SMALL LIFE IS HERE Meet STANLEY!! Page 16. BUS Rides. WINKIE. For more cats on ladders see Page 2. I was rather fond of our two old pressing units. With their green Hammerite casing and Bakelite control knobs they looked like they might have come from a Lancaster bomber. They were made round about the middle of the last century by "Danor of Southgate" – according to the plate riveted on. We kept them much longer than we should have. Old Norris in Limehouse would refurbish them every few years but recently declared one to be “downright dangerous” and put it in the skip. The other soldiered on until it would no longer be coaxed into pumping up water. The new boilers aren't much to look at – encased in white steel cabinets on castors they could be some form of medical equipment such as kidney dialysis machines – and they come with warnings about drawing water supplies from ponds and wells. But the main thing is copious steam, minimal fuss.
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Transcript
SMALL LIFE IS HERE
Meet STANLEY!! Page 16.
BUS Rides.
WINKIE.
For more cats on ladders see Page 2.
I was rather fond of our two old pressing units.
With their green Hammerite casing and
Bakelite control knobs they looked like they
might have come from a Lancaster bomber.
They were made round about the middle of the
last century by "Danor of Southgate" –
according to the plate riveted on. We kept them
much longer than we should have.
Old Norris in Limehouse would refurbish
them every few years but recently declared one
to be “downright dangerous” and put it in the
skip. The other soldiered on until it would no
longer be coaxed into pumping up water.
The new boilers aren't much to look at –
encased in white steel cabinets on castors they
could be some form of medical equipment such
as kidney dialysis machines – and they come
with warnings about drawing water supplies
from ponds and wells. But the main thing is
copious steam, minimal fuss.
SMALL LIFE IS HERE
“With eyes that see the romantic in the familiar, we wander in search of excitements and satisfactions in obscure quarters…”
Geoffrey Fletcher spent a lifetime finding beauty in the mundane and overlooked, producing 18 books between 1962 and 1990 including London at My Feet, City Sights, Pearly Kingdom and his best known The London Nobody Knows. Best known because strangely it was made into a film with the actor James Mason giving a guided tour of Fletcher’s fabulously dingy domain. Whilst it’s nice to see the footage, the perfect medium for the subject is the drawing and description in his books. One of these, a scene in Limehouse, starts with the words: “Urinal, drinking fountain and gaslamp – all three under a grim railway arch: what could be better?”
With his descriptions of ruined squares of crackled stucco houses, cast iron area railings, terraces of sparrow brown houses or the odd bow windowed survival, his world crosses over with John Betjeman but without the snobbery and sentimentality. Fletcher sees at once the possibilities, the connections and goes for it with incisive wit whether it’s a doorway in Deptford, a Mayfair club or the meths drinkers of Vauxhall.
In the early books the descriptions are fairly brief, but in later years the restraint is gone and he lets rip in a fine irascible camp style. Geoffrey Fletcher was born in 1923 studied at the Slade Art School and contributed regularly to the Daily Telegraph and Guardian. He died in 2004. Much of what he described is gone and London is the poorer but much is still there. The important thing is his way of seeing which inspires one to look at new subjects in the same manner.
The DVD of The London Nobody Knows is currently available online and his books from every other second hand book shop. WmB
We are pleased to report that the two dogs abandoned in Wickham Market have found a new home in Old Town.
New owner Mrs Brown said: “As soon as we saw their photo in the Star we knew they were the dogs for us. They looked like such a lively pair.” SB It's a day I'd been dreading for a long time but I still
wasn't prepared for it when it came. I rang my order through as usual – 50 metres of
white, 50 of eau de nil, 50 of pale blue – only to be told the devastating news. No more blue.
What do you mean, no more blue? You've no more in stock? There’s some on the looms waiting to be rolled off? But no, the answer was that pale blue was finished. Kaput.
Turns out they haven't woven the fabric for the last 25 years They’ve been sitting on old stock which has finally run out. Apparently, when the schoolwear manufacturers moved over to polo shirts they were left with thousands of unwanted metres. Unfortunately for us they won’t consider cranking up the machines again for less than 2,000 metres.
I knew it wasn't worth telling them about all our customers who adore the fabric, the loosely woven cotton once widely used for sports and schoolwear and still generally referred to as ‘aertex’ (even though ‘Aertex’ is a brand name rather than the generic term for that type of cloth).
Over the years I've heard many emotional reminiscences about wearing the fabric - from happy holiday memories to jolly hockey sticks and crumpets to traumatising school changing room incidents. But one thing’s for sure, it draws more passionate comments than any other fabric we offer.
The cotton weaving industry in this country is all but finished. For the moment, pale blue is survived by his siblings eau de nil, white, navy and black but sadly not for much longer.
Page 2
THE CHOCOLATE
CHEESE MAN. By Will Brown.
The first time I became aware of him was by way of
a ridiculous pantomime cough he performed to
attract someone’s attention. Anyone’s attention. He
was happy to talk to any of the few people waiting
outside the Alliance and Leicester for the X5 bus.
The next time I saw him was early one morning
at the other end of the journey, in the seaside town
where I now know he lives. He did exactly the same
trick, coughed to attract attention and then was off
in his cheeky chappy style of banter with anyone
who would listen – the driver, the young mums or
the pensioners too early to use the free bus pass. He
stood smoking by the bus doors until time for the off
when he lugged a huge sports bag up to the back
and held court.
Cut price El Tel.
It turns out that he works via an agency for
supermarkets and small department stores
demonstrating or selling various products, hence
today the big bag of clinking bottles. “It’s an
alcoholic drink but it’s different ‘cause it’s made
from fruit”, he said, like he’d never considered
where wine, cider or schnapps came from.
I thought, he’s a character, like a vacuum cleaner
salesman or a costermonger. Also a rarity – there
are few people of working age who take the bus
round here unless they’ve been banned from
driving.
I’d say he was 50ish. Stocky, balding, his
remaining hair swept straight back, with something
of the look of Terry Venables. His face had that
shiny just shaved look and you could imagine him
slapping his cheeks with aftershave which he’d need
to combat the faggy smell which hung about his
black dandruffed coat with the too long sleeves
which the barrel-chested are often afflicted with.
This cut price El Tel could have been convincingly
played by Ricky Gervais. So I quite warmed to this
bloke with his barrel bag and matching chest and
Max Miller chit-chat.
Scotch Eggs.
I became the willing victim of his affected
opening salvo the next time I saw him. I asked him
what he was up to today. He said “Valentine’s Day
promotion. It’s cheese, but topped with chocolate.
No really, it’s nice. Unusual, innit?” The next time it
was bread “It’s good stuff this” he said patting his
tum. That’s beer I thought and had this vision of
him padding around a Pinteresque seaside flat in a
string vest before smartening up to go to the pub. In
fact I chanced upon him in a pub and expected some
good value as this was the environment he had
surely been made for, but no. He was very economic
with the verbal.
The last time I saw him he was off to tell the
citizens of Fakenham the great news about Uncle
Ben’s Garlic and Herb Wok Rice. “I’m looking
forward to Monday,” he said. “Morrison’s own
quiches and scotch eggs again, is it?” I asked. “No,
I’m off to Bangkok for a fortnight’s holiday.” I
didn’t press him further on the matter.
BINNY and DOLLY, Cromer.
DAISY, Rogate.
ALBERTINE, Saxmundham.
NADDLES, Midhurst.
FUGEE, Hackney.
WINKIE and JOE, Romford.
Page 3
The ordinary things are often the best. Here follows
a miscellaneous collection – subjective and
unabashed, of particular things that catch the eye, or
lift the spirits or warrant a mention.
Scrap paper.
It is hard to impress on some people the
importance of throwaway bits and pieces to the
collage maker. Two single sheets of paper saved
from the bin have been invaluable. The first,
whipped out from under a heap of Cox’s apples,
patterned with Union Jacks has kept me in jaunty
flags for half a decade. They billow in cut out
harbours and off paper rooftops from Scarborough
to St. Paul’s Cathedral.
More prized still is the second sheet, a
herringbone-tweed printed paper, once a wrapping
for a bunch of daffs, now the supreme found texture
ideal for a finch’s wing, a cockerel tail or a pigeon’s
back.
Pigeons.
Why cut paper pigeons? people ask. The humble
street pigeon is all around and overlooked I say. See
afresh its beauty – the rich subtle plumage
variations, blue grey with barring, mauve with
checked wing coverts and delicate iridescence at the
neck. Best of all a pied bird in the park: red legged
and white faced, its clear-eyed benign expression as
compelling as the splendour of some exotic
immigrant prized by the twitcher. The pigeon’s my
bird of choice every time.
Blood Oranges.
There is nothing better than a blood orange in
season, one which is wrapped in tissue perhaps with
a Spanish lovely peering out at you, or a fecund
orange grove ripe for the picking or memorably an
alpine Chamois poised on an Italian peak boldly
vignetted. Unwrap, flatten and retain the tissue.
Next unpeel the tawny russet skin and finally a
blood red sherbet sweet segment in the mouth.
Slow Travel.
Wherever possible I go by bike, sometimes with
my Patterdale terrier in the basket – his butter
wouldn’t melt in the mouth expression frequently
interrupted by furious outbursts at passing postmen,
skateboards or sitting cats. Slow pace travel is best.
When motoring I like to take the country route
and whenever possible cross the railway line at
Crambe (in North Yorkshire). You stop at a white-
painted-closed-wooden gate, ring a bell and wait.
Presently a pleasant man climbs down from his well
maintained signal box and opens the gate. You
thank him and proceed, admiring his tomatoes in
grow bags on the way.
A similar pleasure can be had navigating the
Yare at Reedham, a single car roll-on-roll-off ferry
chugs back and forth across the narrow river most
satisfyingly. Chains clink, you buy your ticket. A
life buoy is to hand in case of emergency.
The Post.
In praise of the post. A well penned brightly
stamped envelope is a joy to receive or send. Why
opt for a lone stamp? As a rule I select a raucous
mix of coloured stamps including at least one nine
pence stamp – a wonderful yellow, and arrange
them artfully to the bemusement of some members
of the post office staff. Snail mail perhaps, but post
that packs a visual punch is a must for me.
More besides.
Further related reading can be found in the
Saturday Books – with wonderfully eccentric and
acutely visual contributions from Olive Cook and
Edwin Smith – who note tissue orange wrappers,
pearly king costumes and much more besides.
Mark Hearld’s work can be seen at
www.stjudes.co.uk and at
www.godfreyandwatt.co.uk.
Treasure.
Spring comes in York with the first car boot sale,
an event rich with the smell of bacon sandwiches
and the promise of untold treasure, a field full of
wonderfully disparate artefacts and searching eyes
on the hunt for a find, a lustre cup, or wooden toy –
you never know till... you reveal a Victorian swan
spill vase at the bottom of a box. “Two pounds an
item. Any item two pounds.” “I’ll take this thank
you.”
Good things need not be perfect. I picked up two
Staffordshire figures on horseback (from the antique
shop opposite the Fitzwilliam in Cambridge). The
first a fine steed with a broken foreleg – as if injured
in battle. The other mount was sound, his rider once
decapitated now repaired was bought for a song, his
scars his history.
Must the Show Go On?
Morrissey, Britannia Pier, Great Yarmouth. 15th May 2009.
Monday, Albert Hall: show cancelled. Wednesday, Birmingham Symphony
Hall: show cancelled. It wasn't looking good for the modest Britannia Pier
Theatre Great Yarmouth on Friday.
Morrissey hadn't been well. He's had a fairly patchy record of turning up for
his own shows lately. There was no definite word on the internet so the journey
across the flatlands was made with small expectations.
The Britannia Theatre above the wide sands is utterly charming with its old
fashioned cinema style seating, usherettes with trays of sweets and a stage more
used to seeing the likes of Tom o' Connor and Roy Chubby Brown than the
former Smiths front man. A small open door to one side revealed a scene of
waves breaking on distant Scroby sands with its wind turbines.
There was a bit of a scramble for seats then journeys to and fro with wobbly
plastic pints before and during the warm up act which happened to be ‘Doll and
the Kicks’. The pixie like cavortings of the singer were wasted on this crowd but
what a story for her to tell the grandchildren - how she supported the Great
Morrissey back in the day.
They left to tepid applause and the curtain was raised to reveal a backdrop of
a muscular sailor. The all seated theatre became all standing with a crush to the
front and on came the old fellow, and how fantastic is he?
Voice a little weaker than his last time in Norfolk three years ago and the
band pulling more than their weight, which in the case of guitarist Boz Boorer is
considerable. He sang a few crowd pleasing Smiths songs and some from his
more recent and to my mind finest albums. The shirt came off and showed he
wasn't looking too bad.
Valiant stage invasions were repelled before the final number First of the
Gang to Die to which he added the words from Big Dee Irwin’s ‘60s hit
Swinging on a Star. It wasn’t the best I've heard him sing but as a Morrissey
moment it was perfect. WmB.
Page 4
JOHN STEED
WAS NOT MY
UNCLE.
By Will Brown.
This is the street, it's somewhere down here, left
hand side, a bit further along. It's the one on the
corner. Turn ninety degrees to get a good look at it.
That's the house I grew up in. I'm not actually there
of course, I'm looking at Google Street View.
I knew every inch of that house and garden and
to see it for the first time in thirty years feels very
strange. It was a large, detached, Crittall windowed
post war council house. Now it looks a bit smaller
and has all the usual kind of improvements. It‘s still
an average looking house in an average town.
Borehamwood, my old town, was famously dull.
Outsiders used to call it Bore-em-stiff but there was
one speck of glamour in our young lives - we had
the film studios.
My uncle Pete used to drive cars to the studios
when needed for filming and would occasionally
turn up at our house in a black and white 'Z car' or,
more thrillingly, the green nineteen twenties
Bentley that John Steed drove in The Avengers. In
my primary school playground word got round that
Steed was in fact my uncle.
For films and T.V. our local streets were
regularly cast in the role of 'Nowhere in particular'
which they played very convincingly. Even better
than Street View, I can watch the old clips on You
Tube and see the streets as they actually looked in
my youth. Marvellous thing the Netty.
There's Thelma, Bob's wife from The Likely
Lads working in my local library. There's Stan in
On The Buses heading into the launderette in the
parade of shops just around the corner from where
we lived. There's going to be a right old mix up over
some ladies underwear in a minute.
There's randy, blonde mulletted window cleaner
Robin Askwith cycling the length of our high street
behind the opening credits of Confessions of a
Window Cleaner. The same street where Dudley
Moore works as a Wimpey Bar chef in Bedazzled.
For a later generation the town and its studios
might be associated with Star Wars, East Enders
and Big Brother, but for me it's frozen in time as the
home of the low brow, smutty English comedy of
the seventies.
By Andrews of Arcadia.
Anyone with a good knowledge of regional
newspaper publishing in the last century will recall
the thrill of the appearance at five o’clock on a
Saturday of a sporting supplement known in some
towns as the Pink ‘Un and in others as the Green
‘Un.
Named after the colour of the paper they were
printed on, these were the newspapers of your
dreams – not littered with leaders, letters pages or
court reports but consisting of a couple of pieces
of folded paper bearing rushed and often
incomplete match reports and football results from
games played that very afternoon.
On those distant afternoons when rain fell in
front of floodlights and all football league games
except those being played at Tranmere, Torquay
and Hartlepool kicked off at 3pm, television, let
alone Sky television, didn’t exist in most homes.
The arrival of the ‘Un was as exciting and
comforting as the sound of Out of the Blue, the
BBC Sports Report theme tune, is today. A
constant, a life affirming moment in time that
marks the beginning of the weekend proper. The
perfect prelude to a pint of mild and a lock in at
the Royal Oak or a night in the parlour with half
a bag of chips and a loose cousin.
In Arcadia, a world where pints of mild still exist
and Out of the Blue is planned as a funeral march, I
still fantasise about the existence of a Sunday twin
supplement to the Pink/Green ‘Un dedicated solely
to fishing match results.
Printed on sky blue paper similar to the long
gone Fishing Gazette this great organ would carry
the result of the Pork Pie Classic at Gunthorpe
Bridge and tell the world who managed to scrape
half an ounce of bits from a flooded Thames at
Richmond. Reports and results from places where a
bream can break your heart, a bucket of bleak can
cheer you up and every public house still has their
own angling club.
The Blue ‘Un would be read at the table of The
Magpie after a blank day on the weir and used to
line the drawer where you keep your best worms. It
would be the week’s essential read, a telegram from
the lost world, carrying the day’s results in the
Sowerbutts Cup and a single quarter page strip
advert for the late Frank Murgett’s Maggotorium.
They say you don’t miss what you’ve never had
but that isn’t the case with the Blue ‘Un.
www.andrewsofarcardia.co.uk
You may have heard of the expression
"like a dog at broth" which means to
go at something hastily and
voraciously – which is exactly what
these two little scamps do when
presented with their favourite tea: Dog
Broth. This is how to make it. Take:
1½ kilos meaty beef bone
1 cup each of chopped cabbage, celery
and carrots
¼ cup tomato paste or blended
tomatoes (3 or 4 tomatoes)
Parsley, salt and water.
Pre-heat the oven to 175C. Put the
beef bones in a large roasting pan and
roast for an hour. Turn them every so
often so they brown on all sides.
Once done, drain out the fat. Put
the pan on the hob at a medium heat.
Add in ½ cup of water and loosen up
the meat from the pan. Make sure to
loosen all the browned bits left on the
roaster. Keep all these drippings.
In a large pot, heat the oil over a
medium heat. Add the cabbage, celery,
and carrots and stir until tender.
Add in the roasted beef bones,
reserved dripping from the roasting
pan, tomato paste, salt, parsley and 2
litres of water. Bring to a boil over a
high heat, cover and simmer for 2
hours.
To use as a broth, strain the whole
mixture, let it cool, and refrigerate.
Take off any fat from the surface and
either refrigerate this or freeze it.
To make soup, take out the beef
bones, and pour the vegetables over
some dry dog food.
Page 5
On a recent visit to London I arranged to meet Old
Brown at the Royal Festival Hall which like the rest
of the South Bank has changed considerably over
the last 15 years.
I'm not sure about midweek but on a Sunday it's
clearly a very popular meeting place. It's open plan
and spacious and seems to attract a lot of families
who can spread out in the modern way of things, sit
on low squashy sofas, read the papers and ‘bliss
out’. After sitting for a while with Old Brown
soaking up the atmosphere and reminiscing about
the days when it was virtually impossible to get a
cup of tea and a digestive on a Sunday we were
intrigued by an announcement which came over the
tannoy.
It was an invitation for anyone who felt inclined
to come onto the floor and with a musical
accompaniment express themselves through dance.
It was then I had a strange feeling of deja vu.
Butlins!
There are some differences, the most obvious
being the way the RFH celebrates its heritage – the
Skylon Restaurant and the gift shops stocked with
mid 20th century knick-knackery – whereas Butlins
seems to be doing its level best to distance itself
from any association with the 1950's. New chalet
blocks at Skegness are called the Hamptons
although I suspect you won't bump into George
Clooney while queuing for your full English.
But it was the similarities that were striking.
Butlins also has an area reserved for dance and
expression but the background noise is more likely
to be Rhianna, Beyonce or Girls Aloud rather than
an African drum beat. Both dance areas are
corralled by food outlets, albeit with different
menus. Triple chocolate Belgian muffins,
homemade granola, curried parsnip and apple soup
(Royal Festival Hall); Papa John's pasta and pizza,
Finnegans fish and chips and Burger King (Butlins)
The bars are identical but then bars usually are,
whether it's a cocktail in a glass (RFH) or cocktails
in a jug – get chilled! – Bar Rosso (Butlins), alcohol
transcends classes. Consequently the overall feel of
both places is very similar – a holding area for
families who can sit, eat, drink, dance and relax all
undercover while their children go berserk. MW
Miss Willey invites you to accompany her down the aisle.
If you want to cut down on your calorie intake you
may want to pay a visit to Budgens. The times I’ve
trawled the isles at 6pm ravenously hungry looking
for a tasty serving suggestion and more often than
not come out with bottle of bleach and some kitchen
foil. Possibly in the winter months I’ll be tempted
by a box of firelighters, but who could resist the
glow of Sunny Jim?
One of our customers came up with a good
slogan for them “Budgens – where you do some of
your shopping". Looking in the baskets at the till it
is indeed “some shopping”. Cat food, cheap booze,
gravy granules, fish fingers, milk and a big purple
one. Not like the trolleys you see loaded up in
Morrisons. Now that's what I call shopping!
Everything is massive, it's all on an industrial scale.
Sacks of crisps bigger than a small child, catering
tubs of margarine, huge vacuum packs of wafer thin
ham, bottles of fizzy pop and blocks of cheese that
could double as a doorstop.
There are a couple of things I particularly like
about Morrisons. One is the scotch pies, another is
the older gentlemen who work on the till who like to
comment on the contents your basket. “Oh, saffron.
Which plant does that come from? Don't tell me it
was on television the other night.” “Oh, olive oil.
That comes from Spain doesn't it?”
But the best thing is the Butlins style bing bong
announcements which are generally pie related,
something along the lines of “Welcome to
Morrisons. All of our pies are now half price.
Another good reason to shop at Morrisons.”
If it's top notch shopping you’re after then
please make your way to Larners in Holt, known
locally as the Harrods of the North Norfolk coast.
It's not a supermarket as such, more a purveyor of
provisions and groceries. The stock can look like it's
geared to a different generation – Epicure smoked
quails eggs, a whole shelf given over to anchovy-
based products, the full range of Tiptree jams. A
generation of retired colonels whose taste buds have
dissolved from too much whiskey and cigar smoke,
little wifey by their side daintily arranging Roka
cheese biscuits on a hostess trolley. Anyone for a
snifter? It’s stoically middle class and gentile,
shopping from a different era. Trolleys are kept to a
minimum, it's everyday shopping that fits neatly into
one basket.
Shopping in Spar doesn't even require the basket,
it can all be fitted in to the crook of your arm. Milk,
toilet roll, newspaper – leaving your right hand free
for your lottery tickets, 'bringing home the bacon'
and I don't mean the type you put in between two
slices of Kingsmill.
KNITTING AIN’T
SEXY. I love knitting and I think it's great that it’s
becoming more popular. I don’t even mind the
knitting groups that are being set up – Knit and
Knatter, Purl and Prattle, Cable and Carp (or maybe
that's a fishing group...) – but it’s just not attractive
to be seen actually doing it.
First, you have to sit in a 'good light'. For this,
read incredibly unflattering. You need to sit up
reasonably straight with elbows in – hardly languid
– and adopt the knitting pose – chin tucked in, so no
fine profile, and peer over the top of your glasses.
You put up a physical barrier around yourself with
wool, needles, pens and paper, patterns. And the
actual act of knitting is, well, quite spiky, with
elbows and needles moving about.
My friend Jane said that she was knitting the
other night with a rug over her knees and the cat on
her lap. Her husband Richard walked in and thought
it was his nan sitting there. Which is my point
exactly.
I should think it highly unlikely that anyone has
ever said "Put that wool away, you little minx. I'm
overcome with lust". (The response to which would
probably be "Hang on, I've just got to a tricky bit".)
And I'd put money on it that nobody has admitted
“Do you know, the first time I really fancied her
was when she was sitting there knitting those grey
mittens". Like many other pleasurable occupations,
knitting should be done alone. In private. Because it
just ain't sexy. AS
Dominic Thelwell, the 'Man in a high wind' has
moved. Familiar to Londoners and tourists he has
stood near the London Eye with his inside out
umbrella and trailing scarf for over ten years. He has
now appeared in Covent Garden Piazza.
When asked why the move? He replied (out of
the corner of his mouth) “'Mona Lisa in a picture
frame' has stolen my trade. I thought I'd try my luck
here”. Womb
Drawings by
KEITH VAUGHAN. 2
nd to 25
th July.
Catalogue available.
Abbott and Holder Ltd
30 Museum Street, London WC1
www.abbottandholder.co.uk
Page 6
I don't know if there’s already been a television
series and spin off book where a celebrity pensioner
– Michael Palin, Germaine Greer – travels
with a bus pass. It would certainly be a low cost
production. Perhaps it could be sponsored by
Windeeze.
I know the perfect bus route for the first
programme: the Norfolk Green Coast Hopper. It
runs between Cromer and Hunstanton, along the
cliffs and by the salt marshes of the Nort
Coast, shadowing at a discreet distance the coastal
path. If you haven't got a bus pass it’ll
breaking your journey as you fancy in the flinty
villages or seaside towns.
The buses run every half hour and they'll stop
anywhere along the route. So a bit of walking, a bus,
a beer, a spot of lunch at Morston, I'm sure you get
the idea. It's marvellous. I tried it once
crawl (in the name of research) but I'm not really
T’was the summer of 2008, which is almost a distant memory now, but the
summer it did be, and Salthouse we did visit.
Accompanied by our handsome, debonair young pup, I took a trip with my
wife, whose name I simply can not remember, and drove the two miles from our
fine, rustic lodgings, in our cramped but comfortable 4x4, to view the famous
harbour town. And even Pig Dickens, one of
within our dogs possession, engaged with the surroundings immediately,
meaning that we were in luck.
Having partaken of an incredible luncheon at Biscuits, or Crackers, or
Cookies, or whatever my wife says it’s called, the thr
for a while and enjoyed the surprisingly pleasant air which swept upon us from
the aged, underdeveloped seafront, and dreamt of glorious times gone by: times
when waste of any kind could happily be
By Will Brown.
been a television
series and spin off book where a celebrity pensioner
travels around
certainly be a low cost
sponsored by
I know the perfect bus route for the first
programme: the Norfolk Green Coast Hopper. It
runs between Cromer and Hunstanton, along the
cliffs and by the salt marshes of the North Norfolk
hadowing at a discreet distance the coastal
aven't got a bus pass it’ll cost you £5,
breaking your journey as you fancy in the flinty
The buses run every half hour and they'll stop
the route. So a bit of walking, a bus,
, I'm sure you get
once as a pub
in the name of research) but I'm not really
one for daytime drinking
sunburned even though you've been mostly inside.
Probably better is to get the bus to Wiveton and
have breakfast at Wiveton Hall.
walk up the drive like you own the place and you'll
come across the delightful outhouse
Honourable Desmond McCar
cafe. If you don't see him you’
at the dogs. You can have a fantastic home
style fry up sitting at tables under pine trees looking
out to sea over the marshes.
Now back to the TV
sitting on a rustic seat by a flint wall with
hollyhocks behind. She's doing her specky granny
look. The music comes up...
Armada...“If you're fond of sand dunes and salty
air, quaint little villages here
How's that for programme one? Next week Janet
Street Porter on the Isle of Wight.
In Praise of SalthouseBy Scott James Donaldson
T’was the summer of 2008, which is almost a distant memory now, but the
summer it did be, and Salthouse we did visit.
by our handsome, debonair young pup, I took a trip with my
wife, whose name I simply can not remember, and drove the two miles from our
fine, rustic lodgings, in our cramped but comfortable 4x4, to view the famous
harbour town. And even Pig Dickens, one of the many literary pseudonyms
within our dogs possession, engaged with the surroundings immediately,
Having partaken of an incredible luncheon at Biscuits, or Crackers, or
Cookies, or whatever my wife says it’s called, the three of us loosened our belts
for a while and enjoyed the surprisingly pleasant air which swept upon us from
the aged, underdeveloped seafront, and dreamt of glorious times gone by: times
be accepted by our great ocean without
Class 121: Special Family Interbreed Champions.
Class 122: Supreme
And so the list of classes in the agricu
programme went on.
were wandering around who looked quite special,
and who could certainly be interbreed champions,
but the classes, it transpired, applied
dairy cattle.
An expert on cows was giving a running
commentary as the a
“Just look at the lovely evenness of rump structu
here”, he said with relish.
udder definition anywhere.”
What fabulous names these animals have
Shadowfax Arabella, Dunmoor Mutfo
Gatterley Goldmine.
from a racy Victorian novelette.
would be the villai
while Shadowfax Arabella
swirly dress.
love Arabella, but be
not husband material, would
estate looking swarthy and diving into ponds.
On the other hand, there was a calf
Jordan Charmaine, up until now a name only heard
being bellowed by a woman wearing leggings in
Lidl.
Many people think the recital of areas in the
shipping f
Fisher, German Bight, Sole, Fastnet.
agricultural show we had the “sheeping forecast”:
Cotswold, Galway, Leicester Longwool, Teeswater,
Wensleydale and White Face Dartmoor. Beautiful.
The names, anyway.
beautiful and seem to urinate a
paraded around.
perhaps by next year, Gemini Jordan Charmaine
will have calves of her own and Shadowfax
Arabella and Dunmoor Mutford Mayday will have
finally plighted their troth.
The 63rd Aylsham Show will take place on Bank Hol
Monday, 31st August 2009 at Blickling Park
Aylsham, Norfolk
one for daytime drinking – you end up feeling
though you've been mostly inside.
Probably better is to get the bus to Wiveton and
have breakfast at Wiveton Hall. Yes really. Just
like you own the place and you'll
come across the delightful outhouse which the
Desmond McCarthy has turned into a
If you don't see him you’ll hear him shouting
You can have a fantastic home-made
style fry up sitting at tables under pine trees looking
out to sea over the marshes.
proposal. There's Germaine
tting on a rustic seat by a flint wall with
hollyhocks behind. She's doing her specky granny
s up...it's that one by Groove
fond of sand dunes and salty
quaint little villages here and there...".
r programme one? Next week Janet
Street Porter on the Isle of Wight.
In Praise of Salthouse By Scott James Donaldson
T’was the summer of 2008, which is almost a distant memory now, but the
by our handsome, debonair young pup, I took a trip with my
wife, whose name I simply can not remember, and drove the two miles from our
fine, rustic lodgings, in our cramped but comfortable 4x4, to view the famous
the many literary pseudonyms
within our dogs possession, engaged with the surroundings immediately,
Having partaken of an incredible luncheon at Biscuits, or Crackers, or
ee of us loosened our belts
for a while and enjoyed the surprisingly pleasant air which swept upon us from
the aged, underdeveloped seafront, and dreamt of glorious times gone by: times
threat of contamination or lawsuit.
Once the beatific Jack Russell Kerouac’s crab salad had settled within his
furry belly, we permitted ourselves a lengthy walk of almost fifteen minutes
along the stone-clad beach and, all things considered, this
fact, the woollen genius of Mr Dog-
collection of sticks, chewing of rocks and examination of the human soul in
distress, that we are now considering buying a house nearby.
And so, by way of conclusion, I would like to recommend to you fellow
adventurers, a journey beyond the city limits that is actually worth taking,
despite what you may have heard about life beside the sea.
Come to Salthouse: our dog really quite likes it.
Scott James Donaldson is co autho
Nobrow Publishing
By Jo Bunting.
Class 121: Special Family Interbreed Champions.
Class 122: Supreme Interbreed Champion.
And so the list of classes in the agricultural show
programme went on. Quite a number of families
were wandering around who looked quite special,
and who could certainly be interbreed champions,
but the classes, it transpired, applied to categories of
dairy cattle.
An expert on cows was giving a running
commentary as the animals paraded round the ring.
“Just look at the lovely evenness of rump structure
here”, he said with relish. “You won’t see better
udder definition anywhere.”
t fabulous names these animals have –
hadowfax Arabella, Dunmoor Mutford Mayday,
Gatterley Goldmine. They sound like characters
om a racy Victorian novelette. Gatterley Goldmine
would be the villain, striding around in breeches,
while Shadowfax Arabella would float past in a
swirly dress. Meanwhile Dunmoor Mayday would
love Arabella, but being working class and therefore
band material, would just hang around on the
estate looking swarthy and diving into ponds.
On the other hand, there was a calf called Gemini
Jordan Charmaine, up until now a name only heard
being bellowed by a woman wearing leggings in
Many people think the recital of areas in the
shipping forecast sounds poetic: Tyne, Dogger,
, German Bight, Sole, Fastnet. At the
agricultural show we had the “sheeping forecast”:
Cotswold, Galway, Leicester Longwool, Teeswater,
ydale and White Face Dartmoor. Beautiful.
The names, anyway. Sheep aren’t actually that
beautiful and seem to urinate a lot when being
around. But it was a splendid day out, and
perhaps by next year, Gemini Jordan Charmaine
will have calves of her own and Shadowfax
Arabella and Dunmoor Mutford Mayday will have
finally plighted their troth.
The 63rd Aylsham Show will take place on Bank Holiday
31st August 2009 at Blickling Park, near
Aylsham, Norfolk.
Once the beatific Jack Russell Kerouac’s crab salad had settled within his
furry belly, we permitted ourselves a lengthy walk of almost fifteen minutes
clad beach and, all things considered, this was not dreadful. In
-toy-evsky shone through so finely in his
collection of sticks, chewing of rocks and examination of the human soul in
distress, that we are now considering buying a house nearby.
nclusion, I would like to recommend to you fellow
adventurers, a journey beyond the city limits that is actually worth taking,
eard about life beside the sea.
Come to Salthouse: our dog really quite likes it.
thor of The Bento Bestiary, published by
Class 121: Special Family Interbreed Champions.
ltural show
Quite a number of families
were wandering around who looked quite special,
and who could certainly be interbreed champions,
to categories of
An expert on cows was giving a running
nimals paraded round the ring.
re
er
–
rd Mayday,
They sound like characters
Gatterley Goldmine
n, striding around in breeches,
float past in a
Meanwhile Dunmoor Mayday would
working class and therefore
just hang around on the
called Gemini
Jordan Charmaine, up until now a name only heard
being bellowed by a woman wearing leggings in
Many people think the recital of areas in the
Tyne, Dogger,
At the
agricultural show we had the “sheeping forecast”:
Cotswold, Galway, Leicester Longwool, Teeswater,
ydale and White Face Dartmoor. Beautiful.
Sheep aren’t actually that
lot when being
t was a splendid day out, and
perhaps by next year, Gemini Jordan Charmaine
will have calves of her own and Shadowfax
Arabella and Dunmoor Mutford Mayday will have
iday
, near
Once the beatific Jack Russell Kerouac’s crab salad had settled within his
furry belly, we permitted ourselves a lengthy walk of almost fifteen minutes
was not dreadful. In
evsky shone through so finely in his
collection of sticks, chewing of rocks and examination of the human soul in
nclusion, I would like to recommend to you fellow
adventurers, a journey beyond the city limits that is actually worth taking,
by
Page 7
inquire about Jayne, Janet or Juliette.
It's a bit nerve wracking at first getting the hang
of the steering (they have engines not sails) and
making sure you don't collide with other boats,
wherries, ducks or nesting birds and then the
potentially embarrassing bit when you come to
moor, between two stationary boats (best not to try
this tricky manoeuvre after a couple of pints of
Wherry).
But once you have the hang of that it's a doddle.
Then all you have to do is glide through reed beds
and lily pads looking for a suitable place to drop
anchor. It's all about nature and relaxing so stick to
destinations like West Somerton and Horsey, away
from the supersized pleasure boats.
Sailing with Norfolk Etc.
By Theo and George Lazarides,
schoolboys from London.
Every summer we sail for a week from Morston
Quay, with the company Norfolk Etc. Our
instructors are all teenagers who live in North
Norfolk and have sailed for years. They are really
fun and above all give us a sense of freedom.
We are actually allowed to sail dingys on the sea
on our own. We know someone is always watching,
in case we capsize or get hit by the boom (at least
once a day) but it gives us a real sense of adventure.
The way you are taught to sail is always through
doing it. We have races, play at pirates and are able
to leap from boat to boat. It is very safe but there is
something about it that makes it feel like the most
adventurous thing you can do.
The best days are the sunny ones but with
enough wind to be able to go fast, it is as though
someone has given you the keys to their car!! We
really love it, it is because of the adventure but also
because of how kind and friendly the instructors are.
The cold , rainy days when they all look after us
are still just as fun. We sail in groups but they make
sure everyone can do their best without you really
knowing that you are being taught anything.
At the end of the week when you see what you
have achieved it is hard to believe it. We are racing
this summer and really looking forward to it.
No. 10 10, Augusta Street, SHERINGHAM.
LUNCHEONS and SUPPERS.
www. no10sheringham.com
Reservations 01263 82440.
Fish at its VERY BEST.
FISH PIES - PATES
TARTS - FISHCAKES
Stable Yard, HOLT.
Telephone 01263 711913.
If you fancy a jaunt to this neck of the woods, Miss
Willey will be happy to recommend places to stay.
Here are her suggestions for places you might like
to visit.
North Norfolk Railway, Sheringham. Telephone
01263 820800.
If you feel like being adventurous and travelling
to Norfolk by public transport it can be quite a
memorable journey. The train from Norwich to
Sheringham gives you a glimpse of the Broads, a
number of churches and a couple of wooden
crossing keepers’ cottages.
If you time it right, you can then take the steam
train from Sheringham to Holt. This takes you
through Weybourne and across Kelling Heath which
is stunning gorse and heathland. Then twixt sea and
pine you arrive at Holt station. There’s sometimes a
no 38 Routemaster bus to take you to the town
centre, otherwise it’s a mile walk. Possibly a little
drawn out for some, but if the wind’s in the right
direction it’s marvellous.
St Judes Gallery. By the Village Shop,
Itteringham. Telephone 01263 587666. Open
Thursday to Saturday.
As well as Angie Lewin’s distinctive and
collectable prints, the gallery is a showcase for St
Judes fabrics and stationery. In the St Judes
tradition, collaborations will be in the offing with
other artists such as Mark Hearld, Johnny Hannah
and Chris Brown.
Richard Scott Antiques. High Street, Holt.
Telephone 01263 712479.
If you like pressed glass, Sunderland ware,
Staffordshire pottery, china tea bowls and Victorian
glassware you will like Richard Scott Antiques and
you'll also like the man himself. He always has time
for a chat and having worked in the restoration dept.
at the V&A he’s incredibly knowledgeable about
the stock. Not in a pompous way, more in a friendly
vicar meets Alec Guinness sort of way. He’s also
very good at impersonations. See if you can get him
to do the two cockney workmen employed to scrub
up priceless sculptures in the V&A stores, it's better
than any Pete and Dud sketch.
G.A Key's Auctions of Aylsham. Telephone 01263
733195.
Always worth a look at their general sale every
Monday, plus specialist sales throughout the year.
The cafe is full of old boy Norfolk types. Coats
belted with string de rigueur.
East Anglian Transport Museum. Carlton
Colville, Lowestoft. Telephone 01502 518459.
You don't have to be an anorak to appreciate the
delights of this transport museum - just an eye for
detail, a liking for moquette and a fondness for egg
sandwiches. Set in an unpromising suburb of
Lowestoft it succeeds in a way many bigger
museums don't. The scale of it is quite modest but
what they have on display is all top notch.
Started in 1962 with a Lowestoft tramcar body
rescued from its use as a summerhouse, it now has
on display trams from Blackpool, Amsterdam and
London, trolleybuses, vintage buses and, in a garage
awaiting restoration, a 1935 dustcart, a 1948
milkfloat and a 1935 bread delivery van.
Not everyone's cup of tea I know, but if it's a
cuppa you're after pop into the Terminus Tearooms.
Converted from a prefab, they have managed to
capture the atmosphere of a vintage bus station cafe
with a menu to match.
If you fancy a day poking around a greasy
garage, inspecting the interior of a road mender’s
sleeping wagon (a bit like a shepherd’s hut but with
shovels instead of lambs) and admiring authentic
street furniture, then I highly recommend the Bus
Event on July 12th. Vintage buses will be on hand to
take passengers from Lowestoft station.
Another date for you diary: September 12th and
13th, Trolleybus weekend. It would be a very cynical
person indeed not to be charmed by this delightfully
English Museum.
Martham Boats. Martham, Great Yarmouth.
Telephone 01493 740249.
I admit that holidaying on the Norfolk Broads
may not sound like an idyllic way to spend a week –
unless of course it's on a lovely wooden 1950's
cruiser with solid wood interior, green Formica
surfaces and cosy built-in cabin beds. If this appeals
then I suggest you contact Martham Boat Yard and
Holt. England : East
Norfolk : North
Market Town : Georgian
Population : Elderly. Memory: Hazy. Visibility : Poor
Small Shops : Abundant
Butchers. Fishmongers : Several
Dover Sole . Whiting : Plentiful
Coastline : Fair
Flint Cottages : Farrow And Ball : Widespread
Scattered Bungalows : White Gloss
Brancaster . Blakeney : Prosperous
Sheringham . Cromer : Moderate To Rough
Caravans Moving Across From Midlands : Imminent
Transport : Poor. Leading To Deep Depression
Page 10
Noteworthy “Old Style” Salads.
Telephone 01263 7405552.
.
20, High Street, HOLT.
Wet Shaves by Appointment
Telephone 01263 713020.
Drink Beer at the
“World Famous Cromer
Crabs Gather Here.”
Noted for their Sweetness.
Garden Street, CROMER
Can you find the ten differences between the two pictures?
Drawing by Beth Morrison.
By Miss Ellie Finlay from Gloucester.
Page 11
Caravans of Love?
weekend, even if it’s just for one night. We’ve
bought a wind up gramophone and a stack of 78's
from Key's auction and very quickly filled the
caravan with junk so it’s now resembling Freddie's
house.
Freddie and John are generally hanging around
the site, more often than not looking for some free
grub. An awful lot of caravan hopping goes on
which involves the pair of them disappearing into a
van and emerging some time later looking pleased
with themselves
Freddie is about 70 but it’s impossible to put an
age on John - he could be 25 or 45. When not eating
they’ll be mending nets or fiddling around in their
shed looking purposeful but always keeping an ear
cocked for the kettle going on. John in particular has
a sweet tooth and tends to linger a bit too long after
he's demolished half a Battenberg and swilled down
several cups of tea.
Fred enjoys a practical joke - like the time he
removed the wheels from our friend’s car. She had
to go to his house to reclaim them and answer
questions: Can you cook? Can you clean? I'm
looking for a wife. He even took part in the TV
programme Game for a Laugh. He had one of the
vans removed from the site to see the expression on
the owners’ face when they turned up for a relaxing
weekend. Oh how they laughed.
Evening walks are particularly lovely in the
summer, especially after a downpour. In the back
lanes of East Runton the air is sweet with the smell
of cow parsley and Alexander’s. Once around the
pier then back to the van to read or listen to
gramophone records. All together now "When father
papered the parlour you couldn't see Pa for paste,
dabbing it here, dabbing it there, paste and paper
everywhere".
Spring 1992
By now we've become smitten with Norfolk and
keen to move out of London. One weekend we see
an advertisement in the local paper for a shop in
Elm Hill, Norwich with a flat above. Within a few
months we’ve signed the lease and are on the move.
We hand the keys of the caravan over to Will's
sisters who enjoy it as much as we did...well, for a
short time anyway.
Freddie in his old age is getting difficult. He’s
chopped down the hollyhocks and poppies we’d
planted and lets himself into the caravan when no-
one’s there and removes things “for safe keeping”.
The final act comes when Will's sister Alice turns up
for an Easter break to find the van gone. It’s not
another practical joke – he’s replaced it with a new
one and sold it plus the pitch to someone else.
We report it to the police who are keen to get
him for something but Freddie has some story about
our caravan falling over the cliff edge. "It's probably
in France now", he muses. Strange, we think,
Holland you could understand.
It’s a sad and untimely end to our seaside retreat
but as the saying goes when one door closes another
one opens – or maybe it’s twelve doors in this case.
A couple of weeks later we’re reading the local
paper and an advertisement catches our eye: “1890's
railway carriage for sale, ideal restoration project”
...To be continued.
October 1989
“I have a van for you. Meet me at the site. Freddie
Love”. The note arrives in the post. The ‘van’ is a
caravan, the site is in East Runton just outside
Cromer.
We’d stumbled across the site when were out
walking on one of our weekends away from
London. It charmed us instantly. It was small – only
9 vans, a ramshackle toilet block, a wooden hut
filled with fishing nets and floats and a couple of
older style caravans, the rounded 1960's type. Hello,
we thought, this looks like our sort of place.
We made enquiries about the owner. Freddie
Love, we were told. Lives in West Runton but isn't
on the phone. You’ll have to go to his house. Bit of
a character. Even better, we thought, South London
prepares you for characters.
We found the house, easily identified by its
bright red door, the sign saying Buckingham Palace
and the line-up of dolls heads on broom handles in
the window. I hung back just in case he had a
Staffordshire pit bull (it really was time to move out
of London).
He didn't but it was still a bit scary. Freddie
opened the door, eating baked beans out of a tin,
followed by his son John and an overpowering
whiff of the crabs they were boiling up in the back
yard. With a house full of junk and Freddie in his
fisherman’s gansey and flat cap, they were the
Norfolk version of Steptoe and Son. We were
caught, hook line and sinker.
We explained that we wanted to buy a caravan if
one ever came up and left our address. He promised
to get in touch and a few weeks later he did.
We meet on the site and as luck would have it,
it’s the van we had in mind. Price £500. Freddie just
about manages to keep a straight face. We don't
care, we just need an escape from London.
Unfortunately it’s the end of the season so we can’t
use it until March, but we celebrate with a couple of
bevvies in the Hotel De Paris and make plans for the
great caravan makeover
Spring 1990
We've gutted the van and Will’s spent the winter
making new cupboard doors for the kitchenette.
They’re now a lively shade of green with chrome
handles. It was a bit of a struggle getting them up on
the train but worth it. The walls are cream and we've
used brown lino paint on the floor.
It has a double bed which cleverly folds up into
the wall (perfect for a caravan but somehow never
looks quite right in a studio flat in Knightsbridge) and
two single beds which double up as the seating area.
It’s primitive to say the least – an enamel bucket
serves as the lavatory – but we do benefit from gas
lamps. They have a distinctive smell which we
become very fond of.
It was a particularly frosty night in March when
we spent our first night under sheet metal and it was
like sleeping inside a fridge. Rule no 1: don't try to
replicate the 1950's holiday experience with blankets
on the bed. A 15 tog goose down duvet is essential
when the temperature outside is minus 6C and there’s
ice on the inside of the windows.
Within a couple of weeks though we’re fully up to
speed with the caravanning experience. I can even
knock up a fairly decent meal on the cooker and
changing the gas bottle has become second nature.
Summer 1990
Having the van has given us the opportunity to
escape from London which we do virtually every
Page 12
I like nothing so much as a summer carnival in a
seaside town. Starting with the build
scrutinising the photographs in the local pap
carnival queen contestants, whether or not we'll
have the Red Arrows this year, getting the pullout
map from the middle of the paper and tracing the
route.
The Carnival queen and her attend
chosen and announced. The Queen and one of her
attendants are invariably pretty and a completely
obvious choice. But they always choose a really big
plain girl as the second attendant, as if to say “
not just about looks, you know”
Then there's the frenzy of construction.
around town you turn a corner and come across a
huge lorry with seats and arches on the back and a
group of women winding crepe pap
everything and snapping at each other.
We're given weekly updates on
Angels nursery is going to decorate its float. W
hear that its only through the generosity of local
businessman Mr Whoever that Nature's Way health
shop can now be in the carnival after having all its
costumes stolen. We see countless pictures of the
carnival Queen visiting the local old people's home,
- her sash getting grubbier as the build up goes on.
Finally, it’s here. It's a gorgeous day, the sun
blazing down. The parade runs the length of the
promenade, hotels one side, the se
other. People start lining the route from three
o'clock, even though the parade doesn't start
until six.
The children are getting over excited, the men
(who don't want to be there anyway) are ey
the beautiful teenage girls wearing virtually nothing
and the women are either being ratty with their
husbands or admiring the local firemen (in dressed
down versions of their uniform) who wander up and
down the prom rattling buckets collecting for
benevolent fund, competing with carnival collectors
who have different coloured buckets.
It's six o'clock. The roar of conversation quietens
down to a hum of anticipation, as they await the first
sounds of the carnival music. And then
can hear it – the first far away sounds of the mos
annoying music in the world. Neither brass band,
fairground or pop music but a hideous combination
of the three, all blurred together. But it’s great.
it is! People start cheering and waving flags and
coins rain down from the hotel windows, as people
chuck money down to the waiting firemen
health and safety then).
By Alice Spencer.
g so much as a summer carnival in a
seaside town. Starting with the build-up –
scrutinising the photographs in the local paper of the
whether or not we'll
rrows this year, getting the pullout
paper and tracing the
The Carnival queen and her attendants are
The Queen and one of her
d a completely
se a really big
attendant, as if to say “it's
zy of construction. Walking
und town you turn a corner and come across a
huge lorry with seats and arches on the back and a
of women winding crepe paper around
how Little
s going to decorate its float. We
hear that its only through the generosity of local
businessman Mr Whoever that Nature's Way health
l after having all its
less pictures of the
people's home,
her sash getting grubbier as the build up goes on.
ous day, the sun
s the length of the
the sea the
g the route from three
arade doesn't start
The children are getting over excited, the men
are eyeing up
the beautiful teenage girls wearing virtually nothing
are either being ratty with their
admiring the local firemen (in dressed
down versions of their uniform) who wander up and
down the prom rattling buckets collecting for the
benevolent fund, competing with carnival collectors
The roar of conversation quietens
down to a hum of anticipation, as they await the first
And then – yes, you
the first far away sounds of the most
Neither brass band,
eous combination
’s great. Here
People start cheering and waving flags and
coins rain down from the hotel windows, as people
ney down to the waiting firemen (no
The Queen's float is at the front.
scaffolding lorry splendidly covered in white
crepe paper and glitter. There's a brass band in front
and the town crier walking alongside
his uniform. The Queen doesn't look too good either
– a bit green around the gills
as the night before she'd had to attend the Carnival
Ball at the Winter Garden
the five course dinner
finished the night outside the Viking nightclub
snogging someone she went to school with.
So the poor Queen’
concentrating on not being sick from the
fumes of the lorry, trying to for
thumping head (the brass band isn't helping
remembering to wave and smile at the same
time. All she'd wanted was a bit of glamour and
possible career as a model.
The floats roll past.
done up 1940s style. Actually, they're probably j
wearing their own clothes.
cheer, largely because they're almost naked and very
sun tanned. It goes on and on.
there were so many organisations
a town this size, let alone them all wanting to join
in.
Then that's it – it’s over.
last straggy little floats go past and frankly, you're a
little bit bored by the whole thing now.
off and there's just the whiff of hamburger and stray
bits of crepe paper
air. Tomorrow the carnival proper starts with a
display of gymnastics at the bandstand
of the Health and Beauty
1981 was a vintage year.
pram wearing nothing but a nappy and smot
Mr. Whippy ice cream.
when we got home, I found that the pram was full of
coins thrown down to the carnival collectors wh
had missed. And we had the Red Arrows
There's something essentially grim about
carnivals in English seaside towns.
celebration of a little heard of Saint in the smallest
village in Spain can make Queen Elizabeth's
coronation look like an intimate party, we are hard
pressed to come up with
of decorated vehicles and twenty quids worth of
fireworks. But then it only really matters to the army
of harassed women and red faced men
Guild, who are already planning next year’s event,
even though they swore this would be abs
last time they’d get involved.
LIFE’S A DITCH
The Ramblings of a Gentleman
Whether by pilgrimage to Canterbury, meanders
along the willowed banks of the Thames or rising
over Leith Hill, I walk along ancient track
for a thousand years by the ghosts of other
travellers.
And before night falls my thoughts turn to camp
when in a secluded glade I will draw a taught line
between two ancient trunks and cast over a tarp for a
roof. In an improvised hearth a warming fire is
struck to hang a billycan for tea, and a bedroll is
spread upon the ground. So satisfied with my lot I
rest weary bones, lulled into an honest sleep by
gentle breezes and
owl. For the life of the gentleman Roamer is much
as always has been in all respects bar one. The
matter of correct and appropriate attire!
The sense of what i
wonky as a broken compass and alas the finery of
the breech and knee sock are become rare. The
subtle hues of corduroys and woo
lycra and fleece assembled in a techni
mayhem. Nowhere is this fallen standa
manifest than in the region of the head garb. No
more the centuries old weather beaten wide
brimmed felt hat or the cowpat tweed ‘flattie’
usurped by the baseball cap. Sirs I must protest!
And the click of nailed hobs on the Tarmacadam has
sadly passed and the stick has become metalled and
telescopic.
Well I can report that there is a revolt afoot for
this gentleman of the road will not bow to this
modernism and is still to be seen striding over hill,
weald and down clad correctly for his trade in
breeches, high socks, and dependant on the climate,
a tam-o-shanter or deerstalker proudly a top his
head. Shrouded from the elements in a simple un
breathing rubberised cape and protected from
wayward dogs, roadside vagabonds and footpads by
a stout blackthorn 'knob' that will soon see them
away. Lower legs wrapped with canvas buskins or
puttees resistant against clawing mud and
disgruntled adders.
And so attired I will oft be found tramping in
suitable weather and inclement clothing.
ueen's float is at the front. It’s a
scaffolding lorry splendidly covered in white net,
There's a brass band in front
and the town crier walking alongside sweltering in
The Queen doesn't look too good either
d the gills – which isn't surprising
as the night before she'd had to attend the Carnival
nter Garden and was bored rigid by
course dinner and the speeches. She'd
finished the night outside the Viking nightclub
snogging someone she went to school with.
So the poor Queen’s feeling pretty grim,
ing on not being sick from the diesel
, trying to forget about her
he brass band isn't helping) and
ve and smile at the same
All she'd wanted was a bit of glamour and a
possible career as a model.
The WI float looks great,
Actually, they're probably just
wearing their own clothes. The lifeguards get a big
cheer, largely because they're almost naked and very
It goes on and on. You wouldn't think
there were so many organisations and businesses in
ne them all wanting to join
over. You've just watched the
last straggy little floats go past and frankly, you're a
bored by the whole thing now. People drift
st the whiff of hamburger and stray
bits of crepe paper floating in the still hot
Tomorrow the carnival proper starts with a
astics at the bandstand by the ladies
Health and Beauty Society.
1981 was a vintage year. My daughter was in her
pram wearing nothing but a nappy and smothered in
Mr. Whippy ice cream. It was all the above and,
when we got home, I found that the pram was full of
coins thrown down to the carnival collectors which
And we had the Red Arrows that year.
There's something essentially grim about
vals in English seaside towns. Whilst the
celebration of a little heard of Saint in the smallest
village in Spain can make Queen Elizabeth's
coronation look like an intimate party, we are hard
me up with anything more than a line
of decorated vehicles and twenty quids worth of
But then it only really matters to the army
arassed women and red faced men of the Town
Guild, who are already planning next year’s event,
swore this would be absolutely the
get involved.
LIFE’S A DITCH.
Ramblings of a Gentleman
Tramp.
By Romany Johnson.
Whether by pilgrimage to Canterbury, meanders
along the willowed banks of the Thames or rising
over Leith Hill, I walk along ancient track-ways trod
for a thousand years by the ghosts of other
travellers.
And before night falls my thoughts turn to camp
en in a secluded glade I will draw a taught line
between two ancient trunks and cast over a tarp for a
roof. In an improvised hearth a warming fire is
struck to hang a billycan for tea, and a bedroll is
spread upon the ground. So satisfied with my lot I
st weary bones, lulled into an honest sleep by
le breezes and the distant serenade of a wise
For the life of the gentleman Roamer is much
as always has been in all respects bar one. The
matter of correct and appropriate attire!
The sense of what is proper and correct is as
wonky as a broken compass and alas the finery of
the breech and knee sock are become rare. The
subtle hues of corduroys and woollen replaced by
lycra and fleece assembled in a techni-coloured
mayhem. Nowhere is this fallen standard more
manifest than in the region of the head garb. No
more the centuries old weather beaten wide
brimmed felt hat or the cowpat tweed ‘flattie’
usurped by the baseball cap. Sirs I must protest!
And the click of nailed hobs on the Tarmacadam has
ssed and the stick has become metalled and
telescopic.
Well I can report that there is a revolt afoot for
this gentleman of the road will not bow to this
modernism and is still to be seen striding over hill,
weald and down clad correctly for his trade in twill
breeches, high socks, and dependant on the climate,
shanter or deerstalker proudly a top his
head. Shrouded from the elements in a simple un
breathing rubberised cape and protected from
wayward dogs, roadside vagabonds and footpads by
t blackthorn 'knob' that will soon see them
Lower legs wrapped with canvas buskins or
puttees resistant against clawing mud and
disgruntled adders.
And so attired I will oft be found tramping in
suitable weather and inclement clothing.
.
Ramblings of a Gentleman
Whether by pilgrimage to Canterbury, meanders
along the willowed banks of the Thames or rising
ways trod
for a thousand years by the ghosts of other
And before night falls my thoughts turn to camp
en in a secluded glade I will draw a taught line
between two ancient trunks and cast over a tarp for a
roof. In an improvised hearth a warming fire is
struck to hang a billycan for tea, and a bedroll is
spread upon the ground. So satisfied with my lot I
st weary bones, lulled into an honest sleep by
istant serenade of a wise
For the life of the gentleman Roamer is much
as always has been in all respects bar one. The
s proper and correct is as
wonky as a broken compass and alas the finery of
the breech and knee sock are become rare. The
len replaced by
coloured
rd more
manifest than in the region of the head garb. No
more the centuries old weather beaten wide
brimmed felt hat or the cowpat tweed ‘flattie’
usurped by the baseball cap. Sirs I must protest!
And the click of nailed hobs on the Tarmacadam has
ssed and the stick has become metalled and
Well I can report that there is a revolt afoot for
this gentleman of the road will not bow to this
modernism and is still to be seen striding over hill,
twill
breeches, high socks, and dependant on the climate,
shanter or deerstalker proudly a top his
head. Shrouded from the elements in a simple un-
breathing rubberised cape and protected from
wayward dogs, roadside vagabonds and footpads by
t blackthorn 'knob' that will soon see them
Lower legs wrapped with canvas buskins or
puttees resistant against clawing mud and
And so attired I will oft be found tramping in
Page 13
How the Cornish Riviera Express will look in the 1950s.
By Matthew Loukes.
which has some faintly alarming straps to keep me
from falling, and immediately feel the need for the
corridor facilities. After a couple of short ladder
climbs and longer walks up the corridor, dressed in
a way that would get one removed from a branch
line, I lie under the prickly wool and cold cotton and
dream of a night’s rest, before emerging into the
Western world of Barbara Hepworth and brilliant
light.
After an hour of wobbly progress the train stops
in a siding. Through a plastic ventilation slide I can
make out some words on a white board. Slough at
night has much to recommend it, in that one can’t
see much of what drove the Poet Laureate to call for
the B-52’s and it tickles me to think that is where
the Riviera Express pauses for an hour or so, to push
the passengers over into the arms of Morpheus. It
might work better in daylight, though.
Six hours or so later, and an hour outside
Penzance, the man with the sideburns slides us in a
tray of tea, coffee and biscuits. The charm of this is
hard to overstate. Yes, the tea is too strong, the
coffee too weak to defend itself and the biscuits
wouldn’t trouble any infant dentition but so what?
There was an early Great Western Railways
poster campaign for the sleeper service where the
tag-line talked of experiencing one’s “own country”
because Cornwall and Italy had “similar shapes”,
“climate” and “natural beauties”, illustrated with a
pair of women in modest traditional dress, with the
West Country beauty winning the day with a racy
pair of bare feet. The feelings evoked by this poster
live on – in Paddington, in a Slough siding and in
the utterly British tea-tray. The attempt at being
exotic fails totally, of course, but that’s precisely
what gives it so much charm. Bravo, as they
probably don’t say on the Riviera.
Estrella Damn by Matthew Loukes is published by Soul
Bay Press.
Marianna Kennedy Resin Lamps.
Bookcloth Blinds.
Venetian Glass Mirrors.
3, Fournier Street, SPITALFIELDS.
www.mariannakennedy.co.uk
“Life is a Pig Sty”
The Finest Pig Arcs in the
Eastern Counties.
www.clarkesofwalsham.co.uk
Close to midnight, under the soaring cathedral of
Brunel’s train shed at Paddington Station, the last
drunken commuter has grabbed his pasty and
Standard for the journey. The reheated and the
obnoxious combining in newsprint and greasy
pastry. A few people stare forlornly at the
departures board, facing a five hour wait and some
cold stone to sit on. But we are standing on a remote
platform, tucked to one side, outside some sadly
dark offices that once had been waiting rooms. I can
see these rooms filled with smoke, steam, tannin and
well-buttoned passion. Now they contain blue crates
and have tape on the windows but that doesn’t stop
my imagination chuffing off up the track, imagining
Albert Finney bellowing “Stop That Train!” or
Marilyn doing a sidestep in front of a dragged-up
Curtis and Lemmon.
My reverie is broken by my wife nudging me in
the ribs as a guard beckons us towards the open door
of a carriage that looks more Leyton than Orient.
This is the Riviera Express to Cornwall, a sleeper
service to Penzance that has run, if that’s the right
term, since 1904.
The man greeting us wears a peaked cap
matching his dark blue jacket, a fine collection of
enamelled badges and regulation 1974 sideburns.
His face is a nice shade of post-box red, burnished
by the rushing wind through train windows and,
perhaps, the odd glass of Pale Ale at the end of a
shift. The look is a little bit like Bernard Cribbins in
the Railway Children, if he’d been a Teddy Boy.
Our guard shows us to a twin berth, which lies
behind a brown wood-effect door trimmed in
polished metal set into a corridor made from what
looks like white Formica. I try not to look
disappointed. Not because the interior isn’t the
polished wood of the Wagons Lit to Istanbul but
because what I’d been hoping for was the royal blue
plastic with ‘atomic’ cross hatching that was so
widely used on 1950’s rolling stock. But before we
get the full tour of our quarters the guard takes us up
the corridor and into what he calls “the lounge”.
This is a carriage done out with comfortable
chairs and a bar in one corner. It’s not anything.
like ritzy, having an atmosphere somewhere
between a dole office, a singles bar and a cross-
channel ferry, but just seeing a train carriage with
furniture that isn’t in rows seems to me to be
impossibly exotic
In the twin berth, private accommodation, our
man shows us the ladder for reaching the top bunk,
the chrome light switches, the red plastic heating
control and the coat hooks; all of which are worthy
of mention in any decent design history. We also get
directions to the bathroom and, of course, the sink
hidden under another slab of white industrial plastic
(what’s wrong with the blue?). The bedclothes
comprise heavy blankets in something nervously
approaching tartan, pillows slightly thinner than an
after-dinner mint and sheets that squeak with
cleanliness and starch, like a Conservative’s wife.
The “what do you do in the middle of the night”
question has to be addressed, I suppose. All I will
say is that one would need to be either male and
taller than five feet six, or a considerable gymnast,
to think about it with any degree of seriousness.
Back in the bar – sorry – the lounge, with the
train still some twenty minutes from departure, the
scene is not exactly one of abandon. The collection
of holiday makers and people who take this journey
as part of their job are forging some uneasy
alliances. A couple of what used to be called
commercial travellers are making talk small enough
to need a microscope, trying to ignore the family
beside them who clearly haven’t told their teenage
children quite what they meant by “Riviera”. I’d
love to ask the two men if they are sharing, but can’t
quite think of the way to express it. Sadly, the
operating companies are well on the way to
removing this relic of different times by phasing out
the “single berth” ticket where one would share the
tiny sleeping space with a stranger of whom the
train company would only guarantee they would be
”of the same sex”. I think when it came to choice of
bunks a coin was tossed.
In the privacy of the cabin, after some smuggled
drinks and sandwiches, bed-time coincides with the
slow pull out of Paddington. I take the top bunk,
Page 14
Gin palaces had their origins in chemist's shops back
when juniper flavoured hooch enjoyed a reputation
as an elixir. The liquor was mainly sold to take
away or to drink standing up in the shop. In the
1820's the shops got bigger, cut back on the
apothecary's remedies and increased the sale of beer
in an environment that combined high craftsmanship
with unabashed vulgarity. The Princess Louise in
Holborn is one of the last.
The front of the pub is a mixture of marble
columns, leaded glass, and enormous carriage
lamps. Inside an ornate ceiling and pearly globe
lights take one back to a time of mutton-chop
whiskers, foggy nights and the clack of walking
sticks on the pavement. The drinks come from the
Samuel Smith's brewery, which aren't to everyone's
taste but put that to one side pop in and go to the
lavatory.
It's not the first thing one thinks of when visiting
a public house – in some that I know it's the very
last – but the gents in the Louise are a treasure. The
combination of dark wood, tiled walls in cream and
green, mosaic flooring, polished brass and marbled
urinals make a visit an urgent requirement. ML.
1. Norman Balon, the Coach and Horses, Soho.
2. The Goldsmith’s Tavern, New Cross.
3. The Magdala Tavern, Hampstead.
4. The ones we had in mind were Sloane Square
and Liverpool Street but there appear to have
been more than that, so others were accepted.
5. A pair of trousers allegedly belonging to the
artist Walter Sickert.
6. The Metropolitan Tavern.
The winner has been notified. We would include his
name but we can’t find where we put it. All other
correct entrants will receive a small consolation
prize.
Neal’s Yard Dairy Branches in
COVENT GARDEN and
BOROUGH MARKET
We sell CHEESE.
For all of your BANJO
and UKULELE needs.
Earlier in the year Blackpool was in the news when
one of its famous landmarks Yates's (formerly
known as Yates's Wine Lodge) was burnt to the
ground. When the chap being interviewed said they
would restore it to its former glory my ears pricked
up.
I'm proud to say I remember Yates's before it
was refurbed, when it was still like a wild west
saloon. Long mahogany bar, staff in white waiters
jackets, sand or sawdust on the floor and they served
some muck out of oak barrels called Australian
white. It was basic and serviceable and really quite
beautiful.
Unfortunately in the 1980's it became
fashionable for breweries to introduce soft
furnishings into pubs. So out went the characterful
features and in came the swirly patterned carpets,
comfy seating, plus the faux collections of artefacts:
penny farthings, copper warming pans, flat irons
and empty stone beer bottles.
I'm hoping common sense will prevail. I'd like to
think that the original bar will be reinstated, along
with the bentwood chairs and Britannia pub tables.
Etched glass mirrors can be skilfully reproduced to
look as authentic as the original. If they do I will be
back like a shot.
I’ll also be on the look out to see if Robert's
Oyster rooms are still intact. Spartan mahogany and
marble Edwardian dining rooms selling seafood
platters and serving tea from plain white china. Well
at least they were in 1984.
The Duke of York. Roger Street, London WC1.
The inter-war austerity might have been painted
over but it's still there in the scuffed chequerboard
lino, dark panelled walls, crittall windows, Formica
topped tables and an exterior of cream polished
tiles. The Duke of York is tucked at the end of a
mews in Central London, built into a 1930's block of
flats.
Best experienced if one assumes a liberal
interpretation of when six o'clock actually is – I find
stretching it to about 4.30 is about right – and takes
up position in a dark corner, watching the sunlight
creeping across the floor.
It's not perfect; a change of landlords a few years
ago has brought in some new furniture and an
unwelcome emphasis on food. So go now, before
they start putting jugs of lemons on the bar or
installing a television. On the right afternoon, it's not
hard to imagine having a pint spilled on you by
Patrick Hamilton or catching Trevor Howard
squeezing the hand of Celia Johnson. ML.
The Powder Monkey, in Wallsend, part of the
Sizzlers pub chain. Happiness, not normally
associated with Mondays, being guaranteed due to
the price of a pint of lager being slashed by 83
pence, from £2.42 to £1.59.
Chinese Jimmy is normally first through the
doors. Owning a take-away appears to be the ideal
career for a committed socialiser. Jimmy will be in
and out at least a dozen times during the day. I'd
love to know where he keeps going to. I could be
wrong, but I suspect he's not sourcing fresh local
produce for the Pearl Garden.
Kevin Riley, a seriously depressing bloke, pops
in at about half past 12. Last December he was
sectioned and spent Christmas in St Nicks. He'd had
a protracted custody battle with his ex, over the pet
rabbit. He actually secured custody (he paid her a
grand for it!) but the strain was just too much and he
had a complete breakdown. The rabbit dying
probably didn't help.
Physically, if not mentally, things are looking up
for Kevin. His RSI is much improved since they
installed an extra 42" plasma T.V. at the other end
of the bar. He can now alternate his leaning elbow, a
real boon.
The food menu in the Monkey is huge and fairly
low maintenance – a quick wipe with a damp cloth
and it looks as good as new. I reckon at least half of
the choices involve oven chips and frozen peas.
You'd think it would be difficult to spoil oven
chips. Apparently not. Chef appears quite keen to
join his mates saving 83 pence on every pint, so I
suppose he does have an excuse.
Next time, Tuesdays in the Powder Monkey -
quiz night. Wilf
Page 15
By Arthur Dobson Willey, Pitman Poet
We have a little motor car
We’ve had it quite some time
But now its getting on a bit
Its long since passed its prime
When first we got our little car
We all were filled with glee
We used to clean and polish it
Each opportunity
We used to pile into our car
On sunny days and ride
Along the open leafy lanes
To sea or country-side
It used to skip along the road
At bends it never faltered
It used to romp up steepest hills
Its speed remained unaltered
It’s carried almost everything
That you can bring to mind
Including coals and bricks and sand
And folks of every kind
But time and tide has made its mark
On our small transport humble
It cannot face the littlest hill
Without a mightly grumble
The engine’s worn the steering’s gone
The paint-work is a joke
And everywhere that we go now
We leave a trail of smoke
The battry’s gone the light’s are dim
THEtyres bare and baldy
The radiators sprung a leak
And the carpets all are mouldy
So now we think the time has come
And parting will be hard
To send our little motor car
To some car breakers yard
If fortune smiles and we could buy
Another car so splendid
I doubt if it could bring the joy
That small Black Ford Eight car did
Drawing by Beth Morrison.
Brisling's an oily fish and supposedly very good for
your joints. Better than that though, it tastes great
and served on toast makes an excellent breakfast.
90% of the working population probably have a
sandwich for lunch. My favourite filling is without
question Pek. Cheap white bread, margarine and
pepper, thickly sliced Pek and just a hint of the jelly
from the tin. Absolutely superb.
Although ring pulls on tins are a bit Tomorrow's
World for me, they are invaluable when the tin
opener is lost/broken. I prefer a basic opener, not the
ones that you have to stab the tin with, but the next
model up. The really elaborate ones with white
plastic handles never seem to last long and there's
nothing more frustrating than an unopened tin of
ravioli and a tin opener that's just bitten the dust.
And don't get me started on those key mechanisms
found on tins of corned beef.
I had a real stroke of luck the other day when I
received a cheque from the CIS. I had sounded them
out with an extremely tentative claim for
compensation. They replied with an immediate offer
of £2,000 stating that it was company policy to
attempt to settle all such claims with the minimum
of distress to their clients. I thought this was
extremely generous, considering I was only
claiming for tomato sauce stains on my white Fred
Perry after the lid on a tin of sardines finally became
detached with that severe uncoiling action. As a
preventative measure, I normally put the tin inside a
carrier bag before opening it, but could only find a
'bag for life' and I thought that was a bit over the
top. Should you develop a fondness for all things
tinned, an industrial sized roll of Elastoplast will be
your friend.
Tinned fruit is another favourite of mine.
Mandarin segments on a Sunday teatime, served
with ice cream and plenty of the syrup to make a
wonderful sauce. Great for hangovers. I understand
you can now get tinned fruit in natural juices. Why?
Finally, the daddy of them all, gone but not
forgotten - Campbells Condensed Cream Of Celery
Soup. Mind you, I always thought that a full can of
water resulted in excessive dilution. Half to three
quarters produced a much more robust flavour. Wilf.
GOING UP IN THE WORLD.
A few years ago I saw old Black Pudding in the
doorway of Betfred looking pretty sorry for himself
in cap and muffler. He'd fallen off the menu in the
greasy spoon and was after the price of cup of tea.
Blow me the other day I ran into him in Sloane
Square. He'd just stepped out of a swanky restaurant
to smoke his cigar. “You've come up in the world
Black Pudding”, I said. "Boudin Noir to you" he
said. WmB.
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR.Sickert: slim not shady.
“Evening Star, you bring me everything – you bring
the wine, you bring the goat home, you bring the
child to its mother.” These lines of Sappho were
amongst Walter Sickert’s favourite quotations and
he had not even encountered Old Town’s excellent
publication!
Much as he would have enjoyed the last issue, I
think he might have been put out at the suggestion
that he had acquired such an out-sized pair of
corduroys as those illustrated on page 2. In the late
1880s, when he is supposed to have bought them, he
was as svelte as an acrobat and proud of it.
Publicans and old Music Hall artistes are
notoriously unreliable sources of information. They
are quite capable of inventing anything – for money,
or for the chance of a mention in a quality
newspaper...
All best wishes,
Matthew Sturgis
Mr Sturgis is the author of Walter Sickert: A Life
published by Harper Collins. Ed
Tootal Sympathy.
I would like to thank your newspaper for the recent
advice on what not to wear in Newscastle. You see I
too have a polka dot Tootal scarf and had every
intention of wearing it at Jimmy Nail’s H’way the
lads tour at the Gateshead Tram Shed Stadium,
though as my scarf and I go everywhere together, I
have decided to cancel.
Furthermore I would like to express my
symphathy regarding the name calling Will recently
encountered at the hands of callow, unsophisticated
yobs. Quote: “F*****g paedo”. I would just like to
add that here on the Isle of Man my Old Town dark
blue serge sometimes provokes similar reactions.
Though last week while judging the World Tin
Bath Championships, I had an uncommon surprise. I
had just pulled on my round horn rimmed glasses
when some young chav shouted “Oi, Le
Corbusier!”. It quite restored my faith in the youth
of today.
Yours faithfully,
PJD
Page 16
Stanley in cotton twill.
IT’S A BOY! We're delighted to announce a new addition to the
Old Town brood. He's called Stanley.
Stanley is the mutant offspring of Borough and
Marshalsea and a long overdue brother for Overall.
He’s displaying many of the characteristics of
Borough – 3 buttons, patch pockets – but without
Borough's generous, accommodating demeanour.
He’s already developed a rather rebellious streak
demonstrated by a cheeky inside pocket and
strengthening strips behind the pockets. Not
ignoring his feminine side, and in keeping with
Marshalsea's DNA, he’s a slimmer, narrower, and
an altogether closer fit than Borough.
We've high hopes for our Stanley and do hope
you like him. Please feel free to try him out in any
of the following fabrics: cotton twill, drill, canvas
and denim. MW.
Fabric? You Want
Fabric?
Instead of ordering fabric over the telephone from a
regular supplier we occasionally get the chance to