yes that's part of the title – The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Will it still be the United Kingdom with just England, Wales and Northern Ireland as members? Will the UK be weakened by the separation? How strong will Scotland be?

I do know one thing and that is if Ireland had an all Ireland football team – both the Republic and the North – they would be stronger than they are now with the two teams. This shows with the strong rugby team which is made up of the north and south. 

You can also say that about a British football team – England/Wales/Scotland/Northern Ireland – but then we wouldn't have the rivalry between the various nations; which is healthy.

Of course we could take it further or even farther and have a European Football team but who would we play? South America? Asia?

There are already two continents who play – the USA and Australia – and whilst they may come to something one day it won't be for a while.

So what will happen if they do gain independence? - Scotland, I mean - Will they build a wall? Will they have an immigration post on every road like they do on the Continent?

The trouble is this is an island and the people who live here are not used to borders like they have elsewhere. People go from England into Wales and Scotland without even noticing it so that will be a difference.

When Scottish, Welsh and Irish people go to America the Americans call them English because they can't quite hear the difference. The Welsh and Scots don't like that, and who can blame them, in fact if you correct them they say 'it's all the same.'

Well it isn't is it?

People over here can't tell the difference between the American and Canadian accents – but is there a Canadian accent or is it just a posh American one with the addition of eh, for sure, and the pronunciation of about as aboat?

There is a certain Scottishness to the Canadian accent and I met a guy in Los Angeles who I would have sworn came from one of the northern Irish counties and he was from Niagra – on the Canadian side.

But I digress – as usual, so what about (aboat) the poand (sic) ? And what about UKIP?

The Long, the Short and the Vertically challenged.

Neil Fingleton 7"7"

Hey! 100,000 hits since I started this blog; when compared with web sites who have millions it's nothing, I know, but I'm impressed. So thank you for reading this and thanks also if you read it on a regular basis; there is an email mailing list and it automatically goes out on Twitter but I'm very pleased.

Now!!

I heard someone use the expression the other day 'vertically challenged' – what he meant was 'short.' I have to say that that's a bit much isn't it? Either you are short or tall, big or small and I'm sure that short people don't mind being called short or tall people tall.

That is politically correctness gone mad; I'm not saying that we should say all the offensive words that were used years ago but words like actress, spastic, Oriental and a lot of other words are being taken out of the English language by a kind of fascism.

I'm not very tall in fact compared to some of my tall mates I am quite short and they would think of me as short – or even small. I remember saying to one of my tall pals one day that I'd seen Noel Edmunds and I said he was quite small. He looked at me strangely as if I'd thought somehow that I wasn't short and was eliminating myself, conversationally, from being one of the short guys but Noel Edmunds is very short; he came up to my shoulder and it's quite a surprise when you see someone like that and they are shorter than you think - but Noel Edmunds wasn't challenged; nobody challenged him “Oye you! I'm challenging you; you're short!!”

But if you look up Noel Edmunds on the IMDb you will see that he's 5'8” which is about level with the top of my head not my shoulder; they have me down as 5'9” and I know at least two people who are exactly the same height as me – number one is Sylvester Stallone and number two is Steve Railsback. I was in a film with Steve and not only is he the same height as me, but all his other measurements are the same too – well the ones we can see, anyway.

I have seen Stallone a few times and he wears lifts or high heels and looks a lot taller than he is.

Now what is this thing about being closer to the sky?

I saw Richard Branson on TV in America; he was on a late night talk show and the host, Jimmy Kimmel, was sitting in a chair higher than Branson's; so Branson mentioned it and sat on the back of the chair so that he, Richard Branson, could be closer to the roof; he sat there like a perched parrot on heat. I think that about sums him up; that, and the time he cheated at Monopoly on TV when he was invited on to celebrate an anniversary of the game. The people he was playing with accused him of cheating.

“What does it matter?” he said “It's only a game.”

Only a game.

I don't know what the insecurity is about size.

Last year I worked with the tallest man in Britain, Neil Fingleton, who is 7'7” - isn't he vertically challenged. I would imagine more people ask him his height than ask me mine, in fact that's the first thing I asked him. I was probably the twentieth or thirtieth person who asked him that day!!!!

Tony Benn

When Kenny Everett chanted a little ditty of a poem about Margaret Thatcher I remember the words 'you will vote for her again/cos you won't vote for Tony Benn; and now he is dead.

He was an intellectual of the highest order, make no mistake, and an aristocrat to boot; for those that don't know this, he renounced his title so he could become an MP; he was a good MP for 50 years or so and when he retired, mainly because of his wife's illness, he said he was retiring to concentrate on politics.

A lot of people didn't like him – they hadn't met him, by the way – but it would be his politics that people didn't like. He was a socialist and because he was a committed socialist and a conviction politician he didn't stand a chance.

People would steal things from his garbage to see what they could get on him but they didn't find much.

In the Wilson Government of the sixties he was the technology wizz kid and during all those years he dictated a diary – he espoused none personality politics but his diaries reveal lots of personalities and big names.

He was a war time pilot in the RAF and his brother was killed in the same campaign; he went from Viscount Stansgate, to Anthony Neil Wedgwood-Benn and finally to Tony Benn – he wanted to be as 'common as muck' but if you look at some of the photos of him as a young man he looks like an upper class twit.

Look at this:

Looks a bit like Kenneth Williams!!

An amusing fact I found here - His great-uncle, the Rev Julius Benn, was murdered with a chamber pot by his son, who on release from Broadmoor fathered the actress Margaret Rutherford.

No matter how much controversy he created or how much trouble he might have caused, if he was ever at a party children gathered around him; children from babes in arms to teenagers. Even children who were only children at heart would gather around to listen to his stories and in his later years he actually toured a 'one man show.'

His failures in trying to spread his ideas to everybody, his trying to influence the Labour Party were probably our failures. We were probably worried about him trying to take our posh houses away or taking our posh cars or our rights but you know . . we don't have any rights.

In Britain (believe this America) we have to pay our cell phone (mobile) companies to use an 800 number, have to pay premium rates to vote for a contestant on a TV show and lots of other diabolical liberties so what were we worried about?

The World Wide Web.

Now who are these two very attractive fellas? One of them created the world wide web and the other one said he did; one of them is famous in America but hardly known in Britain and the other one isn't well known at all – really – but he changed all of our lives.

The one with the full head of hair is Al Gore and believe it, people of Britain, that once upon a time he was the Vice President of the United States of America, and could have been the President instead of George W Bush had he not been too proud to ask for help as he thought Bill Clinton was morally beneath his holier than thou just scrubbed and washed Christian self. He also won an Academy Award for his Global Warming Documentary Film.

The other fella is Tim Berners-Lee – he actually did create the world wide web – the Internet. He is in the news today because it is 25 years to the day since he presented the first paper on the Internet.

He is hardly known at all in America but here in Britain, where he is just about known, he celebrated the 25^th anniversary with a call for a 'magna-carta' of the web. He realises, now, like Oppenheimer who invented the Atom Bomb (or led the team), that he gave birth to a monster.

Now that we have the Internet our lives, instead of being made simple, have become more complicated. Without the Internet I wouldn't be able to write this blog, wouldn't have access to a lot of knowledge, wouldn't be able to go to the best web page of them all – YouTube – which gives me access, at the touch of a button, to some of the greatest, funniest and clever films clips, old records by some great pop and rock singers and, it must be said, access to a load of crap!!

The latest nuisance to me is a series of emails I am receiving from 'sexy' girls who send me links to their web sites/cams so they can show me their sexy bodies – so they say – and what I have done about this in the past is to put them on my spam list or junk list, when I would receive them. The problem this time is that the emails arrive in my box from ME!! Yes, would you believe it. So if I put them in to the junk box I am actually putting myself in there. You see when you send an email there are a few things you can put next to the To/ address line: you can put cc – which means carbon copy and sends a copy to people and they see each other; you can put bcc – which you should do if you are sending an email to a lot of people; or you can put reply to: and that is how these emails come to me.

So if I reply and tell them to go away I am replying to myself – anybody can do it if they know someone's email addy. I will figure out how to get rid of Jessie – which is the name of the person who sends most of these emails – and I have an idea.

Here's a clip from PC World which tells you what Tim Berners-Lee is calling for:

Tim Berners-Lee, credited with inventing the underpinnings of the World Wide Web, has called for a digital-age “Magna Carta”—new rules to protect Internet users from government interference.

Berners-Lee told The Guardian Tuesday that he believes the web now requires legalized protection. “We need a global constitution—a bill of rights,” he told the paper. The interview was conducted to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the World Wide Web, which hits that milestone today.

He'll be lucky – it's too late!

Desert Island Discs.

Roy Plomley.

 

I often listen to Desert Island Discs on Radio 4 here in the good old UK – for those not in good old, it's a programme where a well known person chooses eight records (songs etc) that they would take to an imaginary desert island if they were stranded.

I suppose the reason why the figure is eight is that when records were played on an automatic record player, there was a maximum of eight records you could pile up.

The show has run here in the good old since 1066 and is quite popular – well some time in the 50s to be exact.

When it first started, it was devised and presented by a certain Roy Plomley (I think that was his name – still no Internet just a brief daily visit to Starbucks so can't look him up), and the guests were interviewed in the bowels of the BBC by the aforesaid 'Mister P' and later on he, 'Mister P', would edit the interview and play just a part of each song.

Michael Parkinson said that when he was the guest, it wasn't any fun at all. There have been a few presenters since the original Mister P was washed up to meet his maker, and one of them was the aforementioned Mister Parkinson – another 'Mister P'; there have been two presenters since Parkie and it has evolved so they actually play all the songs all the way through, for the guests at the recording, and then edit the whole show later; so the more they speak the less of their music is played. These days the guests enjoy being on the show because of this.

At the end they are asked which one of the discs they would take if they could only save one; the mind boggles at how a real ship wreck would work with people looking for their records in the crush; then they are asked which one book they would take (they are given a Shakespeare Complete Works (I think) and The Bible) – look at that two loads of brackets – parenthesis in America – and then they get get to choose an item of luxury; well not necessarily an item of luxury more like an ordinary every day item.

A lot of very famous people have been guests – Michael Caine, Dustin Hoffman, Julie Andrews – recently they had a couple 'double acts' like Torvill and Dean, if you can count them as a double act and a couple called Ant and Dec who were as entertaining as an episode of Andy Pandy.

And they take some of the strangest things - quite a few guests take, as a so called luxury item, a pencil; others their favourite chair or even a favourite teddy bear but some push their luck and ask for things like a rowing boat - but those items are against the rules of the exercise.

Someone asked to take the Wimbledon Centre Court and – they were granted it!

The reason I mention this is that in my last post, I asked you to think which one item you would take from your home should you have to leave within one hour – as happened in Chernobyl.

I also said that I didn't like what conclusion I came to as I was thinking of a real situation.

It came about because there is a novel that's just been published, set in Chernobyl, and one of the men, who were asked to bring the one item, brought a door. As I said in my last post he did this because the door was used to lay out members of his family when they died.

So I sat and thought about what I would take; and I'm afraid it would be my lap top.

What else would I take? My guitar? My collection of harmonicas? I would be able to buy them anywhere. Some photos? They're on my lap top! My bank details? On my lap top – it's a no brainer isn't it!!

Various people have been on Desert Island Discs and I have my favourites and they are the people who chose the songs that I like; you know, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochran etc – tell you what I'll put my eight discs, which I don't know yet, at the bottom of the page.

These days I listen to the conversation more than the music and I find their conversations fascinating. The retiring Governor of the Bank of England chose a song about Aston Villa – his favourite football team (and mine it has to be said) – a song that you cannot buy.

Others, like politicians and show business celebrities, have chosen what would benefit them politically or make them look good and trendy – which is a shame, really. One of my favourites was David Putman – I could have chosen all of his songs, which have gone out of my head now as it was years ago.

Okay here we go, I'll see if I can come up with eight now:

1. Peggie Sue, by Buddy Holly – I could, and do, listen to the greatest guitar break ever, from one of the greatest rock guitarists of all time, over and over again.
2. Wild Thing, by The Troggs – for some reason this is 'our song' – it seems the lead singer's voice is similar to mine!!!!
3. You Were On My Mind, by Crispian St Peters – this is a great song with, I believe, a rising fifth (like My Way) which makes it a hit.
4. Lay Lady Lay, by Bob Dylan – I find this hypnotic and have been known to play it over and again at people's parties – but not since I was a young Turk.
5. Girl Of My Best Friend, by Elvis Presley – I just love this song and I love all sings with the C, Am, F and G chord sequence and this is one of them. When it came out I knocked about with a mate and his girl friend and we kind of (me and the girl) cuddled and one day she gave me a French kiss and, to save my embarrassment, I said 'hello' during it.
6. Move Over Darling, by Doris Day – a very sexy song by one of the great virgins of cinema, which probably adds to the sexuality of the record.
7. I've Told Every Little Star, by Linda Scott – this is another three chord song and I just love it.
8. Born Too Late, by The Poni Tails - when I was sixteen I was in love with a fourteen year old girl but she was too young; she was born too late.

I suppose this list would change if I did it again tomorrow – no Beatles, I'm afraid, and, after all that, no Eddie Cochran or Bobby Vee - not much since then but each of these songs do strange things to my memory.

My Favourite Smell.

My film, by the way, has been submitted to the Palm Springs International Short Film Festival and The Edinburgh Film Festival so wish me luck – there's a still from it, above.

I am on the Internet in Starbucks, by the way, as we have moved to a new apartment and our wi-fi doesn't start till next Wednesday – now:

If I was to ask you what your favourite smell was – what would you say? Your favourite after shave lotion? Some expensive scent like Chanel? 

Let's think of something else like the smell of rain; smells good doesn't it but what if it was from an aerosol!! The smell of lavender from a fabric softener!! What about the smell of shit from an aerosol. Smells just as good to me as anything from an aerosol like rain or lavender.

When I was a student I worked as a milkman for a short while and oh how it sent me round the twist. I worked at a dairy in Wellington, Shropshire; I had to cycle on a old bike for half an hour every morning at the crack of dawn, get to the bakery, load my van and go out to deliver milk.

It was an electrically controlled vehicle powered like the dodgem cars at a fairground which I have written about before on here. It had two pedals, like an automatic car, but we used our left foot on the brake with the right on the accelerator which is not recommended in cars.

Each house I delivered milk to had its own smell; I delivered to the big posh school, in Wellington, and that had it's own smell too; the masters and mistresses and the professors lived 'in house' and when I delivered I discovered my favourite smell, a welcoming smell the greatest smell in the world . . . .. well bear with me, indulge me for a little while and see where this goes. Believe me I don't know at the moment which, I think, is the reason I write this blog, which is to discover what's going on in my mind.

By the way this Wellington School is not the famous public school but it certainly looked like one.

After I delivered to the school – which was to various staff members as well as the place where they cooked for the pupils – I went to private houses and as usual I formed impressions of each of them.

 

I could kind of tell who were the clever people, the people who were newly rich (the nouveau riché), the pretentious, the thoroughbreds, the educated and the people I envied.

 

There was a big house called 'Mad-hatters' another called 'Karjohn' and it became obvious to me that Karen and John had named the latter and didn't have much of an imagination – okay, okay they couldn't call their semi-detached 'Grey Gables' or anything like that but why not leave it just to its number?

 

Mad-hatters had my favourite smell and every time I went there I could tell that they were a warm family – and indeed they were – with their multitude of children (or what seemed a multitude) and great taste in cars, clothes, furniture and the very building itself.

 

Each time I opened their gate, carrying three bottles of Jersey Cream milk (in one hand I venture to add) the smell would hit me the closer I got to the kitchen – of course you know what it is by now!

 

As this Wellington was in Shropshire, which is in the West Midlands, and where sterilised milk is/was also available, meant the people who bought it didn't have a fridge or were brought up in a household who didn't have a fridge and if you have never tasted sterilised milk you have never suffered.

 

Of course if you haven't tasted Jersey Cream Milk you've never tasted milk.

By the way everything in America is homogenised; you get skimmed, semi-skimmed and full cream milk but it's all - - - homogenised!

 

But that's America; let's go back to Wellington: there was a big house on the corner of a very big street – in fact I think it was actually on a roundabout; it had a wide gateway, which was surrounded by a high privet, and I could drive the van – hang on it was called a milk float – I could drive the milk float and the drive had enough room for me to get in and turn around quite easily. 

 

Living in this house was a very tiny woman with a very high squeaky voice. I don't know what kind of house it was but there were loads of teenagers hanging around all the time and sometimes I could smell dope – yes I knew the smell of dope I was at drama school even though I never smoked any. 

I think, in retrospect, that it might have been some kind of half way house with the tiny woman working for some kind of rehab organisation; I had to deliver all kinds of milk to them, apart from the expensive kind, and I figured that the inhabitants were from broken homes and dysfunctional families, because of the amount of sterilised – or sterra as they called it – they bought. Okay so I generalise but sociology generalises too otherwise sociologists would never have anything to write about!

On Friday evenings I had to collect money from the customers which meant calling around at their houses; some people would leave their money on the doorstep, in the mornings, but one particular man would invite me in to his house; as soon as I went in it was quite obvious he was anticipating my visit. I followed him to the back part of his house and in to a tiny room. In this room there was a table with nothing but an exercise book laid open to a particular page. Next to the page was a little bit of money; enough money for the seven pints of milk he had in the week; I had to take the money but not before I signed for it. After that he walked me to his door and got on with his oh so busy life – I don't think!!!!

Now let me ask you this – I was going to write this post today about something else. 

When the nuclear accident happened in Chernobyl the population were told that they had to leave- every single one of them. They were told they could only take one thing away with them and the people scurried around to choose and find, find and choose and take it to their new life wherever that might be. One man chose a door – a single door; the door had been used to lay out members of his family when they died. . . . and I got to thinking what would I take – what would it be? I thought about it for some time and was disappointed at my choice – what would yours be?

But back to my favourite smell – bacon. The smell of cooking bacon and indeed the smell of cooking and food when going in to people's houses is so welcoming that any attempt to cover it with aerosols or fresh air is to be discouraged.

Laters!!