Category: 70s

Today is Mothering Sunday. 

When I was a kid, this meant cake.  Not made by my mum – her two favourite things were Guinness and John Player Specials; you could scour every cook book by the Galloping Gourmet and you’d struggle to find any recipe combining both.

At my Balham church the vicar’s wife was on a par with Fanny Craddock (only without the scary make up); she would make simnel cake for people to take after the morning service.  I would always try that end-of-party-trick of asking if I could take a piece for my mum too?  I’m surprised I’ve never had to enrol in Weight Watchers.

The idea was that you were actually meant to take the cake home to your mum.  Mine would have been too engrossed with her latest Jean Plaidy novel, or still been in bed with “one of her heads”.  Throughout my formative years I was always thought my mum was some sort of hydra.

At my church I sang in the choir.  Although, I started late and was never a choir boy, therefore, I missed out on all those sixpences I could have earned singing at weddings, shillings at funerals and ten bob for an exorcism.  I did make up with this lack of earning by eating cake.  It would have been rude not to.

So, to all the mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers out there, thank you, and just a small slice, please.

I had piano lessons for two-weeks.  Sadly, this didn’t qualify me for being the next Liberace; although I am fond of a giant candelabra.

My great aunt was my teacher as she possessed a baby grand in her Balham flat.  Although her violent teaching skills were reminiscent of the role Harry Andrews played in “The Hill”.  I’ve still got splinters embedded into my hands from the smashed rulers over my knuckles.

Her husband, my great uncle, was an amateur band leader. His piano was his pride and joy and would cover the keyboard with an old copies of Melody Maker. 

I’d always look at this protective paper (when not being assaulted) and wondered why, in 1970, I’d never heard of anyone in the charts and wondered why, each week, Marie Lloyd’s Oh! Mr Porter was still number one?

Not knowing the paper was never changed, but anxious to keep up-to-date with popular music, I once asked for this song in my local record shop.  I was disappointed to hear it was no longer available, but did I want Chirpy, chirpy, cheep, cheep instead?  I decided not to as this sounded more like a disease or type of birdseed than a song.

So, I was destined never to be the next Liberace; also, I’m not allowed near matches.  Plus, to me, Quavers remain a type of crisp rather than a form of musical notation.

Aside from attempting to increase my cholesterol by serving me egg ‘n’ chips every lunchtime throughout my school years, my mum was actually quite keen for me to remain healthy.

Being force-fed Virol and given a Haliborange tablet every day were staple additions to my diet.

I never realised just how powerful Haliborange tablets were until, realising I’d missed a day, once took two in one day; that was the day to have bought shares in Andrex.

However, living on the fourth floor (of eight) of our Balham block of flats, my vitamin D intake was minimal.  So, my mum invested in a sun-ray lamp. 

She had toyed with the idea of dangling me out of the window at certain times of the day when the sun came round, but could never get any rope strong enough; also she’d bunked of the lesson about knot-tying when she was a Brownie.

Instead, I had to endure several minutes, on a regular basis, in front of this powerful lamp (my mum got it cheap, as it had previously operated the North Foreland Lighthouse) wearing tiny black goggles whose string dug into my head.

So, what with the sun-ray lamp, mum drinking Rioja while preparing my egg ‘n’ chips, it was like being in Majorca in the mid-sixties.

Viva Franco – and other great summertime songs.

My father, as part of his unofficial education for me, once took me to see Stan Kenton.

We travelled from our Balham flat to see the great jazz artist.  As a ten-year-old, jazz was not something I could easily get my head round.  I was still coming to terms with the complexity of the songs Wally Whyton would sing on Ollie and Fred’s Five O’Clock Club.

Because I didn’t complain, and kept humming the tune to Peanut Vendor during my bath-time, dad organised for us to travel to Croydon to watch Gil Evans, the Canadian (also jazz) pianist.  I have never been so bored.  

I was lucky as a child and subjected to many types of popular music.  I’d have listened to more Sibelius, but my mum thought this was a type of water-borne disease and wouldn’t have it in the flat.

I was old before my time musically; by the time I was 8 I knew the lyrics to most Frank Sinatra songs.  I really did do it my way. 

Not all my relatives had this musical passion. My nan only owned one 78: Underneath the spreading chestnut tree.  That 1938 classic you will all now be doing the actions to!  Hearing it over and over again as a kid, I’m surprised I never developed a nut allergy.

Peanuts!

My mother was not Fanny Craddock.

Nor was she ever going to be the modern-day equivalent of Mrs Beeton.

Her culinary skills were lacking, as was the variety of food I was given.

Saturday lunch in our Balham flat was always sausages – good alliteration, not very good nutritional value.

The sausages certainly weren’t flown in from Fortnum’s, and seemed to be made of anything rejected by the local saveloy maker.

I was forced to eat these.  Most Saturday lunchtimes, for me, became like being on the set of Spring and Port Wine – this cast me as the Susan George character.

I claimed that sausages made me tired.  My parents suggested this was impossible; I, therefore, feigned tiredness by slumping my head into the accompanying mash potato. 

I was at that age when I didn’t wash that frequently and the following Tuesday our school teacher asked ‘how long had our family been eating Smash? ‘ There were moments during Saturday lunchtimes when I wished the Smash Martians would come and take me to another universe.

The irony nowadays is that sausage and mash is a natural go-to comfort food.  Now, the only dilemma is choosing which one, as there are slightly more than just pork: wild boar; wild mushroom; wild man of Borneo.  It makes me tired just thinking about it.