Ken Dodd - a phenomenon

When I was 30 and living in Oxford I advertised in the local Daily Info online small ads to meet a man.

A plethora of 55-year olds duly responded.

One was a mediaeval music scholar from one of the colleges, *Jeremy. We had a few coffee and antiquarian bookshop dates, mainly because I was too polite to decline. He was a dry man of tweed suit and indeterminate sexuality, probably put up to it by an elderly widowed mother, but had the slightly intriguing air of a John Le Carre character.

Perhaps the aspect which most stood out about him was a surprising admission that he loved Ken Dodd and booked up to a year in advance for tickets as soon as each Oxford date was announced. Oxbridge-educated *Jeremy simply couldn't get enough of Liverpudlian Ken Dodd and his fabled 5-hour shows and had even made pilgrimages to other cities to see him inbetweentimes to get a top up of the Diddy Men and their master. He would have taken me to the next show, but naturally, it was already sold out.

I thought of how devastated *Jeremy must be at the news earlier this week.

I didn't really consider Ken Dodd to be my brand of humour, but more than one person has enthused that one live show and you were a lifelong convert!

Watching the tributes on TV, I found myself acquiring an increasing admiration for the man as I watched interviewee after interviewee marvel at how he shuffled onto the stage as an 89 year old, to become progressively younger in front of their very eyes until they were watching a 35 year old five hours later, their sides hurting from so much laughter, and bursting to go to the loo as he made them wait hours for each break.

If performing bestowed upon him the miracle of eternal youth, no wonder he was so addicted to it! I know from personal experience, performing gives an adrenalin buzz like few other activities, though whether this is the same as, say, skydiving, I am not about to find out!

Moreover, in direct interviews with Ken, he spoke of 'giving a gift' to the audience, polished over many years, He genuinely saw himself as a gift, giving the gift of laughter to thousands of people. And thousands of people, it seemed, did not disagree.

He defied the natural laws of comedy, outliving the rest of the music hall business by a good 50 years (even Max Miller complained music hall had died in around 1950, reckoning he was the last one left 'There'll never be another!' before he died in 1963). Most of Ken's jokes and songs would not have been out of place in the 1940s and his whole act including bad ventriloquism with Dickie Mint embodied a defiant Dunkirk spirit (defiant as in refusing to acknowledge that this epoch in history was long over) and pretending that we were still all British, albeit without alienating those who weren't. In lieu of swearing he invented his own 'tattyfilarious' language for emphasis and point making, not to mention an entire fantasy world of jam butty mines and diddy men based around his home village, the divinely named 'Knotty Ash'. Despite never having had a mother-in-law (just two long-suffering fiancees), Ken also had an endless appetite for that old British staple - the mother-in-law joke.

Ken's most up to date references revolved around being done by the tax man in 1989, joking that he 'invented self-assessment' and that he was excused from the Inland Revenue as he 'lived by the sea'. Extraordinarily, for someone who was rumoured to have thousands buried under his floorboards, Ken never got burgled, despite his close proximity to Liverpool, which is a measure of what a local hero he was. Extraordinarily too, he lived in the same modest house he was born in for his entire life, retaining his parents' furniture and table settings and eschewing fancy holidays and cars (though he often had to pay theatres extra for allowing his shows to overrun - and he kept up an exhausting schedule of up to 200 a year).

Ken fully played up to his goofy appearance, though looked increasingly marionette-like in later years with pronounced make up to match. In his 50s, a dentist apparently offered to straighten his trademark protruding teeth, much to Ken's outrage.

Well Ken, what an extraordinary man you were - yet never a whiff of scandal about you (except for the time you fell foul of the tax man), and you survived the slaughter of the old-style comic when 'alternative comedy' came along. But even in your day, it was unheard of to have a music hall career spanning over 70 years and I think in death you will continue to hold that British record unchallenged. You may even have, single-handedly, been keeping the genre going! And unlike most comedians, you appeared to be a genuinely happy man. Your 'tears of a clown' were happy tears.

Finally you had the last laugh by marrying your fiancee of 40 years just before you died, to cheat the tax man yet again! RIP Ken. 'There'll never be another!'

*Previous posting on Max Miller and George Formby here.

Before I Forget...

I used to moan about it at the time but how we miss having to build in those ten extra minutes to run away from our cat each time we left the flat! Having eagerly clocked us donning coats and shoes, you'd follow us up to the communal gardens at the TOM, lagging behind and then breaking into a sprint, half racehorse, half baboon up the street, our black boy Django, also in tow, shyly weaving between parked cars.

I'd try to distract you by slapping a tree and teasing 'Bet you can't climb this tree!' and you'd always fall for the bait, scrabbling up the tree to show off while we tried to escape! Sometimes we'd split up doing detours round different streets to confuse you. Once I hid behind a lamp post round the corner. You stalked carefully past and then miaowed loudly in triumph when you spotted me as if to say 'Ha Mummy, I caught you!'  You liked to jump over the wall at the front of the gardens to surprise us with a mighty 'Miaow!' as well, lest we thought we could creep out the gardens without you spotting us.  We didn't want you following us up to the main road though, which you nearly did, on a couple of occasions.

It was particularly funny when punters were drinking outside the Bottom's Rest on a balmy afternoon and saw you following us. 'Just taking the cat for a walk.' I'd joke. I loved that determined look in your golden eyes. You were a natural cathlete. And of course this culminated in the Bottom's Rest being the only pub we could go to - where you could come too, much to the delight of the punters, again coaxing Django in too (as long as there were no dog-shaped objects). Not that dogs bothered you. You had no hesitation in squaring up to them and biffing them on the nose to show them who was boss.

Even funnier was when you had Django and Monster (a neighbour's black cat) in tow and all three of you would follow me to the communal bins at the end of our street. You were the leader of the pack. How they miss you now, not knowing what to do with themselves, although Monster often calls round and sits on the windowsill seeking a playdate. Poor Django hardly goes out though, except for little five minute bursts through the day. He's lost so much confidence since we lost you, even though we do our best to play with him and give him extra attention.

You loved the warm summer nights running around the neighbourhood when it was virtually impossible to get you (and Django) in, though we did our best to get you both in overnight. And once you gave in and allowed yourself to be captured with the aid of a meaty stick you always seemed happy to settle down, secretly pleased to be relieved of your catly duties for the night, even if you'd never admit it. Then you'd be bright and bushy tailed next morning, ready for a new days' adventures.

One time Django went missing overnight and we were really worried. Then you went missing too. We called you both all over the neighbourhood only to find you were both stuck in an empty house where some numpty had left a cat flap which opened inwards but not outwards again - you had gone to rescue Django and ended up trapped yourself, the two of you together!  You were both chastened and well behaved for several days after that experience and we found it sweet how you cared for your 'brother by another mother'. A cat demonstrably caring for another cat. How about that? But then you'd always been Django's friend - which is how Django came to live with us when his young owners lost their flat and ended up moving to places unsuitable for a cat. I remember how you almost high-fived each other with your paws each time you met  - two young dudes on the same block and him in need of a leader.

Another time Oliver got chatting to a man in the pub, only to find out that he lived round the corner from us and had woken up one night to find Mr Cheeky asleep and purring on his chest, having somehow got in through the first floor window! You were also a daily visitor to Gordon at Gwhizz bikes around the corner, inspecting all the bikes and amusing his customers.

A few weeks ago I had to contact the decorator who painted the courtyard of our flats last summer regarding an unrelated job and he asked how you were. I had to beat back the tears as I told him. The decorator was also very upset as you'd made it your job to be his Supervisor for those weeks he worked on our courtyard, inspecting the paint tins, the brushes and the workmanship! I had assumed you were being a bit of a pain and apologised at the time, but actually he loved you for it!

Everyone agreed you were such a character. A legend, no less.

Django is so timid without you. It's sad to see. While it seems far too soon, and there'll never be another Mr Cheeky, I think we will need to think about another friend for him. I don't think we should let him be a lone cat for the rest of his life.

It has been five months since you were so cruelly snathed from us and your wonderful life and neighbourhood by that awful couple, yet I find myself missing you as much as ever, particularly now the sunny days and balmy evenings - your favourite - are on their way again. I particularly miss how you would always spot us walking down our street from about half a street away and start running up to greet us. Or how we would drive round the corner and you would be there, always waiting and listening out for our car to return. Or finding you mooching round the communal gardens patrolling them and seeking out the catlovers on benches to be fussed as I returned from an errand.

I hope the day will come when I will be able to think about you with a smile on my face rather than a lump in my throat, but meantime I must stop writing about you now, my beloved.  We are going on holiday next week, so I hope that will prove a healing experience. As for Django, he will have a live-in catsitter, a nice Australian lady who also loves cats, but we are still conscious that it will be the first time we will be away without you to keep him company and play with him, assuring him that yes, we will be back! The only thing I guess he doesn't miss about you was how you'd naughtily try to lick the gravy off his catfood as well as your own, so I ended up having to feed you in separate rooms! On the other hand you could be generous, but you also needed to remind him you were top cat, lest he ever forgot!

 

A Titan of Talent - the remarkable David Bowie

Few rock stars have managed to shock the world by dying at 69. From cancer. But somehow David Bowie had us convinced that he was both ageless and immortal, as well as an undoubted musical genius.

The genie of reinvention, he provided the soundtrack to the youth of at least two generations of we fans. Then, just as he had started to reinvent himself as a recluse, along came music downloading sites, enabling today's youth to pick and choose their own childhood soundtracks from a plethora of eras and he rode the crest of yet another wave. Now in death he is set to have one last hit album - his parting gift to the world.

His death has affected me in unexpected ways. An endless stream of his hits have been playing in my head for the last week. I have found myself reading every tribute, playing his music videos, watching YouTube interviews.

I find Bowie an extraordinary example of how some individuals are just BORN to do something. What an accident of birth that he happened to be born at the right time (ie directly following post-war austerity and in time to capture the optimism, space race and 60s obsession with Sci-Fi) in the right place (London), with the right looks (pretty boy but could almost be an androgynous alien), the right talent (multi) and the hunger and single-mindedness to succeed! Not only that but he seemingly knew his destiny from an early age, forming bands and experimenting with music-making from his early teens onwards. His media-savvyness was also in evidence from an early age. A musician friend of similar vintage to David Bowie used to marvel at how in the 1960s, a young 'David Jones' seemed to pop up on every earnest TV documentary interviewing Britain's youth on London street corners about how they were in danger of taking Britain to hell in a handcart with their long hair and liberal views, so young David was cannily planting himself in the public consciousness long before he became a rock legend!  He even went so far as to form his own 'Prevention of Cruelty to Long-Haired Men Society' for tongue-in-cheek media coverage.

Even David's crooked vulpine teeth and mis-matched eyes served him perfectly in the 'alien' years and well into the 80s, though it's not entirely surprising that he got his teeth straightened when he married a supermodel.

Too many co-incidences to be a co-incidence indeed. The midwife who delivered him apparently remarked; 'This child has been here before', somewhat freaking out his mother.

One of the stand-out moments of my childhood was watching David performing Heroes on Live Aid in 1985 and it's nice to read in interviews that performing live in my living room was one of his life's highlights too!

The surprising thing about his TV interviews was how quietly spoken and polite he was. He wasn't prolific in his interview-giving but when he gave them he was chatty, warm and witty and very definitely still a sarf Londoner, even after living as an alien in New York for some years. The interviewer for their part, always looked as if they were somewhat nervously interviewing the messiah with The Thin White Duke in front of them and there was a palpable sense of the whole studio hanging onto his every word.

While they may yet crawl out of the woodwork, the number of ex-lovers queuing up to dish the dirt has been surprisingly absent, possibly because Bowie had a habit of politely asking them for sex and literally shaking them by the hand and saying 'Thank you' afterwards. Perhaps therefore, they felt less ill-used than the offcasts of other rock stars.

Now I read Bowie was also a business genius having weaned himself off industrial quantities of drugs in the 70s, partly as a result of realising he was being royally ripped off by his then-management, though responsibility for a young son following his divorce doubtless also played a part.

Kicking drugs in itself was a huge achievement. Bowie admitted he was 'lucky be alive after all the crazy sh*t' I did in the 70s' and 'Heroes' was partly a celebration of that.

So we are lucky he didn't accidentally join the '27' club and lived to contribute so much more to rock, fashion and everything else. We are also lucky, that despite a few close shaves with insanity, he managed to tread the tightrope and avoid plunging into the schizophrenic madness that claimed his tragic elder stepbrother Terry.

Apart from his enormous musical legacy Bowie gave we youth permission to go through many Ch-ch-changes before deciding who we really were. He made it normal to try on various 'yous' and find out which suits the best, just as it's normal to experiment with various fashions, and even sexuality and gender. Though for all that and his statement 'I think I've probably done everything it's possible to do' - I suspect he may have eschewed the tattoo!

My favourite Bowie track...? So hard to choose, but I have particular fondness for the lesser played ones such as 'Loving the Alien', 'The Wedding', 'Jump' and 'Lady Grinning Soul'.

PS: And just when you thought he couldn't get any cooler, apparently he was a cat fan!

Margaret Grant-Smith 1924 - 2015

I received some sad news this week. My fellow writer from Earlsdon Writer's Group (when I lived in Coventry in the 1990s), Margaret Grant-Smith, died. Margaret was a retired business studies teacher (orderer of the first computer in Coventry for the Coventry Technical College, apparently) and the politest lady I ever knew.

Exceptionally well-spoken, Margaret combined an old world charm with a mischievous girly giggle which belied her years.She was also surprisingly adventurous, having gone to Africa just after the war and lived and worked there for three glorious years in her early 20s, leaving her with a lifelong love of the continent.

Then her father became ill and Margaret dutifully returned to Coventry, first to help nurse him, and then to live with her mother, getting a job and helping her financially after he died.

Eventually she met Leslie, a Scottish aircraft engineer, who became her husband. They bought a newly-built 50s house in the suburbs and had two children. Leslie developed parts for the landing gear of the newly invented Concorde supersonic jet. The family lived very happily for several years.

Tragically when the children were still young Leslie contracted an aggressive form of cancer and Margaret lost him in 1971 after only 15 years together.

Left to raise the children alone, Margaret asked the Technical College (for whom she was already tutoring a few hours a week) if they could increase her hours. They did, so at least Margaret was able to continue paying the mortgage and they could remain in the family home.

Years later Margaret discovered that Leslie had been among hundreds of military servicemen who had undertaken chemical warfare exercises during their time in National Service. A significant number went on to develop cancers of various kinds and die young, but at the time everyone assumed Margaret's husband had just been unlucky. Certainly the soldiers themselves had been given no reason to suppose that the exercises they were participating in posed any danger to them long-term.

Margaret found widowhood hard, not least the hurtful fact that a number of female friends seemed to avoid her as if worried she was going to pursue their husbands now that she was a widow. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Although she enjoyed a few dates (with single gentlemen) in subsequent years and told me she received a couple of marriage proposals, Margaret was to remain single for the rest of her life - another 43 years - taking the view that no one could match up to her Leslie.

However Margaret didn't let the grass grow under her feet. She was an intrepid traveller, both at home and abroad, took up writing and was an active member of her church and community. She treated herself to a brand new car at 75 and even embarked on a screen writing course at her local university at around the same time. She also doted on her children and grandchildren and was equally cherished in return. Though it was amusing to note her slight consternation at her young grandson taking the informal liberty of christening her 'Nanny Marg'.

Margaret's writing could be unintentionally priceless. A certain drawing room play of hers involved what were supposed to be contemporary teenagers grappling with contemporary issues but they were so proper and correct in their speech and manners, the whole thing came across as a Noel Coward play gone wrong! I was in secret stitches every time Margaret recited a scene and would have loved to have seen it actually staged as it was a unique style! And it's not as if Margaret did not frequent the theatre. She loved the theatre and was open-minded to most artforms, so while she was old fashioned in some ways, she was also lively-minded and in touch in others.

While her home remained a tribute to the 1960s in its decor, it was spacious and comfortable and Margaret loved it, particularly the garden. When I first knew her in the 1990s, she had a rather unlikely canine companion inherited from her adult son. Not a dog Margaret would ever have chosen for herself, she and Suzy became the most devoted of companions. Sometimes Margaret would host Earlsdon Writer's meetings at her home and Suzy became legendary for letting out a pained groan when someone's work wasn't very good, much to Margaret's embarrassment. She turned out to be a surprisingly good literary critic! When Suzy died, Margaret had her portrait painted from a photograph and it took permanent pride of place above her mantelpiece, somewhat incongruously next to her late mother's china cabinet collection.

The last ten years of Margaret's life were a struggle with series of TIA mini strokes leading to a downward decline, much as she kept gracious and proper to the end, if somewhat confused. She had to give up her car at 87 much to her chagrin, and, one by one, most of her other activities though she walked in the nearby park every day for as long as she could. I felt sad that I lived so far away and could not visit more often though she was lucky enough to be surrounded by good neighbours, her church friends and frequent family visitors. Sadly she didn't get her wish to die in her own home as, by the final few months, she needed a nursing home, but she remained stoic throughout, her strong faith seeing her through. RIP Margaret - what a wonderful world it would be if there were more like you.

I will end this tribute with one of Margaret's charming poems from her collection 'The Mixture Varies'

Uncle Jim

Aristocratic Uncle Jim
Impeccable manners, a charmer
No one would have guessed him
To be a practical joker

He visited England frequently
For suits from Savile Row
Took my parents out on the spree
A nightly extravagant show

Returning home to his African farm
He sat on the stoep for sundowners
In the last glow of the evening calm
Next day to join big-game hunters

The calamity had no portent
He would not tell and I was banned
From asking what caused the accident
That robbed him of his right hand

Back to England sooner than planned
To Harley Street of course, A perfect fit
The best artificial hand
I thought him brave to be proud of it

Then he'd delight when meeting people new
To shake them warmly by the hand
But not without undoing the screw
One lady fainted to the ground

But time again, he'd feign surprise
"That damned loose screw!' he'd cry
And profusely apologise
All this before he lost his eye

Jill Phipps - my old friend

If I can never claim specialness for any other reason, I claim specialness because I knew Jill. Accidental martyr, Animal Rights suffragette, onetime proposed new addition to the canon of Saints. One who provoked extreme love and devotion on the one hand and extreme public controversy on the other (following her 1995 death crushed under the wheels of a lorry she was trying to dissuade from shipping live veal calves to Coventry airport for export). It has taken me far too long to write about my old friend. She of the girl-next-door looks with added luminescence. Ordinary, yet extraordinary. Conventional, yet alternative. I knew and loved Jill's mother Nancy too and her shy but equally passionate younger sister Lesley.

There was such a warmth about the Phipps family and how they welcomed every stray, whether it be animal or human, into their bosom and made them feel special. They had nothing but gave everything with a generosity of spirit seldom seen. I was not a stray as such, more a lost soul who sought to appease her conscience by doing something to help the animal kingdom, aside from being a vegetarian. To this end I joined Coventry Animal Alliance run by Nancy and helped man their stall each week handing out literature and collecting money towards animal rescue activities. Jill would often join us, with her cheeky smile and ready banter, sometimes with her lovely little boy Luke in tow. During the lulls in between customers we would discuss literature and lend each other novels. Jill was a voracious reader of both literature and newspapers and was always well-informed. She also loved cooking and I remember her giggling that she had made a veggie shepherd's pie so scrummy that she'd had to get up in the night and help herself to another portion! At our regular meetings Jill was often to be seen in the corner playing with the pet rat nestling in her dreadlocks. Her mother Nancy would regularly sigh; 'I don't know why you had to do that to your beautiful hair!'  Jill would grin good-naturedly. She hadn't washed her hair for more than five years either, but the 'self-cleaning' theory seemed to work for her and those locks not in dread were always radiant and glossy. Pale blue drainpipe jeans and a green oversized army surplus jacket typically encased what hinted at a model-girl figure.I felt awkwardly square by comparison with my conventional haircut, conventional clothes, day job in a card shop, and worst of all, extreme cowardice. I was in awe at the courage of Jill and her family in engaging so fearlessly in the cause of combating animal abuse, though I did take in a stray cat which Jill rescued and pressed upon me and Moggins the Mog and I became inseparable.

However getting arrested in a failing Birmingham fur shop (where the owner had pre-empted our visit by squidging eggs in the pockets of several fur coats so he could get us charged for criminal damage) was not my idea of fun on a Saturday. Nor were the harrowing and frankly terrifying hunt sabs through the Warwickshire countryside on a Sunday following a nailbiting drive in Jill's rusty old Renault, a wheel of which looked about to rust off its axle, where I tried to restrict my activities to the liberal spraying of Citronella to confuse the hounds, but was aware of a constant need to pee in my quaking terror (and the brutality of huntsmen is not to be underestimated when they spot anyone trying to spoil their fun - a couple of hunt saboteurs have indeed died as a result of such retribution). However I forced myself to do these things and when Coventry Airport started a live export trade of baby veal calves to Amsterdam, I was there at weekends when the day job permitted. However to my shame all I could do was burst into tears when the large Scanias rumbled along to turn into the high security gate full of scared and lowing baby calves. Jill and her comrades would stand in front of them until the Police dragged them away, but somehow my legs would turn to lead and root me to the spot, waving my Ban Live Exports placard futilely.

I was on a course in Manchester for my new job working in a bank when I heard the news on my hotel room TV. Our beautiful Jill had been crushed to death by a lorry driver who claimed not to have seen her. Her weeping mother Nancy was interviewed. I was in bits and struggled to absorb any information on my second training day.From that moment on, Jill's death became a media circus with every newspaper from the Coventry Evening Telegraph onwards writing endless articles about Jill, her family and animal rights. I bought them all. Some were quick to condemn a young mother for taking part in direct protest, but actually Jill had spent years following the birth of her young son Luke, focussing on more passive means of protest for his sake, and nothing was more important to her than Luke. It was only because the Coventry live exports were happening on her own doorstep that she became more involved. Jonathan Miller wrote a particularly vile article in which he pretty well accused Jill of throwing herself in front of the lorry deliberately for her own 'vainglorious' purposes. But even if there were the slightest grain of truth in this absolute lover of life (and her family) deciding to sacrifice her life for animal rights, such was Jill's humbleness, there is no way she could have anticipated how her death would have gripped the public imagination as it did, therefore no incentive to be 'vainglorious'. In fact for months afterwards we all kept looking at each other and saying how astonished she would have been.

Later at the inquest two policemen who tried to insist that Jill had deliberately thrown herself in front of the lorry were disproved in their assertions by CCTV footage showing otherwise. Despite the assistance of Michael Mansfield QC though, a verdict of 'accidental death' was eventually returned.

There then followed the battle of Coventry Cathedral. Such was the public outpouring of shock and sympathy at Jill's death, it quickly became obvious that her local parish church in Hillfields was woefully inadequate to contain the number of mourners who wished to attend. Canon Paul Oestreicher visited the Phipps to offer Coventry Cathedral for the service, and was roundly slated for his Christianity by the local Tory MP (ironically named John Butcher) in particular, who felt that a single mother from a council estate did not merit such an honour. The good Canon, supported by other high-ranking clergy, refused to be cowed, and the service went ahead. Some of the more thoughtful media opined that actually it was Christianity which had turned its back on animal welfare and buried its head in the sand on animal issues, having been at the forefront of Victorian reforms such as the foundation of the RSPCA, and frankly, the least it could do to make some small reparation would be to pay tribute to a young woman who was in effect, doing their Christian works for them, even if she never declared herself a practicing Christian. Ironically Jill had also carried out a number of peaceful all-night vigils for animals outside that very cathedral, for some of which I and others had joined her. Personally I agree with the latter opinion and also Harry Enfield's lovely article that he was happy that nought.point whatever percent of his taxes had gone in supporting an unemployed young woman who devoted her life to raising awareness of animal abuse and then actually doing something about it on his behalf. It was those who just sat on their backsides on benefits that he had a problem with.

The cathedral funeral on Valentine's Day 1995 was intensely moving and did not turn into the 'political protest' that local politicians tried to use as an excuse to ban it, but a beautiful and completely apt farewell to a soul who shone a great deal brighter than her detractors, and to whose utter goodness I could only aspire. Film star Brigitte Bardot and MP Alan Clark attended and Ms Bardot made a moving speech in which she promised 'to make things happen for Jill'

My late friend was now officially public property, but I didn't mind. Humble as Jill was, she too would have wanted something good to come of her death, albeit unintended on her part.

Protests naturally stepped up a few gears as a result of Jills' death, and veal calf exports from Coventry Airport ended months later, when the aviation firm belonging to the pilot responsible for the veal flights, Christopher Barrett-Jolly, went bankrupt following accusations of running guns from Slovakia to Sudan in breach of EU rules. In 2002 Mr Barrett-Jolley was charged with smuggling 271 kg of cocaine from Jamaica into Southend airport and is now serving a 20 year prison sentence. The continuing level of protest was such that several local councils and a harbour board banned live exports from their localities. All live exports of calves later stopped due to fears of BSE infection. In 2006 this ban was lifted, but Coventry Airport pledged that it would refuse requests to fly veal calves and has so far honoured this. So the battle against live exports goes on, but not at Coventry airport. However for those lacking the stomach to protest, they can at least feed their stomach locally-sourced, free-range organic meat, if not become a vegetarian. No demand, no supply. Besides which it is hardly environmentally friendly, let alone humane, to fly either live animals or dead ones around the world.

*Note: A nameless individual did the sums during the Coventry live export protests and found it could not possibly be economically viable for Mr Barrett-Jolley to bear airport, plane, crew and fuel costs to fly baby calves to Amsterdam alone, so was his live export business Phoenix Aviation merely a front for earlier drug smuggling and gun running activities, in view of his later convictions? In which case the Police operation to enable him to fly at all costs in the face of protest (and a plane operated by him also crashed with the deaths of 5 crew during his live exports from Coventry Airport, so Jill was not the only victim of Phoenix Aviation), would have made the Police an accessory to his criminal activities! We may never know. And the debate about whether taxpayer-funded Police should ever act as a private security force to controversial businesses liable to attract public protest (or if they do, for how long), goes on. Certainly the good people of Coventry paid a high price for its live exports phase. In more ways than one.

 

The Man Who Put The Heart Into Art

I hadn't intended to write another posting on the theme of TV nostalgia so soon, but I couldn't let this week pass without paying homage to the late, great TV presenter Tony Hart - a fixture of my childhood and the childhoods of just about every Briton under 60. The man was a giant of children's television for an unbelieveable 50 years, only retiring when ill health prevented him from carrying on in 2001. The favourite uncle that every child dreamed of - kind, patient, encouraging, and with utter belief that you could create anything that he could, given practice and a few mistakes along the way. He also had a sense of fun, with various assistants, characters and animations popping up over the years, but never at the expense of the art. Unusually for TV presenters, Tony Hart displayed no ego - nor did he try and pretend he was seven himself - it was all about the art and that's why we children loved him and found him such a comforting and constant staple in our lives. Like Blue Peter, Tony Hart strove to be all-inclusive so that even children from the poorest families could join in and he would often utilise items that most families had in their cupboards, creating pictures using materials such as dried macaroni and lentils.
At the end of each programme Tony would introduce The Gallery, where viewers' pictures were displayed to the soothing tones of 'Leftbank' (and at the height of his programmes' popularity, 20,000 pictures a week would be submitted!) Needless to say my pathetic rocket ship never made it, but the programme remained compulsory viewing every afternoon when I got in from school.
As if Tony Hart wasn't impressive enough, I now find that he served as a Gurkha in WWII and devised nearly all the ideas himself for each show. He even designed the famous Blue Peter Badge! The one innovation he didn't come up with was his clay friend 'Morph' who lived in a pencil box in his studio and got up to mischief every time Tony's back was turned, eventually to be joined by sparring partner Chas who was even naughtier! Tony Hart received two Bafta's and a Lifetime Achievement award for his services to television, but shamefully, no knighthood, though I see there is a rather touching Facebook campaign to award him a posthumous one! Occasionally you come across someone who seems as if they have been born to do what they do and Tony Hart was a prime example of the perfect person in the perfect career - even down to his neat surname! Certainly when he lost his ability to draw through a stroke four years ago he described it as 'the greatest cross I have had to bear.' RIP Tony - we shall not see your like again.

Fun With Dick, George & Mildred

While The Two Ronnies, Morcambe & Wise and Benny Hill are endlessly repeated, you will seldom see a repeat of either The Dick Emery Show or sitcom George & Mildred, yet in their day they were just as big, winning massive ratings for their channels.

I don't know why either Dick Emery or George and Mildred should have left such an indelible impression on a young child but they did. Perhaps because they contained such colourful characters and Dick Emery and Yootha Joyce (aka Mildred) had such wonderfully mischievous smiles with matching glints in their eye.

For a while it was impossible to obtain even tribute videos/DVDs, though these are at last available.

Watching them now it is easy to see why Dick Emery has fallen out of favour as his shows lampooning the little-Hitlerdom of railway station masters (oh where have they gone now we need them?), his man-eating females, insincere vicars and outrageously cliched homosexuals have dated badly, cutting-edge though they may have been when he first rose to stardom in the late 1950s. On the other hand they are also uproariously un-PC, and to be fair to Mr Emery, he always wanted to be more adventurous and develop his comedy more innovatively but a staid BBC refused to let him take risks with one of their biggest hit shows, insisting he carry on churning out comedy for mass consumption, forever employing his cast of tried and trusted characters. However Harry Enfield has more than once generously credited Dick Emery as his greatest inspiration, and when you watch Mr Enfield's shows you can see the comedy lineage. Here is a clip of 'Hettie' unselfishly thinking of others.







George and Mildred was a spin-off from hit-com Robin's Nest and G&M were originally cameo characters who played the neighbours of man-about-town Robin who rather daringly (for the 1970s) shared a flat with two hot chicks, albeit neither of whom actually fancied him, much though he tried to pretend otherwise to the world.

Mildred was the undisputed Queen of Brentford Nylon, childless and sexually frustrated and forever trying to seduce her hapless, sexually-terrified and underachieving husband George, whose job it was to try and dodge her amorous advances. A loveable monster, Mildred was a curious hybrid of traditional and liberated woman who aspired to better things but could never quite escape the 'you've made your bed so you must lie in it' doctrine of her parents' generation and admit that she'd married the wrong man. However she did break free when it came to fashion, wearing the most extraordinary clashes with her equally-loud floral wallpaper and wafting about in aforementioned glamorous negligee's of the nylon persuasion, teamed with colourful plastic earrings and occasionally macs as she led a life of loud-but-quiet desperation. George too managed to be so much more than a foil and was funny in his own right, and secretly caring and loyal too, despite living in fear of his overbearing wife. They had equally memorable neighbours in the 'perfect' middle-class Fourmile family who seemed to have everything Mildred had ever aspired to, including an absurdly precocious son Tristram, and to whom Mildred alternately sucked up and was green with envy towards. Here's a cute YouTube clip of George & Mildred babysitting, posted by the young actor featured.

British Comedy Is All The Poorer

Britain may not have much to shout about anymore, but just occasionally we do still manufacture a great comedy show as our nod toward a GDP.

Last Friday one of the writer/producer lynchpins of our comedy world (and former BBC Head of Light Entertainment) who had a hand in many of our comedy hits over the last 20 years - Geoffrey Perkins - was tragically killed in a hit and run accident on Marylebone High Street in Central London, at the age of only 55, and still at the peak of his career.

There is not a great deal I can add to this excellent Telegraph obituary of him, except to say that it shouldn't be forgotten that Geoffrey was also an excellent performer in his own right, co-writing and co-starring in the precursor to The Day Today - KYTV - as 'Mike Flex' - taking the mickey out of how terrible digital TV was going to be, back in the days when most of us only had 5 terrestrial channels - which makes KYTV's version look a REALLY quality digital TV channel now! (see clip below)

Reading the obituaries over the weekend, it is clear that Geoffrey was much loved in the television industry, and his judgement, highly respected. In addition he was not of the faceless bland accountancy or bean counting ilk who sadly run so much of television these days, but someone who came from the performing arena himself and could see things from all sides, but particularly the all-important creative side, without which there is not a great deal of point in commissioning a TV series!

RIP Geoffrey - I do hope Father Ted (aka Dermot Morgan, whom we also lost far too soon) was there to meet you after all you did for him!



Geoffrey Perkins fan tribute site