Pronunciation.

                                              BILLY CONNOLLY
 

I have put this up before, some years ago, but I came across it and wanted to put it up again:

I remember in the wonderful tributes to Seamus Heaney, his pronunciation of the wh words; whale, wheat, why, when and the wonderful while or whilst etc.

Seamus pronounced 'why' correctly, as most of the Irish do as hwahy – try it!

The aitch is on the breath of the double-u as the lips pucker themselves together for the double-u plunge – fun isn't it?

By the way, as we are at it, aitch is pronounced aitch – not haitch as I have heard a lot these days.

The other place where it's pronounced correctly is Inverness in Scotland; in fact it is said that the best pronunciations of English are in Dublin and Inverness.

Wouldn't believe that would you?

But that spreads to the rest of Ireland and Scotland; thick accents notwithstanding.

The leader of Sinn Féin was on the radio with a vocabulary to die for and using it like a beautiful tool to confound, mesmerize and confuse English journalists into hypnotic states.

When people like Noah Webster come along and try to change the spelling of the words to make things simple for the Americans they are obliterating the origin of words. I mean why did he take the 'u' out of colour; the 'u' tells us where it came from – 1250–1300; Middle English col ( o ) ur Anglo-French ( French couleur ) Latin colōr- (stem of color ) – I mean why didn't he leave things as they were? It was a pain in the arse, when I lived there, that I eventually ended up confusing the two.

Someone said to me at a party one night that the 'U' was only put in to words by the English to be flashy or pedantic; I didn't comment on that at the time and I won't now.

When I said 'people like Noah Webster come along' I mean what I say 'come' along, present tense, as they still do; I knew a teacher there who wanted to see Americans spell catalogue as catalog – now what looks better on the page in this day and age of shortening everything, BTW, the former or the latter?

Yes, BTW, my little joke – or joak, to use a private family joke!

My daughter was talking to one of the school mistresses at her son's school, the other day, and she asked her about the basketball court and the school mistress said - don't you mean the multi-sports hall?

Give me a break!!

Seamus Heaney also pronounced Drogheda the way it's spelt without the 'g' but the very posh English say Droyida – they also pronounce Daventry as Dayentry and a town in the north east of England in a funny way too but I think they do that as a test for 'pretenders.'

Do people in other languages have this kind of trouble? I mean do the Mexicans have Mexican Spanish and the people from Quebec and various African countries have their own French spellings? Are they allowed to say actress in their languages unlike us; The Guardian always refer to females as actors – I know a lot of women don't like the word actress but it isn't exactly a word like poetess or authoress is it? It always seemed silly to me, when old dames die like Dame Wendy Hiller, being described as the actor Wendy Hiller. It seems okay for someone like Germaine Greer or even Vanessa Redgrave but Wendy Hiller?

I was listening to Billy Connelly on the radio and he, as a Scotsman, pronounced his 'wh' properly; the big Yin is not too great at the moment with his prostate cancer and his Parkinsons but soon responded when Michael Parkinson, an old chum of his, said that the big Yin wasn't compos mentis.

Ironic isn't it, and he would point it out, that he shot to fame on the Michael Parkinson Show in the 70s. 

He came on to that show, the first time, and told one very famous joke and that joke, that one solitary joke, made him a star.

When he got back to Glasgow, after the broadcast, he was spotted at the airport and a crowd of people saw him and started to clap; there were only about 4 TV stations in Britain at the time and he hadn't quite reckoned how many people were watching and how he would affect people. 

I remember thinking he was the funniest person I had ever seen and when I went to see him live in the theatre he was even funnier; he wasn't restricted by language and he could say anything he liked and that's the problem with censorship – it's for the narrow minded; I mean what's the matter with a word? What harm can it do? If we welcomed words, rejoiced in their original spelling and meaning, things would be easier for everybody; there is not one name you can call me which would cause me offence. I know I'm white, reluctantly middle class, medium height to short, regular looks but I've been called lots of things in my life. When I first started on the post office the old sweats would ask me if I was going on my holidays – they were referring to the bags under my eyes and I hadn't quite worked out what they meant.

Then I was called the Mekon (I have a big head), the green man (I was usually pale) and the incredible hulk. I didn't figure out the last one till fairly recently; apparently I looked like the guy who played him on TV in the 70s – the David Banner side to him.

I do feel it for Billy Connelly as my mother had Parkinsons and I do realise that the Americans, with their lack of patience for foreign accents, have never seen him at his best but I have and I'm not putting that joke down here – you can look it up.

Why - part 2; Moi.

 

There I am – up there at the top; a little boy then, I was, probably totally confused with a Dublin accent and living in Birmingham. 

I can't remember where the actual hard copy is now, but I think it said on the back that I was a little more than three years old – but it looks like a school photo so why would I be wearing a tie?

I hadn't learned to read, I don't think, and I couldn't see the notice on the corner of Vincent Street and Moseley Road; a post card in a window which was offering rooms to rent: no blacks, no dogs and no Irish. Very famous now, I know. I certainly saw it when I learned to read and at the time of the photo I probably thought we were in Ireland. 

We lived in Birmingham and sometimes we would go to Sussex on our holidays, to my dad's brother Danny and his family, and the kids there would say 'where do you live' and I would say 'England' – always used to say that when we were in Ireland – but in Sussex they said 'this is England' which totally confused me.

I was only a little fella there, and maybe I was getting used to the fact that the little fella gets all the fuss, the extra piece of cake, first in the queue behind the bar, although I didn't go into many bars in those days; but who knows. 

I was always a bit on the small side but I grew to the height of my heroes, Paul Newman, so I was, and always, have been, more than satisfied with how close I was to the sky. 

I remember distinctly my first day at school because I didn't want to go and never liked it – I've said this before. Miss Jones, my poor teacher, carried me in and I was kicking and screaming – this lasted right up till the age of 16 when Miss Jones had enough – my little joke, sorry. She became Mrs Wailing and, I have only just noticed, that the name described me at the time.

My mother was a seamstress in Dublin – in Ringsend – and she made some clothes for me – probably the braces above – and I remember showing one of the teachers my new jerkin she had made for me, and the strange look on the teacher's face as she looked at me as if I was showing her a piece of wet fish I had found in the playground. The hard tarmac playground.

We did a play, 'The Golden Goose,' and most days there was a rehearsal. I say 'we did the play' but I wasn't in it.

But I loved it.

I would sit in my seat every day to watch the rehearsal and knew every word of every character. The three girls I liked would enter and the first one would say 'Oh! A golden goose, please let me have a feather.' And she would rush forward and grab a feather getting stuck to it; as it said in the script. In a flash the other two girls came in: number two 'me too, me too' and the third 'and me.'

And they were all stuck.

Every day I watched. And every day I loved it from my seat.

On the night of the play, someone dropped out. I didn't give it a thought – but I do now.

One of the boys – Robert Mapp – was asked to play the vacant role, and he said 'but I have this costume on' – I can't remember the top but he was wearing yellow trousers.

'You can do a quick change' said the teacher – and he had plenty of time.

Sitting in the audience I watched with them; I knew all the lines still, I knew what was going to happen next – 'please let me have one, me too me too, and me.'

Robert Mapp took his exit and I waited for him to come on with his quick change and on he came – still in the same yellow trousers from his previous character.

I will never forget it and if any of his relations are reading this – no offence.

I only thought of the teacher, recently – she saw me, every day, sitting in my seat, lapping up the play, knowing every role and movement and I now wonder why she didn't send me on. Maybe because I probably didn't speak right, maybe I was too small.

I did find a photo of some other play we did where I was a ruffian and I was standing with two big boys, threatening the guy behind the stall. On the photo I could see my little fist up, threateningly, behind them.

Size not being everything I remember when I went to the secondary school at the age of eleven.

That was a boys' school and I went for a trial for the football team. They asked me what position I wanted and I said centre forward. 

Someone said 'No. Roger Munday will get that' but I went for it in any case.

I touched the ball once; it came to me when I was around the half way line. I stopped it and was about to kick it over my head and it hit me in the chin.

When I came off the same guy who told me about Roger Mundy said 'you only touched the ball once and it hit you in the chin.'

It must have been funny to see me when a corner was being taken. Standing in the penalty area with all the big kids as the ball came over, half the size of the others, trying to figure where the ball was going to land so I could head it into the goal, not realising that if the ball came and hit me on the head, the greasy leather case ball would probably knock me out.

Why?

 Do you know I often wonder why I write this blog; someone, once said to me, don't wander too much you'll get lost – but I digress. 

I have always felt the need to write all the time. Once in a while I would be out with my pals – I called them mates, in those days – and I would bring my pen out and a piece of paper and write something.

Two things here: number one ' called them mates in those days the reason I changed to calling them pals, is when we lived in America, and I was there for 17 years, I would use the word 'mate' and some people would think I was referring to my wife and number two – I would bring my pen out – nothing significant there but have you noticed the Americans usually say 'pencil.' I remember Shelly Berman, in one of his famous sketches said 'hold on I'll get a pencil.' In America people would ask that as opposed to 'do you have a pen?'

Now where was I?

Yes the reason for writing this blog. 

Well it's not for brownie points, some kind of kudos or status. It's just a need; I never plan anything, I suppose it's probably what they call stream of consciousness – by the way, again: for some reason the Americans pronounce kudos as Keudoze as if it's plural. It's Greek so it's KudoSS.

Getting back to the thrust – hey I don't know what's coming so don't ask – in the beginning I wrote a novel – well that was years and years ago and it was called The Killing of Mister Wilshire – I suppose there must be a copy somewhere but I remember at the end of most of the chapters it said 'fowl play was not suspected – 'three chickens were released after questioning.'

It was my little joke, of course, but thinking about it I would like to take a look one day and see some kind of surreal adventure in silliness – I think I remember writing a line like 'I would look at him as he told me off – my big bully of a boss – and then I would look at the side of his forehead and see where I would hit him with the stapler I was holding, the stapler of which he was laying into me for not refilling and . . bla bla bla.

The novel I actually did write, later on, when I had Graves Disease in Los Angeles, took me a few years to write and then some. There are many drafts one writes and each time it has to be proof read. Then another draft and, even though I am a big fan of Tom Hanks (who must sign his autograph thanks and I have to ask myself is he the new John Wayne or Pat Boone) he is now a novelist. I mean he is, obviously not a polymath, but he didn't get any rejections for his novel. He realises that this is unfair when, at the same time, young writers don't even get their novels read by a literary agent.

It seemed like a brick wall when I wrote my first one and then Amazon published it. They do a great deal for writers even though they are criticised but it's really only one step above self publishing  . . . lots of great writers, in the past, self published their first novels. It cost them a lot of money, having to get a certain quota printed. Amazon have a policy of P.O.D. Print On Demand.

So here I am down here on the page and I haven't even started to say what I wanted yet.

In 1971 decimalisation came to the United Kingdom – some time in February, and on that day the post office was on strike. I can't remember if it was the whole post office or just the postmen – I suppose they are post persons these days – and on that magical day in that February long ago no postage stamps were franked with the historic date – no first day covers – it must have been a bit of a pisser for philatelists. 

I didn't mind the change to money but when the UK joined the Common Market, as it was called then, Valued Added Tax came to be – VAT.

Everything had to be changed as decimalisation meant things had to be counted in tens. 

We are not in a world of tens. There are 24 hours in a day. 60 minutes to the hour. 60 seconds to the minute and so on. Our heart beats at that pace like music. 4 beats to the bar, the 'middle 8' in pop music. 

When CDs came into our lives the beat was constant exactly every time you played the song. When Carl Perkins wrote Blue Suede Shoes he changed between 80 beats to the minute to 100 and down to 60. 

Add to that, vinyl records were not constant; 45 revolutions per minute, 33 or 16, didn't always hit the mark and after a while it became clear to cardiologists that the constant beat interfered with the heart beat of the listener.

I am not writing an official paper or report so you'll just have to believe me.

I remember saying to my wife, that if the powers that be could have their way, they would decimalise time and then I found out today. that they did – in 1792 (in Paris) – they, the magic 'they' - invented the decimal watch: 100 minutes to the hour, 10 hours to the day and how long did it last? 

Not ten, but two years.

That's enough, isn't it, so I'll quit before something else comes to me.

The Coronation

It seems a lot of Guardian journalists are writing anti-monarchy articles which makes me wonder if it's Guardian policy. A Canadian friend of mine circulated a Guardian story by Stephen Marche (in London and Toronto, no less) with a so called view from Canada it reads 'Viewed from Canada, the coronation is especially absurd;'

I did write to his readers and I got a positive response to this:

I'm not a royalist who collects all the bits of gossip about the royal family, still moans the dark forces that killed Diana, but I like and understand the monarchy, particularly when you think of the alternative - if you are interested here's what I said:

That is a cynical item from a really good newspaper who have decided to take this view over the last few months with their new woke editor. I knew the worms would come crawling out from the skirting boards as soon as the Queen died, but Charles is a good bloke - a hero king who has spent his life taking care of others, launching the Prince's Trust which helped - and helps - millions of kids, has been 'green' since before climate change was even mentioned and is probably the cleverest and most experienced monarch this country has ever known. He was a jet pilot, helicopter rescue pilot (like his son) international polo player and a ladies' man, to boot.

The money he is supposed to have is not available to him to spend as he wishes - this is not the USA or some banana republic.

If the cost of the coronation was divided between the population we would all get .50p - half a pound equivalent to 50c in American money. If they were to scrap the monarchy to save money it would contribute .002% to the economy in other words nobody would notice it.

When I came back to London after experiencing the elections of George W. Bush, saw how a crazy lawyer went after Bill Clinton and, from a distance, the election of Trump, I now recommend a monarchy.

They have been there for a thousand years, they are steady, they cannot spend their own money and are viewed rather like a real life Truman Show.

Millions turn out to see them, everywhere they go and, as Billy Bragg said the other day, we don't want some superannuated old politician launching the ships.'

That it what I said but I ask you to look at the turn out today; try and book a room in a London hotel and just see how much the coronation adds to the economy of London.

 

Hollywood or bust??

Driving the Nova in the Mojave Desert

Close resemblance of the exterior

When I was four years old - and nine months, I started school. It seemed incredible to me that I would have to go somewhere every day for the rest of my life – infants school, junior school, senior school and then work.

On that day, or days not long afterwards, I found something very important to me, that I was Irish. All the other kids spoke with English dialects and I had a Dublin brogue - if it is a brogue at that time of life.

I didn't want to go to school at all, never did for the rest of my time there, and when I was dropped off at Clifton Road Junior and Infants School, I wouldn't go in; as soon as the mammy dropped me off I followed her back home; eventually a teacher – Miss Jones – picked me up and carried me in – me kicking and screaming - and this would happen for a few days. 

Eventually someone else would take me to school. As I intimated, I never did like school, even though I got on very well with the other kids, the class clowns, which I eventually became, making the other children laugh at my strange accent – but not as strange as theirs.

One of the days, somewhere along the line, my accent changed but I would revert to it in the evenings when I got home and, it wasn't for a very long time that I gave in to the English all together.

The pronunciation of the word 'walk' and 'work' would stay with me till I purposely changed it to the English way.

Three times a year we would go back to Dublin and I would speak with a Dublin accent almost as soon as we arrived but back to the English as soon as I got back to school.

I remember one day I was talking to a pal and I didn't realise I was using a Dublin accent when he ran away and shouted 'he's talking Irish' and I got back to the local way of talking.

There was another little complication, as my other granny and grandad moved across to Manchester, together with seven of their children; my mother was the eldest and the eighth who stayed in Dublin. So we would visit Manchester quite often, and when my brother was born (in Manchester) I stayed for a while up there with my granny and that accent had an influence on me too.

We lived in an inner city neighbourhood called Balsall Heath; it was bordered by Moseley and Sparkbrook, an immigrant part of Birmingham; Irish immigrants and West Indians. 

I loved the way the Jamaican men walked about in their powder blue double breasted suits with a kind of balloon at the knee down to about fourteen inches around the ankle – so easy, so relaxed as they glided along.

They would wear those suits on Sundays. All the rest of the people, that I knew, were Irish as they were friends of my folks and we had an Irish doctor.

The suits the West Indians wore were also worn by Clark Kent and would have the same top button missing on the double breasted jacket and that, even these days, is what I draw when I doodle. The square shoulders, the shape of the lapels and the missing button. Then I would add a head and the legs would disappear to a point.

I told my brothers that I was Superman and hid my cloak under the bed. I'm not sure of this is true, but I can't deny running up the garden trying to fly – or it may be a dream.

We lived in a house – no bigger than a cottage – which had a bay window and I would climb on to the top of the window, with my cloak, or some other disguise, and scare my brother who would be in bed.

One of the characters was a Mister Cruikshank and for this I would wear a top hat and a beard.

I was obsessed with America and when I left school at the age of fifteen I told my mother that would be going to America at the age of 24. I would save £1 a week for nine years and go.

My dad was a barber in Dublin, and so was his brother, but when he came to England he didn't do it any more. He said he didn't like it, he didn't like breathing the smell of hair and whiskers so he got a job on the railway – that's why we went to Dublin three times a year on our free passes.

Of course he would cut our hair up to the age of fifteen but when I wanted it longer – he would always give short back and sides – I went to another barber and that barber was an Irishman, of course, and he told me that being a barber in America was a well paid job, so as soon as I left school, I went to every barbers in the area to see if I could get a job as an apprentice;

Not to be.

My dad did well at the railway and by the time I was fifteen he was a boss at Lawley Street Goods Depot. My mother worked for a manufacturing company in the city centre and ended up as a company director there.

But I didn't put that pound a week away for my trip to America (I hate people calling it The States by the way) and a new way if life.

I learned funny things when I actually did go to America, I went there, ostensibly, to act as I was an actor in the UK.

I liked the American Style of acting and their commitment and I learned that all actors are encouraged to carry on studying and this I did.

I played roles that I never would be considered for in London – one day someone said he would like me to play in The Dresser which is a famous play about an old actor and his dresser - very good, very funny, but he didn't want me to play the dresser, he wanted me to play SIR. Not a chance in a million years in London and I also played a work shop production of Richard III playing him - limp and all.

One of the first TV roles I went for was to play Isaac Newton in an episode of one of the Star Treks – again I would probably play the cleaner in his lab in London; it was refreshing!

But the big thing hit me, the realization I mentioned earlier – I did a few films, won an award in the theatre, did voice overs and I realised that I had reached my goal. 

Other 'British/Irish actors were reaching for the prize, networking every time they had an opportunity and giving themselves five years or even two and then they were heading back. I didn't really want that – I realised it was America that I was after. 

I loved living there with the tales, the myths of the place, how parochial Los Angels was – the hamburger joints, the hot dog stands, the place itself with its art deco and fifties style architecture, the pictures of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe all over the place, Chili Jons in The Valley the company town -  the company being the movie business.

When I drove around in my old battered green 1973 Chevey Nova, I would head for Hollywood and Vine, instead of the fastest way home and drive along Fairfax to Fountain just to take in the buildings.

I had made it.

 

La La Land.

 

Well there we are: La La Land; my landlady, when I first moved to America said, in New York they call this place La La Land, and it was used in a derogatory way – taking the piss, as they say over here or what do you mean? when that phrase is used in La La Land or, Los Angeles. I have no idea how you would convey a meaning to it to people outside that vernacular; even taking the piss has another way of being said as taking the Mickey and sometimes even extracting the Michael.

My pal, after I told him what it meant used it on an occasion and said giving the piss – no.

I wrote about the movie, La La Land, on Facebook and, it seems, a lot of people liked it too.

It reminded me of all the great and good things about the place The Formosa (a restaurant on Santa Monica Blvd) Pink's (a hot dog stand on Le Brea), Angels Flight – there's a photo (above) I took of my daughter getting off Angels Flight some time ago.

There was actually a movie called Angels Flight which, I reckon, was in the forties. Black and white and I think a crime thriller.

It was a little rail car which travelled about forty or fifty feet to take the passengers down from one level to the other in Down Town LA.

But back to the movie La La Land, and it's a movie I have seen a number of times and still get a thrill out of all of it.

Some of the nasty stuff, I remember, like casting directors stopping you half way through an audition with a loud– thank you!!

Or even asking you to learn a long extract from a play and then when you turn up, all ready, word perfect and summoning up courage to go in and bare your soul to the soulless creature, they welcome you with 'just the closing two lines please.'

Now did I make a mistake here – I was called to go for an audition (in London they sometimes call them meetings!! they're auditions) for a role in a TV series. 

At the time I was with an agent I didn't like. He replaced one I did like who got me a part in an Indian movie, and his replacement was a shit bag. They don't like you calling them (the agents) in the morning as they are supposed to be busy putting their clients up for roles in movies and TV.

That agent said he didn't like calls before three and one day I called him at 2.55 and he tore me off a strip.

One day he called about this particular audition and I knew the series and he told me it was for the role of a doctor so wear a suit – which I did.

The temperature was in the 80s when I showed up and I was directed to the casting director's office.

I went in and I was shown to a seat by a girl who was filing papers in to the filing cabinet. I knew this wasn't the casting director and, as it turned out, wasn't even her assistant.

After the filing, she gave me a script and said 'ah you are our doctor – on page seventeen (or whatever) please.'

So I turned to page seventeen and looked for the doctor – one word ME.

And the line before from somebody else – Is there a doctor in the house?

Well I felt a little humiliated.

I thought, would they be thinking I was above myself if I walked out; would I get the who does he think he is, if I walked out; would I be able to inject something into it, have a chance as to which way I would play it; I didn't know. Maybe play the character with a limp – grow a beard?

She came to me and said 'are you ready?' and I said 'thank you for calling me in but I don't think it's up my street.'

'What?' she said.

'I don't think it's for me.' and I, very gently, handed the script back .

As I went down the stairs I felt like the guy who jumped off San Francisco suspension bridge and half way down changed his mind.

I called the agent and told him I'd turned it down and he said 'whaaaaat?'

It was at that moment I knew I'd done the right thing and it's what the girl in LA LA Land should have done each time she was insulted.

Of course the boss of the agent called me later. She was a woman of around 60 who had died her hair six months previously and it was white at the roots and black elsewhere.

She wanted to know who I thought I was etc and told me 'we have a saying here – there are no small parts just small actors . .' I said that's not here it's Stanislavsky (It might be)'

So I quit that agent and she said 'what am I going to do with your tapes' and I said 'put them in the bin.'

'In the what . . the . .?'

I said 'the trash.'

I never regretted it but maybe I was a bit too big for my boots; who cares?

On TIk-TOK Too.

 

The eyes are not too good at the moment, so I am sending a sad song to you. I did send it to some of my friends on Facebook and an email to physical ones, but I thought it worth putting up here.

I had cataract surgery on my right eye on December 13^th – which is a story in itself- shall I tell it? Why not.

I had to go the Charing Cross Hopital for the surgery. I was told I would need to have someone with me, and one of our daughters said she could pick me up any time during the day except between 7.00 – 8.00.

They finished the surgery and released me at - - - - yes! Seven-o-clock.

I got on the blower to her spouse who said he would send an Uber (God forbid, what's the world coming to I have to use such a word) and said he (the driver) wouldn't come in for me but if I stood at the front of the hospital he would see me there. I was asked if I was dressed as usual like a pint of Guinness – black jacket white hair – and I said yes.

Now let me interject here – I have hardly any sight left in my left eye. I just see peripherly and nothing down the middle so it's like being in a permanent state of steam over the spectacles.

The other eye had the surgery and I had a piece of plastic pasted to my face and in the dark – which it was outside – I could see nothing.

I walked to the bottom of a kind of fence and then I saw nothing.

I looked back and couldn't figure out where I had come from, and in any case if I had have found the exit I'd used, they would probably have kept me there till 'they' arranged transport.

I went to a wall and it said 'A&E this way' (for the USA readers = ER) and I felt the walls all the way to A&E.

When I got there, I found a uniformed man and I asked him to take me to the front of the place as I couldn't see.

'Okay' he said, and marched off, leaving me standing there.

'Come back' I shouted, 'I can't see at all.'

So we walked to the front of the hospital and he was dithering and wandering about, so I grabbed his arm and said 'let's go.'

When we got there, I could just make out a little place at the front where I had been sitting earlier on, and I called the spouse and he ordered the Uber; 'you'll have to wait outside' he said – 'okay' I said 'tell them I have a Sainsbury bag' – which is bright orange for readers in the USA – and then he said that he'd call me back.

So I went inside the hospital and sat in the seat I could make out just before. The loo was right there so I went in there and came back to the seat, not knowing someone had taken it and, as I lowered myself into it I hear – OYE – I got back up and went to the nearest thing I could see which was the recption desk,

The daughter's spouse (I will not say partner) rang and said to get outside.

This I did but I didn't know which car was which, I just knew the driver was called Mohamed. A few cars stopped to pick other people up and then Mohamed came. Was I relieved and he opened the back door for me, but as I got in my boot caught something near the floor and brought the whole frame of the door down. 'Hang on' he said and came around to mess with it and, eventually fix it.

I said I was sorry I couldn't see and so we set off.

He had the post code on his sat-nav so we chatted – he was from Afghanistan and I told him my brother had worked there for a couple of years and eventually he said 'we're here' – 'oh I can't see' I said and he took me by the arm and led me to our door.

I rang the bell, hoping my wife could hear so she could press the button to let me in but no luck; she doesn't hear too well and needs a hearing aid so after a few goes, Mohamed went back to his car to call the daughter's spouse (still not saying it) and he called my wife and told her I was downstairs in the street.

Just then the door opened and it was the girl who lives in the apartment beneath us. 'Who is this>' I said; she told me I explained and she took me up I mean – what a palava.

So on January 13^th the hospital called and cancelled the appoinmet I had for that day, as the doctor I was to meet was ill.

Instead of wasting the day I decided to shoot the video of the sad song.

We did three takes with two cameras, and a close up of the guitar, but I liked 'take one' which I hope you do.

Later I managed to get the song distributed and it's out on all the platforms available – including tik-tok.

If you are one of my friends or Facebook friends or . . . well you know what I mean. Good wishes.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXuIEO4wmMk

you may have to copy and paste.

Teenager in Love.

Haymarket Theatre, Leicester

 

Some years ago, I was on a national tour in a play – Fur Coat and No Knickers – where I played a drunken Irish Priest. It is the only play I have ever been in where I didn't get a picture as a souvenir. I wasn't in the premiere, but took over when they decided to revive the play for a tour from the north of England, in Darlington, to the south in Plymouth. In fact those were my favourite places from that tour; I got to know them quite well and one time when we were travelling from Reading, in Berkshire, to Plymouth, in Devon, we stopped over in Somerset.

The guy, whose car I was sharing, in fact not sharing as he drove all the way, knew a writer, who would write short stories for BBC Radio 4, and we stayed in his remote cottage near Yeovil. We arrived in the dark and I stayed in a bedroom at the back of the building with, I presumed, a garden to be seen through the back window.

When I woke the next morning, I found the garden almost came up to my window. I don't know what happened downstairs, whether the back door led in to any garden but I suspect there wasn't a back door and we were built to the side of a hill; rather like Jericho, which is another story..

On Sunday morning, after breakfast, the writer took us to his local pub, for a lunchtime drink. On the way, he drove his car, at speed, straight to the place without stopping at any stop signs and ignored every other traffic sign too. One of the them was a main road and over we went at about fifty miles an hour.

'Nobody ever comes down here' he said.

Nobody has came down here yet, I thought.

The pub, itself, didn't have a bar. It was oldie worldly and the drinks were all at one side, with the pumps for the draft beer, and the whiskeys and whiskys and all the shorts were on shelves and, I think, we were allowed to help ourselves – but that might not be right. In the corner was an old guitar and I picked it up and tuned it.

'Do you play?' I was asked.

I said I played a bit, which was true – I knew a few chords and knew where to play them and as I was messing about I started to sing Teenager in Love quite easily and people joined in and they gave me a big round of applause.

But we had to get back to the writer's cottage, as our lunch would be ready, so we waved goodbye and the other guy, whom I was on tour with said, we'll see you next week on the way back.

It was probably the only song I could play at the time and I also knew All I have to do is Dream.

The strange thing is I don't really have a memory for which chord goes where in various other songs I know. I suppose I could sing a song, if challenged in a bar, but guitar chords?

When I was doing my Irish show I would sing 16 Irish songs and accompany my self on the guitar – but when I I took a break from that and then take up the show the year after, I had to learn the chords again.

There is a strange thing about memory. I have spent, I don't know 40 years – 50?? learning lines for plays. At one time I was in fortnightly rep in Northampton when I had to learn a different play every two weeks. It's called fortnightly rep: you start work on a Monday morning, rehearse, learn, rehearse etc for two weeks, then on the following Tuesday you open – Monday was for the dress rehearsal – technical etc.

After the first night the next day you start on play number 2: you rehearse that and in the evening you would do, publicly, play number 1.

So when you rehearse, you have to drop from your mind the play you are playing in the evenings and vice versa when playing.

You have to kind of learn to drop things from your memory.

Other actors reading this will say durr!

Incidentally, the first play was Night Must Fall and when I turned up for the first day of rehearsal, where everyone sits in chairs for the read through, I didn't have script. I was playing a role with loads of lines, it had ben written by Emlyn Williams, and as he was an actor and had played the leading role, it had loads and loads of lines, and, I may repeat, I didn't have a script.

An old actor, Lionel Hamilton, who had a wonderful old actors' deep voice with wonderful resonance said 'not in my day; in my day we always gave the leading actor a script.'

I think that act alone has led me to many nightmares of turning up to do a play – and it's usually 'Night Must Fall' and when I reach the theatre not only do I not have a script, I can never find the stage.

I think I sometimes I get near the stage and no lines come to me and then I leave the theatre and I am back in Los Angeles not knowing the way to down town.

Those dreams come to me on many nights and I usually wake up totally confused to the sound of the Greenwich Meantime pips at six-o-clock.

It wasn't the only time I didn't get a script: the other time it was a huge role in a play called Spokesong! The reason I didn't get script for that play is that I only auditioned for it on a Thursday, was offered the role on the Friday and started work on the Monday. Whilst walking to the theatre, in Leicester, I saw posters for the play, which was a couple of weeks away, thinking 'they'll be lucky.'

So the script was given to me at the read through and as we read the lines just churned out and the last speech had maybe two full pages.

It went well – it was a little bit avant garde but we didn't mind.

A few weeks after I'd finished that play a television director called me in – I had worked with him before in a commercial, and we had a chat and he said 'I hear you did Spokesong, recently' – I said 'yes' and he said 'do a bit for me.' Just like that, and you know, I couldn't remember a word.

When we had finished in Plymouth, a town full of matelots and artists, we drove back towards London and stopped, once again, at the writer's cottage near Yeovil. Once again we arrived in the dark and after the Sunday morning breakfast we went to the pub, speedily avoiding any other traffic at the main roads, flying through the countryside like President Clinton, on a very fast trip he took through Santa Monica, which I witnessed one day, and arrived at the pub.

Not so empty that time, quite a few people there.

I said to someone 'more people here this week' and he said 'there's a guitarist coming.'

At a Time Like This

                  

At a time like this it makes you think: maybe a monarch is the best plan, I've always supported the idea in any case, as opposed to an ambitious politician, as head of state; they get to be head of the government, and that should be enough, but it's always good to know they have to answer to someone.

I've been of this opinion ever since I realised that Thatcher had to bow down to somebody; and it was the Queen.

The royal family have had their own problems, but they are never in need of money, never ambitious and the hundreds of people they employ all pay taxes.

Trouble is, it's a bit like The Truman Show and if asked, who would want to do it?

Charles will be fine he's the first king in a long time to use his own name; the Berties and Davids chose Edward and George.

He was talking about climate change 50 years ago when he was a jet pilot action man.

My heroes.

 

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

I remember it well, in fact I remember lots of people as I am fortunate to have a good memory. On a now defunct 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 a 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?

I often think back to the kids at school, the local heroes, the ones good art sport – one of them, Alan Deakin, played for Aston Villa; he was a hero of mine then..

The heroes most people 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 nobody left who actually fought in that war – the great war the war to end wars.

The other world war started in 1939 and ended in 1945; I have to put those dates as some people, in the USA, 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; in Los Angeles, once a week I met a pal for breakfast who majored in philosophy, and we would have many an interesting tête-à-tête; I have read books by Nietzsche for example as a result of our meetings; I have another friend I met once a week for lunch to talk about politics; I talk British politics and he responds with the American version. 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 novels, 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 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 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 and some orange squash. It was like being let loose as there were 5 acres of grounds; so we played cowboys with real hills, valleys 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. 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; I wonder what yours are?