Townsend Tennis Club

This was (is?) sort of tucked away at the back of St. Albans. My friend Chris and I would go up there to play tennis, and snigger at the old girls called Doris, who were all dressed in white, playing bowls very seriously. There was an old chap called Ted who ran the bar, and he had an enlightened attitude towards under-age drinking – namely, he didn’t care. Either that or he was so old he couldn’t judge what age we were. He would make these icy-cold bitter-shandy drinks that Chris and I would glug down after a game of tennis. Most of the tennis courts were grass, but there were a few that were shale, or something. Great clouds of red dust would come up when we ran across them, and by the end of the game we’d be covered in it. The changing rooms were in the pavilion, which was a wood frame building that smelled of old socks and soap. There was a table tennis table, a table football machine, and one of those TV tennis games with the little bars and the ponging noise. I loved it there and would happily get into a time machine now for a few hours of tennis followed by a couple of bitter shandies.

Photographs! Nudge Nudge, Wink Wink

The Torres goal in the Euro 2008 final between Spain and Germany yesterday was quite the best I have seen for a long time.

Oddly it is hard to find a decent photo of it online. The speed and balance with which he nipped past the defender and juuuuust managed to get his foot to the ball and flick it over the diving keeper was quite excellent. Pure skill.

Before Euro 2008 started, Muffet and I were watching Wimbledon! Yay for Wimbledon. It reminds me of my childhood, the summer holidays, mown grass, cups of tea and fruitcake, watching Borg, Connors, Roscoe Tanner, Chrissy Evert, listening to the grunts of the players, the cheers of the crowd, and Dan Maskell saying “What a dream of a shot!”.

Yesterday I was thrown into a dilemma. Who is more tasty, Serena or Venus Williams?

Andy and Dick

At the end of my first year at Sheffield, I was told to go to Geneva and work on the experiment there. I was living in an old Victorian house near the university, sharing with five others, one of whom (Ken, he of the urine sample saga) I have written about before. Another was Simon, who coincidentally had landed a position in Milan teaching English as a Foreign Language, so we decided we would drive over together. This was quite an epic journey to undertake in my Renault 12, which had seen better days.

We set off very early one morning, and drove down to Dover to catch the ferry, and from Calais we headed off to Geneva, via Paris and Dijon. I can’t remember the details of the journey, except long stretches of empty roads across middle France, lined with trees, which could be driven at exciting speeds. Did we do the journey all in one go (about 1500km)? I don’t remember, but I think so.

I remember arriving in the centre of Geneva, at Place Cornavin, and parking the car. I’d arranged that we could stay with a friend I’d met at a Summer School the previous year, called Andy. Andy was a long-haired, hippy-looking individual, who was about as easy going as you can imagine, and I liked him a lot. He was working on a different experiment from me: his was searching for hyperons, whereas mine was looking at photoproduction. I had only a vague idea where Andy lived: somewhere just over the border in France, in Haut St. Genis. After phoning him up and getting directions, we set off again in the Renault, heading out through Servette, through Meyrin, past CERN, and then across the border into France, and then to St. Genis.

Just as we passed through the village, the road started to climb, and the Renault died. It just sputtered and died, and we coasted to the side of the road.

We got out, and peered under the bonnet. I knew far less about cars then than I do now, and all I could tell was that the engine hadn’t disappeared. We sat disconsolately on the boot, and discussed what to do. This was well before cellphones, and so we were faced with hoofing back to St. Genis and finding a telephone.

Just then a car appeared coming towards us. It pulled over, and a Frenchman got out: a tanned, handsome, and athletic looking bloke of about thirty. If he’d been about a foot taller he’d have been seriously hunky, but in fact he was quite short.

I can’t remember the exchange, but I know he didn’t speak any English, and neither Simon or I spoke much French. When he saw the address I had written down on a scrap of paper, his face brightened. He went to his car, opened the boot, and brought out a tow rope, which he attached to the Renault, and then to his. And off we went: towed up to Haut St. Genis, arriving at Andy’s house a few moments later. It was great!

It transpired that the guy who had helped us was a local fireman, and Andy was shagging his wife. I doubt he would have been so helpful had he known. Her name was Martine, and she was profoundly sexy in that indefinable French way: she had short blond hair, angular features, and never wore a bra, and so her breasts were constantly jiggling about and oscillating in a most hypnotic fashion.

In addition to Martine, the other person in the house when we arrived was Dick. He, like Andy, was from Bristol, and he had come to Geneva many years before, to work on an experiment, and had basically never returned. He had no job as far as I could tell, and quite how he supported himself was mysterious, but I’m sure had something to do with drugs. Dick was a Lovely Person: he had a huge fuck-off beard, and he spoke softly, gently, his eyes twinkling. He was always smiling. Nothing perturbed him: everything was wonderful, and mellow, and cool. An archetypical hippie, he was a real pleasure to be with – he was so laid back he was essentially horizontal.

The house they lived in was a huge 1970s built ranch-style edifice with many rooms, and a massive sitting room, that was dominated by a large open fireplace in which logs always seemed to be burning.

Anyway, the next morning, Andy and I took Simon down to the train station in Geneva, and put him on a train to Milan. That’s the last I ever saw of him: I’ve not heard from him since, and that would be in 1981. Andy and I went across the river to a car parts shop in an ancient and run-down building. It was called Victor Merz – I just remembered that! And Victor sold us a new alternator for the Renault. What is puzzling me as I recall this is how we knew the alternator was bad? I have a vague notion that Dick knew about cars, so maybe he had diagnosed the problem. Moreover, I am sure I didn’t install the new one: who did that? Perhaps I, too, was so mellowed out by the company of Dick and Andy, not to mention the heady smoke that was permanently wafting around, that I was wandering around doing stuff in a daze?

And that was about it: the Renault was repaired, and a few days later I moved out of Dick and Andy’s house, to much inferior accommodations I prefer to remain vague about for the moment.

But while I was in Haut St. Genis, there were a couple of French girls who were often there in the evenings, smoking pot with Dick and Andy in front of the fire. One was blond haired, the other brown haired, and they were both rather attractive. In retrospect I am sure that the brown haired girl (I wish I could remember her name, Sylvie?) was hitting on me, but I was young and naive, and slightly scared of them both, and British, that I did nothing about it. They were always giggling when they were looking at me. One evening in particular I remember this Sylvia coming over and sitting very close to me on the sofa, as Dick looked on with his benevolent smile, and Andy downed his twentieth beer of the night. To my lasting shame and regret I did nothing to reciprocate the gesture. What was I thinking? What was I afraid of? I have no idea, and it has rankled with me ever since, as these things do.

A couple of years later, I saw Sylvie and her friend at the Clemence in Place Bourg de Four, the trendy night spot in old town Geneva. I was completely tongue tied, and suffered the humiliation of being giggled at again.

What became of Dick? The last I heard was that he had eventually returned to England, and lived in a caravan in woods just outside Bristol. He had been nicked for possession, and went to prison for a while. Shortly after he came out, he died tragically, although I don’t know how. RIP Dick. As for Andy, I have lost touch with him, but saw him five or six years ago, which is how I know about Dick’s demise.

Addendum: I searched around and found that Victor Merz went out of business in 1996. Some details:

Firma:
Victor Merz SA en liq. par suite de faillite
(CH-660.0.079.961-9)
Domizil:	Rue du Stand 31
1204 Genève
Lageplan Lageplan |  weitere Firmen

Status:	gelöscht
Löschdatum:	10.11.1999
Rechtsform:	Aktiengesellschaft
Kapital:	CHF 100'000
Sitz:	Genève (GE)

Zweck:	Administration: 1 ou plusieurs membres

Gold Top – Something Strange About Milk

I remember the milkman used to deliver a silver top and a gold top to our doorstep. My Mum had to be quick to fetch them in, otherwise the tits would get at them.

The thing that is puzzling me about the Gold Top is that the cream was at the top of the bottle. It seems to me that cream is denser than the rest of the milk, so why was it at the top?

This has been bothering me for some time.

The Ba-Ta-Clan

Check out the neon in old town Geneva, and the Ba-Ta-Clan strip club next to the spaghetti restaurant:

[Not my photo]

I’ve been in the Ba-Ta-Clan a couple of times, quite a while ago. A friend of mine was very keen on the place, and seemed to spend most of his evenings and nights there. He was a small, quiet chap with lank hair and a wispy moustache. He looked anaemic, and he chain-smoked Muratti Ambassadors with a trembling hand. A couple of the girls who worked at the Ba-Ta-Clan he called his friends, and he was always encouraging me to go along with him of an evening.

Frankly I didn’t fancy the idea: I had no idea what sort of place it was inside, and I didn’t really have any desire to dip into what I felt was a very seedy pastime. Besides, I was a student and had very limited financial resources, and I suspected that it would be expensive. I was right: when I finally did accompany my friend he had to first of all pay a significant fee to get in, but once we were in, the drinks were astronomically priced. I can’t remember exactly now, but I think they were around three or four times the price they were in the rest of Old Town.

When we entered I was very conscious of how dark it was. This made it seem quite small inside. Up at the front was a stage with garish lighting. The body of the room was filled with small round tables and bistro style chairs, whereas at against the walls were more comfortable booths with burgundy velour upholstered seats situated around a table. The place was relatively empty of people, although the air was filled with smoke, and so it was hard to see clearly.

A blond girl was dancing: I remember she had a lot of sequins on her and she seemed to sparkle. When she finished she came over to the table we were sitting at. (I should note that there was no nudity involved in her dance routine). “Bonsoir, Crease!”, she said in a thick French accent (my friend’s name was Chris) and sat down. Then another girl came over: I think she was blond too. Then there began some bizarre ritual involving buying these two girls drinks. I don’t remember the details, but it wasn’t just a question of “What would you like to drink?”, it seemed more like a negotiation in which Chris tried to persaude them to have the most expensive drink, and they would banter with him about it being too expensive. You know the type of routine “Have this”, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly, “Go on, really”, “Well, I don’t know, maybe I’ll just have a beer”, “Don’t be silly … have the Champagne”, “Oh Crease, you are so naughty” et cetera.

Since the conversation was all in French it was a little difficult to think of much to add (my restaurant French was excellent, but making smalltalk with buxom French dancers in sequined costumes was challenging, to put it mildly – “Votre costume – c’etait fabrique ou, exactement?”). So I sat mostly in silence for quite some time. Since Chris was paying for everything, the two girls paid me no attention whatsoever anyway, which I was quite relieved about.

After about an hour of heavy Muratti smoking, Champagne drinking, and listening and watching the two girls coo and fuss over Chris, while a series of similarly sequined individuals pranced about on stage, I decided it was time for me to leave, which I did, leaving Chris to his fate. I strongly suspect he never did more than just sit there buying them drinks and basking in their mock affection of him. I think that affection was something he was sorely missing in his life.

So that was a wash. I think I went back one other time a year or so later, and it was pretty much the same story.

An interesting aspect of the social dynamic was that these two girls who were Chris’s “friends”, would often get on to the “X” bus that I took downtown at the end of the day. They would get on in Meyrin, where they lived, and were probably on their way to work, as I was coming home from my work. And every time they would look straight through me, as they got on, without any flicker of recognition, despite the fact that I easily recognised them, and that of course they had spent an hour or more sitting face to face with me in the recent past. It was as if, because I hadn’t bought them a drink, I was irrelevant and thus invisible. At least that is how I interpreted it at the time.

Heigh-Ho Nonny-Oh

With a jolly old drive up to JPL for a meeting this afternoon. Time to burn some carbon deposits out of the six cylinders of the trusty 911, and see that rev counter touch the redline.

I am obsessive about being on time for meetings, of any sort. I know that it will take about 15 minutes to get to JPL from here. But I will start out around 25 minutes to 1pm because I like to have contingency. I’d much rather arrive early and twiddle my thumbs for ten minutes than be in a rush. It’s the same when I go to the airport: I give myself too much time, so I end up sitting around unnecessarily. But at least I am relaxed.

The worst experience I had with rushing was the first time I ever flew. I was a student in Sheffield, and had to attend a collaboration meeting in Bonn. This involved taking a train from Sheffield into London early in the morning, crossing London on the Tube to Heathrow, and catching a flight. I travelled with my friend Rick, who was also a student on the same collaboration. He had injured his pinky finger in an unfortunate incident in the Porter’s Cottage, a pub, a few days before. He had a cast on, with a silly elastic band that attached through his fingernail, and was secured halfway up the cast, to ensure the pinky finger’s muscle stayed stretched, and of course the elastic band caught on everything, annoying him greatly. And he was not an even tempered type at the best of times.

Since he was disabled, I ended up carrying more than my fair share of the bags, humping them onto the bus in Sheffield, off the bus at the train station, along the platform, into the train, then off the train in London, into the Tube system at rush hour, then off the Tube at Heathrow and into the myriad and intricate tunnels linking the station with Terminal 1. We were very late, and we had only 30 minutes before the flight departed, as we stepped off the Tube.

I will never forget the awful feeling of running along those tunnels with dangling bags banging my shins, building up a horrible sweat that soaked through my shirt, jumper, and started in on the very heavy overcoat I was wearing, since Bonn was going to be cold. It was dreadful. We made it, but only just. I felt uncomfortable and soggy for the whole journey. At least the take-off was exciting.

Haircut!

A long time ago, when I was a teenager, I was imposed upon to get a haircut. For some reason, forgotten in the billowing stygian mists of time, I ended up with my Dad at the barber’s shop in Welwyn Department Store, in Welwyn Garden City, Hertfordshire, England, The World. Why my Dad was there I have no idea. Perhaps because at that time I had a summer job at ICI Plastics Division, where he worked, and he and I would drive together to and from the plant, which was also in Welwyn Garden City.

The barber’s shop was an old-fashioned place, with big brown leather chairs for waiting, piles of tatty magazines on a few tables, a black and white checquered floor, and walls adorned with photos of chaps with immaculate barnets in the style popular at the time: i.e. they looked like modular hair pieces or helmets. The haircut chairs were big and chrome-armed, and highly suitable as props in a Sweeney Todd play. This was the same establishment at which my Dad had once been asked if he “wanted a Perry Como”, whereupon he had had to enquire who Perry Como was, and what he looked like. I think my Dad was anticipating some fun with my haircut.

The barbers were two highly effeminate chaps in blousy shirts and tight pants. They were charicatures of gay barbers. In fact, the whole gay barber theme may well have originated with these two. Being a young and impressionable youth I was a little uncomfortable with them, as they bustled about clucking and sweeping and running their razors up and down the leather straps in preparation for the customers. Perhaps I was uncomfortable at the prospect of having my throat slit while in the chair, or being rogered while getting into it. There is no accounting for what goes through the minds of adolescent boys.

Anyway, after some waiting, one of the barbers motioned me to a vacant chair: “Over here, ducky.” and I went and sat down. With a flourish and a waft of shampoo fumes, he billowed a large white sheet around me, secured it snugly round my neck, and fussed with the fit. I fancied he spent a little too long fussing over making sure it covered my trousers. Then, he spinned the chair around, so I was facing the waiting chairs, and he and his partner stood in front of me, arms folded, and legs akimbo.

“So, what are we going to do with you today?”

I didn’t answer.

“He’s a bit quiet, isn’t he Nigel?”

Nigel nodded.

“What sort of haircut do you want?”

I mumbled something non commital.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t really care.” I said, unconvincingly.

There was shriek of of merriment from Nigel.

“Ooooooh, Sir! Don’t pretend you don’t care! We can both see that you like to wear your hair full!”

Nigel enunciated the word “full” with extreme lasciviousness. I reddened in extreme embarassment. It was true: I *did* wear my hair very “full” … mainly because it was hardly ever cut. It looked like a hairy crash helmet. But I didn’t want the people waiting, or my Dad, to think that was deliberate. God forbid! The shame, the shame of being concerned about what your appearance was!

My Dad snorted in amusement. For some reason it tickled him immensely. I wasn’t offended: I could see the funny side of it. In fact, after Nigel had cut my hair, and I looked in the mirror and realised how much more appetising I looked, and as we were walking back to the car, my Dad and I both had more good laughs, which continued for some time thereafter.

The “We” Message

Some of the best fun I’ve had on the job was a series of management training courses I went on some years ago. They were excellent. Several of the themes have stuck with me ever since, most particularly the “We” message, which can be summarised as never using “I” and “You” when doing performance appraisals or discussing objectives with folks who work with or for you. So, instead of saying “I think you need to pull your finger out of your arse, otherwise you wont meet this objective”, you say “We should pull our fingers out of our arses, otherwise we wont meet our objective.”. It sounds so much better, doesn’t it? Another example: “Even I wasn’t on the same pay step you’re proposing to go to, at your age!”, turned into “We need to decide which of us is more deserving of that pay grade”, or perhaps “We need to think carefully about that.”, or maybe “Shall we go to lunch?”.

But the best fun in these courses was the role playing. I remember having to play an irate customer returning some unwanted trousers to a shop, and “Hot Lips” Maria (who was Greek, curvy and rather tasty, hence the nickname) played the shop assistant. “What are you going to do about my trousers?!”, I bellowed at her, pretending to brandish the trousers in her face. Her response was to fawn all over me in an undisguisedly erotic fashion, much to everyone’s delight (including my own).

Then there was play-acting highly reminiscent of Monty Python sketches such as The Argument Clinic. And so forth.

We were also given coffee and biscuits in the breaktimes.

Tufty McNutt

Does anybody else here remember a cartoon character called Tufty McNutt? I can’t find mention of him anywhere.

The weather needs to make its mind up. Is it going to be hot, or is it going to be cold?

In radical developments elsewhere, what do you think of:

1) Spiral staircases
2) Round rooms
3) Rooms with corners that are not rightangles
4) Marble

Bimbo

On the way from the airport, we passed a factory with a sign on the front saying “Bolts, Nuts and Screws” in big letters, and it made me think of my paternal grandfather, who was a precision tool maker (a cut above a regular toolmaker I suppose, but I’m not at all sure why). I think he died in 1966. At least it was after Churchill died (which was in 1965), because I remember being in my grandparents’ house when the BBC announced Churchill’s death, and it casting a bit of a gloom over the proceedings.

My grandfather was called Jim, and he liked cornflakes for his breakfast. He liked them with warm milk. My strongest memory of him is him saying “Pass the Kellogs, May” (my grandmother was called May) at the breakfast table. One time (at bandcamp) we went to visit my grandfather, who we referred to as “Bimbo”, in his tool factory. I can remember this too, quite well, as there was a strong and lovely smell of machine oil, and piles of brass turnings strewn all over the factory floor, like metal confetti. Bimbo was an expert with lathes, taps and dies. He was wearing one of those coats that look like a lab coat, but unlike a lab coat, is light brown. I can remember him giving me two brass rings, offcuts probably, that were shiney and bright, but which tarnished over time as they oxidised. Unhappily I no longer have them.

Bimbo became ill and died of pneumonia. He smoked like a chimney, and had a gravelly, wheezy sort of laugh. He spent a lot of time telling rude jokes and laughing. Of course I didn’t know they were rude at the time, but I have some recordings of him telling jokes, and they are very blue. He had one of those pocket watches on a chain, that he kept in his waistcoat pocket. I remember how rough his waistcoat was against my face, when I cuddled on his lap, as he sung “She’ll be coming round the mountain, when she comes” at bedtime. Bimbo had been stationed on Salisbury Plain during the war years, on duty in the army, and caught pneumonia there while on a stint of overnight guard duty in the damp and cold, and his health never really recovered.

My grandmother was distraught when he died, and I can remember her sitting hunched up on a chair in their living room, rocking backwards and forwards, and saying “Oh, Jim, oh Jim”, over and over again. I suppose I was six years old at the time.

Wimbledon

It’s Wimbledon again, with the thwock thwock and oscillating heads of the spectators, the Robinsons Barley Water under the umpire’s seat, the soothing commentary of Dan Maskell juxtaposed with the whiney voice of Virginia Wade, watching on the TV at home, in the sitting room, a cup of tea on the sidetable, a scone, the sound of a lawnmower somewhere in the distance, the hot afternoon with no school and the prospect of emulating Borg’s prowess at the Townsend Tennis Club in the evening, finished off with a couple of pints of illegal Mild and Bitter from Ted the Barman who should know better than to serve young chaps like Chris and me.

And then one year, 1977, off to Wimbledon itself with the very beautiful Ann.. Waiting in the queue, blazing hot sunny day, finally getting in and hotfooting it to the Centre Court, shuffling around trying to get a good view, remarking how small the place was compared with how it looked on TV, feeling the searing heat on our shoulders, and then watching as Borg and Gerulaitis came on to court for what turned out to be one of the most exciting and epic semi-final matches of all time.

Holy Tap-dancing Cuttlefish, Batman!

Cogshifter’s second rule of restaurant owning: If you post opening hours on your restaurant’s doors, always ensure that you do indeed open at the listed times. Else your prospective customers will go next door and eat there instead, so depriving you of business. Persistent offenders will find that they need to close due to lack of income.

When I was in the Sixth Form at Francis Bacon School in merry old St.Albans, there was a record player in the common room. For some reason I was one of the few people who had any LPs, and so I would bring a few in and they would be played over and over and over again.

One of the earliest I remember was Supertramp’s “Crisis, What Crisis?”, the cover of which depicts a chap sitting in a deckchair, wearing sunglasses, and sipping a tropical cocktail under a bright yellow sun umbrella. All around him is a grey and depressing urban dump.

Another one was Pink Floyd’s Meddle. The unearthly sounds of Side B would echo around the building eerily, provoking strange looks from Mr.Johnson, who was the “Head of Sixth” teacher in residence. We had fun with him. An immaculately dressed man, delicately cologned, with sandy hair and a baby’s features, he taught French. A friend and I tapped his ‘phone line: the ‘phone wire ran out of his office and along the wall near our lockers before disappearing through a hole under the floor. A small pickup coil was fashioned, taped to the wire, and a little amplifier with earphone used to pick up the conversations Johnson had with Ralph, the headmaster. The tap was never discovered, and we were able to glean some important, secret and titillating information, an example of which was the impending suspension of Simon “Illegal Trousers” Fanshaw.

But the classic LP sound of that era was undoubtedly Focus’s “Hocus Pocus”. This is a remarkable song, by a remarkable group (they were Dutch, so that’s weird), and has stood the test of time well. The rendition in “Focus – Live at the Rainbow” is worth a listen if you ever get the chance.

"Well, That’s Another Little Job Done"

My nana was very fond of this saying. To her, life was punctuated by a never-ending series of “little jobs” which needed to be done. The impression she gave was of knocking the jobs off, like skittles, one by one, as she came upon them. I liked it. My nana had lots of “little ways” – idiosyncrasies that she was fond of telling us (my sister and me) that everyone had a lot of. One of her “little ways” was to purse her lips in a particular fashion, which I am always reminded of when I see the following squash in the supermarket:

[Chayote Squash]

She was very fond of her food. In my mind I can hear her coming into the kitchen in our house in St.Albans and saying “Somethings smells good, Audrey!”, and, on seeing the Christmas turkey, “What a beautiful fowl!”.

Another thing I remember is that she sent me a comic called “Smash!” every week. She would walk up to her newsagents in Sutton Coldfield, buy the comic, roll it up, put a postage wrapper on it, write my name address in squiggly-barely-legible-old-lady handwriting, and send it to me. I loved getting Smash!

On the other hand, she could be a real tinker. She was fundamentally suspicious of everyone non-family. Convinced that the dustmen were being nosey by coming through her back gate to get the bins (she’d forgotten to put them in the drive), she went outside and “gave them a piece of my mind”. When she became infirm, a lady from nearby used to bring her groceries once a week. By all accounts this poor woman was given an earful from time to time as well.

My nana met a grisly end, a rather strange story, which I shall perhaps write about at some point.

The Power of the Curly Wurly

Why were the girls at my school so different from the boys? They arranged themselves into cliquey little groups for skipping, mooning over pictures of David Cassidy, or giggling at us boys. The skipping business was a palaver: they had little songs they would sing while two girls swung the rope, and the others ran in and did a few skips. The songs went something like “Dib Dub Rub a Tub … I wear a bra … In Out In Out … You are IT!”. It was a serious business.

But Jane Morris would show you her fanny, if you gave her a Curly Wurly.

sarahparah’s School Meme

School and Year you graduated
Francis Bacon School, St.Albans. 1977

Nickname in high school?
Sirge

Sport you were into?
Jumping to conclusions.

Had a circle of friends?
More of a dodecahedron.

Best subject?
Maths. I was handy in History and French, too.

Worst subject?
I was a duffer at Geography and PE.

A teacher you owe life lessons to?
The Headmaster, Ralph Sexton, who drove me himself to Oxford for an interview, where I was asked to estimate the power a bee needed to develop to remain airborne. I can’t remember my answer, but it wasn’t even the right OOM.

Describe in one word…
Freshman: What?
Sophmore: Huh?
Junior: Indiana Jones?
Senior: Service?

Your best friend was?
Chris Aspden.

Worst friend?
Dave Pound.

How was the prom?
It was always windy on the prom at Scarborough, which is why I never went.

Who were the prom king and queen?
Not Applicable.

Any achievements?
Managing to only get beaten up by Peter Allen twice.

Were you popular?
Yes. Especially with girls. Unfortunately I was blissfully unaware of this fact until many years later.

Best song that reminds you of high school?
“My old man’s a dustman,
He wears a dustman’s ‘at,
He wears cor-blimey trousers,
And he lives in a council flat…”

If Music be the Food of Love,

play on! Give me excess of it
That, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken
And so die.

I’m not much of a one for Shakespeare, but I did play Theseus in the school play one year. The other school plays I spent up in the lighting gallery fondling Kirstie Spiers’ tits, or is that just my rose-coloured spectacles? It was hot and dark in that lighting gallery, so anything could have happened. Ah, happy days.

Location, Location, Location

I am seized with an urge to document the locations of everywhere I have lived since a tot.

• Nunthorpe, Nr. Middlesbough, Yorkshire (5 years)
• Hoddesdon, Hertfordshire (6 months)
• St. Albans, Hertfordshire (11 years)
• Woolton Hall, Fallowfield, Manchester (1 year)
• Victoria Road, Fallowfield, Manchester (1 year)
• Woolton Hall (1 year)
• Some Victorian house in Sheffield, the room was octagonal (3 months)
• Endcliffe Rise Road, Sheffield (9 months)
• Hostel, St.Genis, France (1 month)
• Rue des Asters, Servette, Geneva (2 months)
• Avenue Wendt, Servette, Geneva (6 months)
• Rue de l’Athenée, Old Town, Geneva (6 months)
• Rue Gilbert, Meyrin, Geneva (6 months)
• Chemin Tavernay, Grand Saconnex, Geneva (12 months)
• Route des Ceytines, Pregnin, France (10 years)
• Rue de Champ COlomb, Ornex, France (1 year)
• California Boulevard, Pasadena (1 year)
• Vinedo Avenue, Pasadena (2 years)