Jan 20 - Memories

I hadn't intended this, but this letter has turned out to be a stroll through distant memories. The next paragraph kicked it off. After that, it became a snowball heading downhill, gathering speed.

2014 promises to be a year just as interesting as last year. It started with the passing of Phil Everly and Eusébio, which triggered a memory. In the days of weekly air travel (80s and 90s) when Ford still paid for Club Class, I was allocated aisle seat ‘C’ on a flight to Portugal. Seat ‘A’, the window seat was occupied. ‘B’ - the middle seat - was empty. This was usual. The people at check-in try and spread you out if the numbers permit. I didn’t look at the chap in seat A or even say “Good Morning”, just put the briefcase in the overhead locker and sat down to read the paper.

In Club Class, we normally got champagne on every flight - even in the mornings. I think it’s the law. At any rate, BA serves champagne whatever the time of day. The chief steward came up and stopped alongside. Expecting champagne, I was surprised when he ignored me and enquired of seat ‘A’ - “Is everything alright Mr Eusébio?” I looked across and saw that it was indeed the legend. “Bit much,” I thought sullenly. “I used to play football as well you know”. Although, realistically, probably not ‘as well’.

On another flight - this time to Rome, I was dressed to the nines; immaculate, Dior blazer, very white shirt, silk tie, flash watch, shiny shoes, not a thing out of place. I mention this because I think how you look at the check-in desk influences who you’re going to be sitting with.

This time I was given the middle seat on the other side of the aisle. There was a woman already in ‘F’ by the window. I had ‘E’ (the middle). The aisle seat, ‘D’ - was empty. Generally, in Club, middle seats were only used when the flight was full. Consequently, I assumed I’d got there too late for an aisle seat and the flight would be packed.

Again, I didn’t speak. Barely looked at her; quite attractive but I don’t like to talk in the mornings - so I just sat down and read the paper. Yes, alright, unsociable - but Arsenal were on a roll and the match report was the greater priority.

As the queue of people boarding slowed to a trickle, no one came for the aisle seat. Still watching the queue, I said to the woman “If that seat stays empty, I’ll move across and we can use this tray for drinks.” She murmured agreement and little more. The doors closed and as planned, I moved across and buried my nose in the sports pages once again.

 We took off, the compulsory champagne arrived and was placed on the tray between us. My travelling companion struck up a conversation asking what I was doing in Rome. I spoke briefly about Ford and the system I was trying to sell to Ford Italy and though I didn’t really want to know, it was only polite so I asked the reason for her visit. She looked genuinely surprised. “I’m going to model some dresses for television” she said, as if that should explain it.

The blank look on my face was her cue to add “I’m Princess Diana’s double.” Once said, I could see the resemblance. I should’ve realised - as I watched the people enter the plane, a lot had looked across at her. I’d missed the significance of that completely. It was Julie Wooldridge. She was wearing the blue Sailor’s jacket and white skirt that Diana had worn in early press photos. Charles & Diana had just got married and were in Rome visiting the Pope. Julie and Prince Charles’s doppelganger were doing a piece for Italian TV, modelling what they were likely to be wearing. I guessed that I had been put in the seat next to her as I must have looked like a bodyguard. Good job there were no pushy admirers on that flight. I might have had to give them a look.

I travelled back from Rome with Julie and in those two flights learned a lot about the world of celebrity doubles. I gave her a lift home from Heathrow to Romford and heard all about her fiancé on the way. Sadly, soon after, the News Of The world featured an article saying that they’d broken off the engagement as she had run off with a minder.

The third, and (I promise), last story is darker. Coming out of Stockholm one Friday night, I was placed next to an older woman, composed, elegant, attractive. As the champagne arrived she started the standard small talk, asking about my trip to Stockholm. As usual, I ran through the stock answer - Working for Ford… Launching a system… etc., and then asked about her reason for being in Stockholm. It turned out that she was Evelyn le Cheyne, a director of Porton Down, (remember that?) and had been attending a symposium on Chemical Warfare.

          BA Champagne has a lot to answer for. A few bottles later and she was telling me her life story; how her mates at ‘the club’ were SAS, SBS and MI5 and how her husband had been a spy in the war where he was tortured to death - including having his eyes popped out in the process. Heavy anecdotes yet she was not slow to share what I considered to be pretty personal stuff. The biggest disclosure was that in the coming July, she and a General would be observing a chemical warfare experiment in Africa, suitably clad in protective outfits. This was a different time, before the Internet and its Satanic spawn - WikiLeaks and Edward Snowden. It never occurred to me to tell this story to anyone other than when the conversation turns to ‘People I met On A Plane’, which frankly, isn’t that common.

As we disembarked, I was held up at Passport Control. In 20 years of flying around Europe, no clerk has more than glanced at my passport. This time though, it was taken below the  counter, rummaged around in for several minutes before I was asked where I had been and why. After some pondering, it was returned. Evelyn was next to me in the queue. As she joined me in Baggage Retrieval, she laughed and said, “I don’t suppose that was because you were with me.”

We went our separate ways and Life took over - the incident was forgotten - till July when I watched the news for any story that might suggest a chemical warfare experiment in Africa. There wasn’t one. However, a month or so later, a news item announced that an extinct volcano in Africa had erupted briefly, disgorging a sulphur cloud over a remote village killing all the inhabitants and their cattle. Have you ever wondered why so many new diseases like AIDS and Ebola Virus seem to start in Africa? Could it be that their villagers are convenient and disposable subjects for chemical warfare trials? Probably just me seeing a conspiracy theory.

A few years later, Klaus Barbie the Butcher of Lyons was being held in a remote castle in France  to face trial for his War Crimes. The TV reporter announced that “A woman who will be particularly interested in this trial is Evelyn le Cheyne whose husband was tortured and killed by Barbie”. There sitting on a wall being interviewed about the trial was my travelling companion.

TV news provides me with lots of information but also amusement and irritation. Today’s journalists are a sorry bunch. BBC presenters love the sound of their own voices constantly interrupting for no good reason. Interrupt to seek a clarification by all means - but just to make a supposedly witty comment or to show how well-informed you are, well that’s just unsubtle vanity. Andrew Marr is a prime example, loving the sound of his own voice. Simon McCoy though, is a joy to watch; one of the few that is naturally funny while clever and uncomfortably pertinent in his politely-couched questions.

I wrote to the BBC a couple of days ago to have a moan about how lightweight their interrogations are. Programme schedules don’t seem to allow for overruns when there’s an unexpected revelation - no flexibility. On Breakfast TV recently, there was a piece about the clocks for NHS waiting lists being ‘Paused’ and therefore waiting times were misreported so as not to miss targets. Politicians are dumb aren't they? Surely they realise that if you set targets, you also have to set the reporting standards. Apparently not, lazy or dumb politicians are our legacy.

The chap talking about the pauses said there were four reasons. As this was the first he was hearing about ‘Pauses’, Charlie Stayt interrupted him, quite rightly - to ask what they were. He was given an example of just ONE and surprisingly left it at that. How spineless. I would have liked to have heard the full explanation including the other three reasons but the programme schedule didn't allow time for proper investigation so he just let it go. Weak journalism.

 These ‘Pauses’ are to be expected. As an Internal Auditor for Ford, it didn’t take long to realise that wherever there is a declared standard of expectation, people will cheat to meet it. More intellectual energy is spent on cheating than in trying to meet (or exceed), a requirement honestly. I wonder why that is? Is it human nature to cheat? Sadly, it seems so. Footballers cheat all the time. Politicians lie or evade reflexively in every conversation, the Police lie easily as we have seen from the Plebgate incident and various fit-ups that have made the news. Even the great and the good lie, cheat, steal and go to jail for it; for example, Lord Archer, Lord Hanningfield, Lord Taylor of Warwick, Conrad Black… It seems dishonesty must be a requirement to become a Lord. That’s surely the only explanation. Otherwise, you’d have to ask, why are these rogues still Lords? What’s the point of having words like ‘defrock’, ‘expel’, ‘sack’, if they get no use.

Lord Rennard’s situation is interesting. Alistair Webster QC said that the women’s claims of sexual harassment were “Broadly credible but could not be proved beyond reasonable doubt”, suggesting that even before a word is heard in court, he knows what can or cannot be proved - and is the arbiter of ‘reasonable doubt’. So much for judges and juries - it seems they are unnecessary. What a mind he must have to be able to know the outcome of a case before any argument or evidence is presented in a courtroom. Looks like we don’t need a legal process - even one that has been refined for a 1000 years. We just need more people with superpowers, like Alistair Webster QC.

Getting back to the memories, poor Phil Everly’s passing brings sadness from the loss of someone who has brought so much happiness through his singing; not just with his brother but on solo albums too. I often chat with a mate - Phil Shaw, a little about our lives - mainly about music. Phil has an extensive record collection spanning many genres, goes to concerts and recommends artists (e.g. Snakefarm), that I like as soon as I hear their sound. Phil has also recommended little-known albums of people we both follow, like Norah Jones and her work with less famous acts like the Little Willies, and the Peter Malik Group.

After Phil Everly’s passing, he told me about an album by Billie Jo Armstrong and Norah Jones called Foreverly. This a cover of a 1958 Everlys album called “Songs Our Daddy Taught Us” in which they capture beautifully the Everly vibe that runs through their distinctive harmony style. That’s now in iTunes and the resultant CD is playing in the car.

Talking of music, Radio 2 is often playing in the house and in the car. Recently, Steve Wright In The Afternoon was waxing lyrical about a singer called Luc Abrogast who featured on the French version of the Voice, singing so high the panel of judges were surprised that he was a man when they turned around with the stereotypical wide-eyed, loose-jawed “Look how amazed I am” gawp that seems to have become compulsory behaviour at talent shows. So, I looked him up in Google and watched the resulting YouTube vid.

I can recommend him - but only if you like a voice that on closing your eyes, will bring to mind cats being strangled - while nailed to a fence - that’s on fire. This is of course not the extent of his ability. The Voice is not a search for one-dimensional talent. Luc the Barbecued Cat Strangler also reaches the other end of the vocal spectrum with ease. In the chorus of the song, a madrigal I believe, he switches to an exercise in bass gargling. I watched the vid in sheer horror transfixed by the audacity that anyone could see this as talent. The Voice’s panel did apparently, applauding joyfully. That’s the French for you, mad as a box of frogs (pardon the pun).

  Having moved to Lincs, it seems I can’t stay away from Essex. I was there at the beginning of December for a week of socialising, again for a week at Christmas, then returning for a third time on Jan 10^th just for the day, to visit to my old school, Woodlands.

As the school is 55 years old, new buildings are replacing the tired, ageing prefab-style constructs that took our breath away on first impressions in 1959. Nowadays, the prefab panels feature a shade of Lavender, perhaps as a nod to the purple that was the colour of our school blazers.

The visit was arranged by my old Junior School friend Bob Bastable who is the conduit between the school’s hierarchy and the Old Boys. That is Bob in the light jacket in the foreground. The other chap is Mr. Fox, our form master, who is now 90. 

The plan was to give us one last chance to see the old prefab structures before they go forever to be replaced by that there new-fangled ‘brick’.

The Echo sent a photographer along to capture the occasion. It was an article on  January the 17^th. The School put on a small slide show for us to see photos from the early-60s. A group of youngsters that represented the School Council showed us around and we were able to see all our old classrooms. What a Nostalgia Rush!

As you see, a host of memories have accumulated over the years, not least flight encounters, pop music and schooldays. One constant throughout that time is my guitar-playing. I started at 12, encouraged by my cousin Malcolm who gave me his guitar - my first. There are now six more, three basses, two acoustics, and a pink electric tribute Strat made by Hohner. 

The playing has waxed and waned over the years but consistently, whenever the spirit is low, I seek solace in a guitar. I had an amp serviced recently and collected it on Monday. It is now in the Living Room with the Hohner plugged into it. I pick it up every day and the old buzz reappears. Jigsaw Puzzle Blues, Trambone, Midnight, Sleepwalk, Run-around Sue, Travelling Light - all feature daily. Played badly of course, 65 year-old fingers can’t do what they did at 15 and the singing is for my ears only. But the joy is there even when it sounds like Luc Abrogast.