Getting To The Bottom Of It

I would be lying if I said I was looking forward to my ‘flexible sigmoidoscopy’; in layman’s terms, a camera inserted inside the bottom. Nonetheless, this is the procedure for those such as I who have endured a bout of diverticulitis. It’s a look around the insides with a tiny – I believe Olympus – camera and light on the tip of a flexible tube to see if there is any colonic damage that could at some point trigger another round of the screaming abdabs. 

My last sigmoidoscopy was 23 years ago and all I can remember of it is that it was very uncomfortable, and more than a little embarrassing. There is no cure for diverticulitis but our medical profession has a system in place and having a close look inside the bum some weeks after the condition has subsided is accepted protocol.

My recent appointment was set for April 14 and accompanying the letter of confirmation from the Royal Cornwall Hospital were two packs of Moviprep and a bewildering instruction pamphlet. It included photographs of what my colon should look like when I arrive at hospital and a warning that the procedure could be cancelled if some of the nasty stuff remained in place. Moviprep is a powdery concoction that needs to be diluted in water and taken, in two doses, a predetermined number of hours before the anal photo-call. In my case seven o’clock the evening prior and twelve hours hence the next morning.  Without dwelling upon the details I was unable to sleep after 2.30am and spent the remainder of the night in a state of high anxiety dashing to and from the smallest room in the house. The pre-med procedure also involves drinking copious amounts of water. 

Kim took the day off work to drive me to the hospital and after dropping me off headed to Truro with Asta to meet some friends expecting that I could be up to four hours in the Endoscopy Unit. 

In a waiting room, with a dozen or so men and women, I was asked by a receptionist to complete a short form inquiring among other things if I was on any medication and if I had consumed any alcohol that day. I wish. Another white and mauve form I was told to complete after the procedure. This was a feedback form that asks recipients to tick ‘how likely are you to recommend our ward or service to friends or family if they needed similar care of treatment.’ The boxes to be ticked ran the gamut from extremely likely to unlikely, to don’t know. A box at the bottom (sic) questioned why that response was given. On the reverse are twelve questions inquiring about, among other things, the staff’s compassion and if the patient was treated with dignity; more of dignity later. All that was missing were questions about staff dress code and favourite colours. If you, like me, are wondering what’s gone wrong with the world – I can’t help you?

was it good for you

From there I was led to a much smaller, male only, waiting room where the sheepish expressions therein said it all. My three compadres were in medical smocks and all glued to their smart phones. I daresay they were watching the procedure we were all about to endure on You Tube. Don’t laugh, there are several quite graphic films there, I’ve looked. 

My second interview was with a bubbly nurse in dark blue medical attire in a small office adjacent to the waiting room. Here I was asked to complete and sign a consent form that would let hospital staff off the hook should my sigmoidoscopy go wrong and I wound up back on St.Mawes Ward. All completed I was handed a pair of dark blue dignity shorts, that’s boxer shorts with the fly on the back, a backless smock and a pair of non slip yellow slipper/socks. I was instructed to get changed and join the queue next door. Of course me being me I’d brought my own slippers and a dressing gown and despite the looming event and the hushed terror on the faces of those around me, I at least looked presentable. I like to think I could have been going into a spa, or awaiting a pedicure. 

I don’t know precisely how long I was waiting in that airless 10×10’ room, thankfully with a door to a toilet in the corner, with our bare legs almost touching, but it was long enough for me to read the Guardian’s big read, two pages of news and begin the quick crossword. At a guess, I’d estimate 40 minutes. 

That’s when another nurse in a dark blue outfit asked me to join her for a chat in the room I gotten changed in. Of striking appearance, with lustrous black hair, she didn’t beat about the bush. Straight off she said we’re not going to do the procedure today. And the reason for sudden about face?  The sigmoidoscopy procedure has to be carried out six weeks after being discharged from hospital (see the previous blog) and according to the nurse sat with me April 18 was four days shy of the required 42. She said the administrators had taken the six weeks from the day I had been admitted to St Mawes Ward and not the day of my discharge. Didn’t anyone look? Should I buy the hospital a calendar?

Secretly delighted I briefly attempted to ask my nurse to have a word with the surgean who was to carry out the procedure. My tummy felt fine. The Moviprep had done its job. I was as empty as a pub without any beer.  Kim had taken a day of work, I’d been in a state of high stress for the best part of a week, and besides I was kitted out in dark blue dignity shorts. Let’s just do it I said, conflicted but desperate.  

That’s when it struck me, they couldn’t do it. Of course they couldn’t. After all the risk waver forms I’d filled out if the slightest thing went wrong during the procedure, four days shy of the required six weeks, my nurse and the clinician would be up to their stethoscopes in litigation, and I’d be back in St.Mawes Ward looking forward to a world cruise and a new suit all paid for by the Royal Cornwall Hospital NHS Trust. 

Because I will forever been in the debt of the NHS and in particular Mr.Michael Graham Clarke, the consultant, who brought me back from the brink without resorting to the blade I decided against completing the mauve feedback questionnaire because I’d have been stuck on question seven: Do the staff appear confident and able to perform their tasks when caring for you?

Posted in health, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

forget everything you ever learnt about a balanced diet

Shortly before she died, in a hospital similar to the one I recently  myself in, my mother asked for her Christmas present a Ralph Lauren watch. I’d bought her a watch a only a couple of years earlier yet despite this she declared most emphatically that she wanted another, and an Ivy League icon to boot.

Looking at the silver Oris I’d given her, strapped to my left wrist, next to the cannula into which an antibiotic intravenous drip was attached, I tried to imagine what I would request should my present situation turn south. Dismissing any pie-in-the-sky fantasies of Hoyo de Monterreys, Jack Daniels and Jaguar XK8s I decided I’d settle for not having to stumble out of my hospital bed in the early hours of the morning clinging to my intravenous pole begging for something to take the pain away. Believe me, it had been easier getting pain relief at home.

handiwork

My consultant, a solid looking man in his 40s, with an honest old fashioned face and a firm handshake, insisted my condition was “life threatening”, revealing to Kim that the choice of my bed in the middle of the ward was so that the nurses could keep an eye on me 24/7. Nevertheless, when other patients were wheeled in, usually in the dead of  night when the ward was illuminated in a shadowy off-world amber glow, they seemed in far worse condition than I. Their intense pain etched across their faces and their voices muffled by oxygen masks. I may have been restricted to a diet of custard and soup but at least I could get myself to the bathroom and field hysterical SMS text messages from Spike in London who seemed annoyed that my sickness appeared to be more troublesome than his? 

It had all happened quite suddenly. Kim had been away and I at home with  Asta. One minute I’m knocking back pints of Proper Job with brandy chasers and the next I’m face down on the bathroom floor comparing the pain in my belly to that of John Hurt’s in Alien. It felt taught and inflated and at any moment it would explode and the relief would be palpable. Kim returned the next day insisting I contact the local health centre where, after a few prods and pokes. I was instructed to head for hospital where a bed would be set aside for me. The diagnosis? Suspected appendicitis, swiftly dismissed by the consultant and recognised as advanced diverticulitis, with a perforated colon (a hole) and a blood crp inflammation count of 380. The following day the crp (aka c-reactive protein) rose to 435. A young doctor said it should be five but that they’d be happy to see it below 100 without operating. An operation would doubtless mean a colostomy bag and naturally, to quote Leonardo diCaprio in Catch Me If You Can, I concurred  with the consultant; let’s beat this thing and keep the scalpel in the drawer. 

In hospital pain is scored on a chart of one to ten. I took a stab at 15 my first night, not wanting to overplay my hand, and was assured by a young doctor with a ginger beard and a glint in his eye wearing blue surgical fatigues that the plastic single use enteral syringe in his hand contained, “the real deal”. Except, like the curry house waiters who insist their vindaloos will blow your socks off the grinning doc’s idea of the last word in pain relief had as much oomph as a chicken korma. By 1am I was on my knees begging for something stronger. When it arrived it had to be inserted into my bottom by a young nurse who must wonder why she entered the profession?

“We’ve hardly met,” I offered as a way of breaking the ice. She left, and the pain with her. 

A CTR scan on my second day revealed a good deal to the consultant with the firm handshake and seemed surprised when I asked to see the results for myself. Looking at his laptop he tried to explain which bits of the swirling intergalactic mass of grey, black, and white was which. It didn’t look good. He pointed out the perforation and the infection in clear adult terms, completely at odds with almost everyone else I came across who for the first four night days insisted upon addressing me as though talking to a small puppy. Was this another facet of getting old or merely bedside protocol? 

I was surprised at how quickly I adapted to hospital life: The nursing shifts and rapid turnover of medical staff; the blood pressure and temperature readings day and night; the lack of sleep;  the speed with which the consultants make their whistle stop morning and afternoon tours (usually less than 90 seconds per patient); the farting; the pitiful moaning of other patients; and the nauseous way in which men decrepit enough to be the nurses’ grandfathers were shameless in their relentless flirting and double entendres. It was the chief farter’s birthday the second morning and a group of nurses presented him with a card and a tuneful rendering of ‘happy birthday’. What about a little dance came a voice from another bed? “Yeah, a striptease,” intoned the farting Methuselah. 

By the middle of the week, drifting in and out of reality thanks to my ‘real deal’ morphine cocktail, it still remained unclear how often I should receive painkillers and what, if anything, I should have to eat? The doctors said one thing and the advice on the meal trolley chart read something else.

“Basically you’ve got to forget everything you know about a balanced diet,” said the meal trolley girl placing another bowl of custard in front of me. “Jelly, ice-cream, custard. Imagine you’re at a seven year old’s birthday party – permanently.” She laughed and I asked her if she had any paper hats?

The hospital was a 50 mile round trip from home and the daily commute, in addition to the worry and the organisation required to have Asta cared for, was taking its toll on Kim. Each day she’d arrive with a smile and concern and a bag with clean pyjamas underwear and mushy things to eat. A couple of times we rode the lift to the ground floor and drank Americanos at the coffee shop. Another time we stepped outside for some air. I wanted to get well for her sake as much as my own. 

Thursday morning a sister with an irrepressible smile helped me redesign my painkiller combination.  The fruit flavoured morphine shots were proving effective hallucinogens but slow to kick in when I needed relief most. It was making me see things: Big headed monsters in a sea of darkness every time I closed my eyes. Some of the nurses looked at me as if I was mad but one said she’d experienced similar horrors when she’d been on the morphine cocktail herself. A codeine paracetamol blend was deemed an effective alternative. It could cause constipation but would avoid the hallucinations and besides there were powders that could help with the other problem. The new system worked well until the middle of the next night when I left the ward and asked, and asked, and asked a third time for pain relief. When the nurse arrived at my bedside, sometime around one in the morning, with the paracetamol in one hand and the fruity morphine in the other, I explained that during the day the sister had prescribed codeine instead. The nurse was livid. She repeated “you asked for painkillers and this is a painkiller.” I explained again the change we’d come up with, and why. She wasn’t listening. “This is a painkiller. You asked for painkillers.” We were going round in circles, so often infact I recall saying “we’re going nowhere with this, just round in circles.” She walked off and as a parting shot called me a difficult man. I couldn’t disagree with that but nevertheless  grabbed my dressing gown and intravenous pole and loped after her finding her talking to some doctors in a small office off the main lobby. In the absence of any alternative relief, and with a strong desire to keep the peace, I agreed to have the morphine, to which she replied it was too late, “it’s been destroyed.” Sometimes you just feel like screaming.

In response I did the only thing I could. I grabbed my overcoat, and slipped on my boots. Turning around I discovered someone had slipped a morphine syringe on a cardboard cup on my bedside table.  After swallowing the contents I walked past a group of nurses oblivious to the fact that one of their patients was leaving the ward at 1.30 in the morning. The coffee shop and WH Smiths were closed and the information desk deserted. The only people milling about appeared to be night shift employees taking turns to step outside for a quick fag in the bus shelter. The storms that had shaken the ward during the day had subsided and the empty car park was shrouded in a comforting stillness. In the chilly blackness, with the smell of tobacco drifting along from the shelter, away from the intransigence and the moans, I felt more comfortable than I’d been all week. The morphine was kicking in and I could have stayed there, leaning on a metal barrier, indefinitely. In fact, I nearly did. The hospital’s automatic doors are switched off at night and to get back inside I needed a swipe card. I waited until one of the smokers, hunched malodorous and evidently uneasy at the sight of a man in his pyjamas outside  in the early hours, let me in. I returned to the car park after my 6.30 am blood pressure test and antibiotic drip. By then the path to the entrance was busy with day shift employees. Dozens of young workers some of whom smiled kindly at the old man with an intravenous drip and a Dries Van Noten overcoat slung over his shoulders. I walked across to the other side of the car park and sat at one of the picnic tables. I wondered how many people picnic in the hospital car park. I was joined by a woman who had been at the hospital all night with a heart condition. She was waiting for a minicab to return her to the back of beyond. We talked about Brexit, and the NHS, and the anger of people, and both cursed the Conservative party.

The incineration of food and medical supplies is a feature of the NHS. On my fourth day, clearer headed, and with the news that my CRP numbers were falling, not dramatically but in the right direction, I agreed with the food trolley girl that I’d try some sloppy solids. Scrambled eggs? “Can’t do that. How about an omelette, with cheese?” she suggested. When it arrived I was reminded of a pair Clarkes shoes I’d wore in the 1970s stitched around the top on one side. I seem to recall they were known as omelette shoes. It had the texture of linoleum and didn’t appear to have been anywhere near an egg. I considered  not eating it at all and taking it home for use in the rockery. 

Ever the pompous arse I resolved to subtly suggest to the food trolley girl, who I was taking a shine to due to her quick repartee wit,  how to cook the perfect omelette (something I was taught by a French chef on a cross Channel ferry); two and a half minutes in hot pan, flip it over and give it another thirty or forty seconds.

an omelette

“I didn’t cook it,” she said looking at me as though I was mad. “It comes in a box. We just heat it up.”

The reason for this? Simple, there isn’t a hospital kitchen, or a cook. Nothing is prepared fresh. All the meals arriving pre-prepared in boxes from a supplier in Redruth. Disheartened I asked her to return my tub of ice cream to the freezer so that I could have it that evening or the next day.

“Can’t do that.” It would have to be destroyed like everything else that’s been ordered but isn’t consumed. I put this to one of the nurses later in the day who explained that if the doctors deem that their patients refrain from solids, despite having misguidedly ordered something from the meal trolley after breakfast, those meals, despite never having neither been near the ward nor a sick patient, must be destroyed. She didn’t say how much food was wasted in this manner, but it’s a lot. I wondered why the lunchtime meal orders couldn’t be placed after the doctors’ round? She shrugged and said that’s the way it is.

You overhear a lot of conversations in a ward where the patients are cheek by jowl, separated only by a thin curtain. 

Derek was sobbing when he was wheeled in the dead of night. He explained to the young doctor he’d parts of his bowel and lung removed due to cancer. His left hip and knee had been replaced. On the plus side his angina and blood pressure issues were improving, while Colin, also sobbing when he arrived, perked up after his bed bath insisting the nurse is “a lovely girl. Aren’t you a lovely girl.” A man, whose name I never learnt, filled the vacancy in the bed next to mine and was so ill he was hooked up to a machine that sounded like a dishwasher. He barely said a word before being taken to surgery. 

Eddie arrived sometime on Friday. Through a gap in the curtain I could see he was a big man with a shock of white hair, stooped forward in a chair with his eyes closed. A popular man too judging by the number of visitors he received, but alone when the reality of his condition was explained to him the next morning. The young doctor said they could operate but that there was little chance he would survive surgery. His condition was terminal and all the staff could do was ensure he was as pain free and comfortable as possible. After a pause he said, quite perkily, “I’ve had a good life. A wonderful life.” And after another pause. “I was working two days ago. I’ve always worked. I never missed a day at school. I didn’t learn much though.”

I liked Eddie, more so when he confessed to having eaten a pasty three days that he’d been uneasy with. Some hours later an end-of-life carer suggested three options to him: going home; a small hospital close to his home; or a hospice.“I don’t think I’ll be going to a hospice,” replied Eddie candidly. “I’m not a very good mixer.” I heard about Eddie’s funeral a fortnight after I was discharged.

By the fifth day my consultant, a different one from the one I had seen originally, taller and more athletic but with an equally firm handshake, suggested that with my CRP numbers dropping I could be out in a couple of days. “Just sit tight. This is the boring bit,” he said straight faced.

I was over the moon and having been moved to an airier blue ward next door I celebrated my imminent departure with toast and marmalade for breakfast and a £6.00 card for the bedside television multi media device. I’d wasted my money. The television didn’t work. One of the nurses said the company that runs the devices has switched several of them off because the hospital can’t afford the maintenance charges. I tried reading except the angle poise beside lamp was busted and wouldn’t shine down on the bed.  I still had my smart phone so I called Vodafone and bought some extra gigabytes so that I could cheer myself up listening to Fulham losing. By early evening the wind had picked up again and was howling through the frame of the panel window making the strips of sun blind flap about. My attempts to staunch the wind with my overcoat and a towel failed so as a last resort I took a roll of sticky tape from one of the duty nurses and spent the next half hour taping the edges of the window. 

The consultant had said I could go home on Monday (maybe) so I needed to work harder on my recovery. Learning about my Clarkes omelette Kim brought in scrambled eggs. After five days in hospital you cannot imagine how delicious cold scrambled eggs taste. Indeed, all that interfered with my first genuine meal of the week was the sight of patient’s gonads across the way. You see a lot of gonads in a mens’ ward. For my evening meaI was offered a tuna sandwich in one of those cardboard triangular wrappers you find in supermarkets. There were bananas in my bedside cupboard and a pot of tomato and basil soup Kim had left. I quit the codeine, drank the cold soup like it was beer and downed two packs of laxative powders. Nothing happened and when the nurse attempted to fit my fourth cannula she expressed concern that there could be ‘track line’ in my left arm, indicative of an infection. My heart sank. 

It was on my last night that I came to understand why my mother had been so set upon a replacement watch. The Oris is automatic relying upon body movement to maintain functionality: the more you move the more wound up it is. My mother, not being a very technical, had placed the Oris in a drawer unaware that the lack of any chronometrical  movement would bring the watch to a standstill. The penny dropped when I mistakenly thought it seven o’clock when in fact it was way past 11 and the lights were going out. I can’t explain the Ralph Lauren part.

After six days and 15 hours a third consultant took less than 30 seconds to say I could go. The nurse deemed there was no infection and my crp numbers were dropping. I was handed a goody bag with laxatives, antibiotic tablets and a suggestion to stick to children’s party food for the foreseeable future.

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An Inconvenient Truth – the end of the high street just a click away

Don’t you ever think convenience is, well, getting out of hand.

What began as convenient  – tv dinners for those too rushed to peel the potatoes stepped up a level to embrace teas-mades and bread-makers. Then supermarkets to save the chore of going from shop to shop. Ready made sandwiches, ATM’s so you can get your cash conveniently 24/7, drive-thru hamburger joints, iPods and nutribullets to save chewing.

Driven by an exponential lust for bargains at any price – monetary or human – the internet has upgraded labour saving conveniences into a digital fervour. Respecting neither physical or moral boundaries e-commerce has replaced the effort of searching, moving, immersing, walking, reading, thinking, talking, spelling, and writing in the certain knowledge that all of that may be achieved whilst sat infront of the telly, with an end result of stuff as cheap as chips. This is the new shopping Eden of effortless clicking. Cars that drive themselves are next, and there’s talk of virtual holidays too. Relax and tan with no more effort than is required to slip on a headset.

Now look around, high streets are falling apart. Shopping centres, community hubs, reinvented as avenues of dereliction. But why go to the shop when it’s so much more convenient for the shop to come to you. So much so that without sufficient footfall 50,000 shops in the UK are deemed surplus to requirements. 6000 shops have closed in the UK this year alone. I don’t know what it’s like where you are but in Bodmin, Newquay and Truro, once thriving regional commercial hubs, the high streets are papered with to-let signs. I counted eight empty retail premises along a stretch of high street the length of a cricket pitch. It’s such a mess City of London hedge fund managers are making bets against retail companies exposed to consumers, or the lack of them.  The vultures are circling. 

On the bright side it’s encouraging that forever inconvenient businesses are moving into some of the vacant premises: barbers, cobblers, nail studios, cafes. Things you can’t get online. But there’s only so many of those one high street can handle.

And what about all those vans ferrying stuff around? It might not be so bad if it was (excuse the pun) one way traffic. But the very nature of e or m-commerce (shopping with smart phones) is you can send it back if it doesn’t fit, or the colour’s wrong, or you wore it to the party and don’t want to wear the same outfit twice. National Returns Day is the day of the year when retail companies receive the most returns from online sales. With Britain way out in front of every other country on the planet when it comes to online shopping we are thriving upon the convenience of shopping for everything from t-shirts to televisions and fitted kitchens on our smart phones (m-commerce) whilst engaged in something else: I saw a lot of n-bus on-tube shopping m-commerce in London last weekend.  At the last count, January 3, 2018, UPS reported 1.4 million returns. Factor in a lot of self employed driving in knackered diesel powered delivery vans and is it any wonder our kid’s brains are not developing and 40,000 are dying each year of diseases linked to poor air quality. 

Almost weekly a shopping/high street guru (!) steps into the debate to pronounce what shops and high streets should do to survive is improve ‘the shopping experience’, and hammer cash strapped councils to do away with parking charges. As if it’s the shopkeepers and council’s fault and not online retailers like Amazon corporation was, at the last count, responsible for the closure of thousands of bookshops in the US. I don’t know how many have gone over here but it’s a lot. I haven’t used his company for over 10 years and refused to include it as a retailer in my Sunday Times column. Sometimes I look online to see how much cheaper my latest book or CD would have cost if I’d opted for the convenient option? It’s usually a few quid. But like I say to the call centre staff who encourage me to shop and pay my bills online (because they’re told to), if we all did that they’d be out of a job. 

Of course Amazon sells much more than books and is moving into groceries with plans for drones to drop eggs on us from the skies. Owner Jeff Bezos knows we like online click convenience that way he can complete his mission of destroying the world I grew up in and rather like, and make himself the richest bald-head in the world.

It wouldn’t quite so bad if people like him paid their fare share of taxes, and business rates equal to those on the high streets. Last year, just as tory austerity was starting to seriously bite in hospitals and classrooms, Amazon made a profit in the UK of £99m and paid tax of £1.3m. But that’s ok because shopping with Amazon is convenient. Schools, and hospitals, and the police and the social services and care homes and youth services and, you get the picture, are so, so – dependent society.

Prior to this world of internet uber convenience criminals wore balaclavas and carried bolt cutters. Nowadays they can sit infront of a computer screen on the other side of the world and steel our money safe in the knowledge that when it comes to it, nine times out of ten, the banks will blame us for being too casual with the book loads of passwords we all have. According to UK banking’s own figures over £1bn was stolen online in 2016 and by June of this year (2018) £500m had been taken. It’s a win win for banks that have closed just under 3000 branches in the past three years. No wages, no rent. Just a lot of unhappy customers and shareholders laughing all the way to their tax haven.

To recoup the millions banks, through their greed and stupidity, lost in the financial crash of 2008 they are encouraging customers to bank online. Not by making online banking any better or safer but by closing banks so we have little choice. 30,000 people came to my town last weekend for a Christmas festival yet as of January there will not be a single bank or ATM. How long before no cash shops and pubs? What then for people who can’t open a bank account because they – haven’t got a mobile phone number (that’s right, that’s one of the big reasons) or they’re unemployed, or their residency is in question thanks to someone’s bright idea of leaving the European Union.

Only this month Marriott hotels revealed personal data, including the names and addresses passport and credit card numbers of around 500 million customers were stolen. British Airways, the NHS, the Pentagon, even my Groucho Club has been hacked. In the old inconvenient days that would have meant a lot of pick pocketing. Now it’s just a USB drive away. 

Frankly I’m not that big on shopping per se. But it’s preferable to sitting on a sofa staring at a smart phone and waiting for a Deliveroo dinner. I like high streets. Chatting with staff and other customers, and giving a few coins to buskers and rough sleepers. It’s mostly the life I grew up with. OK, that’s just a bit of journalistic license as actually there weren’t that many rough sleepers in Whitton in the 1960s. But we had shops. Lots of them. And banks. And funnily enough lots of barbers. 

Even my daily newspaper, The Guardian, is in on the convenience shopping binge. Despite articles about the death of the high street its consumer articles promote online only shopping websites like they couldn’t give two hoots about high streets. A high proportion its touted e-commerce sites, where items of clothing cost less that the cost of shipping. What was all that about ending disposable clothing to slow down global warming? I  honestly don’t get it.

I find it very inconvenient to drive six miles to the nearest bank and four miles to buy a box of screws and twenty five miles to buy a CD. I cannot be the only digital Luddite in the western world who craves inconvenience? Flicking through CD racks, or asking the salesperson if I can try on another size and colour? Writing cheques to pay my bills, and sending letters and cards and buying stamps and walking to the postbox. Engaging with the outside world and doing all I can to avoid it all crumbling down.

Don’t mistake my griping for some dewy eyed vision of a John Major 1950s England where everyone played cricket and AA patrolmen saluted you at the side of the road. My inconvenient world is the one where people have jobs and earn money and live in comfortable houses and the neo-liberalists, the sharks in suits with their cosmetic surgery and shiny teeth, and populist blandishments and political aspirations, pay their taxes and keep their heads down. Or better still clear off. 

The internet is unquestionably convenient for them’s who want to see their grandchildren on the other side of the world, or post photographs of their meals to the bemusement of others, or for finding their way home and seeing what the weather’s up to? All marvellous. Let’s not allow such limited convenience create a jobless world of inconvenience for all. 

Posted in gone west, shopping, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

I remember monkey bottles, kangaroo tails, and Frank Ifield

 

Frank then…

I am fortunate to have worked through a period in journalism when the gifts, the perks – the freebies to apply the correct journalistic parlance – were worth having. My diary is housed within a handsome Papyrus leather book jacket that has aged like a pair of vintage Levis, and my grey Rob The Traveller Millican canvas shoulder bag is seldom out of reach.

monkey business

Thinking back it cannot have been so munificent during my father’s time on Fleet Street in the early 1960s. The concept of PR and companies buying their way into favour hadn’t gotten a hold. In fact the only things I can remember not being paid for, but which were pride of place in the front room of our Whitton home, were a bottle of red wine with a forearm sized golden glass monkey clinging to its outside, and a clear glass jar of kangaroo tail soup: thumb sized cross-sections of furry bits of meat revealed when it was shaken.

Both the wine and the soup were presented to my father by a spirited Australian country singer named Frank Ifield who in 1959 had moved to London from his native Sydney. It was a canny move resulting in four UK number one singles and a career that stumbles on to this day. 

Arguably his biggest hit was I Remember You, a rousing country/pop classic, that held the number one spot for seven weeks in the summer of 1962. With a thick quiff of light brown hair, high cheekbones, and an easy smile,  Frank’s blend of singing and yodelling – that’s right, Alpine style yodelling – proved irresistible. I Remember You was followed in October of that year with the double A side chart topper, Hank Williams’  Lovesick Blues with She Taught Me How To Yodel on the flip.

My father, himself a wicked boogie woogie piano player, was the chief sub editor of The Daily Mirror and a close friend of the paper’s pop writer, Pat Doncaster, (incidentally the man who gave me my first long playing record, The Beatles’ Hard Days Night). My father interviewed Frank for the paper who showed his appreciation with the wine and the soup, and a signed photograph of himself that I seem to recall was taken on the street close to the new Daily Mirror building at Holborn Circus. 

Fast forward over 50 years to a Friday evening a month ago and a friend’s house here in Padstow’s old town, close to where I now live. On the top shelf  in an alcove in a kitchen, where five or six of us are pre-loading and watching clips of 1970s soul bands on a smart phone belonging to a retired Fleet Street sub editor, my eyes land upon the exact double of the monkey bottle. I recognised it because bottles of red wine with forearm sized gold monkeys wrapped around them are not the sort of things you see every day. 

It belonged to my father, explained my host nonchalantly, a winsome teacher with a predilection for wearing black. Did she have any idea where he’d obtained it? In a flash: “It was given to him by Frank Ifield.” 

It’s at times like these that you find yourself looking into your glass and wondering if it was something you drank? Are there two Frank Ifields? What were the chances of their being two and both gifting bottles with monkeys on them? It was the singer, she insisted. The Australian one. “The one who yodelled,” chimed a voice to my left. In which case, how come? How did her father know the yodelling Aussie?  “He lived opposite. The house directly across the road.” Of course he did.

Some weeks later I still can’t quite get my around the fact that Frank Ifield, an Australian pop sensation, who gave my father a monkey bottle and some kangaroo tail soup in the 1960s, owned a house just a few hundred yards from where I live today and gave the father of the person I drink with most Friday evenings the exact same bottle he gave my father. 

Frank Ifield, who I soon discovered trawling the internet, remains lean and

…and now.

in rude health. He’s still working and his affection for the UK is undiminished. He played a 14 night UK tour earlier this year. I located his management company and fired off an email that Frank himself replied to a week or so later.

“I bought a holiday house in Church Street Padstow village in Cornwall circa 1978…” wrote Frank without elucidating on how he came to land on a town about as far away from swinging London as you can get. This being a singer who was right in the thick of the pop scene. His website (http://www.frankifield.com) is packed with black and white photographs of him with Shirley Bassey, Roy Orbison, and Cliff Richard and The Shadows.

“I do remember your dad Denys…he kindly did an article on me being an Australian pop singer missing his home in Sydney and the taste of kangaroo tail soup. This of course was merely a gimmick to draw attention to the article as I had never even heard of the soup let alone tasted it. Nevertheless I was grateful for the wide spread publicity it gave me as I was constantly reminded of it over many years to come.

“Now, I just happened to come across a jar of the said kangaroo soup which, I believe was for sale in Harrods. So this means it would have been after 1962,” – after his first number one –  “…otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to afford Harrods Knightsbridge prices

“All that makes sense and fits with my memory.”

A case of the tail wagging the kangaroo. A stroke of canny PR in which my father played his part.

“On with the mystery,” wrote Frank. Things not  being so clear cut with the monkey bottle. He does recall sticking kangaroo badges on bottles of red wine for gifts but perhaps my initial description of a koala on the bottle instead of a monkey threw him a boomerang? 

“The bottle…I can only guess would have been one I favoured personally and would have quaffed on many occasions. Therefore I would have a stash that would have taken as gifts to any of my friends that I visited.” 

Nobody is sure how long Frank had his house in Padstow.  Whenever I mention him to people most shrug and remember seeing him going back and forth.  “We didn’t think much of it,” said one matter-of-factly.

I don’t know when Frank shipped out of Padstow. All I know is he contracted pneumonia in mid-80s and relocated to Sydney in 1988 where  the weather is more clement than Padstow and where the stars fall…like rain out of the blue-ooh-ooh-ooh-hoo-hoo-hoo

Cheers Frank. 

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The Price Of Fame

It’s flattering to receive an exclusive invitation, especially one from a Michelin rated chef. It reaffirms one’s faith in elitism, that select order of hedonists that has has a lot of bad press recently for being too clever and influential by far.

Clearly the sender, a noted restaurant chain, sees in me a one who appreciates both the imagination and technical application required to produce memorable food. 

Seldom have I scrolled so rapidly down an email to reach the where and when? After a pause in a lifetime of elitist excess I am ready, no eager to relight the flame of over indulgence. I think I even subliminally ran through my wardrobe with an eye to dark apparel having learnt long ago the pitfalls of sporting white trousers and  pale ties to an event where the vino rosso flows as abundantly as the a-mouse bouches. 

At the point at which I was about to reassess my opinion of marketing emails (the the tip of my index finger is calloused from hitting the delete button so frequently) I arrived at the sentence I was least expecting! A price. so much for an invitation. And not just any price for what promised to be a truly ‘memorable experience’. £450 per person. With that kind of ticket I think it fair to say that the bill for two would be more memorable than the food.

My life in restaurants has been one of almost continual, disappointment. Partly, I am the first to admit, of my own doing. I recall my first ever meal out in Paris, when flares and penny collars were de rigeur. My friend and I, with a dozen words of French between us, ordered from the menu quipping that saucisson et pommes de terres lyonais (the only main course we could afford) was probably fancy bangers ’n mash. Enough said. 

Restaurants have always resonated with me, ever since our family’s almost weekly visits to the Heath Road Restaurant in Twickenham every Saturday when I never, not once, failed to order prawn cocktails and a mushroom omelette and chips. I’d learnt at an early age that food should be nourishing and sufficient and tasty and not, unlike say a film or a football match or a drink, the main event. Meals, including those in restaurants, was what we did in-between other stuff. It was the same for a good many people. Food was ok as long as it didn’t interfere with life.

The 1980s changed all that. It was if a generation raised on cheap continental holidays, retsina and styler sections  wanted to know why the food back home was so, dull. Only it wasn’t. There’s nothing dull about a Scotch egg or sardines on toast. It just wasn’t tapas or one of those French seafood platters you’re given a pair of pliers to unleash. Like the obsession with shoulder pads meals had to be spectacular and restaurants destinations.

Nouvelle cuisine was the twin sibling of the yuppie:  Upwardly immobile dishes of piles and squiggles (before the 1980s fish was served next to the potato rather than on top of it) feeding a new generation of upwardly mobile media executives with expense accounts and a voracious appetite for networking. It was a match made in culinary heaven. For the first time in living memory the meal became the deal. With the exception of pizza I don’t think I ate a flat meal for going on two decades, and despite bills that made my accountant wince, little of it was very good. 

Lunches (mine at least) cost a fortune and stretched beyond afternoon tea until after dinner time, and beyond.  My friend Rob Ryan named our lunch bunch The Oates Club, in honour of Captain Oates who famously said as he left the tent, “I’m just going outside and may be some time.” 

There were some seriously dire must-go-to-restaurants: Among them one owned by an artist cum taxidermist in Notting Hill; a vast Italian near Marble Arch; a much touted estuary locovare, a number of chic but tasteless bistros, a raft of mediocre Spanish and I haven’t even started on the British revivalists that aimed to use up as much offal as possible. What they all had in common were eye wateringly huge prices. It was if it had to be good because it cost so much. and we all took it for granted.  A bunch of London foodies and I dined at a  fashionable Asian restaurant in New York  a while back. There were ten or so of us at the table and I was handed the bill. As a rule we’d call Phil, from anywhere in the world, he being the only person we knew whose applied maths could cope with 80s shoulder pad sized l’additions. But he was otherwise engaged so the bill came to me. I mistook of one the perpendicular lines in the dollar sign for a numeral and came up with $12,000. After a collective intake of breath some of those present were about to pay it. 

Which leads me to the bill that put me off restaurants for almost ever. It was near tghe field of Eton and was receiving a good deal of media coverage. Four of us booked a table because it was – and may remain – a destination. Adventurous food that makes rocket science seem, doable. I remember I had a sort of tea jelly as my first course. I was asured it had taken something like a fortnight to distill umpteen pots of Early Grey into an intense jelly the size of my thumb nail. It was delicious and the meal would have been memorable for that alone had it not been eclipsed by the finale, served on a platter. My jaw went south as I opened the folded bill to reveal the price. I’d been poleaxed. To get over the shock I asked for a brandy only to be handed a cocktail list on which the cognacs started at over £20.

Which brings me very conveniently to my exclusive invitation. My opportunity to spend £450 a head on whatever the chef thinks I’ll like. To spend  what I’d spend on a jacket, or two pairs of shoes,  or 75 bottles of my day-to-day chardonnay at Lidl, or seven tickets to the recently promoted Fulham. With change from them all for a bite on the way home. 

As Ryan remarked sagely there will be many on the other side of the river who will jump at the chance to drop a grand on the off-chance of a good meal, but I won’t be among them.

Before I put my MacBook Pro to sleep I should add that my affection for fine dining and the meal as the main event recently received an overdue shot in the arm. Paul Ainsworth, the chef behind Padstow’s No 6 galvanises flavours the way maestros assemble symphonies. Nothing I have ever eaten comes close to his food, with the exception of Kim’s. He’s got a Michelin star too, but more to the point I get change from a Matthew Boulton and James Watt. 

Bon appetite – elite. 

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A Significant Time

As a rule I’m not one for significant dates. Anniversaries I like because I like being married, and there are thems who are gone whom I miss. As for significant dates along the landfill of life –  you can keep ‘em. 

My fifth was arguably my most life changing; going to school and having to learn how to take a punch. The age of consent might have been exciting had it not taken me 16 months to take advantage of carnal legality.  My friends and I were pleased to be able to vote but becoming twenty-one three years later was overrated (key to the door anyone?). Memorable for the fact that three of my closest friends were banned for driving as result of a birthday dinner of bacchanalian excess at a restaurant in London’s St.Martin’s Lane where diners were placed in stocks and had food and abuse hurled at them. 

I watched nonplussed as others revelled in fortieths and fiftieths but enjoyed my sixtieth only for receiving  a 60+ Oyster Card, that I imagine will be the only thing I shall ever be grateful to our oafish Foreign Secretary for, who was then London’s profligate mayor.

Ageing has never been an issue with me. I like the way young people rush to offer me seats on the tube although I have been known to be angered  when bar staff address me as ‘young man’ and often appear to snigger inwardly when I resist the invitation to ‘go contactless’.  My scepticism of high tech payment endorsed by the Bank of England’s chief cashier Victoria Cleland who is on record for believing contactless is unsafe. My explanation that anything that makes life easier for banks and credit card companies cannot be good for you and I goes down as well as a flat mobile phone battery with millennials.

I began this lament with the condition ‘as a rule’ because from where I’m looking, in my sixty-fifth year –  I can’t recall a time quite so bad. As a society we’ve had all the tolerance we can eat. Loaded all the off shore bank accounts and hidden away as much tax as our accountants can manage. We’ve pumped up the price of property to unimaginable heights and scoured the world for people who will do our unpalatable work for less.

There are some ‘significant’ perks; reduced Fulham tickets; specially priced OAP Sunday lunches, and perhaps even a bus to take me to and from the supermarket. And..?

I grew up in the 60s and 70s, politically uneven decades yet culturally and socially forward moving. The Vietnam war, Northern Ireland and the assassination of Dr.Martin Luther King aside the world felt like it was improving. Borders and frontiers nationally, sexually and racially were giving way to what felt like, if not enlightenment, then at least a greater understanding. The world appeared to be getting better. After two world wars the lives of ordinary folk, albeit in the western hemisphere, were on an upward trajectory. There were jobs, homes and security.

Much of that appears to be gone. The homes, the jobs, the wealth, the future, democracy, polar bears, and even the planet are all at their most precarious since the Cuban missile crisis. And all because of the short termism of my own Baby Boomer generation. 

Someone asked me the other day what would lift me out of my funk of unhappiness (a pit of foreboding occupied by increasing numbers of people if the epidemic of depression is any indication)? How to swap the chasm of despair with a warm blue dawn of hope? The person asking probably expected I’d suggest an Italian holiday, another Jack Daniels, a box of Havanas, or a new pair of burgundy brogues, any one of which have been known to perk me up when things have looked bad in the past. Without so much as a beat my reply was I’d like someone to switch off the internet. Turn off the infernal contraption that has assisted global capitalism’s transformation into an insatiable stalking monster, us into products, and our lives and likes bought and sold like any other commodity. We’re the ones being farmed.

I can’t be precise but I’m not that far off the mark to state that it’s been ten years since I bought anything on Amazon. I have no particular beef with owner Jeff Bezos, not even his unctuous grin, I simply do not want to assist any company that by all reckonings is responsible for the closure of over 40,000 bookshops worldwide: over 600 in the UK in the past decade. Undercutting high street stores of almost every hue and now boasts that it is striving to replace warehouse employees with robots and deliver its goods using drones.

But lets not get hung up on Bezos and his company, they are not my only objections to the internet. Sidestepping paedophilia, sexting, fake news, the undermining of democracy, and the ease with which fascists of all colours, ethnicities and religions can promote their ideology and violence, what really upsets me are those otherwise sensible people photographing their meals and sharing the images with the rest of humanity, as if we care. Identity theft and internet banking anyone? Last year it’s estimated 15.4 million consumers were scammed online with banks increasingly telling us it’s our fault. 

I blame those nerdy Millennials in open plan hot-seat offices in California for peddling the idea that just because they wear baseball caps back-to-front and sneakers they’re somehow making the world a better, cooler place because it’s connected. They’re not. They’re just devising ever more insidious ways of screwing you and I and handing our money over to the ‘man’. They allow us to swap photographs of our lunches with our pals and we let them sell our personal details to multinational brands and crime syndicates. 

Has the internet cured cancer, or homelessness, or made the world a safer, more secure and tolerant place? The hell it has. In fact, just the opposite. It’s given us an epidemic of online porn and child abuse,  a sociopath who supports white supremacists in the White House, and a generation of people who place their telephones on the table at dinner time. And, by decimating the newspaper industry to pulp, it’s undermined truth and freedom of speech. 

Britain has the lowest GDP of any major European nation and has a generation of graduates leaving university with upwards of £30,000 of debt and no career to go to or home to afford. And this before Artificial Intelligence the latest wheeze from California that is expected to waste 40% of all jobs by 2030. 

Call me old fashioned but I grew up thinking items deemed detrimental to human health – heroin, driving whilst intoxicated, child abuse, and nuclear and chemical arms should be controlled due to the detriment they cause. IE – illegal in the interests of a better, safer world. Doesn’t AI fit into that category? Why let those self aggrandising Californian’s be permitted to provide international capitalism with yet another tool to make the lives of children and our children’s children worse. 

But the real kicker, the absolute ding dong, is that I am to blame. As a home owner, soon to have a triple locked state pension, it’s me, and those like me, who have plundered the wealth of the nation and pulled up the drawbridge. The world of austerity we find ourselves as designed by Thatcher and rebooted by the half-wit trio of Cameron, Osborne and Clegg (a knighthood?) is down to people like me owning too much, receiving too much and being ill too often. I even drive a diesel car, fuel have a wood burning stove, and passionately want to remain European.

Significant date? You better believe it. It’s all my fault. Everything. If it wasn’t for the tories selling council houses and public utilities, international capitalism, the banks, UKIP, Amazon, the the septuagenarian sexual predator in Washington, and the damned internet  ( following the NHS hacking, Visa, and the TSB, England’s Word Cup squad has been advises to tape over laptop cameras and warned about using WiFi in Russia) – it’d be chaos. 

There you have it. Another significant other. Looking around at the achievement of my generation I wonder if I won’t be the only one with his head in the sands of time, or a virtual reality headset.

*written four months ago but not published for reasons unclear

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Mick Owens – the artful life of a generous man

Mick Owens outside The French House Soho

Michael Owens looms disproportionately large in my life; a presence in four of the rooms of my home to be precise.

For a man I shared a house with nearly 40 years ago, and whom for the past ten years I haven’t spoken with more than four or five times a year, his captivating, fluid, imaginatve and appealingly surrealistic view of the world are welcome aspects from many perspectives: Thought provoking shapes, innocent, often humorous, and always harmonious; a world of balance and equalibrium.

As I write I am looking at three of  Michael’s abstract works; for some inexplicable reason I have stuck with the name Michael, although I know some of you know him as Mick or Mike. The largest, also my favourite, is White Fish, a three colour lithographic print from 1984. The second edition of a run of eight prints, one of which is inside the vaults of London’s Tate Gallery. It’s about a metre square and he gave it to me as the price of me driving him home late one night from a show he was exhibiting at in the Barbican.

White Fish and two others

I don’t know what the two smaller paintings next to it depict (above) but I am very fond of them nonetheless; a bit fishy, perhaps, and organic in a colourful Petri dish sort of way. He presented me with them for no reason at all at The French Bar, in Soho after a long lunchtime. Michael has always been generous like that. His oldest friend John Hewitt, who he met at Manchester Polytechnic and who has remained by his side to this day, has a theory that Michael has given away more art than he’s sold. He’d rather the art was enjoyed than clutter up his studio.

There is another of his in the dining room downstairs. More fish, painted and cut out and reassembled as a three dimensional marine collage. Another, my most recent acquisition, Dancing Party/Come As You Are is on wood and is the size of long playing record sleeve depicting a pair of abstract groovers with big hair against a background of what looks like 45rpm discs, affected in greens, umber and black. Another print Face To Face, dating back to 1981, has cartoonish sea horse creatures amid waves of musical notes. And a seventh, Mick’s sweeping take on Wiltshire’s eighteenth century, White Horses, was bought for my mother many years ago and is currently in the attic awaiting wall space.

Thinking about it I probably possess more Michael’s works of art (he prefers the word “images”) than many people’s entire collections.

Born in Bootle in 1955 and a lifelong supporter of Liverpool FC -Michael studied Fine Art at Manchester Polytechnic, moving to London in the early seventies and enrolling at The Royal College of Art. Upon graduating he won the Atlantic Paper and the Berger Colour Prizes whereupon he was offered art foundation and degree teaching positions in Bristol, St.Helens, Taunton, and London.

It was through beer rather than art that we became friends, plus the fact that he was dating a friend of my girlfriend at the time. He seemed to know everyone worth knowing on the London art scene. He exhibited work throughout the capital, drank at The Chelsea Arts Club, and hosted ‘soirees’ at a three storey terraced house in Brockley, south east London, a stone’s throw from Goldsmith’s College of Art that was teeming with eager young artists in search of a mentor. I’d never known a house like it, especially lived in by someone so young: The walls stripped and replastered, the floors sanded, and huge pieces of art throughout. Open and airy it was just the sort of space in which to entertain the art and ply them with classic Lancastrian “snacky wackies”. Michael enjoyed life in the art fast lane but was grounded by his working class roots.

Despite being at the centre of a social maelstrom that would exhaust lesser men, the partying, the drinking and eventually the women, Michael never slackened his pace of work. Organised and prolific he filled each working day with prints and sketches, framing and exhibitions and catalogues, and roll-ups and beer and terrible jokes. He told me the worst joke of my life – but I still remember it. “That dog’s on a lead. It must be a detective.”.

Such professional drive came at a cost and life around Michael, despite the jokes, wasn’t always a barrel of laughs. He once threw me out of that Victorian house. I’d moved out some months earlier and returned one evening to encourage him to take a bit easier on the hooch. Friends were concened. It must have looked quite ridiculous two slight, shorter than average men floundering on the doorstep until one of them, me, tumbled backwards and the heavy timbered door slammed shut.

Quite out of the blue, in the early 90s, Michael was diagnosed with ME and osteoporosis. The constant pain and invasive medication meant couldn’t hold down regular employment. Confined to home for long stretches his debilitating and painful  condition did nothing to stem his creativity. In fact some of his most exciting and vibrant pieces of work emerged during this period, showing them at London’s Discerning Eye and the Royal Academy Summer Exhibitions. His condition deteriorated and for long stretches of the past few years he has been restricted to one room in a low ceilinged basement flat, a half a mile or so from the house he hosted his vibrant parties in, increasingly relying upon friends and neighbours to keep an eye on him and deliver his food.

With a wheelchair to ferry him to and from the pub it’s proven quite a palaver getting in and out of his subterranean studio/home where every inch of space in the front living room is decked with Michael’s vividly primitive ornamentations. On a recent visit he wanted me to experience the perfect British breakfast at a cafe in the heart of Brockley. He wouldn’t let me help as he dragged the folded wheelchair up the small flight of steps whereupon he reassembled it. Believe me it’s not easy trying to pretend that you’re oblivious to the suffering of a friend who steadfastly refuses assistance of any kind. The breakfast was sublime. Michael knows a thing or two about the simple pleasures.

It was one of these friends, Fred – with his own cafe nearby, who found Michael dead, alone. He was 62. The police were called and there the story ends. Only the art survives. Mick’s intuitive images, full of colour imagination and a sense of freedom that fill rooms with light and warmth and charm.

I’ll let his closest friend John Hewitt, who studied with him and remained by his side all of his life, explain:

“His coded visual narratives are often sparked by a word or phrase that will become the title of the completed piece of work. Images may appear in the form of bold personal symbolism, or they might evolve into complex emotive charts, mapping relationships, memories and moods.

“More often than not, their meaning is transcended in their making; like the great twentieth century modernists that Owens so strongly admires, his works need no more justification that the pure pleasure of their visual contemplation.”

Mick Owens: September 24 1955 – March 8, 2018

 

 

 

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when is a bookshop not a bookshop? when it’s in Hastings.

Asta wouldn’t like it

We hadn’t gone to Boulevard Books with a view to buying something to read. The thing is this secondhand bookshop in the centre of Hastings Old Town mutates into a Thai restaurant after dark and despite the walls in our back room lined with books about Marx and red headed screen sirens the only thing on our minds was, well food.

A pattern was definitely emerging. Earlier in the day we’d had coffee and one of those eggy Portugese pastries in another bookshop that also doubes as a cafe. So ordering ‘Thai hot’ tofu and noodles, hemmed in by English political history and film biographies, was starting to feel, well, normal.

I’ve enjoyed an arm’s length relationship with Hastings for 30 years. Having a soft spot for English seaside towns since my childhood Kim and I often came here in the eighties when Epic Records provided me with a company car and an expense account for the petrol. We’d park in the Old Town and walk past the fishing net drying huts and up to West Hill. From there we’d look out across the lambent Channel and west to St.Leonards-On-Sea, beyond Bexhill to Beachy Head. I can still smell the seaweedy aroma of fishing, and old chip fat from the takeaways that line the promenade.  There was something about Hastings then that was both down-at-heel and appealing. Kim and I even toyed briefly with the idea of buying our first home here.

Since then Hastings, and St.Leonards-On-Sea to which it is joined at the hip, have drifted in and out of my life. Bassist with the Sade band Paul Spencer Denman, who I worked with for some years, moved here maybe 20 years ago, followed by other London media luminaries including former Elle editor Sally Brampton who gave me the first of many motoring columns. A couple of years back the friend of a friend upped sticks from London and moved in at the same time as I started listening to a jazz singer called Liane Carroll who grew up and lives in, you guessed it, Hastings.

Its position, 90 minutes or so from London by train or car, meant it has enjoyed the sort of short break lifestyle notoriety enjoyed by Whitstable and Southwold. Cool places for city dwellers to spend a weekend and feel affluent. There’s a name for them – DFLs (Down From Londoners).

With Russian and Chinese investors, and an expanding army of private landlords, pushing up property prices in London adventurous Millennial entrepreneurs and grown-ups trading down have moved in. The property sections of most newspapers proclaiming Hastings to be the latest hotspot. And compared to London it is very cheap. A two bedroom flat with an outer London postcode buys four bedrooms and views. The reason my morning coffee cafe was full of twenty-somethings with expensive haircuts on MacBooks and septuagenarians on iPads.

When another two friends cashed in their north London chips and bought into the Old Town I thought it was time Kim and I should go and see what all the fuss is about and how much or how little Hastings has changed in a generation – and a bit more?

The beach is shingle. It makes a pleasant sound when you walk across it but it’s not so easy on dog’s paws. And with Asta acclimatised to the soft Cornish sand we decided to leave her behind, in the capable hands of Claire, who according to frequent email updates, ‘hangs out’ with Asta for two hour stretches on Harbour Cove. Clearly we weren’t missed. As it turned out one of the first things we learnt about Hastings is that  dogs are unwelcome, almost everywhere. Not a single stretch of the beach between the Fishing Museum and the new pier permit them. And there aren’t many places beyond that either, the man with a black Lab said. Asta would have to have trotted up and down the promenade, on her lead, avoiding the cyclists who have the priority.

Despite all the press don’t imagine for a second the town is gentrified. It’s far too authentic for that. At once charming and quirky and idiosyncratic it’s shabby, unloved, derelict and in need of paint. But thats its charm. Hastings has that seductive Notting Hill and Deptford feel of the 1970s, when art students, musicians and anyone with a slightly Bohemian inclination rubbed shoulders with gor blimeys. In other words there two distinct Hastings: The gentrified BoHo of the Old Town, with its vegan burgers, waistcoats and stout boots, and 100 yards away, beyond the Wellington Place pedestrian underpass, familiar  down market high street brands,  chubby folks with green hair, and wobbly boozers swigging from cans of premium lager.

There is history here in spades. From the Norman invasion a 1000 years ago to its heyday as a fishing port in the 19th century. The tall stucco Victorian houses that line the unloved promenade stretch inland for half a mile speak of more affluent times. Many are multi occupancy now.

I can understand why our friends have moved into the Old Town. It’s like Padstow, but bigger, with much more going on. Black and white Tudor homes with leaded lights stand cheek-by-jowl with red brick houses with mullion windows and Gothic doors. The big difference is people actually live here, and in numbers. You can tell the lived ones from the holiday homes because many of the lived ones have displays of shells and pebbles, bits of driftwood, models and photographs in the windows. I saw one with a Lego somethingorother and another with dinosaurs. Badges of local quirkiness.

There’s a thriving live music scene, a cinema club and theatre. And there are festivals. Highlights are a Fat Tuesday (that’s Pancake Day to you and me), and a motorcycle festival, and the four day Jack In The Green twiddly diddly Morris Men rites of spring piss up around May Day.

So a strong sense of community and a we’re all in this together attitude. An article on the gethastings website, headlined Why Hastings Is Not Shoreditch On Sea’ sums it up with – ‘if you’re going to live here, you’ll need to love its quirks and you’re going to need at least one fancy dress costume.’

Boulevard Books and other one-off owner occupier shops and cafes are focused along two principal streets,  George Street and High Street. Among them: Judges Bakery with bread for every conceivable food allergy; Made In Hastings, something of a pioneer opening in 2004 and on a mission to sell ‘quirky’ art and artefacts produced locally; Seagate, one of those old style hairy and chunky and leathery mens and womens designer outfitters that wouldn’t look out of place in Hoxton; more than a nod to rockabilly and early Elvis at Voodoo Sirens; something of 19th century seafarers garb at Warp & Weft; the restaurant, cookery school and interiors shop (they even have brush of the week) at A.G.Hendy & Co in a picture book Tudor house; and more antique and bric-a-brac shops than you throw a sow-ester at.

AGCool shops and bookshops masquerading as restaurants aside by

the end of my second evening it was clear the real reason my friend has moved here are the pubs. Real, no nonsense, old fashioned boozers, where everyone knows everyone else and most of the ale is brewed locally. Dozens of them. So many it was all I could manage to squeeze in five over two nights:

My favourite is Filo, although not named after some fancy sort of French pastry.  Filo is an acronym for First In Last Out. It’s got booths and an open fire with  beaten copper hood in the middle of the bar. I liked the look of the dapper gent in a fedora and blue waistcoat with the entire left side of his face tattooed. I chatted with a big man about gout (something close to my foot) and  drank Old Town Tom and got talking with a young couple with two puppy huskies; I liked The Cinq Ports Arms too. Pronounced ‘sink’ not ‘cinq’, perhaps a sign that Hastings voted for Brexit. It’s a snug bar with Ercol chairs and leaded lights and a chatty bar maid. The building is 17th century. No meals, just alcohol, pickled eggs and quiz nights; I took a shine to The Hastings Inn too, close to the front.  It was curry night when I seated myself on a bar stool and polished off a couple of pints of Goldings. There’s blues on Mondays and an ‘open mic’ night each Wednesday;  More music at The Stag, one of the oldest pubs in town. When I went the low ceilinged bar was crammed with mostly middle aged men playing fiddly diddly folk music, a couple of whom grimaced at my tie. Nevertheless the barman didn’t raise an eyebrow when I tried to cause a scene and complained my pint was flat; The Crown, near my friend’s, is a gastro pub that was touted as the best food pub in the country last year. The night I was there they were wine tasting in the back room.

It’s not all ‘quirky’ do-dahs and decent pubs. The Jerwood Gallery, hemmed in by fishing boats and the Fishermans Museum is a champion of British art. Central to its permanent collection are works by Hepworth, Lowry, Nicholson and Sickert. It’s a stark, bleak, modernist structure, encased in 8000 black tiles probably intended to harmonise with the sea washed pebbles and drying sheds. It’s won a raft of architectural prizes but non as prestigious as the RIBA Sterling Prize 2017 awarded to the remodelled and rebuilt Hastings Pier, half a mile to the west, closed due to irreparable storm damage in 2008. Its replacement, splashed across the UK media last year, is not like any other. Devoid of Edwardian fun palaces, finials,  guilded architraves and seaside tackiness, the flat, almost featureless new pier is proof that less really is more. The result is a wide timbered platform poking out into the Channel. A space, and a big one at that, designed to be flexible and lend itself to a multitude of purposes. Sea Life Crafts: Rainbow Fish and Sea Settler Workshop and weekly Yoga On The Pier. Get the picture?

The pier is actually closer to St.Leonards-On-Sea than it is Hastings, where a coastarati are concentrated around Norman Road, where lifestyle emporiums like Shop and Fleet Gallery stand alongside the Hollywood glamour of Siren. The latter turned out to be owned and run by Kim Denman, the beautifully baroque ’n roll missus of the aformentioned Paul Spencer Denman.

So there you have it. Hastings, a seaside town that’s happening in parts and not in others. A town where its easier to find a pair of ostrich skin cowboy boots than it is The Guardian newspaper: “That’ll be special order only,” I was told with no small amount of suspicion.

It has changed a lot in 30 years. For a start there’s a funiculaire from the fishing port up West Hill that wasn’t working when Kim and I used to visit. The Jerwood is a fine gallery and there are scores of the sorts of shops I’ve spent my life’s wages in. I think its fair to say that Hastings (and St.Leonards-On-Sea) have character, and a lot of very good pubs.

In case you’re wondering I rounded off my Thai dinner with a Rita Hayworth biography. I’m glad we weren’t in the DIY section.

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Vandals at work – the death of the bungalow

There soon won’t be any 1930s bungalows left. While conservation groups, local authorities and investors, watched closely by the likes of English Heritage, take pains to preserve ancient cottages as well as properties from the Victorian and Georgian eras anything built between the First and Second World Wars, notably during the thirties, will either be demolished or refashioned in such a way as to be rendered completely unrecognisable.

This appealing yet ridiculed moderist architectural era, cleansed of the pompous garnitures of the Victorian period and inspired by the geometric simplicity of art deco (the affecting designs of Frank Lloyd Wright and notably William Morris’ Red House in Kent) 1930s houses and bungalows will soon be forgotten. Those garden suburbs of bay windows, sunrise garden gates and oak  front doors with inset bottom-of-the-bottle windows, red bricks, diamond shaped leaded window panes, gable ends, and garages with verdant drives, will be consigned to the historical dustbin. Their replacements bland anonymous structures created by expediency.Where once there had been well proportioned rooms with tiled fireplaces and parquet flooring there are now ‘living spaces’. It’s as though the gods of evolution have decreed that we should look at the dishes in the kitchen zone while we watch tv in the relaxation zone. The millenial take on refurbishment is all about space, unadorned floor to ceiling windows, and white walls.

In some ways the 1930s bungalow, a relation of the Californian Hollywood home, often with metal ribbon windows and curved ‘pantile’ tiled roofs, is a victim of its own success. Single story and built upon on large plots of land by proud home builders they lend themselves to property vandalism. Off comes the roof, often low hung in that appealing mansard style, to be replaced by a taller ‘A’ frame structure thus creating a first floor and more rooms. An increased value but at what cost? Diminished style and in many cases rendered unaffordable for the retirees and cultist 30s adherents who traditionally lived in them. 

The majority of 1930s bungalows have been bought not by people who enjoy their design cues and provenance but by bourgeois philistines who want to enjoy something else.

The architectural website Bricks and Brass states: “…this is a tragedy because in one aspect they have not been ‘neglected’; they have been the target of several decades of do-it-yourselfers who have ‘improved’ them to suit the demands of life…without preserving their character.”

This destruction is happening everywhere but non more so that in my patch of Cornwall. As each elderly owner moves on (single story buildings have an obvious appeal to the elderly) new money moves in accompanied by architects behind expensive Nordic spectacles muttering the same nauseous mantra – “more light, more entertaining space and low maintenance garden.” Encouraged by columns in national newspapers and online builder’s websites these genuinely modernest bungalows, often within classic English gardens, are remodelled into structures reminiscent of airport departure lounges with interiors boasting as much personality as a squash court.

Some four million homes were built in the 1930s, most of them in the suburbs or by the sea. I grew up in a 1920s semi-detached house wearing many of the design cues that would mark out those built a decade later. On a recent visit most of the Tudorbethan (mock Tudor) style houses in that estate now have plastic windows and clumsy boxy roof extensions. And where there were once gardens there are now, by and large, low maintenance concrete or brick car parks stained with sump oil. This is especially galling as nearly all 1920s and 1930s developments had access to garages to the rear via communal alleyways. The idea being that nothing  so vulgar and utilitarian as a car should be permitted to undermine the synchronicity of good urban design.

I had hoped to buy a 1930s bungalow some years ago. It was painted in that soft eau de nil, with a red pantile roof, nestling in its garden with the period elegance of something from Beverly Hills. In fact I think Jack Nicholson may have stepped inside one just like it in Chinatown. The only fault with it was a cheap plastic door porch. With that removed and some tlc it could, in my hands, easily have been upgraded to a pristine example of art deco coastal architecture. Sadly I couldn’t sell and so couldn’t buy and today that bungalow is unrecognisable. Like many others of that era it has sprouted extensions and windows and in so doing become another casualty of the war against the first truly modernist movement in British architecture.

As each 1930s bungalow is sold it is transmogrified into a bland domestic living/rental unit existing in a sort of architectural vacuum. I have black and white photographs taken 30 years ago of the estate near me. Each bungalow with a garden at the front. Most still retaining their original metal windows and bays. Each has a chimney and not one has a car on the front garden. Bungalows to be proud of? Only if you happen to live in Richmond-Upon-Thames. There the Conservation Area – Rosecroft Gardens no.46 (https://www.richmond.gov.uk/media/4077/ca46_rosecroft_gdns_lr.pdf), a triangular shaped estate of semi detached and detached 1930s bungalows, is enjoying a level of protection absent elsewhere. Among a raft of intentions that include a ban on front facing dormer windows and an insistence that metal windows be replaced like-for-like are the sentences – ‘…preservation, enhancement and reinstatement of special architectural quality and unity. Retain original detailing or ensure that replacements are of sympathetic design and materials…”

I have a hunch Richmond-Upon-Thames’ appreciation of 1930s garden suburb bungalows is out of step with the pervading ethos of originality bad, pumped up blandness good. In this way  a small but integral part of our British cultural heritage is vanishing.

Dilapidated and insanitary cottages have been saved in their thousands. As have endless rows of unloved Victorian terraces. The red bricks painted in pastel shades and fireplaces and ceiling mouldings reinstated. Just maybe, as a generation of young house buyers is driven ever further from city centres into the still reviled 1930s suburbs some of those currently overlooked art deco gems will be ‘discovered’. I hope so. If not we’re in danger of erasing an an entire era from the architectural history books.

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Last Orders At The End Of The World

There’s nothing quite like the imminent end of the world to focus one’s thoughts on food. Long before Kim Jong-un and Donald Trump the father of a school friend of mine set aside a bedroom in the large detached family home in west London to store the bare necessities – should all hell break loose. Within a five foot tall pile beneath a white sheet in the centre of the room were sealed crates of baked beans and tomatoes, jars of pickles, biscuits, enough tea and coffee for an army, dried eggs, bundles of spaghetti and enough lavatory paper to maintain family hygiene standards for some time. Why John Tallent chose to stash these items away we never knew, although as a source of late night snacks the bedroom pile couldn’t be beat.  This being the early seventies it was, by current MAD (mutual assured destruction) standards, a reasonably stable world. Vietnam was a long way off and nobody was talking nuclear. Certainly the of threat of armageddon had dissipated since the nervy days of October 1962 and the Cuban missile crisis. Then the world held its breath following the discovery of Soviet warheads 90 miles from the Florida mainland. “We didn’t know if having gone to bed we’d wake up in the morning, that’s how close it got,” said my mother, who resisted the urge to fill her cupboards with  Cote D’Or praline chocolate elephants and Vesta curries. No, I suspect Tallent Snr’s bedroom stash had more to do with what he perceived as an end of life as we knew it due to the seemingly unstoppable influence of the British union movement. After all there had been the three day week, mining and refuse collection strikes, and frequent electricity blackouts. As a result the nation had been gripped with the notion of self sufficiency; shelves of survival books and novels like Doris Lessings Memoirs of a Survivor, and the television series The Good Life, set in Surbiton, in which Richard Briers and the sublime Felicity Kendall upset their posh neighbours by keeping pigs and growing their own veg; in contemporary parlance – doing their own thing.

The truth of the matter is food, more than millions of dead people and no means to recharge our phones or cars will be the priorities if things turn bad between the North Koreans and our special relations in Washington. According to experts each of us is nine meals from anarchy. This the number of meals that could be cobbled together with bits in the backs of our cupboards combined with anything we can loot from the local supermarket.

Opinions differ on how long any of us could survive without food. Mahatma Gandi, already a waif, went 21 days without sustenance. The IRA hunger strikers hung out for much longer. But what would sustain you if there was no end in sight for starvation. No food production and distribution, not forgetting a nuclear ‘winter’? The issue  was examined by Cormac McCarthy in his 2006 book The Road. A film version starring Viggo Mortensen came out two years later that I’ve never seen not wishing to be reminded of what could be one of the most unspeakable consequences of global starvation and anarchy.

Barely a day goes by without some wag hereabouts remarking that there may not be any point concerning ourselves with the effects of Brexit or the fall in the value of the pound or the lack of affordable housing. The War of the Stupid Haircuts looms ever larger: Kim Jong-un firing missiles over Japan and detonating nuclear bombs underground and Trump warning of ‘fire and fury like the world has never seen’. “There may not be a next year to worry about,” is phrase resonating in the pubs around here.

All of which leaves me in the local supermarket adding non perishable groceries for dinners at the end of the world. I already have one shelf of a kitchen cupboard nearly full. In case you’re wondering there are lots of tinned new potatoes, flageolet beans, mushy peas, sweetcorn and Ancona hot sauce. You’ll just need to provide your own loo paper.

 

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