Category: nostalgia

When I was nine my New Years’ resolution for 1967 was to give up Class A drugs.

My mum would force-feed me Virol and Haliborange tablets to ward off flu, consumption and, because of the 1965 scare, small pox.  Because of these theories, my mother never made it as a GP.

Having missed a Haliborange tablet one day, one day I took two; I feared I would never leave our communal bathroom, such was the ferocity of the Vitamin C overload.

It was apparent: if I couldn’t handle Haliborange tablets, tolerating heroin, cocaine or Skittles (which has the effect of what I assume LSD is like) was always going to be a no-no.

Because fitness is today is what small pox was in the mid-sixties, I will see new people at my gym within the next week. They will come until they give up going to the gym for Lent.

But beware anyone coming to my gym as there are protocols: at the weekend the cross-trainer is reserved for my mates who, for several decades, have been menacing in the Shed end at Stamford Bridge. The free weight area is not open to people who are heavily tattooed, think they can lift six times their own body weight or are incapable of training alone. This area is for people discussing the various footballing merits of Palace, Sutton United and AFC Wimbledon.  The armchairs are not in this area for aesthetic reasons.

There will be people, for two months only, believing they are potential Olympic rowers; their action betrays them demonstrating they are not so much Steve Redgrave, more Vanessa. There will be others doing a spin class for the first time and would not have witnessed nausea quite like it since they went on the decrepit Soviet-run rides within Sokolniki Park, Moscow.

My New Years’ resolution will be to drink less Absinthe; it may have worked for Picasso, but then I’ve always been rubbish at drawing women with three ears and a nose on the top of their heads.

Happy New Year – keep off that cross-trainer. And the Absinthe.

I’ve not really got the physique for leggings. I have long legs but, because my tummy’s sponsored by Picnic, and my body is less a temple, more a row of terraced houses in Bolton!

During my 42-years of commuting up to the City from various SW London stations, I’ve noticed an increasing amount of my fellow travellers wearing leggings. And it seems the earlier the train, the more multi-coloured the leg attire.

This is a relatively new fashion.

Years ago, on the early train, you’d expect to see either people in suits or men in overalls carrying either a spirit level or a tool box – both of which would be paint-splattered (do they come with paint already splattered or is the new owner presented with a small tin of Dulux and left to their own devices?

But back in the 70s, during my early years of commuting, there was not the proliferation of gyms there are now. If you wanted to keep fit or build your body, you’d buy a Bullworker or send off for the Charles Atlas Body-building course, advertised every week in the Sunday Express.  (I never sent off for one as I like the taste of sand being kicked at me at speed)

My question is this: are these legging-clad commuters actually going to a gym or preparing perhaps for the Tour de France?  Last week a man got on at Clapham Junction wearing leggings together with a jacket and shirt on.  Is this all the rage now too?  I’ve not been to Paris Fashion Week for a while now, so I’m out of the haute couture loop.  Or possibly the leggings are too tight it affects blood flowing to the brain and manifests itself in the ability to coordinate clothes either side of your waist?

I’d like to see bowler hats returning to commuters’ outfits; if you’re swapping this for a pair of leggings then, like pregnant (or very lazy) women sporting “Baby on board” badges, have a sticker which says: “My personal trainer knows lots of Latin”.

In the 70s, aside from wearing outrageously flared jeans and growing your hair longer than your mother, there was a massive desire to display Pampas grass in one’s front garden.

In all innocence, wanna-be Percy Throwers would go to their local garden centre (or, more likely, florist, as this was the 70s) to buy up flora from the south American mountainside.

Unbeknownst to these amateur horticulturalists, having Pampas grass in your front garden advertised houses where swingers’ parties might take place.

In the 70s, I lived in a fourth-floor flat and as such had no Pampas grass our window box – no bad thing, as this might have attracted abseiling swingers – although, they’d have been given a suitable welcome by my mum, but warned about not taking off their safety helmets.

Not everyone had Pampas grass in their front gardens. Which begs the question, what might other floral displays have secretly indicated?  What did a pot of begonias hide?  The housewife inside had an even better display of begonias? Was a front garden full of poppies indicating the house was actually a clandestine crack den?  Anyone designing some massive phallus out of a privet hedge clearly saw no need for Pampas grass.

Pampas grass would always remain outside due to the leaves being particularly sharp. Anyone not knowing that could bleed to death before throwing their car keys into an old ashtray advertising Kensitas.  Always a dampener at any party, a guest bleeding to death (especially if you’ve just hoovered), unless the paramedics, who arrive, enjoy dressing up in a uniform and can throw a set of ambulance keys into an ashtray at short range.

I now live in a house but whilst I have no Pampas grass growing outside, I do have a barbed wire fence which sends the message: thank you, but my drive doesn’t need re-surfacing.

Next week we’ll be discussing people who grew Pampas grass in their back garden.

I could have had a black belt in karate, but only attended six lessons.

In 1975, I started karate lessons in a Portacabin next to the A&E department at St George’s Hospital in Tooting.  At the time, I didn’t know whether this was ironic or simply a precaution if someone were to hit you with a roundhouse kick they’d just mastered while you were still trying to work out how to tie the (nowhere near black) belt keeping up your trousers.

I had an aunt, who lived in Flowersmead on Balham High Road. As her only nephew she took a great interest in what I did.  However, the character in Richard Sheridan’s “The Rivals”, Mrs Malaprop, could have been based on my aunt; she invariably got the place names just slightly wrong where I went to undertake my activities.

My aunt would shop, while visiting my Nan, her sister, in the dairy housed within Du Cane Court, where I also lived.  She would announce proudly to the other shoppers that her nephew went to Karachi every Tuesday. The other shoppers were probably thinking: “4,880 miles? Every Tuesday? Bit of a trek, just for one day?  And those who knew what I did for a living would probably ponder: Didn’t know there were advertising agencies in Western Pakistan.”

Because of my love of cricket as a kid, I’d frequently visit The Oval and Lord’s.   I’d often be accosted by other tenants inside the flats genuinely asking if I was alright, or more to the point, cured?  My aunt had told people I’d been to Lourdes.

I was never very good at playing cricket, perhaps I might have done better if I’d had Our Lady as a coach, rather than Alf Gover?

With the exception of Rupert the Bear annuals, growing up in the sixties didn’t offer the choice of books available to kids today.

My book collection consisted of a second-hand 1958 Denis Compton annual, an I-Spy Zeppelins (probably third-hand) and three of the set of twenty-four Noddy books;  I remember vividly Noddy Book No. 4, entitled: “Here comes Noddy again” – this was about Noddy being kidnapped, not his sexual prowess.

I have three grandchildren, two of whom are nearly one-year-old. Their combined libraries would rival those of the British, Bodleian and Balham!

One series which dominates the twins’ bookshelves is “That’s not my Something” (like puppy, kitten unicorn).  The premise is the first five double-pages features puppies, kittens or unicorns not belonging to the reader.  The sixth double page spread reveals the ostensibly lost puppy/kitten/unicorn with the phase, “That’s my unicorn – its head has a massive stick coming out of it!” (or something like that)

We never had books this exciting growing up, and I pondered if we had, what they’d have been?

“That’s not my ration book; all the stamps are missing!”

“That’s not my home-made go-kart; none of the constituent parts are stolen!” or

“That’s not my TV; Bonanza’s never in colour, therefore a valve has blown and the set’s on fire!”

Night, night children everywhere, unless you happen to live in the dark, dark wood, as featured in Noddy Book No. 4.