Farewell Avon

They say every girl loves a bad boy. Avon was mine. I was eight. He was thirty seven. It could never be. And I'm sure my fantasies growing up in small town Northern Ireland were suitably PG.

Almost sure.

But he left a lifelong and indelible impression on my young mind. It was Avon I tried to channel every time I wanted to take a risk in life, albeit not always successfully. He who showed me that life was not necessarily black and white. You couldn't always tell the goodies from the baddies.

I didn't notice or mind that the space guns bore more than a passing resemblance to hair dryers or that the sets occasionally wobbled. I couldn't wait for each week's episode. The only annoyance was how Avon the anti-hero would chase Servalan across the universe each week, dispatching numerous creatures and henchmen at no small cost to his own life as he foiled her evil Federation plans, only to end up close up and personal with the perfect chance at the end of the episode; 'Kill her!, kill her!' King the merciless, urged. But no, he would always kiss her instead. Yuck! And how dare he kiss a girl who wasn't me!

I thought Servalan was the most evil woman in the universe. Then along came Margaret Thatcher.

I was tremendously saddened to hear of Paul Darrow's sudden death last week. Another part of my childhood gone. I couldn't believe he was 78 and felt even sadder to read of the terrible health issues he had suffered in his final years. Yet he had kept working right to the end, enjoying a new career as the sardonic voice of Jack FM, later Union Jack FM radio, triumphantly. 'Playing what WE want!' to the next generation of fans.

I have just been reading Mr Darrow's autobiography 'You're him aren't you?' which is an absolute delight. Almost a performance, rather than a book, where he is aware of his reader and their intelligence at every step, with frequent asides, just for us. This gives the book a three dimensional aspect a bit like when the painter Lowry included figures looking into the picture as well or Turner added that unexpected red lifebuoy into the foreground. I can't believe this tome seems to have escaped rave reviews with its sharp but witty insights, its marvellous theatrical insider stories and its very honest observations of the double-edged (not to mention extremely fickle) sword of fame. On being introduced to Liberace as a young actor, Paul received the sage advice 'Never forget your fans.' And he never did, remaining grateful for them for the rest of his career.

Unfortunately once the era of the avuncular smurf-like BBC producer (often ex-WWII military) who was happy to take a risk on a sci-fi series they knew little about, because they knew enough to know the kids liked that sort of thing passed, it fell to the shiny-suited bean counters of the 90s who refused to take any risks to make commissioning decisions. This spelled the end for many exciting new series, or even the resurrection of the original in years to come, the notable exception being Dr Who.

Blake's 7 was a ground breaker in many ways. It was the first time the bad guys were allowed to win, the first time heroes were allowed to be killed off, not least Blake himself, the first time so many principal cast members were replaced and yet the series still enjoyed viewing figures of over 10m per episode, and even benefited from regular injection of new cast blood. It was also a very sexy series full of stunning space outfits, much though things never seemed to go beyond a passionate kiss.

Moreover it made the telling point that a humanitarian (Blake) can end up unintentionally killing a lot more people through being soft (ie letting the bad guys live) than Avon did through being a killer (when he wasn't kissing Servalan that is).

Blake's 7 was the brainchild of Terry Nation who had also played a pivotal part in Dr Who and wanted to experiment more with the Sci Fi genre. America had Star Trek and Star Wars after all. Why shouldn't Britain have Blake's 7? And not filled with goody two shoes either.

Paul goes into an entertaining commentary on each episode, later detailing his increasingly frustrated efforts to resurrect the series, hampered by Terry Nation's premature death, and subsequently the bean counters who refused to take risks. Meantime as everyone grew older and the chances of resurrection grew slimmer, he penned several Blake's 7 novels and created radio plays based on the series, aided by enlightened company, Big Finish Productions, who decided to capture the audio play market.

But let not the scores of real life plays and TV series he appeared in both pre and post Blake's 7 be forgotten, not least Dicken's Dombey and Son. Then there was the surprising career highlight for Paul of playing Elvis Presley onstage, including singing his hits, for which he received many and extraordinary reviews.

Paul comes across as a dream dinner companion. Entertaining, honest, empathetic, wickedly funny, innovative, flirty, self-deprecating, but nobody's fool. From his first days at school we see the beginnings of an individual who thinks outside the box and who is not afraid to break the rules. However he is gentlemanly enough to do no more than subtly allude to the many conquests he must have enjoyed, almost inevitable in his line of work, even if he did manage to politely dodge the young fans at stage doors begging to have Avon's babies! Fellow actress Janet Lees Price was his wife and rock of 48 years, until her death in 2012.

Interestingly Paul's agent retained him 'just in case Jeremy Brett turned down a part.' Sadly Jeremy Brett never did. Much as I also love Jeremy Brett, and consider him the definitive screen Holmes, I would have been fascinated to see Paul Darrow as Sherlock Holmes. I think he would have brought his own brand of enigmatic menace to the role. Then again, he would also have made a sublime Dr Who, had he not been too well known as Avon. Starring roles can rule out so much and that is their tragedy. Every actor yearns for one, but conversely not to be typecast, even though like true love, it seldom happens twice in a lifetime. Very few actors can jump from one starring role to the next (or have the good fortune to) without getting snagged and then pigeonholed. The likes of John Thaw and Judi Dench somehow managing to be the exception to the rule.

So to sum up, all actors really want is to be loved and remembered according to Paul, and he goes on various witty flights of fancy musing how he might be remembered after his death. Well Paul, with this fan you got both. Thanks for making my childhood that bit more tolerable.

Beauty - Not the Beast - the life of Muriel, The Lady Dowding

Most of my time has been taken up with business writing lately, so it is great to have a few minutes to talk about the book I have just been reading for leisure.

Muriel Dowding, wife of Air Chief Marshal The Lord Hugh Dowding, was founder of Beauty Without Cruelty cosmetics,

She was also a friend of my parents and attended their wedding in 1968.

I found this book in a secondhand bookshop recently and was intrigued.

I was particularly intrigued to find that she had been a celebrity in her lifetime married to a man who was a mega-celebrity and credited with winning WWII from the air through his brilliant strategy, yet her autobiography had been published by a small press.

I soon discovered why, A large part of it was devoted to her and Lord Dowding's interest in psychic matters, which is how they got together. As the young wife of an airman missing in action, Muriel was encouraged to contact Lord Dowding shortly after the war to see if he could provide any further information. He did and then proceeded to set her up with a psychic to obtain even further information. Finally at the behest of the spirit of the young man in question suggesting 'You should ask my wife out, You'd like her.' Lord Dowding invited Muriel to dinner and the grand romance began!

Not satisfied with bucking metaphysical tradition, the Dowdings, once married, then took on animal welfare and the cruelty of vivisection, travelling the world to talk to vivisectors and getting involved in parliamentary acts and anti-vivisection organisations. In the course of this Muriel Dowding discovered to her horror that it was virtually impossible to buy even a bar of soap in the 1960s which had not been tested on animals and was chock full of animal ingredients.

So as the original Anita Roddick of her day, she set about getting a coterie of well-connected female friends including Dr Barbara Latto (another friend of my parents) to join her and start producing cruelty free cosmetics with a clothing lines of fake fur called Beauty Without Cruelty - a brand that lives on to this day. I remember my mother when I was little sporting her fake Ocelot coat proudly with a badge bearing the legend 'Make No Mistake, My Fur is Fake! - Beauty Without Cruelty' in an era where women were embarrassed to admit they wore simulated fur and fake fur was simply seen as an alternative for women who couldn't afford the real thing, rather than for women with a conscience.

Although an accomplished writer, Muriel's autobiography cries out for editorial intervention as random chapters about UFO's, the dangers of psychic attack and animal welfare vie with autobiography and guest chapters from admirers of her work and tireless stamina.

It is a hotch potch, albeit probably one of the most riveting reads ever penned by a Lady.

Tragic Lives

Darn it! I knew I should have persevered with my leading-tear autobiography

I Was Locked In A Cupboard For Longer Than You










Only one thing for it. I shall have to devote the rest of my days to a worthy
cause and make sure my life hasn't been in vain...

Remembering the Victorians

Before anyone gets me under the 'Goods Descriptions Act' (aka the 're-cycled Victorian' reference in this blog description) I thought it was about time I shared probably my favourite book in the world about Victorian times; an autobiography so vivid you are almost there; better still in relative middle-class comfort rather than as some Dickensian street sweeper or one of Mayhew's baby farmers.

A London Child of the 1870s is the entertaining and detailed chronicle of a young girl growing up with the benefit of four adoring elder brothers, detailing their everyday lives, the games they played, the dreams they dreamed and the harsh reality that often impinged, even on a family where good fortune shone rather than not. It is written by Molly Hughes, who went on to write the equally riveting 'A London Girl in the 1880s', 'A London Home in the 1890's' 'A London Family Between the Wars' as well as the semi-fictionalised 'Vivians' - the tragic mid-Victorian melodrama of her Cornish Aunt's doomed love affair with a Nordic sea captain - as dramatic as anything Daphne Du Maurier subsequently came up with. Molly Hughes herself was an early female University graduate and went on to become one of the first female school inspectors. One of Molly's observations was how; heroine or villain alike; most protagonists had to die at the end of a Victorian children's story to satisfy some Christian moral or other, and how she and her brothers would place bets on the outcome. Here is Molly's description of a typical Victorian children's story;

The Last Shop

A little girl who had a very rich mamma behaved herself so well one day that her kind parent said. 'Rosy dear, we will go for a walk down the street where the shops are, and you shall buy whatever you like, because you have been so good.' Skipping for joy little Rosy began to think of all the things she had been longing for. But mamma made one condition - that Rosy must buy something out of each shop. That seemed very easy, and the walk began well. A doll's perambulator in the first shop, some expensive lollipops in the next, some tarts at the confectioners, a pair of crimson slippers, some fancy coloured note-paper, a whole pineapple, and a real writing desk with some secret drawers in it. In each case the purchase was ordered to be 'sent' and Rosy soon became anxious to go home in order to be ready to receive them. But Mamma's face grew solemn.
'Have you quite finished, my child?'
'Oh, yes, thank you, dear mamma, pray let us return home'
'I fear, my child, that there is one shop that you have omitted.'
So saying, she led Rosy to the undertaker's, and had her measured for a coffin. In this way, my dear young readers, little Rosy was early led to realise that death was the necessary end to all her pleasures.

Talking of 'A London Child in the 1870s' reminds me of my other favourite autobiography, this time set in Edwardian times, 'People Who Say Goodbye' is the account of a precocious and cynical tomboy growing up in London's Wandsworth Common, the product of surprisingly liberal, progressive and loving parents. What is particularly striking is the bold humour and candour of this book - PY Betts had everyone around her weighed up it seems, and a startling ability to conjure the long-dead back to vivid life. Here is a passage from it;

'There was a big boy of eighteen, a young man really, ten years older than me, who lived in one of the houses on the other side of the Field. He had younger brothers and sisters, all older than me, whom I knew only slightly. His name was Tom. He was an art student but for how long I do not know. He was there in the glade and then later on he was not there any more, so very likely he went to the War and was killed. We would lie down in the bushes and he would cuddle me. He would look at me a long time and then ask if he could kiss me. I was not keen on being kissed so he took a Wolff's Lightning Eraser out of his pocket and said he would give it to me if I would kiss him. Being a stationery fetishist I found the India rubber irresistible and let him kiss me. The kiss did not affect me emotionally, all my desires were focussed on the rubber. We met in the hazel coppice several times. Each time he would cuddle me and ask to kiss me. I began to hold out for brand new Wolff's Lighting Erasers, spotless white ones with geometrically sharp corners. He never did anything but cuddle me, look at me, kiss me gently and hand out quantities of new India rubbers, wonderful for swapping at school or keeping and gloating over. It all ended without my noticing. Perhaps the art school got suspicious about the run on erasers, or perhaps Tom was called up and got killed, I did not notice when it ended. I had enough rubbers to be going on with. Their smell was so alluring, so satisfying.'
Both books are now sadly out of print, though probably available from second hand outlets.

To hark back for a moment to Victorian times though, the other weekend I treated myself to our greatest Victorian engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel for £1.20 from Coventry museum - a man whose parents evidently didn't expect much when they christened him! He stands neatly in the palm of my hand. I wonder what he'd make of himself if he could see himself now embodied in miniature effigy form.

I wonder what he would make of modern engineering and how the progress of our railways in particular has gone backwards since his time. I might play with him later.