SMALL LIFE IS HERE
“With eyes that see the romantic in the familiar, we wander in search of excitements and satisfactions in obscure quarters…” Geoffrey Fletcher spent a lifetime finding beauty in the mundane and overlooked, producing 18 books between 1962 and 1990 including London at My Feet, City Sights, Pearly Kingdom and his best known The London Nobody Knows. Best known because strangely it was made into a film with the actor James Mason giving a guided tour of Fletcher’s fabulously dingy domain. Whilst it’s nice to see the footage, the perfect medium for the subject is the drawing and description in his books. One of these, a scene in Limehouse, starts with the words: “Urinal, drinking fountain and gaslamp – all three under a grim railway arch: what could be better?” With his descriptions of ruined squares of crackled stucco houses, cast iron area railings, terraces of sparrow brown houses or the odd bow windowed survival, his world crosses over with John Betjeman but without the snobbery and sentimentality. Fletcher sees at once the possibilities, the connections and goes for it with incisive wit whether it’s a doorway in Deptford, a Mayfair club or the meths drinkers of Vauxhall. In the early books the descriptions are fairly brief, but in later years the restraint is gone and he lets rip in a fine irascible camp style. Geoffrey Fletcher was born in 1923 studied at the Slade Art School and contributed regularly to the Daily Telegraph and Guardian. He died in 2004. Much of what he described is gone and London is the poorer but much is still there. The important thing is his way of seeing which inspires one to look at new subjects in the same manner. The DVD of The London Nobody Knows is currently available online and his books from every other second hand book shop. WmB
We are pleased to report that the two dogs abandoned in Wickham Market have found a new home in Old Town. New owner Mrs Brown said: “As soon as we saw their photo in the Star we knew they were the dogs for us. They looked like such a lively pair.” SB
It's a day I'd been dreading for a long time but I still wasn't prepared for it when it came. I rang my order through as usual – 50 metres of white, 50 of eau de nil, 50 of pale blue – only to be told the devastating news. No more blue. What do you mean, no more blue? You've no more in stock? There’s some on the looms waiting to be rolled off? But no, the answer was that pale blue was finished. Kaput. Turns out they haven't woven the fabric for the last 25 years They’ve been sitting on old stock which has finally run out. Apparently, when the schoolwear manufacturers moved over to polo shirts they were left with thousands of unwanted metres. Unfortunately for us they won’t consider cranking up the machines again for less than 2,000 metres.
I knew it wasn't worth telling them about all our customers who adore the fabric, the loosely woven cotton once widely used for sports and schoolwear and still generally referred to as ‘aertex’ (even though ‘Aertex’ is a brand name rather than the generic term for that type of cloth). Over the years I've heard many emotional reminiscences about wearing the fabric - from happy holiday memories to jolly hockey sticks and crumpets to traumatising school changing room incidents. But one thing’s for sure, it draws more passionate comments than any other fabric we offer. The cotton weaving industry in this country is all but finished. For the moment, pale blue is survived by his siblings eau de nil, white, navy and black but sadly not for much longer.
Page 2
Next Tuesday sees something of a coup, or rather coo, for local pub The Rough Auld Bird as it plays host to the hotly anticipated reunion concert of great blues soloist Diamond Farnsworth, AKA The Owl. Farnsworth, who is wanted in his native country in connection with a string of bizarre deaths, has not performed in public for almost 30 years after his last performance ended in flames. Spencer Whitman, Landlord of The Rough Auld Bird, isn’t worried about Farnsworth’s dangerous reputation.. “Nah, he’d hafta be daft. But they calls him the Wise Old Owl cos he’s smart. Not cos he’s daft. And to come and try that nonsense at my place? What with the kiddies running about? And he with feathers? Nah. And besides, he’s got a lovely voice.” It’s this voice that Whitman believes will pull in the crowds, and with good reason: The Owl’s last record, released in secret 13 years ago, is still selling in excess of half a million copies a year. And with rumours of new material in the works, as well as a pending lawsuit from one of his alleged ‘victims’, the hype surrounding Farnsworth has not diminished. So, be it for his voice or the controversy, The Owl will probably ruffle a few feathers come Tuesday. Tickets £4. Arrive early to avoid disappointment. Dogs welcome. Children discouraged. SJD
TRACEY NEULS 29 Marylebone Lane, LONDON, W1V 2NQ
CHARACTERFUL
Ladies Footwear
A bear-faced boy has today become the world record holder for ‘most tears shed in a row without stopping’, also known as ‘the longest cry’. At time of writing, he has been in floods of tears now for one hundred and seventeen days, and six hours. When asked how he did it, the quivering mess was only able to regurgitate a few words at a time, but eventually, the following became clear. On Christmas morning last, post breakfast and pre goose, just when he thought he had no more gifts to unwrap, he was handed one last item bearing his name. Carefully, the bear-faced boy untied the string, before peeling back the newspaper to reveal what was inside. And it was at this instant, at precisely 10.56 am, that the tears began to flow. Pressing him for further details, the odd little creature could only tell us that it was the most comfortable looking thing he has ever seen, before tugging at his pullover and unleashing a new wave of eye waters. Whatever he was talking about, we couldn’t really care, but nevertheless it’s nice to know that, like all good record breakers, the dog-faced boy’s tears are ones of joy. Our hearts are with him.
www.tn29.com
A pair of trousers thought to have belonged to the artist Walter Sickert, has been discovered in the attic of a London pub. The artist believed by some experts and the crime writer Patricia Cornwell to be Jack the Ripper is known to have had an affair with the young music hall artiste Minnie LLoyd who in later years was landlady of The Fleet Inn in Kentish Town where the trousers were found.
Stan Brown the current landlord of The Fleet Inn who made the discovery said “I can't believe it. I even tried them on to give the wife a laugh but she said ‘they're horrible, you look like Simon Cowell’. I thought of renaming the pub 'The Rippers Trousers' and putting them up on the wall but I'd have to move the plasma telly. If Patricia Cornwell wants to make me an offer, I'll talk.”
The Rippers trousers? The garment was found in a tin trunk along with personal effects of Miss LLoyd who in the Eighteen Eighties and Nineties was famous in the London Music Halls for her saucy songs such as Has Anyone Seen My Little Chihuahua? and Me Collar Don't Match Me Cuffs. A receipt found with the trousers made out to a Mr Sickert shows that the trousers were purchased from a Marine Outfitters in Limehouse on 29th September 1888 only hours before the discovery of two victims of the Whitechapel killer. The eminent artist, famous for paintings of voluptuous nudes in dingy North London bedrooms, had been thought to be staying in Dieppe at the time but this revelation will put him back firmly in the frame.
Saucy chanteuse Minnie LLoyd.
Talk of a local miracle has begun to spread in recent weeks. A man, known to Town dwellers as The Captain owing to his high-waisted blue breeches, scraggly beard and incessant shanty singing, has been telling of a nightmarish vision which came upon him one Sunday evening previous. The story goes that this Captain, who has a long history of claptrap and fib-telling, was out walking a large brandy, when suddenly his feet froze to the spot and his eyes near popped from his weatherworn head. For, as he tells it, there before him were FOUR fully grown tabby cats perched, together, on a single window ledge! Having seen such a miraculous sight, the old seadog let out a cry, which ear-witnesses confirmed as being thus: “This is madness! Oh, this is the bitter end!!” The Captain then dashed to the stationers for pencil and paper to sketch this terrible phenomenon. And certainly, the childlike etching which he claims as his proof does seem to be an illustration of the impossible: four cats on one ledge.
A thorough police investigation has yielded little. “Our initial presumptive was that they must’ve been some of them witches familials, rather than regular cats, but since the picture contains no broom nor pointy hat, we be utterly stumpified.” However, we can now reveal this whole affair for the codswallop it truly is. We have pushed investigative journalism to the limits by questioning the other witness, Ms Freda Johns of ‘Dear Johns Letters’. Ms Johns was able to confirm the following: “That Captain was so drunk that the fool was seeing double. I told him, ‘Oi, you daft old whelk, there isn’t four cats up there but two. What do you think this is? The Hanging Gardens of Barnstable?’” Thanks to Ms Johns stern honesty, this terrible hoax can now be left behind us, and we can walk the streets without fear once more. To deter such a hoax from occurring again, The Captain has been fined £5 for inciting theological confusion and causing a public nuisance. SJD
Page 3
The raffle stall, East Runton village fete, 2008. (Reconstruction.)
Where was he when we needed him at the East Runton village fete?
As we approached the hall we could see it had all the ingredients: parquet floor, crittall windows, fancy pelmets, stage at the far end with a picture of the Queen, remarkable collages on the walls. Not many stalls, but each noteworthy. The first was the raffle. Faded pink tickets stuck onto prizes: a bottle of sherry, a fancy box of biscuits, a tin of fruit cocktail and a box of jellied fruits. Next was a second-hand book stall. The couple behind the stall were both eating bacon rolls and the woman had blue elastoplasts on her face. Behind the next stall were two respectable looking women of a certain age selling bits and bobs including dolls from exotic locations in national costume. Next, my favourite, was run by a man who was clearly a bit of a whiz kid with the computer.
He’d made a series of greetings cards using digitally reproduced images of rodents, flowers, country lanes and views over the roofs of caravans. These were divided into different sections: Good Luck, With Deepest Sympathy and - the biggest section - Get Well Soon. A few tables were laid out with cloths and small vases of cosmos. Each had a printed menu card (I think I know who did them) with a limited choice of edibles: bacon or cheese rolls and asst'd biscuits. The drinks - tea, coffee or squash - were served in brown Pyrex cups. It was like a breath of fresh air, air that hadn't been contaminated by the overpowering whiff of Country Living. To cap it all I won the bottle of sherry. Yeeees! Punch the air in triumphant manner or do that funny dance footballers do when they score a goal. Calling Martin Parr. MW
I go up to bed early, with the intention of reading. I surround myself with books I've yet to finish or start or a pile of magazines or newspaper articles that I've kept to read “when I've got time”. I get comfy in bed, normally with a hot water bottle and a cup of herbal tea or a glass of wine and put on the extra pillow that I take off before I go to sleep. Then I settle down to read. But I don't read. I get distracted listening. I'm not deliberately listening but I can hear noises around the house which take my attention - the cat crunching his biscuits, the heating revving up or clicking off. I don't find this annoying. On the contrary, I've come to realise that subconsciously can it still be subconscious if you've realised it? this is what I actually go to bed early for. Not just the reading. And not just the noises. But the reassurance I get from the noises.
My favourite reassuring noises are when Chucky is watching sport downstairs. I can't hear the television, but every now and then I'll hear "Yeeeess! Gotta be!". This is when he’s watching cricket and thinks a wicket’s been taken. Once he said it so loudly that I had to tell him to shush, to which he replied "Sorry my love". So now, I don't hear that very much. And he's also quite quiet when he’s watching football. I occasionally hear a muted little chant: "Super Reading! Super Reading!". There must be something particularly reassuring about sport noises. I have a football mad friend, Sue, who works and plays hard all week so that by Saturday she’s worn out. She really looks forward to watching Match of the Day and makes herself stay awake until 10.45 or whenever it’s on. Then, as soon as she hears the music - de de de de de de de de - she falls asleep. Every time.
If you’re fond of rummaging around antique markets could I suggest a visit to Spitalfields on a Thursday? Having recently done the rounds – Covent Garden (Monday), Bermondsey (Friday) and Camden Passage (Wednesday) – Spitalfields on a Thursday is by far the best. The look is a cross between British Sea Power and Steptoe's Yard with a bit of 1960's Victoriana. If you're looking for vintage flags, china dolls (with or without limbs), chemistry lab paraphernalia, 50's and 60's French and British workwear, ceramics or ephemera you won't be disappointed. There are a couple of excellent taxidermy stalls: a red squirrel on a branch holding a pine cone was £20 and a Victorian glass domed display case £12. Another stall worth a visit is John Andrews’s vintage fishing tackle. His canvas and string bags, baskets, colourful floats, reels and flys are all fastidiously sourced and displayed. Opposite the market, in Commercial Street, between the Ten Bells and Bread and Wine is Andrew Coram’s shop. It's chaotic and ramshackle and a real treat. It's always possible to find something in there: a Georgian tip up table, a Geoffrey Fletcher print of Spitalfields Market, Staffordshire flatbacks, unusual lamps and shades. I was recently tempted by some Victorian pastel portraits of criminals and vagabonds. If you're in luck Andrew will be in there smoking his clay pipe and looking very much the humble Dickensian antiques seller that he is. If you’re partial to a trip down memory lane market-style I would recommend a film called Every Day Except Christmas. Made in 1957 and directed by Lindsay Anderson, it's a black and white film about London’s fruit, vegetable and flower market when it was at Covent Garden. It documents the routine and rhythm of setting up the market and in the process portrays the characters, architecture and quaintness of the market in the heart of London. Particularly charming are the scenes where lorries are unloading their produce. Boxes of grapes and oranges delicately wrapped in tissue paper, potatoes from Norfolk, mushrooms from Kent and daffodils from the Scilly Isles packed in wooden crates never looked so lovely. Another great source of inspiration is a book called Covent Garden Market by Clive Boursnell which documents the market in the 1970's just before it closed. My favourite photographs are of the managers’ offices: roller shutter front, tongue and groove walls painted in grocer’s green and cream, a good solid mahogany market trader’s desk, green enamel lights and some artistically arranged sacks of carrots, peas and dirty celery - not forgetting the topless bird calendar jostling for position with the Outspan orange poster. One of things I love about London are the street markets and the cries that go with them, especially from the ones selling produce. Borough market, Tachbrook Street, East Street, Church Street and Ridley Road all have their own particular charm and character. There was a stall in Chapel Street Market, Islington which only sold grapes. The stall holder’s cry was "Little balls of sugar". Straight to the point!
Page 4
As curious relations go, Uncle Barry is pretty curious and his kind of story is the best sort. The kind that turns a bit of a misfortune into a life changing positive. When he was a tiny boy, Barry fell down the stairs. His trusty dog friend made an attempt to save him from near peril by grabbing his little leg between his teeth. Unfortunately this bite, although meant with the best intentions, caused young Barry to have his left leg removed above the knee. It is important to the family that I reiterate here the fact that the dog was just doing his best and could just as easily have been very much the hero, if it were not for the amputation. Anyway, as you can imagine, at this point in time Barry didn't consider losing his left leg a life changing better, but as it turns out it was his ticket out of a pretty mundane future following in the family business of shed erection. This is how it panned out. Barry, by some crazy twist of fate, met another chap that was missing his RIGHT leg. Together they made the fantastic spectacle of the 'Two Headed Man', wearing a specially made suit with each of their legs down either trouser leg. Uncle Barry became a bit of a celebrity as the story goes and was the first of the family to travel abroad when he went on a tour of America. So if ever I'm feeling a bit down, I think of old Uncle Barry as I reckon he must be one of the greatest examples of how sometimes the best things come out of the worst situations.
My great Aunt Edie lives the life of a church mouse. First off she is mouse-like in stature. She can't be more than 4ft 8ins, made strange by the fact that her twin brother is around 6ft. I've given up buying her posh biscuits for Christmas as she squirrels them away, preferring to stick to eating sasauges that she boils in a pan on a primus stove and saves treats for a special occasion. She is 92. On a previous visit, the leg of her sofa had dropped off and it was now perched on top of an upturned bucket. This too has since broken and been upgraded to a saucepan.
Also you learn some fabulous facts, for example, in an exhibition to celebrate the British Empire held at Wembley in 1924, there was a model of the then Prince of Wales made entirely out of butter. Imagine doing that today! You’d need a couple of catering sized blocks of Lurpak just to do the ears. When I visited the museum recently, the woman on the ticket counter was conducting a fairly brusque customer survey. “How did you hear about us? Why did you decide to come? Did you find us easily?” “Yes I did”, I said, eager to please. “The map on your website was very clear.” “Really?” said the assistant, looking genuinely surprised. She leaned over and muttered out of the side of her mouth: “I thought it was rubbish.” I was eventually allowed through the turnstile. “If you feel the need for refreshment at any stage”, she called after me, “I do sell individually wrapped Hob Nobs.” And with that I was ushered through into an Edwardian world of Mazzawattee tea and Rough Shag. Which frankly is my idea of heaven.
But perhaps you have never asked yourself “where can I find some old tins”? Perhaps instead you’ve wondered where you could find 200 old gas cookers under the one roof? I know I have – and the answer lies in Norfolk, and the Fakenham Museum of Gas and Local History. This is something of a misleading title because the Local History referred to is in fact the history of the local gasworks, so it does focus very much on the one area. Gas. Choose your visiting time carefully. The mseum, despite surely appealing to thousands of vintage gas cooker enthusiasts, is only open from the end of July to the beginning of September. In other words, August. And even then, it’s only open on Saturday mornings. For three hours. Surprisingly, despite these small windows of opportunity, the museum is never over-crowded. It’s the only one of its kind in England – so don’t go to Scotland or you might come across another one.
“Where can we find thousands of tins and packages that used to contain grocery products from years gone by?” So often a question that springs to the lips on a fine morning when a day of leisure lies ahead. The answer is in the Museum of Packaging in London and it’s an absolute delight. Along with beautifully designed tins for tobacco, tea and chocolate, you can find more recent products, which have quietly disappeared from the shops, but which you’ll find lovingly preserved here in this little corner of Notting Hill – bottles of Tree Tops squash, tubes of Spangles, and don’t tell me I’m the only person who remembers the slimming biscuits called Limmits? They were sold under the slogan “the meal-in-a-biscuit”. Although frankly they didn’t provide a meal in a biscuit. They were just biscuits. I ate them steadily throughout the late 70s and never lost an inch.
Finally – and a real treat this – make sure you visit the Collectors World of Eric St John Foti. “The unexpected is around every corner” – and certainly if you take a wrong turning you will find yourself in the Fenland town of Downham Market – but once you find the museum, this certainly applies. There is, for example, an entire room dedicated to the late Dame Barbara Cartland – a personal friend of the museum’s enthusiastic owner – and as if that wasn’t unexpected enough, you will also find a well deserved tribute to one of our finest actresses. Not quite enough memorabilia of a long and distinguished career to fill a room, but do make sure you locate the “Liza Goddard Corner”. According to Mr St John Foti, the public are invariably amazed by the displays. “They all say ‘why haven’t we been told about this before?’” The answer, of course, is that if you told someone you’d discovered a museum where an exhibition themed around the former wife of Alvin Stardust could be found alongside an old Concorde engine, they would think you’d gone mad.
Page 5
Pompadour. Hoxton fin. Wedge. Flat-top. Lights, both high and low. Asymmetric bob, if that’s what you want. Permanent or temporary colours. Wi-Fi. Shiatsu massage. Refreshments, wet shaves and sideboard trims. All this and probably more, if you wanted it. Getting a haircut in a place that’s both decent and welcoming doesn’t seem difficult. Of course, the male pattern that has raced across my temples like bison in a John Wayne film means I’m not the most difficult customer but even before full transparency took place I knew of four or five establishments in the city that wouldn’t let me down. It might be a wood-panelled gentlemen’s enclave where men with precise moustaches and manicured hands have handed down the clippers for generations. Or it could be somewhere more fashionable with unisex offerings, reconditioned dentists’ chairs and a sound system. Either way, the chances of getting something on your head that doesn’t make people laugh, or shake their head sympathetically, are slight indeed. Twenty years ago in a small town, far from a city, things were rather different. The available menu there was a straight choice. Between brutal and incompetent. The first of these was in a shop-front converted from the front parlour of a terraced house. A flyblown net curtain, spotted with blood, covered a
car alarms weep for me in the nite that’s how its allways been no matter how many years pass walking these streets i drew pictures of mad dictators on the backs of ciggaret packets visited by ex-girlfriends and my astranged father i tried not to be a nuisance to shoppers tourists or general passers by even now kids still taunt me on account of the way i dress my hair falls over my brow and they shout - hitler at me but they’ve got the rong man i see myself in a shop window and look like ive just landed it scears me to realise that i will allways feel new here From the boss of all english riters, Poems 1996 – 2002, Billy Childish. Hangman Books, 2003.
window displaying a cracked stencil and handwritten price list, still in shillings. Inside, a wooden chair sat in front of what looked like a bathroom cabinet. Beside the chair an elderly man in a green coat wielded some clippers that would have made a sheep look nervous. When they started up the noise was roughly the same as someone hand-cranking a Ford Popular. Ears optional, read a sign sellotaped to the mirror. In the seat, the condemned prisoner sat captive wrapped in a shroud of black nylon, looking in the mirror with wide eyes and a movement under the covers that looked like someone fingering rosary beads. The technique was about as sophisticated as strip-mining and involved gripping the head with one arm, like a wrestler, while ploughing the scalp with the clippers. Every so often the clippers would stall, caught in a knot of hair or, if you were unlucky, a fold of scalp. Moles were given the same treatment as they would get from gardeners and would bleed for at least 24 hours after the operation. The bouffant came in three styles. Short, very short and gone. The process took less than five minutes to complete, a little more if blood was drawn, which it often was. At the end, the skin around the back of the neck and above the ears had the colour of rhubarb and the texture of corduroy. The second type of shop didn’t elicit fear, except of ridicule. The outside would be painted in pale brown, with the sort of lettering you’d see on a 1970’s Ford Capri, and typically stated just a name, either a first name, Jason, perhaps or an ambiguous surname like Creed or Bond (mercifully, strained puns such as Tress Code had yet to brignten what passed for our high streets). Here, the windows would be covered, too, with the sort of louvered vertical blinds you might see in a doctor’s waiting room. I always assumed the covering was there to prevent groups of small boys from gathering to laugh at the victims, Inside, what had looked fresh in 1967 had gone off like last week’s milk. Plastic seats gathered round a wicker and glass coffee table containing a red tin Embassy ashtray and some faded and overlythumbed magazines. The eponymous hairdresser had a tan, a tache, a cigarette in his mouth and about as much skill with his hands as a slow-worm. The walls had pictures of famous singers and actors, some apparently signed, but that was a dangerous route to embark on. Ask for a haircut like Cliff and there was a more than decent probability that the end result would be more Michelmoore than Richard. Flat-tops would be as level as the streets of San Francisco, sideburns would come in different heights and carefully nurtured quiffs would fall into the lap of the unsuspecting customer, like a budgerigar sliding off the perch for the last time. Throughout all this the barber would smoke, answer the phone and read the Racing Post, eventually holding up the mirror and grunting. If anyone complained, and plenty did, he’d look disappointed and say “What do you expect for One Pound Bleeding Seventy?” I still wonder why we all went back so often but the fact that the same sum would buy you a pint and a packet of twenty, with enough left for the bus home, had much to do with it. Matthew Loukes’s first novel, Estrella Damn, is published by Soul Bay Books.
Working above the shop at Old Town, on several occasions I’ve heard a customer inspecting the quality of the cloth and construction and remarking: “That should see me out.” And it seems that in some cases it really does. This week I was deeply touched to hear that a customer of ours wore Old Town to his own funeral. Similarly, when my friend Marius was buried in his native Poland wearing a suit made by us. Now, if you are lately bereaved or otherwise ticklish in these matters please forgive me but I wonder to what extent people generally consider what to wear at their own funerals. I dare say for some, as in life, it’s a case of “whatever’s comfortable”. I’m not too up on funerary fashion but I suspect it mainly revolves around polyester satin. I remember seeing at the Imperial War Museum a still packaged German WW1 paper shroud which had the ridiculous detail of a paper bow tie which was rather moving. Moving on to outerwear, there does seem to be a trend for those big square American style coffins which lend a new horror to death, and nobody wants their last journey to be in a Renault Espace which seems to be the standard hearse these days. Ideally one would want black horses, purple plumes, the Dead March from Saul, Highgate Cemetary and deep mourning (no trainers), but I’ll settle for the local crem, The Smiths (a medley played on the organ?) and lovely wool serge. All back to the house for a stiff drink. WmB
Marianna Kennedy 3, Fournier Street, SPITALFIELDS www.mariannakennedy.com
Fernandez & Wells
43, Lexington Street, London W1 www.fernandezandwells.com
HAM CHEESE PICALILLI LEILA’s SHOP
17, Calvert Avenue, London E2 0207 729 9789
Coffee, Cake Polish Sausages, Pickles
New Greengrocer’s Opening Soon
John SMEDLEY
Fine Gauge Merino WOOL VESTS Available from OLD TOWN LONG JOHNS by request
Page 8
Once upon a time there was a goat. It had an enormous head. As goats go, it was a smasher. It was so popular, that the land where it roamed was named after it - Goatsheed. A bloke from London, called Jack, visited Goatsheed. He was on a revenge mission. His brother had been bumped off and Jack wasn't very happy about it. Someone would have to pay. Jack wasn't a giant killer, he wasn't that fussy. He was just a killer. Jack made a pair of boots for one of his victims, a nice concrete pair, size 9 ½. They fit like a glove. But he couldn't be bothered to trail up to The Campground at Wrekenton to dispose of his surplus concrete, so he just buried it in a hole in the ground, just off the High Street, an area known as Little Woods. Job done, Jack went down the coast for a plodge. He's never been seen since. But strangely the concrete that he dumped came to life and started to grow. It kept growing and believe it or not (use your imagination) it grew into a massive structure, with lots of levels and many smaller structures around its base. On first inspection it looked pretty grim - it was grey, huge and cold. But the people of Goatsheed took to it straight away. They loved it and were very proud of it. Some local traders moved in and started selling their wares from it. They even gave it a name - 'Goatsheed Indoor Market and Shopping Centre'. They parked their carts in the tallest part and this became known as 'The Multi Storey Cart Park'. The Indoor Market became legendary throughout the land. If you couldn't buy it in the Indoor Market, you couldn't buy it anywhere. Well maybe in the Metrocentre, or Newcastle, but who could afford to travel that far? The shops were full of goods from around the globe and the Team Valley. [See list opposite.] You could get your hair and a key cut at the same time. The pet shop had more species than Edinburgh Zoo. And all of this under one roof. Nearby was Books (run by brothers Fred and Perry from Deckham and their cousin, Levi, from Whitehall Road) and a bookies. Neither of them sold books though.
LABOUR and WAIT
18, Cheshire Street, London E2 6EH www.labourandwait.co.uk SAUCEPANS STRING SOAP STATIONERY
www.clarkesofwalsham.co.uk
Bicycle inner tubes White pudding Black pudding Pease pudding Fish (alive) Fish (smoked) Fish (battered) Holdalls Tabs Knicker elastic Bombay mix Steak mince Soft mints Mince and dumplings Drawers (underwear)
Drawers (keep your drawers in) WD40 (stop your drawers getting stuck) Snakes Ladders Eggs (hen) Eggs (duck) Eggs (Scotch) Eggs (Easter) Cards (scratch) Cards (SIM) Cards (birthday) Watch batteries Scent Lino Plates ('L') Plates (dinner) A Selection of Items for Sale at the Goatsheed Indoor Market and Shopping Centre.
Around this time, there lived in Goatsheed, a very powerful group of people. They made a living by selling cows. If spotted on Jackson Street, you would hear, in hushed tones 'there's a cow and a seller'. Through the years this was corrupted and abbreviated to 'there's a cow'nsella' and so they became known as cow'nsellas. They were a fearsome bunch, but their numbers were decimated in 'The Battle in the Trafalgar'. It's a terrible tale. It all kicked off on a Friday afternoon, in the cow'nsellas favourite town centre hostelry. The Racing Channel on Sky went off during the two thirty from Plumpton and a battle ensued. The cow'nsellas were stoned, but at £1.35 a pint, who could blame them.? Only the few that had gone outside for some fresh air and a tab emerged unscathed. When it died down, the cow'nsellas vowed it must never happen again. They set up a committee to look into the problem with the Sky TV reception and five years later their findings were published. The Multi Storey Cart Park was interfering with the satellite signal and there was only one solution - it would it would have to go. But not just the Cart Park, the Indoor Market would have to come down as well. Naturally, the locals were devastated. But their views were sought and taken on board. In place of the Indoor Market they demanded a mixed use development including a cinema, hotel, apartments, retail facilities, a restaurant and a farmers market. A contractor from Prudda was appointed to raze the car park to the ground, or even lower. Michael Caine was invited to perform the ceremonial start of the demolition, but declined, saying it was too cold - southern softie. Alf Roberts deputised, but in his haste, tripped up, disappeared over a parapet and landed on a Ford Cortina. Once was careless, twice was just irresponsible. A woman with a clipboard rushed to the scene and asked the driver of the Ford Cortina if he had been involved in any accidents in the last three years. His response is not recorded. The mountain of rubble from the demolished structures was absolutely huge. It had to be buried in landfills throughout the Borough, from Bill Quay to Ryton, Barley Mow to Teams. And there it stayed, for many years. But one night, on the anniversary of 'The Battle in The Trafalgar' it stirred. It began to grow and it kept growing. When the sun rose, there were, scattered throughout Goatsheed, seven mini Multi Storey Cart Parks, with associated retail units. People rejoiced, they couldn't believe their good fortune mini markets right on their doorstep. And they all lived happily ever after. Well not quite everyone, for the cow'nsellas hadn't realised that their favourite watering hole was actually a part in the Indoor Market, so when it got the chop, so did their boozer. Nothing's for ever and the cow'nsellas, being the forward looking type moved with the times. So today you'll find them in the new town centre bistro, with a latte and the Racing Post.
Happy days.
Page 9
There is a frisson of excitement when Saturday trading draws to a close. Firstly it's the weekend, and secondly it's a Saturday night. I can't shake off that end of the week pay packet feeling although an evening out on four Babychams or the more potent Cherry B Mix are long since gone. Ideally I'd be in the Midnight Bell in Euston Road as featured in Patrick Hamilton's Twenty Thousand Streets under the Sky or a Dickensian hostelry like the Jerusalem Coffee House in Clerkenwell but let’s be realistic, it's Cromer. Choice is a bit limited, but for entertainment value it’s got to be the Hotel De Paris. From the outside it’s grand and imposing, built in the late 1800's when Cromer was a popular destination for people taking in the healthy sea air. It's still possible to see some of the original features although most are hidden behind glazed partitions, chip board and the Barry Bucknall style DIY alterations. The stained glass windows are still intact and the view from the bar out over the pier is outstanding. It's now a destination for Alpha Tours, a coach company organising holidays for pensioners. Hence the predominance of grey haired people in the TV room watching Corrie and the fat man at the bar wearing an oversized polyester blazer. He’s the coach driver, packing it away. Then in the dining room which also doubles as the function room there’s a singer - usually a man dressed in black with a bit of a Johnny Cash look going on. One night the rep from Alpha came around trying to persuade people to go and listen to him because he was ‘singing to himself’. Everyone looked horrified and mouthed ‘he's singing to himself’ in a very sympathetic way but sat glued to their seats. I stayed there one night, mainly to sample the delights of the menu which is so dated it's almost back in fashion, although it may be some time before warm plums in custard make a comeback. The bedrooms are a disgrace - it was a bit like being in a 1960's boarding house but without the glamour of a young Albert Finney propping up the bar. It would be the perfect setting for a kitsch fashion shoot: candlewick bedspread, pink bathroom suite, floral wallpaper, patterned carpet. The view however was amazing, and lying in bed with the window open listening to the sea it was almost possible to imagine myself in a Jacques Tati film. One particularly deadly night in there - and it can be particularly deadly the back end of October when they start the turkey and tinsel weekends we were chatting to the barman and bemoaning the fact that all the nice bits, including the big open fireplaces, had been boxed in behind fluted hardboard. He told us they couldn't do anything to alter it because it’s a listed building! It's not often that I'm speechless but thankfully Bing Crosby and David Bowie came to the rescue and I was able to hum along to Little Drummer Boy while thinking of a reply. MW
There are two types of pub I like. One is dead Spartan like Yates' Wine Lodge used to be before its nasty penny farthing and mangle make over. The other sort is pure Fancy Pants such as the Red Lion just around the corner from Jermyn Street which is little bigger than a hat box from Lock's. This late victorian twinkling jewel of a gin palace (tiny though it is) with its etched, cut and gilded mirrors, rosewood panelling and touch of red leather still looks the same as the drawing (above) made for the book 'Popular English Art' in nineteen forty five. WmB
I realised that the George and Dragon was special when I saw that they have a ‘Pie of the Day’. How marvellous not only to have pie always on the menu but to have a different pie featured every day! The food is served between twelve and four and I have yet to taste better pub food. Though it isn’t really ‘pub food’ - just good proper food. And cheap. And what really puts the froth on my beer is that they call their main courses "main courses", not mains. A certain ‘Mo’ seems to be involved somewhere along the line – 'Mo's Homemade Soup', 'Mo's Lasagne', ‘Mo’s steak and kidney pudding’. The barmaid’s great too. She’s small and Irish, and can take an order whilst pouring another order whilst giving change to a third and wiping down the bar. Absolutely born to be a barmaid, and I mean that entirely as a compliment. It’s a small and unassuming pub, not done up at all, just dark wood and nice windows, with more of the feel of a local than other central London pubs and more than its share of odd characters. An old man who comes in early afternoons always has a sort of bandage on his head – a square of gauze held on by bits of white tape which are coming unstuck. You worry that the whole thing’s going to flap off and reveal a putrid wound. He drinks halves of Guinness and at about half past three he’s joined by a lady friend. They’re both very small - about four foot five - and ancient. They look as though they shouldn't even be alive let alone alive and drinking. Other locals turn up: a man in an old pinstripe suit, a sort of poor man's David Dickinson, groups of younger men who look like they're escaping media pubs and want a proper boozer. There's a man who comes in every day around half twelve. He goes to the bar, has a swift half and then he’s brought a plate of food with a cover which he takes out of the pub to eat – where? Lucky beggar though, being able to eat their food every day. AS
Win £100 to spend at Old Town.
1) Which pub reputedly had 'London’s rudest landlord' ?
2) In the back room of which pub did Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer form their double act?
3) Outside which pub was David Blakeley shot by Ruth Ellis? 4) At which two Circle Line stations was it possible to step from a train and into a bar? 5) Picture question: What incriminating item was found in the attic of this pub (opposite)?
6) What was the name of the pub which stood at the Answers on a postcard please to Old Town, 49 Bull junction of Farringdon Road and Clerkenwell Street, Holt, Norfolk NR25 6HP. Winning entry will be drawn on 31st March. Usual sort of rules apply. Road until the 1990s?
Page 10
In Robert Elms’s lively memoir of cloth, The Way We Wore, the author writes about acquiring his first pair of Sta-Prest, his Ben Sherman and Harrington jacket, all before his tenth birthday. Precocious as this might be it stands as a fairly typical approach to talking about what commentators call urban fashion. Writers describe the love they have for the correct clobber; the sense of belonging and the acquisition of something arcane that the clothes confer on the wearer. It doesn’t matter if we’re talking about Mods, Skinheads or Teds, the same theme runs through the reminiscences like the treasured selvage seam on a pair of 501’s: if you’ve got the right threads, you’ll be a man, my son. That’s all well-dressed and good for the metropolitan crowd, mixing and matching their knowledge with self-regard but if one looked further out , through the steamed-up window of a twice-weekly bus service, a very different story was unfolding. A tale of dashed hope, fruitless afternoons and, more often than not, failure. There were three types of new clothes shops in our small, old town. Outfitters that specialised in school uniforms, sensible shoes and trousers made
Finest KING EDWARDS POTATOES Splendid cookers
Dirty CELERY
Local Norfolk MUSH
Obtainable from CROWES
Bull Street, Holt
Neal’s Yard Dairy Branches in
COVENT GARDEN and BOROUGH MARKET
William LENNON www.williamlennon.co.uk WORK Boots
STEEL TOE CAP Boot
TUG of WAR Boot
WORLD WAR I Boot
DERBY Boot
of cloth heavy enough to double up as carpet. A smattering of Ladies dress shops with yellow plastic covering the inside of windows featuring outerwear constructed from the pelts of minor rodent species and foundation garments that could have doubled as police restraints. Finally, there were a collection of what were called department stores, where the clothes for teenagers mixed poor workmanship and crass design in equal measure. The heady days of the 1960’s, when shops stocked Aertex shirts, cotton golf jackets and natty trousers made from a miracle fabric called Koratron had faded into a world of power cuts, three-day weeks and knitwear that would make a golfer blush. Young Elms might have cut a dash as a miniature version of Steve McQueen but we stood in busshelters looking like rejects from The Undertones, hitching up our semi-flared brushed denims, cast off and cut adrift. Another clothing myth, put about by people who have probably never been bought a school uniform as a Christmas present, is the one about the rich vein of precious treasure to be found in charity shops. Now, I’ll admit that there are some savants who could disappear into the faint ammonia aroma of the PDSA shop and emerge with a Dior suit or a pair of Lobb boots but they tend to be the types who look gorgeous in a Pacamac in the first place. On the rare occasions when I found something reasonable that hadn’t been feasted on by moths I faced a recurring problem. In future years, archaeologists will conclude that this part of England was populated by a curious race of hominids. The females were strictly either a size six or twenty six, while the men had 42 inch waists, heads no bigger than a tennis ball and serious problems with personal hygiene. And don’t start me on the shoes. Rural England must have been in the grip of a podiatric crisis as shoes came with weirdly thick soles – often of different depths, sheepskin liners that raised the body temperature to flu-like levels all set off with a collection of nails and stick-on quarter steels that raised sparks as one hobbled towards the bus stop. One spavined step up from the charitable outlets was the second hand gentlemen’s clothing store, run as a combination of a funeral directors and a pawn shop by a man who spoke in a sombre whisper calculated to extract maximum value while appearing to offer deepest sympathy to the widows and family of the dear departed. The pavement outside the shop was three deep in heavy black clothes rails, containing overcoats that weighed no more than a small horse and demobilisation suits that rendered the wearer immobile from the neck down. If the look you were after was one where austerity and posterity meet poverty this was the number one spot. For one long winter, the streets of our town were dotted with thin young men hidden in vast topcoats, weighed down by a combination of teenage angst and industrial serge. The only moments of excitement came when one of the local dandies passed on, bequeathing a collection of cravats, spats and pigskin gloves to a greedy gang of teenagers searching for something to wear. If anyone should ever tell you that the brief fashion for waistcoats, casual neckwear and corespondent shoes was a demonstration of “neonostalgia” or a “reaction to post-industrial decline” you can take it from me that they never spent their youth in a provincial outpost, longing for something better than a dead man’s hat. ML
In Dante’s Inferno the various circles of hell are depicted. In one circle of the descent you find the Harpies, foul birdlike creatures with human faces. In another you are jammed up against men afflicted with scabs and wallowing in human excrement. Fortunately, anyone familiar with the Norwich to London rail link will be able to take all of this in their stride. But there has always been one aspect of this travel experience that has unfailingly brought a glimmer of pleasure. The dining car. As a series of announcements inform you that your journey will be delayed by “de-training at Diss”, “signal failure at Manningtree”, “swans on the line” or, on one memorable occasion, something described rather vaguely as “a problem”, life seemed almost bearable if you were sat comfortably in front of a plate of steaming porridge or Eggs Benedict. White china, pleasant waiting staff, a ban on mobile phones and laptops all made for a relaxing breakfast as you limped into a siding at Chadwell Heath for no discernable reason. But members of the railway management team must have got wind of this oasis of luxury because it’s now been axed. Refreshments can now be obtained only from a small cubby hole at one end of the train where occasionally a metal shutter is nervejanglingly cranked open and soggy bacon rolls and Baker Boy Muffins tossed at waiting customers, or – yet more dispiriting – the “at seat trolley service”. At the top of the train two members of staff inch their way through the carriage gaily inviting commuters to partake of “Tea, coffee, light refreshments?” Half way down the train, they will have run out of flasks of hot water and thus reduce this to “Cold drinks? Light refreshments?” By the time they reach the ravenous passengers at the end of the train, the situation has become desperate. The trolley-wielders say nothing, simply dragging the metal contraption doggedly along the aisle so that you can see the goods on offer – a lone flapjack, perhaps a small can of tonic water and possibly a bag of Cheddars. Don’t think you can get round this by walking up to meet the trolley at an earlier stage. The trolley pusher will explain that you cannot be served “until a vestibule is reached”. This is the area at the end of each carriage which has an Arctic gale swirling around it, and a student asleep on top of his rucksack, propped up against the toilet door. So now it’s “the late” Norwich to London dining car – much like the rest of the service. JB
There there old fellow. You'll be alright. Come on in. We've got colour television in here. There he is in the corner. And we've got the QE2. She’s only just retired. I'm sure you two will have a lot to talk about: the glamorous, the super-rich, David Frost, Alan Whicker, Joan Collins. Or come and meet Post Office Tower, bristling with technology back in the Wedgewood Benn era. Or Millbank Tower and the other skyline defining chaps, clad in Thames green glass on mosaic tiled pillars. To think that your lot, confident, cocky and aloof were the marvel of the age. Come and sit down in Jimmy Saville's big armchair. Watch out for old trimphone down there. WmB
Page 11
Monday 12th January
Sometimes I feel like I’m in a Vermeer painting; others it's like being in an episode of Shameless. Unfortunately it was the latter today. Depending on how you arrive at the fine city of Norwich you can get a very different impression. Come by train and you walk along the River Wensum, cut through the close, maybe stop off at the Cathedral or have a coffee at the refurbed refectory, all glass and blonde wood. Come by bus and it's a very different story. The approach is from Magdalen Street which is predominately charity shops and cash converters although there are a few notable exceptions. A bakery which I notice has now closed down. It could have been the name: Creamy and Crusty. And a furniture shop celebrating in cheap vinyl lettering 87 years in business. The window display is mesmerising. A line up of armchairs with bits of foam taped onto the ends of the arms. I realise it's to protect them from being damaged in transit but it looks more like a line up of amputees. Next is a pub. Don't bother looking for it in the Good Pub Guide it's not in there. And this is probably the reason. It’s got a tarmac'd area to the side where you can sit out on broken button-back plastic chairs but you have to share the space with a Rottweiler which hurls itself at the gate every time someone walks past. You'd have to be mad to go in there or very, very thirsty.
Monday 26th January
Thankfully it was a Vermeer day. I specifically went to Norwich to visit the Castle Museum and I'd forgotten what a good museum it is. Some stunning paintings by the Norwich School: Seago, Crome and Cotman and a beauty by Stannard of Yarmouth Sands. Great Yarmouth always looks such an interesting place in old paintings or photographs. It was a wealthy place but only a couple of merchants’ houses survive today. One fine example is owned by English Heritage and is definitely worth a visit. Other than the Time and Tide Museum, which charts the demise of the fishing industry, there isn't much to recommend in Yarmouth or Yarmo as it's known locally. Unless you like satellite dishes clamped onto the sides of Victorian terraces that have had a make-over every decade. The number of washing machines and sofas that are kept in the front gardens is particularly noticeable. Beats weeding I suppose. There is one noteworthy establishment though, Yarmouth Stores. Yarmouth Stores is a survivor. They make garments, unfortunately not very good ones now. At the turn of the century they would have been one of the main providers of clothing for sailors and fishermen. This type of store, known as a Slop Store, would have sold smocks, ganseys, oiled jackets, duffle coats, drill workwear, seaboots, belts
and braces. In fact there is a photograph in a book called The Maverick Eye by John Deakin of a typical slop store window display captioned as ‘Marine Outfitters 1950’. We've been to the Yarmouth Stores factory and it is pure Dickens. Peggotty would have loved it. We have tried to persuade them to make some of our garments but have only met with resistance saying they have an aged workforce and don't feel up to the job which is really quite sad. I have no doubt their days are numbered. They can't survive much longer making boiler suits for off-shore workers, lab coats and checked chefs trousers.
We've a new model on our website, a customer of ours with a very individual and interesting look. He's frequently mistaken for someone in the bible. Can you guess who? It’s not uncommon for him to be walking along and a group of lads to call out “Oi Jesus”. Now why couldn't it be “Oi William Morris” or “Oi Lytton Strachey”? So much more original dear.
At first glance one thinks, is it finished? When's the rest of it coming? Where's the mudguards, gears, chain cover and all the cabling and clips? Has this been made by a youth who can't be bothered to get past the grey primer stage? After a moment’s thought one recognises it to be a work of sophisticated genius, designed from the starting point of what is the bare minimum needed to make a bike? The solution is a design of restraint and Spartan
elegance built around a reclaimed racing bike frame sprayed to the customer's wishes; two tone grey in Mr. Lewin's case. The wheels are slim with high pressure fast tyres and a satisfyingly silent rear hub. Leather handle grips and Brooks saddle were the customer's choice. It rides as well as it looks. Edwardian style cycling made perfect. Mr. Lewin's bicycle was built by Lunar Cycles. www.lunarcycles.co.uk
Talking of insults, Will was in Newcastle wearing one of our Harris Tweed suits when a group of youths walked past and called out “F.....g paedo”. Still baffles us that one. You have to be particularly careful in Newcastle. A polka dot Tootal scarf virtually caused a riot in one pub and headgear is a definite no no. It's just not worth the aggro. Unless of course it happens to be a ‘70s afro wig worn with a white suit. Then it’s recognisable as ‘fancy dress’. Another customer of ours, Billy Childish, has a moustache and he is often mistaken for Hitler. He lives in Chatham, Kent. MW
’ St. Judes PRINTS and TEXTILES www.stjudes.co.uk
Produced by www.quotemeprint.com 0845 1300 667