My 39 Steps Moment…..

My 39 Steps Moment…..

I have never been much of a reader, but at times I have become attached to an author. When I was young I was a voracious reader of the Biggles novels by Captain W.E. Johns. I remember buying the hardback books for half a crown (2/6 = 12.5p). Later I progressed, if that is the word, to the works of Donald E. Westlake and finally the Science Fiction novels written by Russians Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Their wonderful short novel ‘Roadside Picnic’ (Пикник на обочине, Piknik na obochine) still resonates in my mind as I type this. Then for no apparent reason I stopped reading for thirty years, until that is I got my Kindle twelve months ago.

I have always loved Alfred Hitchcock’s 1935 Masterpiece, ‘The 39 Steps’, (starring Robert Donat and Madeleine Carroll), adapted from the novel by John Buchan which first appeared as a serial in Blackwood's Magazine in August and September 1915. Out of copyright the book was freely available as a digital download. Having already listened to Orson Welles’s excellent 1939 ‘Mercury Theatre on the Air’ version (Broadcast August 1, 1939), I knew the plot of the book was not strictly followed by Hitchcock. As it transpired the only part of the plot Hitchcock had followed was the title and the name of the main character. In every other major respect Hitchcock made up his own story. For example, in the book the ‘Steps’ are steps, whereas in the film as Mr. Memory so eloquently says ‘The 39 Steps is an organisation of spies’. Never mind, it was a good read, but not as good as the film. I Googled and found Buchan had written other novels featuring Hannay, so I downloaded them all. I read the first sequel, ‘Greenmantle’; it was puerile nonsense, full of absurd coincidences and unbelievable characters. I came to the conclusion John Buchan could not write for toffee and although the other novels are on my Kindle, they remain unread. My reading had stopped again – I curse you John Buchan, 1st Baron Tweedsmuir, Governor General of Canada.

But the point of this story was not to vilify the late author, but rather to describe my own ‘39 Steps Moment’.

Some years ago when I had a show on the ancestor of ‘103theeye’, ‘The Wireless Company’, Pat Macracken asked me to represent the station at a symposium in Melton Mowbray. He did not mention the purpose of the event; he simply alluded to the fact that in some way it related to radio. I made myself a packed lunch, drove to the place in question and consumed my sandwiches in the car park. I got out and walked to the door. On the glass panel was an A4 piece of paper with the word ‘Publicity’ boldly printed in large letters. I opened the door and walked in. I could see through a line of windows a group of people seated in chairs. As I walked up to the door a number of the people looked towards me. I opened the door and walked in to be greeted by the following immortal words, ‘Oh Good, the speaker has arrived’.

I looked around expecting to be followed in by the speaker, but as I did so I was ushered towards a seat at the front. I sat and desperately looked towards an agenda being held by the chairwoman, but could not read a word. The woman was quite agitated, I was clearly late, she gave some words of gracious introduction and I was on my feet! In the few moments I had been seated I had taken a blank piece of paper from my pocket and written down ‘The 39 Steps.’

In the Hitchcock movie Hannay is mistaken at one point for the warm up man for a prospective Liberal candidate who he refers to as ‘Mr. McCrocodile’. I had entered a similar scenario….

I began by mentioning the scene in question and then proceeded to speak for about fifteen minutes. As to what I said, I have no recollection! I sat down to a mixture of quite enthusiastic applause and one or two strangely glazed looks. The chairwoman looked slightly more baffled than most, but seemed quite pleased by my contribution.  She stood up, thanked me and told the assembly that after lunch I had agreed to lead one of the discussion groups!

Yes, there was lunch, a superb buffet that, already full of sausage sandwiches, I hardly touched.

Oh and of course the question of the discussion group…

After lunch, still having not seen an agenda, armed with a large felt tip pen and A1 board I lead the first of two sessions. Just before the end of the first session, which seemed to go remarkably well… who should arrive…. but Pat!

I said that as regrettably I had to leave for another engagement Pat would take over and with that I left.

I still have no real idea what it was about, but it will always be my ‘39 Steps Moment’….

My friend Bill loved cakes

A couple of years before Bill died his wonderful next door neighbours Graham and Sheila were given control of his money. Every week they bought him things for his store cupboard and fridge. One Friday - I went down to see him every Friday - I went to get Bill a couple of Mr. Kipling’s finest to go with his coffee…. the cupboard was bare. I looked everywhere, but no cakes to be seen. I went back in to the living room and told Bill the shocking news… Graham and Sheila - who were on holiday in their caravan for a week - had forgotten to buy Bill his cakes. I rush out to the Co-op and purchased several boxes of cakes to tide Bill over. The next week I spoke to Graham and berated him gently for forgetting Bill’s cakes. He told me he had bought eight boxes of six or eight cakes and tarts and left them with Bill on Thursday morning – 56 cakes we estimated in total. Bill had eaten them all in the following 24 hours!

My friend Bill loved cakes.

Before the war Bill was a Co-op delivery boy. He was so dedicated that he did two complete rounds with his horse Dennis. He delivered bread and cake and confectionary and was paid £2/10/- a week plus he received a Shilling in the Pound commission on cakes. One week he earned over £9, at a time when £2/10/- was a good wage. I don’t know if that is why he loved cakes! The cakes were made by the legendary ‘Chuffy’ Godwin. I once asked Bill why he was called ‘Chuffy’ and Bill said it was because he had a big head, but I was none the wiser.

Bill was a fine sportsman, playing for Corinthians at football and various teams at cricket. His father was approached in the early 1930’s by a prominent league football team who offered Bill an apprenticeship. His father turned them down with the classic ‘why would he want to sign with you, he has a good job at the Co-op?’ Those were the days!

During the war Bill was a Royal Marine, but spent most of the time playing sport for the Marines or the Combined Services, including he told me a memorable match at ‘Syracusa Stadium in front of 30,000 servicemen’. One day I must try to work out where and when that match was.

His first day of action was landing in Normandy on D Day as part of 45 Commando. He landed in seven feet of water with the barked instruction – Keep your rifle dry! Bill couldn’t swim – some Marine – but somehow made it to the shore. Lifting his face up from the sand he saw next to him an old school friend that he had not seen for years. He never told me any other stories about his war.

After the war Bill worked in the office at the Greater Nottingham Co-op and became a member of the Board. He probably never again earned as much in relative terms as his days before 1939, but he continued to have contact with cakes and confectionary as his job was to control their Society wide distribution.

Once when Bill became a bit disorientated after a serious water infection he spent a few days in a horrific local care home. He refused to eat and when I went to see him I asked if they had tried giving him cakes, but cakes were not good for him, was their reply. Luckily for Bill he never had to return to that god forsaken place. I would tell you more about it, but it still upsets me.

There is a lot more I could say about Bill. It was my honour to carry out his funeral service when he passed away in his early nineties and do you know what, I think I might have mentioned that my friend Bill loved cakes.

Mental problems

For two years I have managed not to take medication. My hypnotherapist Loraine has done a great job with me. Now a single thoughtless action has put me back to below where I started. I am going to the doctor in forty minutes to ask for medication. I feel like a total failure. I really thought that I had got it right this time. Thank you to all those who stood by me and still stand by me. It is a long road and I am going to take the first step. Please wish me luck. I know you all will xx

AT THE FRONT OF A MIND WITH NO BACK

This is the end 
Beautiful friend 
This is the end 
My only friend, the end 

Of our elaborate plans, the end 
Of everything that stands, the end 
No safety or surprise, the end 
I'll never look into your eyes...again 

Can you picture what will be 
So limitless and free 
Desperately in need...of some...stranger's hand 
In a...desperate land 

Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain 
And all the children are insane 
All the children are insane 
Waiting for the summer rain, yeah 

There's danger on the edge of town 
Ride the King's highway, baby 
Weird scenes inside the gold mine 
Ride the highway west, baby 

Ride the snake, ride the snake 
To the lake, the ancient lake, baby 
The snake is long, seven miles 
Ride the snake...he's old, and his skin is cold 

The west is the best 
The west is the best 
Get here, and we'll do the rest 

The blue bus is callin' us 
The blue bus is callin' us 
Driver, where you taken' us 

The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on 
He took a face from the ancient gallery 
And he walked on down the hall 
He went into the room where his sister lived, and...then he 
Paid a visit to his brother, and then he 
He walked on down the hall, and 
And he came to a door...and he looked inside 
Father, yes son, I want to kill you 
Mother...I want to...fuck you 

C'mon baby, take a chance with us 
C'mon baby, take a chance with us 
C'mon baby, take a chance with us 
And meet me at the back of the blue bus 
Doin' a blue rock 
On a blue bus 
Doin' a blue rock 
C'mon, yeah 

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill 

This is the end 
Beautiful friend 
This is the end 
My only friend, the end 

It hurts to set you free 
But you'll never follow me 
The end of laughter and soft lies 
The end of nights we tried to die 

This is the end

Tamtampamela

Tamtampamela

If you have not heard the name I am surprised, just when I thought a name really would go viral on the Internet it hasn’t. I won’t tell you this woman’s supposed real name, either of them, nor her address, but she kidded the internet and now the internet is trying to wreak its revenge.

‘Pamela’ produced videos on youtube of a fundamentalist Christian persuasion, which is putting it mildly. She came across as an eerie figure. It was hard to believe that she really believed what she said, but that was the problem.

Poe's Law states:

“          Without a winking smiley or other blatant display of humor, it is impossible to create a parody of Fundamentalism that SOMEONE won't mistake for the real thing.  ”

Poe's Law is an axiom suggesting that it's difficult to distinguish between parodies of religious fundamentalism (or, more generally, parodies of any crackpot or extremist belief) and genuine proponents of religious fundamentalism, since they both seem equally insane. Conversely, real fundamentalism can easily be mistaken for a parody of fundamentalism

If your work is a satire then at some point you must make it clear, otherwise it isn’t a satire. Tamtampamela had been posting videos for a year or more.

Suddenly it all came to a head with a video praising God for smiting Japan with an earthquake and saying that 24 hours of prayer and fasting had moved the Supreme Being to act.

All hell broke loose. The comments were really quite disgusting. I saw a comment calling for her to be ‘gang raped’, which I challenged… How soon we form ‘the mob’….

Then… too late Pamela said… wait it is all a joke.

May be it was, but in the end it just wasn’t funny.

The internet allows us to become viral, but if crossed it will try to destroy us. The people who want to kill or harm Pamela are much worse than she is. The driving forces of revenge and retribution seem to remove from people any free will that they may have.

Owlie and Pussycat - the true story

I have always been a traditionalist owl. Just as followers of Islam have the Hajj and die hard Soccer fans try to visit all 92 league grounds (are there still 92?), so owls have this thing about a certain coloured boat.

Imagine my surprise when twenty years ago I spotted an advert in the personal column of The Times Newspaper

Pussycat looking for travelling companion for boat trip. 

Tom cat preferred, no ties, other species considered. 

GSOH essential, must be prepared to row. Reply Box 343

Within an hour I had sent off a reply with a ten year old photo of myself, the only one to hand. Almost by return of post I received a reply containing the photograph of the most deliciously beautiful creature I have ever seen. (The original photo was lost at sea, I append a more recent picture taken professionally. That is me on the left, I think you will agree I was quite a handsome fellow)

A note, written on scented paper, informed me that after dismissing the applications from tired Lothario Tom cats of a certain age Pussy had chosen me as her companion.

At once I set about making preparations. That evening I purchased off EBay ‘practically brand new rowing boat in pristine condition, buyer collects’. When I went to collect the vessel I did not at first recognise the rotting hulk from the picture on the internet. Clearly I should have put my spectacles on before bidding. Nil Desperandum is the motto of Owlie Owl and so I placed the boat on the back of my trailer and drove home.

After ten solid days work I had restored the boat to seaworthy condition and was looking admiringly at my work when my next door neighbour Barney Owl poked his head over the fence.

‘It’s the wrong colour mate…’

Barney was right…. I had painted it red…. when it should have been peagreen. Well, that was easily rectified and a trip to my local branch of B&Q proved successful.

Artist's impression

Shortly after the boat was ready and having got all the other provisions I texted Pussy to tell her I was on my way. 

As I arrived she looked somewhat surprised and said kindly

‘It appears preparing for the trip has aged you slightly Mr. Owl!’

Pussy on the other hand was the beautiful stately creature in the picture in my pocket.

To cut a long story short we made it to the little island that we purchased together in the ocean. It was hard journey and in the end Pussy did quite a bit of the rowing.

We became very close during the journey, particularly after being frightened by a shark. I will not go into the sordid details suffice to say that when we landed I was determined to make an honest Pussy of her.

On the island we found a shipwrecked sailor who, as chance would have it, was qualified to perform inter-species marriage ceremonies. We got half way through the ceremony when the question of the ring was raised….

I was singularly unprepared, but one of the witnesses was a rather camp and colourful pig with a ring in his nose. He suddenly piped up that I could buy the ring from him for a shilling, which he assured me was cost price. Unfortunately I only had in my possession a Newark Civil War Siege Shilling of 1645, 

but although it was valued at £2500 my only thoughts were of my Pussycat and so I handed over the coin and we were duly married.

And to this day have lived happily ever after….

Goodbye Palm Tree.........

Goodbye Palm Tree

I really should have given our magnificent palm tree a name many years ago…. now she has died.

Dad spent so many hours in the garden. He planted the tree 30+ years ago and in those years it has risen to 14-16 feet high. (I could use trigonometry Sean to calculate the height exactly, but somehow it just doesn’t matter any more.)

The tree has flowered and flourished continually shedding its dead leaves, then a few weeks ago the green leaves suddenly drooped… and a few days ago they started to fall.

I once saw a squirrel leave an apple neatly placed in the recess where the trunk split into two… and just a few months ago I saw a beautiful green woodpecker in apparent shock at the hardness of its bark.

All the gardens for one hundred yards seem to have children of the tree… and there are at least ten in our garden…. all now dead or apparently dying.

Killed by the exceptional cold spell that nearly finished off me and mum when we were rushed to hospital in December.

But the real victim is a tree… perhaps the last great memorial to dad’s skill as a gardener and my lack of it.

I will never forget you tree and I am sorry I never gave you a name.