The swinging sixties

  

 I well remember the swinging sixties

By Bob French

I had been at the legal firm of Sedgwick and Humphries for six months and my employment review was coming up in three weeks’ time, so I was on my best behaviour. Even though I had gained two GCE Advance level passes, smarty and creepy pants Simon Smith had gained three GCE Advanced level passes and if that was not enough his uncle was one of the board members., so I knew I had to be particularly cunning and where possible, discredit the creep without attaching any blame to myself especially as there were only three candidates for one slot.

*****

          As I approached the tube station a young lad thrust one of the free London newspapers into my chest.  Without changing pace, I quickly folded it and stuffed it into my pocket, promising I would read it on the tube home, but didn’t as it was too crowded.  Then I remembered that Friday night was my favourite TV time when Coronation Street, followed by Eastenders was on the tele.

          As I made myself comfortable in front of the box, the telephone in the hall went off.  It was Graham, one of the lads who played in the same five a side footy team down at the gym on Sundays.

          “Yo, Billy, you still on for the game tomorrow at Frank’s place?”

          Frank, and Graham were my mates and we had planned to sit and watch the FA World Cup final on tele tomorrow afternoon.

          “Try and stop me you wazzuk.”

          “You still bringing the beers?”

          “Yep and I might bring some Pepsis.  You still buying the pizzas?”

          “Yeh, Is Harry coming? or has his bird got her talons into him and taken him shopping or something?”

          “Pass.  See you at two tomorrow mate.” Then the phone went dead.

          As I waited for Coronation Street to come on, I picked up the free London newspaper and quickly thumbed through it, only to stop and turn back a page. Tom Jones, The Rolling Stones and The Who were all on at the Palladium.  There was a number and before I had realised what I had done, I was through to the ticket office.

          “I’m terribly sorry but we sold the last ticket this morning.  I fell silent and closed my eyes.  My world had just come to an end as I gave a quiet groan.

          “Are you sure there is nothing left.  I have been waiting to watch these groups for ages.  Please could you have another look.”  Silence filled the telephone pressed against my ear, then her voice was on the phone.  I had already crossed my fingers and legs in hope that she might find an unsold ticket.

          “Hello.  Are you there?”

          “Yes, yes, I’m here.”

          “Look this is not supposed to happened, but I can squeeze you into the mosh pit if that’s all right?”

          “The mosh pit? Where’s that?”

          “It’s a wide-open space directly in front of the stage.  The view is brilliant, but the sound is deafening and at times it can get very violent.  On average, at least three or four people are carried out by the St. Johns Ambulance guys.

          A voice inside my head was already telling me to buy the ticket, but there was something in the back of my mind telling me not to.  Before I realised, I had told the young lady that I would buy the ticket. When I put the phone down, I felt as though I was on top of the world.

          Monday morning came and I woke with a funny feeling.  As though I had forgotten something important. I put it down to England beating West Germany, then remembered that I only had four beers and didn’t pass out, which was my usual party trick.

          It wasn’t until I sat and mindlessly watched the suburbs of London flash past my window on my way to work that it hit me and I swore out loud, causing a number of commuters to turn and stare at me. I had promised Mandy that I would take her to the Chinese Golden Dragon, one of the most prestige restaurants in the West End, for her birthday.  Which was on the same day as my great night out at the Palladium.

          I tried several excuses, but she rejected all of them and I could see the writing on the wall; Another failed relationship.  If this keeps up, I think I’ll try for the priesthood down at Ealing Abbey.  I laughed, but felt a horrible feeling that this future employment as a monk might actually come true, especially if I didn’t get the job at Sedgwick and Humphries.

          As the date of the gig drew nearer so my concentration started to wander.  All I could think about, was standing in the pit at arms-length from the groups on stage and sucking in the vibes, the music and the surroundings. Four hours of uninterrupted bliss I thought.

          Then at five thirty on the Friday before the gig, Simon and I were called into Mr. Sedgwick’s office, to be told that the third contender had pulled out leaving just us two.

          “I know it is at short notice, but the panel wants to put you under pressure, so I want you to write a 5000-word thesis on how to improve the office mail system by nine o’clock on Monday morning.

          “Excuse me Sir, do you mean this coming Monday morning?”

          Mr Sedgwick frowned at me. “Are you alright? Of course I mean Monday. If I asked you to have it done by a fortnight’s time it would defeat the point of putting you under pressure.”  His voice rose in volume matching his frustration with me.   

          At that point in my life, I felt that my prospects as a monk looked more attractive.

          I arrived at the door of the Palladium in good time, and once I showed my ticket, the usher told me to make my way down to the very front of the theatre.  When I got there the place was nearly full, so I just pushed my way in.  My eye caught a smart looking blond in a Twiggy mini skirt  and introduced myself.

          “Hello, my name is Bill. Have you come for the Stones?”

          “Jill, as she extended her hand.  No, Tom Jones.” Then suddenly the lights dimmed and the warm-up band, AC/DC, started and I noticed that those in the Mosh pit simply stood and stared.  When they finished, they made their exit and the trouper spot lights started to spin and flash across the stage as though winding up the expectations of what was to come. Suddenly the lights landed on Tom Jones as he appeared and the whole theatre erupted as he started to sing, then swing his hips causing the volume in the theatre, including the pit, exploded into one massive scream of hysteria.

          Part way through his routine, he started to move closer to the pit.  This ignited my wild and hysterical colleagues to rush towards the stage. A tall girl with pink hair barged past me; stopped, lifted her mini skirt, slipped off her knickers and threw them at Tom. I was a little shock having had a very conservative upbringing when it came to female relationships. Then I caught sight of Jill as she made her way towards me.  Without so much as an excuse me, she grabbed my shoulder and seem to be tugging at me. As I looked down, I could see that she was pulling down her knickers and was very unstable, so I leant into her and held her as she slipped out of them, then turned me around and lent on my back whilst she wrote her telephone number on them, then rushed towards the stage and threw her knickers at Tom, who caught them and smiled back at her. Everywhere I looked there were women frantically pulling down their knickers and throwing them onto the stage.

          Jill turned to me. “Come on then, get your Shreddies off.”

          Before I could protest, three of her mates had joined in the chant, so I quickly slipped my jeans off and pulled down my Spiderman underpants and threw them at Tom.  I was sure he pulled a frowned look at me. As I stood there with my John Thomas hanging in the wind, Jill laughed.

          “First time then” as she lifted her miniskirt to reveal a second pair of knickers. The night seemed to get more volatile as the crowds moved down into the isles and the hail of female garments increased. 

          On the tube back home that night I felt that I had fulfilled my dream, a dream I will remember for the rest of my days.

          At nine o’clock on Monday morning, I lay in my bed thinking of Simon, as he presented his thesis to old man Sedgwick and smiled.

          Then Jill turned over and gave me a long soft kiss. “Do you want breakfast again you naughty boy?”

 Copyright Bob French

 

RECOGNITION

 RECOGNITION

Peter Woodgate 

We can be right and yet be wrong

when not attuned to another’s song

and then at odds to understand

we let life slip like grains of sand

through fingers and without a sound

it gently mingles with the ground.

We realise then it’s too late to hide

the agony, caused by selfish pride.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

His Demise...

 DEATH

By John Abbott

It was dark , no moon , I could barely see my hand . My gloved hand tightened on the grip of my weapon , a small double-edged blade , six and a half inches of cold hard Sheffield steel . I must be conscious of not only trying to make as little noise as possible , but of not trying too hard , that only makes it less natural . I gritted my teeth , assuring myself that I could take him , that the sleek slim darkened metal could kill him , end his life and with it , his hopes , his dreams , his thoughts ....

A final word to myself .... now lad , go !!  My left knee took the strain and moved me cautiously upwards .


There he was , three large steps away , a low wall shielding his lower legs . He was about my height and seemed cold , his breath showing slightly in the night air . I glanced down , leaves in front of me , I made a full scan , left to right , couldn't see fuck !  right !  Here goes . Don't breathe Johnny old son , no intake of air , he might hear it .

I stepped into the abyss , into the darkness , one step , stop .... second step .... here goes .... it slowly occurred to me how could I stop him falling or making a sound ?

Without giving the idea a second thought , I stepped to him .


Left hand couldn't reach over to grab his headgear , so whilst moving forward , my right hand steered a piece of Sheffield into his left kidney , a tenth of a milli-second to withdraw the blade and now his helmet was in reach . Snap the helmet back SHIT !!!! , Bollocks !!! , No strap !!! , as his helmet calmly landed on my left thigh , my fingers tightened upon it , in the same moment , his head turned slightly left . Dear old Sheffield scored the winner , tight , hard , an inch and a half below his right ear lobe and up into his brain . Job done blade withdrawn in a second , I gently cradled his body , lowered it to the ground , claret all over the shop . I sat , cross-legged upon the wall and expelled my breath .


One-nil to England chum , I thought to myself . Not exactly a text book job , what was I doing ?  Should've realised the bloody strap , what a prat , that could have done for me ?  I hadn't heard any noise , too hyped-up, didn't matter now .


I raised myself , turned and stepped back three steps into my place of origin - the darkness .

As I wiped the blade upon the rag on my belt , my last thought was cold  I wondered what they'd tell his bird ?

 

Copyright John Abbott

Bay of Pigs

Do you remember…

Barbara Thomas

Let me take you back to the “swinging sixties.” If you are a baby boomer like me, this was our era. Mini skirts, vinyl records, Elvis Presley, Mods and Rockers, and many other moments. But that is not where my memory is leading me to:

This was the time of East meets West.

During this period, I was a young mother with a toddler and seven months pregnant with my second child, and, picture the scene, I am shopping in the high street, when I noticed a small crowd of people standing round the TV shop window; Having an inquiring mind, I edged towards the crowd. On the black and white TV, I heard the BBC newsreader saying that our prime minister, Harold Macmillan, would be making an important announcement.

I went to my parents’ home, really upset. Mum asked me if something had happened to me or my son, I blurted out what I had half heard a man saying that we will all be blown to smithereens. Mum settled me down on a chair and asked me what I was talking about. I explained that the Prime Minister would be talking to the nation at 6:00 pm that night.

At 5:55 pm we were ready to hear what the Prime Minister had to say at precisely 6,00 pm. I had brought my Grannie Smith in from next door.

The prime minister explained that as the Cold War was escalating, we must all prepare ourselves for the worst. We were told that every household would receive instructions from the government’s “protect and survive” campaign, which outlined highly specific steps for home survival. He went on to say that previously, during the year, the two leaders, J. F. Kennedy, the President of the United States and Soviet Premier of Russia, Nikita Khrushchev had met in Vienna, Austria. Letters had gone backwards and forwards where the newspaper called them “pen pals.” But the Cuban crisis changed all that; it was the moment that two superpowers came the closest to nuclear war.

Then, the Prime Minister said that everybody should stay glued to the radio for hourly updates, and that was that. The Prime Minister had spoken.

I was extremely frightened at the news and started to cry, mum being mum said “listen to me, I was born at the beginning of the first world war, my parents had to move twice after a zeppelin made a direct hit on both houses, then came the 30’s, everyone struggled to keep food on the table, and a roof over our heads. Poverty was all around us due to the general strike,

Followed by the second world war, where I was bombed out three times, one was when i was working at the Gaumont Picture House.

Mark my words, if your number is on it, that’s it!! All the worrying in the world will not make a ha’pence of a difference, so, dry your eyes and off home.”

N.b. The instruction leaflet explained that you unhinge your doors, have an allotted room, then stay as far as possible from the walls. Cover windows with blankets, rags with whatever you have available, and do not go out of the door.

Sirens will sound when the bombs are detected; take any necessary step to avoid the nuclear dust.

Some days later, after the superpowers were eyeballing each other, the Russian Soviet Premier was the first to blink and backed down leaving the President of the United States visually shaken. Agreements were hastily put together and signed. The President was heard to say that this was the worst thing to happen in my life.

The standoff was transmitted across the world.

This was my memorable moment…

Copyright, Barbara Thomas

Be the Character

 Be the Character

Len Morgan 

Constantin Stanislavski (1863~1938) was a Russian actor/director, known for the Stanislavki System of ‘Method Acting’ associated with many actors, Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, & Marlon Brando among them.

Stanislovski encouraged actors to question their characters:

 

1.      What does he/she want & Why?

2.      What is he/she thinking & feeling?

3.      How can you experience their circumstances?

4.      How would I behave in his/her skin?

5.      Live the Character!

 

I would suggest that budding authors could do the same.  When writing his/her story.  Give them a history, get under their skin!

 

Porter Wagoner the American Country Western star said:

“Before you judge a man walk a mile in his shoes.” 

Which to me seems good advice, try for empathy, see the world through their eyes.  People are complicated characters.

 

ORIGIN: When I look deeper I find Porter Wagoner was not first.

There is a poem by Mary T Lathrap “Judge Softly” 1895.

“Walk a mile in his Moccasins before you abuse criticise or accuse”

Aparently before that, it was an old Indian Proverb.

 Look up the poem "Judge Softly" It says all.  But for the grace of God go you or I.

 

Len Morgan

Little things mean a lot...

 OUR MUM AND DAD

Marion Anthony 

We had the best Mum and Dad of them all.
They gave us such love and we can recall the happy memories that we shared.

The love they both showed us and the way they cared;
We were definitely rich in love.

The joy one Christmas Eve, when we were small,
on that particular occasion, I was only three,
when dad came home from work, we dressed the Christmas tree;
He lifted me up in his arms, so tenderly,

and said 'Listen can you hear that?
My eyes sparkled as I imagined Santa on his way.
With the bells of Rudolph pulling his sleigh
And oh the smile on daddy's face,
it was a memory to treasure forever!
My imagination runs riot, caught up in the wonderment of  childhood.

The ride up to bed on dad's back, made us giggle,

when he put us in bed and told us not to wriggle
and the soft tone of his voice lulled us in to sleep.
Along with the feeling of contentment and deep feeling of security in knowing that we were truly loved.

Copyright Marion Anthony

LAMENT

 LAMENT 

By John Abbott

Louise had only known John for seven months and she would never forget the night they met. Not that it began as anything out of the ordinary, but later it seemed so, because of the joy that it had brought to her. She had gone for a quiet evening out with two girlfriends; a couple of drinks, a meal and some good conversation was what she had expected. That's what she got, and a lot more besides. John and his friends were in the same London restaurant and it all started innocently enough. They bought Louise's group a bottle of wine, and soon enough, the two groups were sharing a table. They were all young and laughed heartily together, enjoying each others company. When the evening began to fade into early morning, John gathered up his courage and asked Louise for her telephone number and whether she would risk going out alone with him. She was delighted and immediately agreed. To her, he appeared intelligent, fit, strong, strikingly handsome, and, most of all, good fun.

 

Within a few weeks, the two of them had become constant companions. John Coleman was a Scot from Edinburgh, he was twenty-one years old and full of confidence. Louise had realised straight away that this wonderful man, who always had something to say, and willingly laughed at every opportunity, was also a caring and sensitive soul. He was a soldier, which had initially surprised Louise, he didn't seem the type in her opinion. Although she wasn't keen on the military in general, she accepted that it should not be allowed to spoil a potentially happy relationship. He was very bright indeed, and was an ambitious Corporal in the Scots Guards. He appeared to love the life and had plenty of good mates within the battalion. She loved his dry, sarcastic sense of humour, and found him so attractive, that, at times, she could hardly believe her luck. They communicated well, expressed both feelings and thoughts to each other, and knew the difference between the two. To Louise, the relationship seemed perfect. The physical side was sensual, and the mental side was intriguing; compatibility seemed assured.

  

   Then in April 1982, a group of Islands in the South Atlantic, known to some as the Falklands and to others as the Malvinas, was invaded by Argentina. What happened thereafter is now history. As events unfolded in the South Atlantic, John's battalion geared itself up for war. John was a confident, sometimes awe-inspiring kind of man and he threw himself into those days with all his heart. He seemed to realise that after all the training and all the hard work, he would now get the chance to literally 'test' himself in the cauldron of war. And when he returned, which at this early stage, he never doubted once, he would return a wiser, stronger man. John loved Louise enormously, and although he had not admitted it at the time, when his battalion left for the South Atlantic aboard HMS Canberra, he knew that he would miss her terribly. Louise had received the letter on the twenty-second of June.

     " Dearest Louise,

It seems I have been mis-cast. This is no role for me, I am no soldier at all. All those war-games were simple enough, but the reality is far too terrible for me to comprehend. I love you so much and have no wish to lose you. I shall never again take your love for granted, as I feel I have done, whilst I indulge my childhood fantasies here on these islands. I yearn desperately to come home. I promise with all of my heart that I will never leave your side in the future. I love you. I want to feel your hair and smell your body, I need your smile to bring me back to the world of the living. I want to feel your lips upon mine, our tongues to embrace forever. I miss you more than I can ever explain. Life seems so shallow here. My friends fall like leaves in an autumn wind. When I return, will you marry me? I will give this life up, I shall no longer live the life of a warrior. I shall not often spend time away from you I will endeavour to care for your every need. I love you, please ... please ... do not forget me. When my last breath escapes me upon the battlefield, it will whisper your name ..."

 

Louise had read this letter countless times before. So often in fact, that she had almost memorised it word for word. It always brought forth a flow of tears, slowly tumbling down her face. The taste of these tears on her thin lips was always of the same bitter, salty kind. She had imagined the scene a thousand times. Officially, she had been told that on the twelfth of June 1982, upon the summit of Mount Tumbledown, at 22:39 hours, G Company had, whilst giving covering fire to the Recce Platoon, came under heavy Argentine mortar and artillery fire, thus killing Corporal John Coleman and wounding two colleagues. Unofficially, she imagined it slightly differently. The love of her life, with his young friends, huddled together against the cold and the damp, clinging grimly to life, coming under a terrible firestorm of mortar and artillery shells amidst the desolate rocks on the summit of Mount Tumbledown. The ending of yet another young, hopeful life. The final words in his letter would echo forever in her soul.

" When my last breath escapes me upon the battlefield, it will whisper your name ..."

 

Copyright John Abbott