17. Living Rough

I read that there are more people living rough at this point of time than ever before. At this point of time is one of those queer modern phrases which have crept into the English language and freely translated means right now. Anyway I don't know whether the writer of the article had been counting them or not, but I am disputing his statement and saying there were far more on the road in the early thirties. Why? Because they had no bread, man. (Another queer phrase meaning boracic lint. Skint.)

They weren't living rough doing their thing. (Trans: too idle to work). They were just pawns on the chessboard of free enterprise and of no consequence until the war, when they quickly reached queen position. In the modern jargon, your country needs you, man. (Trans: someone's got to die, so guess who?). I met up with a few of these lads one summer night in '32 when I held the important post of tea-boy at a coach painters* in Little Albany St, N.W.1.

What's left of Little Albany Street. Sep 2017. www.instantstreetview.com

From this palace of industry, (Trans: rat infested, bug ridden, converted stable) I sallied forth at ten-thirty, one o'clock and half past four to Old Bills Cafe in Osnaburgh St bearing a long pole on which hung a dozen or more tin billy cans, and repeating in my mind a list of the workers requirements. Like two of drip, two of marg, or five woods, or half of Digger shag, and each can to be charged to the brim with a pennorth of tea.

We lived well then and no expense was spared when it came to the inner man. England's mighty empire sprang not from the Industrial Revolution or the playing fields of Eton, but from the cuppa char and two of drip of the British Working Man. My efforts were rewarded with the generous stipend of the 12/6d a week and whatever I could fiddle by milking their cars of their petrol and flogging it back to the owners when they came to collect. At 1/3d a gallon this added up to a tidy bit if we had a good week.

One Friday, the guv'nor, an enlightened employer who had the well being of his staff at heart, came up on a 50 to 1 shot with a quid on the nose, and on returning from the boozer in a extremely benevolent frame of mind (Trans: p----d as a newt), informed his staff en-bloc, that there was no work tomorrow so they might as well all sod off to safhend on a beano and he'd give us a tenner for the beer. Then quickly added that he wasn't bloody well paying us wages as well.

The London Gazette 7 July 1931

The cold reasoning brain of your true executive will always supersede the mind befuddling fumes of four ales. So as work was cancelled for Sat and a tenner bought enough wallop to float the Queen Mary in those days and paid our fares as well, (1/9d return cheap excursion), the morrow found us disporting ourselves around the old mud heap, Southend-On-Sea.

Late evening found us engaged in a hotly disputed contest in The Ship Inn with a team of gentlemen from a jam factory. The best of three dart games, twelve aside, losers to pay for the beer. It was one all and the decider was well under way and I was sat in a corner with the jam factory tea boy where we had been put by our respective foreman with a bob each to buy beer and crisps and strict orders to keep out of the way. He was named Nathaniel , stood about four feet nothing and was as muscular as a pair of anaemic braces. If he'd laid on the beach the winkles would have queued up to kick sand in his face. I was no Charles Atlas then, either, but we both felt ten feet tall as we supped our halves of four ale and puffed Woodbine smoke towards the ceiling and bragged of our importance as tea boys. He told me he also had to chop up the wood for the raspberry jam. When I said "Eh?" he said that raspberry jam was made from turnips and the pips were bits of wood chopped up fine to make it look real. I believed every word being very naive at the time and he was so serious. I still have my doubts and raspberry jam is still called wooden pip jam in our family. We suddenly realised that it was ten minutes from the departure time of the excursion train and on telling our foremen both got the same answer - "P--- off!". So we did and ran like the clappers (Trans: quickly) to the station and got there in time to see the train steaming up the line. As it was the last train home we strolled back to the pub to find it closed and deserted. Where all the darts revellers had gone so quickly was a mystery to us, so we wandered to the beach and that is where we met up with a bunch of lads who were living rough.

Ship Hotel, Southend On Sea

At first I thought that a lot of other blokes had missed the last train home as there were dozens of them sitting around on the beach, the seats, and in the shelters on the front, but Nat told me they were all on the road. He seemed well versed in human affairs and spoke as if being a tramp were a classified occupation. Something like being a cowboy. There were young fellows of our age, middle aged men, and elderly chaps. English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish. Chatting, smoking, some in earnest discussion, others just staring across the water. All with one thing in common. A large bundle containing all their worldly possessions. 

We got talking to a group of lads of our own age. A couple of Scottish boys on their way to Portsmouth in hope of joining the Navy, a Welsh lad who'd been trying to get work in the Kentish mines, a Geordie who was just looking for work anywhere, and three chaps from Notting Hill who were trying to get bookings as an acrobatic act around the seaside shows. They obviously weren't having much success if they had to bed down on the beach at night, but their spirits were in no way dampened by this. Full of life, they gave us all a demonstration of handstands, backflips and balancing then stripped off to have a swim in the sea. They were chivvied out by the patrolling fuzz (Trans: night shift from the local nick) who moved everybody off the beach to the shelters on the front with strict instructions to stay there till dawn then shift our bodies as far from Southend as possible before the dawn patrol got around. None of the lads seemed envious of the fact that Nat and I had homes to go to and were there because we'd missed the last train whereas they were there because they'd nowhere else. I got the feeling that we were being granted membership of their community for the night and were the ones who needed advice, freely given, on how to keep warm and comfortable on the hard wooden seats which faced the keen off-sea breeze. We awoke around dawn and thrown over Nat was a ragged overcoat to help keep him warm. Like I said before, he looked like an advert for 'Consumption and how to live with it' so perhaps the lad who owned the coat thought he might snuff it during the cold, early hours and there would be some awkward questions asked. But I prefer to think it was the compassion of a lad who had nothing, for another boy who was his guest for the night. An unknown soldier of the Cenotaph of the vast army of British unemployed of the Thirties, many of whom were on the road.

And I'll still bet there ain't so many today no matter what the writer of that article says.

Lies, damn lies and statistics? These statistics prove Grandad to be correct.

                                                     

Notes:
* The only coachworks on Little Albany Street my very modest research - I really haven't looked hard -  turned up was dissolved in 1931. See the extract from the London Gazette.

16. English Traditions

Us Brits are very proud of the ancient traditions that have developed and been retained throughout a thousand years of history. We love to parade them at every possible moment in front of the visiting tourist, not that we give a monkey's whether they like it or not. We like 'em and that's good enough for us, but if the visitors go back home and tell their mates to come over and bung a few bucks, francs, or liras into the UK coffers, well, all the better for us.

The must be sense of the 'Come to Britain' tourist propaganda program are too well known for me to enlarge upon here, but I think a better job of presenting us British to these foreign visitors, would be done if we got 'em away from Buck House and all the bods who make such a palaver about changing over to guard it, and got them round a few places that are truly representative of this Sceptred Isle.

Like a picket line at British Leyland, a traffic jam in the Edgware Road, a bus queue practically anywhere, a casualty queue at any hospital, the gents in most boozers, and so on ad infinitum.

There is one place I would plump hard for the visitor to visit, and that is the artists exhibition which is held every Sunday along the Bayswater Road. This is an exhibition in the truest sense of the word. Here, anyone who fancies that he has created something that they can flog to somebody, can hang it on the railings of Kensington Gardens from the Broad Walk to nigh on Marble Arch, if they can find a space.

I may have mentioned it before, but in case you missed it, I'll tell you that I was pupped in Paddington, a stone's throw from Queensway, or Queens Road as it was called then. In fact, I did my first paper round from a shop which stood where the Queens Ice Rink is now sited. The whole area was so English that it could well have been the original setting for "Upstairs Downstairs".

Queens Road was an English bastion, firmly planted by it's broad base in Westbourne Grove, with it's long taper of genteel shops, lorded over by the imposing edifice of Wm. Whiteley, which always waved the Union Jack from its dome towards the end of the road as it embedded itself into Bayswater Road. Foreign persons were definitely not encouraged, and ragged arsed herberts as myself were only allowed up there before seven a.m., in order to deliver the papers to the upper crust residing in Inverness Terrace and the roads around. All for two bob a week including Sundays.

All very English and democratic, as Wm. Whiteley sold off yesterday's stale bread and cakes to the deserving poor living on the wrong side of the Harrow Road across Royal Oak station if they presented themselves at six a.m. with a tanner and a shopping bag round the back entrance. Must look after one's own, you know.

I don't think that Queens Road ever recovered from being debased by the building of the Queens cinema bang opposite, during the thirties. It tolerated the Roxy in Westbourne Grove as a concession to progress, anyway it could pretend to be unaware of it's existence, being round the corner, and it knew that a high standard of hygiene was maintained, as the usherettes, who were always dressed in black, came round at regular intervals and sprayed the audience with Flit guns.

I hadn't been along the Queensway for many years, until the other Sunday, when my wife and I went to see if we could buy a picture at the artists exhibition in Bayswater. We drove up Inverness Terrace from Porchester Road and parked at the end and started our long trek from the Broad Walk along the park railings towards the end. It took nearly three hours, with stops for ice-cream and hot dogs, which were sold from vans and barrows parked among transport of every make and age. Creations of every form of art hung from the railings or stood on the pavement. Etchings, oils, rubbings, collage, pencil, water colours, pictures made from watch and clock works, nuts and bolts, everything imaginable. Modern art, some of which looked as if the artist had sat his or her bare bum in a tin of paint and slapped around all over the paper. You could almost hear the seal clapping it's flippers. Representatives of every creed and culture were there in abundance, all trying to flog their own peculiar form of culture.

Only one thing was held in common - a mistaken idea of the value of their work. We saw a set of water colours of the Pool of London, one of which we liked, and promptly looked for the vendor. A bloke with a mass of matted rats' tails on his nut and a terrific Zapata moustache waved a half sucked lolly at us from the van he was sprawled against, and said, "You interested, man?" I said yes, how much was he asking, and he replied the big one was £60 and the others £48 each. I said that I didn't want to buy a Renoir, and I'd give him £10 for the one I liked, whereas he shrugged and said "That's the price, man" and resumed sucking his lolly. I thought that if he stuck to those prices, he was liable to be eating lollies for the rest of his puff and wished him a good morning. I added, "Mr Picasso", but very softly, as he looked a mite fierce. Probably because he was a bit fed up with a monotonous diet of inflated ego and Mr Whippy.

We badly needed a cup of char, so I said we'd stroll down Queensway as there was always a decent tearoom somewhere along there. We walked the length of Queensway past Hungarian, Armenian, Italian, Indian and the inevitable Chinese restaurants all doing roaring trade and filling the air with continental and oriental pongs, most of which were very mouth-watering but we didn't fancy eating many of the queer looking objects hanging in the windows, most of which seemed to have been cooked in varnish.

It wasn't until we got nearly to Whiteleys that we found a Wimpy Bar, tucked coyly back from the road but still valiantly flying the English flag, metaphorically speaking*. The place was full of people of every race bar ours, all nattering  their nuts off in their own lingo, excepting a clergyman seated by himself in a corner. As he seemed to be the only link left with Queensway's past, we sat on the next table and ordered two cups of tea, but were out of luck as they only had espresso coffee. Well, we settled for that, sub-consciously strengthened by the vision of the Church in the next table. However, thing are never as they seem, cos as we got up to leave, I saw that the magazine he was so intent on, was not the local parochial news, but the latest edition of Men Only. Perhaps he was meeting the Devil on his own ground, but as blokes dress themselves in anything these days, I don't think so.

Still, I definitely would recommend the artists exhibition as a must for the foreign visitor, who wants to soak himself in some English tradition, and whoever he is, he'll also find some link with home there.

Notes: 
I've edited this piece quite heavily, and, in trying to give it some coherence, I may have lost the point of the original.

Whiteley's Department Store met its demise, closing in 1981, and  re-opened in 1989 predictably enough as a shopping centre. More pleasingly, the Sunday Bayswater Road artists exhibition continues to run, having been established for over 50 years. See  https://www.bayswater-road-artists.co.uk/

* Wimpy Bar - the well known chain of fast-food restaurants, is, of course, actually American and only came to Britain in the 1950's when Lyons obtained a license to use the brand. 

15. The Crew Cut

This time he meant to do it and no mistake. How many times he'd reached this very same pitch of determination, well, it just didn't bear thinking about. It always seemed so simple, figuring the whole thing out in the quiet of his room. He's simply walk into the shop, say what he wanted, get the job over and done with , and walk out again. As easy as that. Of course, there were one or two details that had to be worked out.  After all, it would be asking a bit too much, expecting it to work out just as you imagined it would., in your mind. No, you could bet your bottom dollar something would turn up out of the ordinary run of things, and there you'd be, nerve gone at the very moment it was needed, and that meant another couple of weeks or so, of going through all the old rigmarole of telling yourself how easy it would all be and what was there to worry about anyway. To say nothing of what the boys would say if he boobed again. He'd just about has enough of having the mickey taken out of him, and besides, he had a feeling that they all though him yellow, although not one of them had had the nerve to say so, at least, not to his face. Bit too handy with his fists, and they knew it. Some of them had good reason and all.

Still, he'd said often enough what he'd so some day, and all the cleverness in the world with his fists wouldn't wipe the sneers off the gang's face every time they knew he'd got windy again. So there it was, now or never, more for his own self respect than anything else, with  the details gone over and over again and no reason why it shouldn't be dead easy. Naturally he hadn't chosen a shop near home where he was known. That was obvious. And dinner-time, he reckoned, when there was less chance of any customers , was about the best time. A stroll past, first of all, taking a quick look in the door as he went by, and if it was empty, then about turn, in the shop, straight up to the bloke and tell him what was wanted. If he could sound as though he was used to being obeyed , and not used to being argued with, then there shouldn't be any trouble. Then give the bloke what he held in his hand at that very moment and out again without any fuss or hurry. Even if anybody did see him coming out, it wouldn't matter than much, as there were thousands of chaps who'd look like him these days, and there was no reason why he should be at all noticeable.

Funny how hot his hand felt in his pocket, making the hard metal slippery with sweat. Well, that's how it was and it wouldn't be long now. There wasn't anybody near the shop so it looked as if he was going to be in luck.

Now then, straight past and a look in the door out of the corner of his eye. Didn't seem to be anyone there as far as he could see, so about turn as if he'd suddenly remembered something, and in the door.

The bloke was sitting on a chair in the corner reading a paper and when he hear the door ping it's little bell, looked up with a big smile of welcome on his face, which quickly changed as he realised right away what he'd come for. Nor for it. The old familiar pounding heart was by now banging like mad, as he felt his determination to really have a go this time slipping away again; then in a flash he saw the boys jeering and saying "Yellow", and he started to give the command he'd practised so often, but before he could get the first word out, the bloke was on his feet with a big lump of wood in his hand.

He looked enormous now he was standing and that curt sentence so authoritative in front of a mirror, froze in his throat as the bloke said: "Blimey, some people never learn that I don't cut kids hair on a Saturday; don't know why your mothers will keep sending you. Still might as well do you while I'm slack, I suppose. Hop up, Trim up and make it tidy, eh ?".

He nodded miserably as he clambered up on to the board that the bloke had put across the chair, and handed over the shilling he had clutched in his hand.

One day he would ask for a crew cut, and get rid of those hateful blonde curls for good.





www.instantstreetview.com

Notes: I'd completely forgotten about the board they used to put across the chair when cutting kids hair!  I used to get mine cut at Peter Lazou's in Grant Road, Wealdstone (see the picture - seemingly now Blue Star Afro-European Hair Stylist).  Zero chance of me ever opting for a  crew cut though! 

14. Another Year Gone

It's a sure sign of advancing years when time seems to gather momentum with increasing swiftness and you think "Blimey, another year gone. Where the hell did it go?"

I must be getting on myself, as I suddenly realised that it was time for another article to be written for the Harrow Post which was due out - last week. And I hadn't done one.

Several, in fact a lot of people have been kind enough to say they like the stuff  I write, which has boosted my ego sky-high and made me feel that perhaps I had a modicum of talent in a brain which seemed to have been built in for the sole purpose of keeping my ears apart.

So, rather than have my fan club hand in their 'I like Ed' badges and switch to Tom and Jerry, I'm going to stretch their loyalty to the fullest extent and inflict upon them a very short story I wrote way back in '57 when I first felt the pangs of authorship stirring. It never got a good acclaim, and thoughts I had about being another Charles Dickens were swiftly chopped to pieces by John Bull* to whom I sent it, who politely returned it with a note which more or less said they hoped I could mold casting (I worked in a foundry) better than I could write.

Times and fashions have changed since then, the short back and sides is the exception more than the rule etc etc but the violence that was always part of human nature ain't altered. If anything is has increased so perhaps this small effort is still topical. Hope you like it.

Notes:

* Magazine. Published by Odhams Press until 1964. Maybe if they'd used Grandads' story they'd have been in business a bit longer. Ha.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Bull_(magazine)

In Jennie's compilation this piece is included as #15 and the story it is introducing precedes it at  #14. As it makes for a better flow I've switched the two around, so the story will be up in the next post. 

13. Becod It Wad Dere

Remember the modest hero, who, when asked why he pushed a pea up the side of one of the Great Pyramids with his nose, replied, "I did it becod it wad dere"?

 

This attitude toward the strange achievements of mankind has aroused much discussion as to what makes them do it and made a fortune for the compilers of the Guinness Book Of Records.

 

The diagnosis of these impulses is a favourite topic of conversation around any gathering of Homo sapiens and a typical example is at the breakfast table of the drivers. The conversation here usually follows a set pattern. Sport, sex, last night's telly, sex, reflections on the doubtful parentage of some supervisors, sex, money, sex and thoughts on whether the sausages were dead when they hit the fat or did they die as a direct result of incineration. (Only joking, Cook!).

 

We have ardent followers of various pastimes among our members and while the universal subject of sex is discussed at odd moments, it's only talked about, whereas, other sports are actively participated in. We pride ourselves on being a serious debating group.

 

One member, an ardent angler*, who is highly proficient on the necessary ability of narrative (a must for the first class fisherman) was holding the attention of the company one morning with an enthralling account of the previous day's catch. Do not for one moment, imagine that his speech was a mere placing of the facts and figures before the assembled company. Such mundane efforts are for Hansard or the records of the minutes of any committee meeting. He laid before us a story, nay, a saga worthy of Dennis Wheatley** at his descriptive best. The pre-battle study of the haunts and environment of the prey, reports from outlying weather stations, the intensive research into the feeding habits of the species, the careful selection of suitable baits and methods of presentation, the all important decisions on the type of tackle and methods of angling to be made, the stalking of the prey in a manner that Tarzan could not have bettered, all told in great detail prior to the actual account of the final coup-de-grace. Then, with a great sense of timing, when interest was on the wane, the story of the strike, the bending of the rod the leaping, twisting, diving and fighting of the crafty, courageous monster of the deep, until that final ecstatic moment when it lay exhausted and defeated in the bank, a gallant adversary whose weight and size were statistics of incredulous disbelief. All garnished with the rolling up of the sleeves to show the bruising resultant from the muscle strain which was a natural hazard of the contest.

One of the golfing members, who had paused in the delicate operation of the mopping up the remains of his fried egg and bacon fat with a piece of toast, said "What did it taste like?"

 

Our piscatorial member looked puzzled. "Taste like?" He queried.

 

"S'right", said the golfer, "taste like, You eat 'em, don't you?"

 

Horrified understanding dawned on the face of the angler, and he stared at this heretic, who had suggested something tantamount to mugging one's grannie.

 

"Course I don't eat 'em", he gritted between his teeth.

 

"Well, what do you do with 'em?" asked the company in one voice.

 

"Put them back of course, what the hell do you think?"

 

An excited buzz of conversation flew round the table as the meeting realised that once again the unexplainable urges of mankind had manifested itself, and many future discussions could be foreseen as a result of this revelation of the angler which ranked on a level with the highest mysteries of mankind's irrational behaviour.

 

As duty called, and we all trooped out to perform the commonplace tasks of earning a crust, leaving behind the debris of the breakfast table, over which hung the faintly audible aura of those immortal words, which put the whole in perspective -

 

" I did it becod it was dere".

Notes:

* I can't help but wonder if this is a piece of autobiographical self-analysis

** Dennis Wheatley: once a massively popular author but now largely unread. By todays standards Wheatley's writing is pretty un-PC, and modern reissues subject to abridging. Notwithstanding that, Wheatley is still one of my favourite authors, I have a full set of his books on the shelf behind me as I type. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dennis_Wheatley

12. ISSADM

aka The Monkey's Paw

Have you ever read W.W. Jacobs' story, "The Monkey's Paw"* ? Very briefly, it's the tale of a couple who got three wishes granted and the unpleasant consequences that could happen to such folk as them, who seek to interfere with the ordained course of events, as laid down by you know who.

All of us are guilty, some time or other, of trying to shape our destiny by various means, and it's mostly by wishing. No amount of threats of eternal damnation from the clergy or the moralists put us off doing so. We all wish for something we ain't got, or somebody else has. The poor want money, the rich want more. The barren want kids, the poor unfortunate who can't unbutton his flies without his wife, clicks again, prays for a vasectomy.

I know a lady, who, apart from being a widow, has pretty nigh everything a woman could wish for. A nice house, paid for, a full social life, two sons in extremely good jobs, who think the world of her and see that she wants for nothing. Not long ago they shared in a large win on the pools, but does her cup runneth over ? Not so likely. She wants to be a granny, but as her lads have decided that the round of golf, cricket and world travel, enlivened with the occasional bit of crumpet to keep their complexions clear, is better than marital bliss, she can't see any way of hearing the patter of tiny feet around the house, unless they get mice. But she still keeps wishing, and you know who up there, probably clicks the tongue, and wonders why he bothered.

I have no desire to alter, in any way, my pre-destined path through life. Even when I win the pools, I won't let it change my way of living in any way. That's what all the winners say, isn't it ? But there's one thing that will be different, and that is the passage in our house. It will be enriched by the presence of a grandfather clock ! That's what I have always wished for. 

You can't turn a council house into a stately home, as a lot of tenants try, by putting up a wrought iron gate in the front, or by hanging a front door covered in iron nails and little windows like bottle bottoms. It's like sticking a diamond tiara on a clippie and calling her duchess. But you can give a touch of the old Woburn Abbeys with a ten foot grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs. Might be a bit dodgy getting past it to get up the stairs, especially if you're in a hurry to get to the throne room, but it would be compensated by hearing the sonorous tick-tock of the works and the resounding 'Boing-ng-ng' as it struck the hours, making the cups jump about on the saucers and the cat dive under the sideboard. There is something fascinating about a great clock, I can't explain what it is, perhaps it is the feeling of permanence and security that it seems to impart as it ticks away saying, 'take your time, take your time'. 

I did know a bloke who had one, and the first time I went into his place, it was the first thing that caught my eye. There it stood in the corner of the hallway, towering above the surrounding decor, a veritable interior Everest of a time piece, A wonderful enscrolled face surmounting an exquisitely panelled body, looked down at me as if to say, "Aren't I beautiful"?, as it spread its two golden hands in mute appeal. I felt if only I had this for my home to ease away the stress of the rat race, life would be fulfilled. Then I noticed that there was no tick, dead quiet, The owner must have sensed my unspoken question, as he said "I had the works taken out, couldn't stand the bloody row it made, banging away all night and tick-tocking above the telly, drove me round the twist". I said something about it being rather large to have as just an ornament, he said "Oh I dunno, comes in handy" and opened the door on the front of the clock. Do you know what he was using it for ? A broom cupboard. I realised then what the mute appeal of big grandad was. It was "Help"!

Goes to show that things are only what the mind of the onlooker sees, and what you might wish for, ain't everybody's pigeon, and could turn out to be unpleasant for yourself in the long run.

A fellow worker capitalised on this once, by taking a lump of polystyrene, burning bits out of it, until it assumed a peculiar shape, then after rolling it in wet cement, he stuck it on a frame and entered it into the Arts and Crafts section of the Harrow Show with the word 'ISSADM' printed on the background. The judges saw all sorts of hidden meanings in it, as a lot of people do when looking at Picasso's efforts or the pile of bricks whatsisname flogged to the Tate Gallery**, and awarded him  first prize and a quid prize money.

www.tate.org.uk

Afterwards, I asked him what the word 'ISSADM' meant, as the unknown name had a vaguely familiar sound about it, reminding me of Rudolph Valentino's romantic sheikh portrayals, and torrid passion in the Arabian desert, and this is what obviously influenced the judges in their choice. He said that was his feeling after he had made the shape, being a sensible bloke with creative genius just bursting to get out. He had been so elated with his creation that he had rushed round to a neighbour to show him and explain the mysteries that emanated from this distorted lump of cement coated polystyrene. After listening patiently to my mate's ravings about his Immaculate Conception, this chappie, who was a stolid, down to earth type who had been in a varied career, a gully cleaner and a copper, took him firmly into the kitchen, made him a strong cup of tea, and said "I Should See A Doctor, Mate".  It obviously had the desired effect, cos my pal saw immediately what he had to do. To gratify the wishes of the people who would be judging his entry, he had to add to that air of mystery his creation had. Give it a name that they didn't understand.

So he did, and they still didn't. But you and I do, I hope.

Notes:

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Monkey%27s_Paw

** Equivalent VIII by Carl Andre https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equivalent_VIII

11. Cheesy

I had a mate who was one of these types who have an inbuilt compulsion to take things apart, to see what makes them tick.

We called him 'Cheesy’, but I can't recall why, unless it was because he had a pair of feet which so upset his socks, that he could stand them up in a corner like a pair of wellies when be took them off. Anyway, he had a very enquiring mind, and while the rest of us were content with mundane hobbies like football, boxing, weight lifting, cycling and darts, he filled in his leisure moments by totting round the dustbins and rubbish tips for old radios, clocks, watches or anything that he could dismantle and put back together again to see if it worked. This was mostly done when everybody else was asleep, as he worked in the kitchen of a Soho restaurant and seldom got home before midnight. 

He had a room in a house occupied by the family of another of our fraternity where we gathered on nights spent indoors to play cards or argue, or just idle away the time, and he often returned home from work and settled down at a table to fiddle around with a dismembered electric iron or whatever was under construction at the time. He was able to ignore any card school that happened to be under way or any of the boys who were sleeping on the sofa or bed because they couldn't be bothered to go home that night. He'd fiddle about with bits of wire, minute nuts and bolts, springs, valves, old speakers, cogs and wheels, filling the air with horrible pongs of solder, burning wax, paint or whatever was needed to arrive at the end product. Whatever it happened to be was always offered for sale to the nearest person, and I was often disturbed in the wee small hours, when sleeping there, with, "Ed, you wanna buy an electric kettle?" or "I've finished this alarm clock, let you have it for two bob". Muttered advice on what he could do with his bloody kettle at this cursed hour of the morning by no means abashed him, and he never got annoyed at any threats. He just put the offending article on the mantle piece, went to kip and hawked it around next day until he found a buyer.

We got our own back by sticking the flea-bitten old mongrel of the house in bed with him when we left for work in the morning. This canine queer always got turned on by the smell of Cheesy’s feet, and our jaded spirits got a tremendous uplift from the shouts of "Gerrout you mangy sod you", as he booted at doggie, who was making a frenzied effort to seduce his toes.  

As I said before, he just couldn't resist experimenting with things, and this compulsion intruded into his cooking, which, in all fairness, was extremely good.

Four of us went camping one weekend by the Welsh Harp. Not a very glamorous outing by todays' standards, but we only had bikes as cars were strictly for rich men in those days, and we were limited as to distance when it came to humping our tent and things around. Cheesy said he would do the cooking for breakfast, so we left that side of the venture to him.

 

In the morning, after a fairly comfortable night, considering there wasn't much room in a small pup tent for four hefty blokes, nineteen years of age*, and the fact that we insisted on Cheesy sleeping with his feet outside the door flap. We awoke to the mouth watering smell of rabbit stew and coffee brewing over a wood fire right outside the tent flap, It was a brisk, chilly morn, just after six, and that stew and coffee went down a treat, and after sating our appetites to the full, we said "Smashing, where'd you get the rabbit, Cheesy?"

We should have thought about his innate curiosity as to finding out about things, either before we ate the stew or before we asked about it. He told us how he had heard that it was practically impossible to tell the difference between rabbit and cat meat, so as his boss’s cat had a litter of kittens the day before, and they had drowned the unwanted females, he thought he'd try out the theory on us, and what did we think. As I was bent over double trying to control my stomach from climbing into my neck, I remembered thinking that it was funny he had bread and cheese for breakfast. He too was bent over double, laughing his head off, and we never knew whether he was having us on or not. It tasted like rabbit, but if there was something in the theory he'd heard, ugh!!  I've never been able to face rabbit again.

There's a sequel to this story. I was hiking home from work one evening after the war, when I met up with one of the lads of those carefree days, whom I hadn't seen since we all drifted apart into marriage, removal from the district, or various other causes, and we hied ourselves to the nearest pub for a drink and natter about old times. Eventually, the talk got round to Cheesy, and his insatiable curiosity. I said I wonder what happened to him, my mate said he knew a bloke who served in the same mob with him in Germany. Apparently he was the same old Cheesy, always trying to find out how things worked. This bod said a few of his mob, including Cheesy, were going through a village recently evacuated by Jerry, when they came across a German pistol lying in the road. Naturally, they'd been warned about booby traps that Jerry was kindly leaving around, so the sergeant wanted to shoot it, just in case. However, Cheesy talked him into letting him have a go at it. He said he wanted to examine, had it been dropped he'd have a good souvenir. While the others got well up the road, Cheesy carefully tied a length of string to the handle which was clear of the road and carefully paid it out to a shell hole a few yards away. He clambered into the hole and pulled the pistol towards him. The shell hole exploded, and blew him to bits.

My friends and I left the pub that night mutually agreed on one thing.  That our old mate Cheesy wouldn't let St. Peter rest until he found out how that one worked.

* Note - which dates the camping trip to 1935. The Welsh Harp must have been a regular haunt, having already been mentioned in People Are Funny 10 - Autograph Albums