38. Family History

Some years ago this magazine printed an article headed "Skeleton In The Cupboard" which was basically an advert. In which one of our now retired members touted for customers who were interested in tracing their ancestry. I was one of them.

Unfortunately our old mate, who didn't have the resources, or possibly enough knowledge of the job to build a family tree for an ape, let alone a human being, failed to trace my old man, although I supplied him with birth certificates of both he and my grandfather.

Much to the amusement of certain persons who doubted my legitimacy anyway. So it all fell through.

Edward James and Alice Pottinger. Baby Ed.

But the curiosity about one's forebears is in everybody and I have been told of a well organized family association that has been formed by a member of the Eustace family. P.E.O. Bernie Eustace is my informant, and this will be an interesting story for all who are curious about your ancestry.

Bernie got a circular from a Mr Eric Eustace, a civil servant, inviting him and his family to a gathering of the Eustace family at Pyrton, Oxon. on September 15th this year. This chap had, in collaboration with his brother and another namesake , done an amazing amount of research in tracing the family line and proposed to form a family association with hopes of enrolling the thousand or more bearers of the name who lived in the UK.

Briefly, with the aid of Parish records from Bledlow and Chinnor, the family line had been traced back to the Norman Conquest.

Since then other branches have been traced to the USA and New Zealand.

Well, Bernie went along and had a thoroughly interesting day with over 200 bearers of the Eustace name from all parts of the UK, and even some from America and New Zealand.

They had a tour of the Oxfordshire villages associated with the family, a picnic lunch, a visit to the Church at Pyrton where they presented a stand for the historic bell there, then an evening meal catered for by the ladies of Pyrton.

St Marys, Pyrton

From this exercise Bernie has found that most amongst his ancestors* were a Count of Boulogne, a Mayor of Oxford,  a champion wrestler from Wakefield and a King of Jerusalem!

While I hesitate to imagine what kind of nickname may now be applied to him, knowing the inventiveness of the local talent in this respect, I don't think it will in any way upset him, as he has fulfilled an urge that is inherent in all of us.

PS. I notice that one of his ancestors was prolific enough to sire twenty-two children. No wonder Bernie has fathered eight offspring. Couldn't help it, it's in the blood.

* Notes. See:

Eustace's I, II, III and IV  Wikipedia Eustace I,  Wikipedia - Eustace II, 

                                          Wikipedia - Eustace III,  Wikipedia - Eustace VI 

Mayor Thomas Eustace. 1639-1703. Mayor 1678/9.  oxfordhistory.org - Mayors - Thomas Eustace

Wakefield, Kansas, USA, that is. Alan Eustace 1892-1972  wrestlingdata.com - Alan Eustace  

Baldwin I (son of Eustace II of Boulogne)  Wikipedia - Baldwin I of Jerusalem

37. Graffiti

Just recently a facelift operation got underway at Head Office and was brought to a successful conclusion with only a very few of us realising the traumatic effect this would have on our way of life. I refer to the redecoration of the toilets.

Apart from the inconvenience caused to some, whose bladders were finely adjusted to operate at the toilet to which they had trekked, then, on arrival found that said bladders had to be put into overdrive in order to reach the next point of dispatch, the whole operation passed without comment.

The fact that some of the workforce got damp underwear, or pains in the lower regions before reaching the diverted haven, is of no consequence. What is of great import and a great intrusion on human rights was the erasing of the graffiti on the walls.

Graffiti writing is highly important in this day and age. Through it, the human race achieve the spiritual serenity that is given by the priest after confession. In fact, I think that it is even more satisfying than the confessional. A certain courage is needed to tell a person your innermost thoughts, even though that person is the to understand and grant you forgiveness, but any errant coward can pluck up enough courage to creep into the church and chalk "The vicar is a twit" on the pulpit front.

By the exercising of the right of free speech through the media of the felt tip pen everybody is satisfied. The writer feels better for getting it off his chest and on to the wall, the faithful are more likely to enjoy a boring sermon if the vicar ain't seen what he's preaching over, and he knows how he stands in the eyes of the congregation when he does.

Most graffiti is written on lavatory walls, mainly because it is here that the writer is unlikely to be disturbed whilst in the throes of composition, and inspiration is at it's peak during the soul satisfying sensation of answering the call of nature.

It is here that the most profound deliberations on a persons character are thought out and transferred to the wall.

It is here that the tongue-tied lover tells of his passion and obsession with the anatomy of his beloved which he could never tell to her face. "I love Nellie's great big knockers".

It is here that the racists get at the immigrants, and the immigrants get back at the racists.

It is here that injustice, actual or imaginary, is recorded for posterity. "The Union have sold us up the creek" or "The management couldn't organise a p--- up in a brewery".

However, I find during a hasty research into the quality of service to mankind that the graffiti on our bog walls has given, that writings thereon are, by and large, totally uninspired.

There were indeed, some very apt remarks thereon, but the bulk of them were the natural progression of folk who started off at a tender age by scribbling "Bum" on the pavements, in chalk which they had pinched off the teacher's desk.

Graffiti writing is an art to be learnt properly if it is to be effective. I propose that future writings, which are inevitable, on our now virgin wall, be done only by elected Graffiti Scribes who must hve six O-levels, of which Terse Verse and Correct Spelling of Descriptive Nouns be mandatory. It is not good for our image for inscriptions to read "My P.E.D is a right b-------". Think how much better it would look if instead it were to read "My P.E.D should be in charge of the bar. He'd make a proper bar-steward".

To help you as to the standard of graffiti required, I am printing hereunder some classic examples of the art by Nigel Rees from his book "Graffiti lives OK" which was contributed by driver Ricky Steward who did the research.

Some comments written on church notice boards:

"Where will you be on the day of Judgement? - Still waiting here for a 183 bus"

"Work for the Lord - the pay ain't good but the fringe benefits are out of this world"

"Jesus saves - with the Woolwich?"

"Jesues saves - Keegan scores on the rebound"

Seen written on a condom vending machine:

"Subject to VAT if used on the premises"

"My dad says they don't work"

"This is the worst bubble gum I've ever tasted"

"Not for sale during the French postal strike"

In a gents loo:

"Smile, you are now on Candid Camera"

"Christine, if you're reading this, we're through"

"You don't buy beer you rent it"

"If you're looking for a joke, you've got one in your hand"

What about these for wit:

"Three channel TV sets. £10 each. As advertised on Police 5"

"I'd give my right arm to be ambidextrous"

"The grave of Karl Marx is just another communist plot"

"Rugby is a game played by men with odd shaped balls"

"Tonights meeting of the Apathy Society is cancelled"

"Hypochondria is the one disease I haven't got"

"Humpty Dumpty was pushed"

"I hate graffiti. I hate all Italian food"

And rounding off with a poignant remark on the sad state of the economy: 

"Buy now while the shops last"

36. Postcards As Wallpaper

aka Decoration

A friend of my wife and I who is an elderly maiden lady; spinster is a description I dislike, as somehow one gets the impression of a vinegary and prudish female of the Victorian era; had asked me to do a simple repair job in her flat.

Naturally enough, this took far longer than the lady anticipated. Women are very naive when it comes to things that require the males inferior handling of hammer and screwdriver, they are apt to underestimate the time required, sometimes by days. However advancing time found me in the embarrassing situation of having to ask permission to use the toilet.

As I said, the word spinster, in no way fits our friend as she is quite charming in manner, modern in dress, and liberal in her views. Her flat is furnished however in the extremely comfortable fashion of Edwardian tines.

Very large armchairs and an enormous sofa piled high with cushions, an old rocking chair, solid oak tables, bookcases and sideboard to match. Walls covered with family photos, clocks of all types, even down to a cuckoo clock out of which pops a cheeky little bird every quarter and on the the hour chirping "COOK" It seems to have lost half its vocal chords over the years and has no "COO".

Plants grow in profusion everywhere and stand on everything that has space available. The inevitable "aspidistra" towers in its pot, the size of half a beer barrel in the window bay. The large television standing on its spidery legs in a corner looks strangely out of place, its like seeing a Wimpy Bar in operation in the reading room of the British Museum.

Almost hilariously old fashioned is her flat yet here is the peace and serenity of a bygone era. The solid contort of security and permanence so often lacking in the modern décor. 

So it was with astonishment I beheld what literally leapt at me when I opened the lavatory door. A crescendo of colour and movement, a roar of laughter and giggles from "Donald McGills" honest vulgarity, all the ships, trains, cars and other methods of transport in the world. A veritable pictorial encyclopedia of happy holidays, nostalgic memories, forgotten heroes of stage, screen, sport and war. All over the small room, were stuck hundreds of postcards, even on the door and ceiling.

When I said how much I liked the decoration of her toilet, she said it was a shame to put all those beautiful pictures away in drawers only to be looked at on very few occasions, so she put them where she was sure to enjoy them every day and thus ensure that one of the most basic functions of life could be made enjoyable as well as endurable. 

I fully concurred; besides what, once complete, it does away with the need for redecoration.

35. The Door Knocker

aka House Callers

It's said that mankind took his biggest step away from the beasts of the jungle when he invented the wheel. That certainly is true, look how he progressed with the sophisticated adaptions he fitted to the original bent bit of green branch he bowled round his cave. He found he could chop invading Romans to little pieces by fixing dirty Great knives to it, blast others of his kind to mincemeat by sticking a bigger gun than he could carry in his hands on top of two of them, and by the simple operation of putting an engine on any number from four upwards, could successfully move fast enough to reduce to a gory pulp, any of his ilk who were unfortunate enough to get in his way, himself included.

Yes, homo sapiens certainly got off his haunches when inventing the wheel, and all God's creatures, great and small, must have been laughing their heads off ever since.

However, I think he surpassed himself with another little gimmick, which he must have dreamt up when in one of his most destructive moods - the door knocker

And it's subsequent development, the door chimes and other weird noises that occur when the button is pressed outside. One bloke I knew, has a contrivance that makes a sound something like a cat being castrated without sedation during an air raid warning and in answer to my quavering inquiry of what the hell it was when he answered the door, he proudly stated that it was different wasn't it? I noticed he was a bit green about the gills and guessed he had not adjusted as yet.

But the real evil of the door knocker is what it invites, and that is the door callers. These are something that are shared by everyone with the possible exception of people who live in tents, for the simple reason that old homo sapiens ain't yet been able to fit a knocker on a tent.

The trouble is that you never know who or what you are going to find when you answer the knock or ring at your door, unless it's someone you expect, the milkman, baker or postman, or any of the usual tradesmen. It can be any of the multitude of various pests that everybody is plagued by at some time or other, and it's this uncertainty that makes each member of the family present, look at each other and say "door".

Average people have very little consumer resistance and are liable to come back indoors with a programme for a church fete, a dozen clothes pegs or a copy of the 'Watchtower' and a feeble grin, saying "I just bought it to get rid of them". Trouble is, getting rid of them can work out pretty expensive if the vendor is flogging a set of encyclopedia and we have all met this social cancer who has had the stereotyped training designed to overcome any sign of customer resistance, and whose intentions which are supposed to be unknown until he has you feeding him tea and biscuits in the kitchen, are as unobtrusive as a boil on your nose, the minute he says he's doing a survey of the district and would you answer a few questions.

Sometimes you can get away with it cheaply enough if, you are like me, and have a degree of peasant cunning bolstering up your indecisive nature, as for example, with the insurance men who always come in pairs to examine your policies.

These bods seem to be about seven feet tall, as they tower over you in the corner of the lounge, where they have you trapped and they have convinced you that what you cannot live without is an insurance against catching continental tummy when you've already booked for a week in the Isle of Wight. You don't stand a chance, so I always agree, sign the form, send them on their way happily working out the commission on their sale, and cancel the policy by post the following day. No good doing it by phone, as you only get talked into something else. If you've had to pay the first premium, well, it's usually only a couple of bob, so it's worth it to get rid of them.

Other knocker salesmen who are not so easily to fob off, unless you have the nature that can look these pests in the eye, and say "sod off" are the Kleen-eezy brush men, and of course, the family portrait men, the never-never bloke, the Avon lady, the bird who wants to have a tupperware party on your new carpet, Jehovah's witnesses, the females who try to flog you lucky heather which is usually picked off the heap of sewerage they have been sorting over with the unwashed claw that now proffers it, the 'Fair prices given' Steptoes who leave a card to say when they'll be belting the hell out of your knocker, to do you a favour by giving you a quid for any old masters you happen to have laying about, and the vast army of Xmas box collectors who mostly deserve it, but anyway they've got you by the short and curlys because if you don't cough up you know that you're going to get a trail of rubbish up you're path, or the papers are left out in the rain next year.

All people who can get at your purse and intrude into the privacy, through the door knocker. Most of us finish up with a bottom drawer full of flue brushes, "You seem to have overlooked the last three instalments on your Welsh dresser" reminder cards, and gypsies curses. All because some prehistoric Edison invented the damn thing.

You see a door knocker ? Me neither.

It would be interesting to have a list of white elephants bought by folk at the door and my contribution would be an Indian blouse I bought one night from a large gent who loomed over me when I opened the door, and swept away my defences with a gleaming smile, an assurance that I had a kind face and an Origami trick with a piece of paper he produced with a flourish from a large tattered case which lay opened on the path at his feet. Then followed a display of Oriental finery which gave me the feeling that my life would be dull and devoid of any colour, should I not acquire some portion of it, so I bought this blouse for my wife, who agreed that it was indeed beautiful, then carefully packed it away in our bottom drawer of white elephants. He left me with the request that I favour him by not giving it to my wife that night as he wanted to pray for me before I did as he was so overwhelmed by my kindness, and he wished to offer a prayer for my future well-being.

I hope he did and also a prayer for the rest of the sufferers of one of the most diabolical inventions of H. Sapiens.

34. Never Too Late To Learn

aka I Don't Know What To Do

There's nothing that makes me more annoyed than a child sitting around with a bored look and when asked what's up, says "I don't know what to do". The favourite plea of the young thug caught beating up old ladies is "I was bored" and the do-gooders fall over themselves to find some occupational therapy for the poor lad when it could have been averted at source by giving him a good thumping every time he said it when a child.

The lady who had the unenviable task of instructing my mates and myself in the ways of the Lord at Sunday school, where we were sent by our parents, more to get us out of the way for a couple of hours, than concern about our spiritual welfare, was about four feet ten, weighed around seven stones, middle aged and had the looks and temperament of an angel, and always wore a black dress with white lace high round the neck.

I was whiling away the time during one session of her quiet soft talking by pulling at the pigtails of the girl in front of me, to her muttered disapproval, when the quiet voice stopped, then in the same tone asked me to step to the front of the class. Then she said would I be kind enough to lean over the desk at which she was seated, which I did, smirking at my mates. I was most surprised when a hand with the weight of an elephants' foot was placed in the small of my back and another which felt like a bricklayers hod, was applied with vigour to my backside. She laid into me solidly for a good five minutes and wasn't even breathing hard when she let me stagger back to my desk.

I learnt two things from that session, that God moves in a mysterious way, and appearances are deceptive, and have never felt the need to beat up old ladies. You never know, you might get a karate chop across the throat. 

Mind you, I blame it all on too much telly. Proper mind destroying robot, and now it's on all day the kids' don't stand a chance of thinking for themselves, and if it breaks down they're at a dead loss. Can't understand it, can you ? Bags of things they could be doing, like learning the alphabet backwards. Not many people can say that and it could be quite a party piece.

I learned very early in life that loafing about only resulted in being given a back-breaking chore like running errands for Mum or getting the back of the old mans' hand for being idle, and kids of my time kept themselves busy with innumerable games in order to avoid such calamities. 

The streets of Paddington were alive with children in earnest pursuit of enjoyment of their own making, and I don't think they were any the worse for not having television to lose their minds in. These games were usually perilous to the players but not deliberately aimed at maiming the onlooker although anyone had to be wary, especially when passing a lamp post where a boot in the back was quite likely from the flying feet of the girls swinging on ropes tied at the top as a maypole, and the old and infirm didn't stand much chance of  getting out of the way of the child who belted along propelling an iron hoop as large as himself with a hook acting as a skimmer.

Mainly we got the bruises, as in "Releaseo", the old "Cops and Robbers" game where one team of boys set out to capture another. When one was caught, he was put in jail, a chalked square on the pavement, with a jailer, and he had to stay there so long as the jailer remained inside, and it was the job of the free robbers to get him out which they did by pulling his legs to prise him loose from the railings to which he clung. The shouts of the lad whose arms were being pulled from their sockets via his ankles while his head was thumping the rails was an unforgettable sound. That and the calls of "Releaseo" from the prisoner soon brought the scouting coppers back to engage in a free for all which was the whole object of the game.

Multiple leapfrog called "Wallie Echo" or "Jimmy Knacker"* called for devotion to duty beyond normal expectation especially when some hefty lout landed on your neck leapfrogging over six other lads at one go to get there, and had to be held up until the rest of team had landed and three verses of "Wallie Echo" were sung.

Games of conkers were usually won by the boy with the least bruised knuckles rather than the one with the hardest conker, and football matches, played with a tennis ball with coats as goalposts always ended in one of two ways, and always with the immediate flight of both teams. The crash of a broken window or the call of "Copper" from the lookouts posted at either end of the street.

Skipping ropes stretched across the street swung madly while boys and girls leapt like startled fleas in the middle, marbles played along the gutters, marred now and then by the disappearance of a favourite one down the drainhole, fag cards flicked along the pavement in games of "kissums" or knockdown, tops spun on to the hand or whipping tops thrashed to death, scooter races on home made scooters constructed with two lengths of wood, a tarry block, four screw eyes, two ball races and a large meat skewer, all activities strenuously and continually enjoyed by a generation who did not have a great standard of living but were lucky in not having their minds in danger of being made plastic by big brother in the corner of the living room.

By the way, if anyone would like the alphabet recited backwards, I shall be happy to oblige. I learned it the other night when our telly went on the blink and I couldn't think of anything to do. Never to late to learn, is it ?

Notes:

* Read more about Jimmy Knacker, "an excellent game which is both stupid and occasionally dangerous",  here:  Strange Games - High Jimmy Knacker

33. All Or None

I expect you've noticed how things have a habit of going from one extreme to the other.  Our weather is one of the best examples of this as any postman will know.  Many a walk has been started by a furtive character disguised as the Ancient Mariner battling his way from door to door against the driving rain and wind, and finished a couple of hours later with sweat pouring down his face and back because the sky has cleared and the sun is doing it's best to fry him through his mac.  And how many times has a "double" been started with mac's and hats airily discarded, to enable a clear sky and balmy breeze be enjoyed as much as possible, and finished by the happy, laughing postman moodily squelching across the office floor leaving a trail like a snail up a garden path, Dr. Martin's filled to the brim and trousers flapping soggily against his legs.

There is always some nit who wants to know if it's raining outside, mostly when a delicate operation like trying to extract the bits of yellow pulp that were once registered receipts from a pocket full of bits of string, elastic bands, dog-ends and rain water is under way.  This infuriates me, but is getting off the theme of things going from the sublime to the gorblimey.

London Transport do their best to conform in this respect. There's not one of us who hasn't cooled his heels at a stop for half an hour or more, then in desperation started to walk and when a couple of hundred yards along the road had to belt back like mad to catch any one of the four or more buses which have suddenly appeared in convoy.  See what I mean? All or none.

I was reared in Paddington and like all of my mates lived in a tenement house of three storeys and a basement, I don't mean we occupied all of it , only two rooms and a basement scullery. They were all gas lit, draughty, and very damp with a communal lavatory on one of the landings, which was shared by all the families, from each floor.  No such concession to bodily hygiene was made by builders of these mansions when it came to bathrooms. 

There just weren't any and cleanliness was achieved in a tin tub in front of the kitchen fire, or an up and a downer at the sink.  This was down with your shirt off then up with your pants ditto.  The problem of personal toiletry was rather difficult when lumbered with an ailment as, for instance stomach enteritus, which we knew as the runs.

My mate Charlie was at one time thus severely afflicted and had set up an all time record by being in the "lav" queue seventeen times in a day.  Now Charlie had one all consuming weakness. "Pancakes".  Not the paper thin wafers that masquerade as such, but monsters about an inch thick crammed with currants and raisins, which he always cooked himself. After the seventeenth visit he felt rather empty and thought a couple of his favourite fruit were indicated.  On returning to the two rooms and scullery his family occupied, he found the place in darkness and his mother out.  Apparently the gas had run out. So, not having any money to put in the meter, he decided to mix up the pancakes in the dark and cook them over the fire in the grate.  So he got all the ingredients from the cupboard in the scullery, made the mixture in a basin and had just finished eating the two great thick cakes when his mother returned.

She told him that she'd been to the shops to buy a bag of flour as she knew he'd fancy some pancakes after his stomach upset, and when Charlie said he'd already had them, she said that there wasn't any flour in the cupboard that's why she had gone out to buy some.

After lighting the gas they went to the cupboard to see who was wrong and found what he had made his pancakes with. A bag of starch, which was standing on the same shelf. Charlie got a stomach as hard as a board and never got in the "lav" queue for another week.

See what I mean?  All or none.

32. Cats Have Nine Lives?

aka The Cat Ghost

I've always been proud of what I consider to be my practical frame of mind.  I don’t believe in ghosts or supernatural occurrences, the first are figments of the imagination and the second always have a logical explanation, scientific or otherwise.  It’s funny how many people think their dreams have a special meaning when a touch of the screaming hab-dabs in the night followed by a mouth tasting like the bottom of a parrots cage when waking, is merely the result of too many keg bitters or shag fags the night before.

Spooks, banshees, werewolves and vampires live in books not in life, the only blood suckers I know are mosquitoes, leeches and money-lenders calling themselves finance companies.

If anything went bump in the night where I used to live in Paddington, it was the rats under the floorboards playing tag with the spuds they pinched from the larder, and the rats were there because the Irish family next door kept chickens which they seldom cleaned out.  When I asked Pat why he didn't clean his chickens he said it was natural for them to be like that, but he would make a trap to catch the rats. So he did, and he caught a rat in it too.  Trouble was, the trap he made was the size of a small tea chest, and when he dropped it in a tin bath of water the rat just swam on top of the water inside the cage.  So Pat tried poking it under with a stick but couldn't keep it down, so he decided to electrocute it. He fixed a length of twin flex to a bayonet cap plug, put it in a light plug and plunged the bared ends into the water. The next second there was a blinding flash and the rat was dead and Pat was thrown against the backyard wall with enough force to break his back.  He didn't, luckily, but I thought it would have been easier to clean out the chickens or leave the rats to our cat who, in between siring most of the kittens around and fighting any available tom, was a dedicated rat killer, and seemingly indestructible. 

Until one night he forgot his kerb drill and went to the old tom's Valhalla via the wheels of a passing motorist.

Two little boys knocked at the door and asked did I have a black cat with a white spot on his left ear, cos if I did, he was laying in the road, he'd been "runned over".

It was him alright, white spot and all, so I took him home, dug a hole in the garden, or should I say, backyard, and buried him with due respect for a departed warrior.

It was about an hour later when my wife and I were in the throes of a game of chess and I was in my usual position wondering how the hell can I be two moves from defeat when I’ve had her completely tied up since the start, when the silence was shattered by the deep yowling of a randy tom.

Our tom.  No mistake about it.  We'd heard it so often.

We looked at each other and she said fearfully "It's him". My wife appeared to have gone a delicate shade of green and I felt as if my tongue had been dipped in the budgie grit box.

Reason asserted itself, whoever heard of a cat ghost?  No such thing as ghosts.  Just an interloper who sensed the king was dead and was taking over his domain.  So I opened the door to shoo away the pretender and in walked our mog, as disreputable as ever, between my wife and I and straight to his feed tin. Ate his grub, gave himself his usual swift lick round the face and backside, and sallied forth past my wife and I into the night.

We hadn't moved or said a word.

Hadn't I just buried him two feet deep in the yard? We went to the grave to see and it was undisturbed.  Then I tumbled. As I said, there's a logical explanation for everything and what I'd done was to bury another cat exactly like ours. A coincidence no less, which more than likely accounts for half the so called ghosts.

Mind you, thinking back, I never did dig up the stranger to check that it was still there, and as we moved some years ago I will never know. Thats stupid thinking, ain't it?  After all, our old mog is still with us, a pretty solid ghost, but that old saying about a cat having nine lives must have originated from somewhere, mustn't it?