Memories

 A series of pictures and testimony from those who were there. Names deleted to protect the innocent : )

                                                               The Aintree Institute

 

"Weird, just to think I had my 40th in there and not long after it was knocked down :(("

"That's where i saw them, God getting old ///"

"We saw them there it was brill"

"yeh//anyone who saw them knew they would make it big time ."

" Has any one got more pictures of that night I was there"

"We were there fab x"

"We went to brill"

"My aunty went to see them when they first appeared in the Cavern along with many other great Mersey bands. She said John was very rude...found him arrogant, ended up swilling him with a drink later in the night haha,  always been a fiesty lady.x"

"Pete Best on drums too!"

 This pic is of them on the 'Royal Iris'.

 "Nice."

" I was there that nite,+ yes John could be very sarcastic..."

 

"I was there too, it was the first time I saw them with leather jackets as I had one on too. Had a quiff similar to Paul in those days."

"John V Proffitt did you go with our cousin David ? He was always asking me to go but I was too shy then ha ha now I know what I missed.I did see them several times on the Locarno also on the Empire on one show also on the bill were,Roy Orbison Cilla Black and other top artists,that would'nt happen now they would all be on separate bills"

"Hi Dot, I went with another friend, it was the first time I had been to the Aintree Institute or heard the band. Rory Storm and The Hurricanes were more popular around that time and we know what happened from there onwards. Our Gwen went there alot more than I did. I used to go to the Locarno too and saw all the bands in the Walls Ice Cream Contest."

"Rory Storm and the Hurricanes were always on The Orrell Park Ballroom,which was a favourite venue of ours, I wasn't so keen on Rory's group,we used to love Mark Peters and the Silhouettes also Ian and the Zodiacs"

"We went to the Aintree Institute to see them"

"I'm sure this was the night, the girls nearest the stage stood on chairs, I was impaled by a stiletto heel, when one of the girls stepped down backwards on my right foot. I still bear the scar to this day."

 

 The Aintree Institute demolished. 

Still, there was the Cavern.    
Some other guy
The original rehearsals for 109 

Lunch time in Liverpool

Published with thanks to Friends of Orrell Park and Walton on the Hill Group

And People's Stories, Liverpool lives

Me? I lived two hundred yards away

Deceit is the way to go

The Longbow Puband Pantry, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn is a British themed pub selling Old Speckled Hen, Fish and Chips, and has a Welsh national rugby shirt over the bar. It shows live British football matches and is owned by Michael Cobert, a former native of Wrexham in North Wales. 

His biggest mistake? A certain reckless honesty. He advertised for a bartender asking for an ‘energetic and enthusiastic’ man or woman ‘with an appreciation of craft beer, good food, whisky and real football….Being British definitely works in your favour.” I would have thought that amounted to common sense rather than active discrimination. The New York City Commission on Human Rights thought otherwise. It accused the bar of violating discrimination law ‘by giving a preference to employing applicants based on their national origin.” The commission offered to settle the matter for $2,500 warning that should the Colberts dispute the issue the fine would rise to $7,500.

The Colberts are disputing the case. They point out that one of their employees comes from Long Island but earned a Hospitality Degree whilst working in London. The Colberts argue they are catering for a specialized market, a clientele for which: “It is essential to know that Wales is not where the Princess is from, why Everton v. Liverpool is an important match, that ‘knocking someone up’ is not about being pregnant, a banger has nothing to do with gangs, black pudding is not a dessert and that the Old Firm has nothing to do with attorneys.” (NYT)

It will be interesting to see how the case goes, but it seems to me that this is another case of bureaucracies choosing soft targets and/or soliciting administrative costs. Bear in mind they’ve targeted a low wage transient sector in the job market. Now look to the other extreme.

Another report in the New York Times examined the 13%  unemployment rate of  African-Americans and suggests not racial discrimination but ‘favoritism’ or ‘inclusion’ as the primary cause of this. Discrimination or ‘exclusion’ is subject to the same legal challenge that the Colberts now face. ‘Favoritism’ or networking gets round this. Family and friends, personal networks and insider information are the new mechanisms of employment. And we’re talking about high end employment.

The report argues you don’t need ‘favoritism’ or a strong social network to find a low wage job at fast food outlets or chain stores, so anti discriminatory legislation ironically makes it easier for African Americans to find low paid jobs in these sectors. It levels an already low playing field. On the other hand the more insidious - “whites helping other whites is not the same as discrimination, and it is not illegal.” The report discovered that higher paid jobs are more usually reserved for ‘people like us’ and people who know about them will tell the people who are close to them or with whom they identify and who might in the future reciprocate the favour. Thus dynasties are born, acting dynasties, media dynasties, political dynasties. You don’t get dynasties in fast food outlets.

That is where the Colberts went wrong. They advertised with a hint based on common sense and pragmatism for a relatively low paid job. I hope they’ve learnt their lesson. Deceit is the way to go.

Pity the lobster

So the last two posts have been about choice. I was thinking about this today whilst swimming. I was on my 45^th length and considering whether I should break the pattern and go for 46.

And then wondered whether in fact I had any choice in the matter. 

A woman passed me as I slowed to think about it. She does the crawl and swims like a combine harvester, her arms like scimitars taking no prisoners. Does she have to swim like that? Do I have to swerve and duck?

 And if I don’t was a clipped ear predestined before the Big Bang?

This question of predestination is a doozy, the father of Sci Fi itself. If an omniscient God knows my actions before I am born, then my actions are predestined and thus I am without will. 

But then what sort of Supreme Being would want to know every thought and action of the billions upon billions who have come and gone on this planet? A totalitarian obsessive comes to mind, which, apart from being blasphemous, doesn’t ring true. Maybe we are all quantum entities; life-changing choices made, measured and judged when we are ‘observed’. Then again, maybe not.

I was safe for the moment, the ‘combine harvester’ had gone, endangering others farther up in the pool. I considered Historical Materialism, the idea that only matter exists, so history is merely the account of matter in motion – matter in motion following predetermined laws.

 For the Marxist it is economic forces that drive history. The individual, his life and thought are largely, for some wholly, shaped by these forces. But Marx is not entirely deterministic. He is rejecting ‘free will’ in a vacuum. For Marx, people "make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past.”

So there I was, 'matter in motion, but, as far as I could seee, economic determinism  had little direct input on how many lengths I should swim. That was good - but heavy stuff for 7.30 am.  I pulled myself out the pool on my 45^th length – calculating that another length would bring me in range of the ‘harvester’ and wondering whether she, too, was part of God’s Divine Plan.

I was hungry and my mind drifted to Lyon and the great food market of Les Halles.

I wanted to eat everyone of these cakes, the thousands of cheeses and oak-blackened hams, the oysters, the lobsters,  the wines but my choice was limited by those dammed economic forces that allowed me only so much money, familial horror and disgust if I’d acted on the gluttonous impulse, and the limited size of my gut.

But pity the lobster, its choice replaced by the choice of others.

Freedom captured in image

I envy the multilingual – being able to dream in an alien language. I envy my daughter. Fresh from my adventures on the Lyon Metro and my fruitless attempts to shrug in French at Annecy, I went to a museum dedicated to the wonderful brothers Lumiere.  I ended up in a small auditorium crowded with French people watching a film on the Lumiere brothers in French. A few people, I noticed, were sleeping. Putain! Foreigners! I thought, taking my seat. All I had to do was keep awake, nod in the right places, and no one would be the wiser. Despite my dozy appearance I too would be taken for French. It worked. I think. Who knows?

The following day we saw people with even less choice than the animals in le Parc de la Tête d'Or Zoo. They  couldn’t move at all. Worse they were mute.

I stood there for ages, wondering what might happen at midnight under a full moon, or perhaps on Walpurgis night. Would they come to life? Would those who observed them take their place in the blink of a Lyonnaise eye?

If you ever see this in a Doctor Who adventure, remember where you read the idea first : )

Choice

Artist - Nicholas Sicard

This is a wonderful painting. It captures not only movement but also possibility. The eye is drawn to the woman half turning, and then drifts to every single individual there. Who are they? Where have they been, and where are they going? The painting fizzes with possibility and choice.

In real life choice is limited by many things, most commonly poverty. Still, there remains the thin possibility, for others aspiration or hope. 

That wasn’t the case in the zoo at le Parc de la Tête d'Or in Lyon. A bunch of Lemurs on a small island, which they shared with two giraffes and a zebra, looked reasonably happy. There was sufficient room for the two giraffes to stretch their legs, but it was hardly savannah, and the zebra just stood there looking pensive. 

Worse was to come: two small landscaped enclosures, one holding a bear, the other a tiger. Each animal paced a well worn route, the same unvarying pattern that you suspect they had done for years and would continue to do so for more years to come. I watched for some time; slow motion horror.

We moved on to two large cages. One held a colony of gibbons; the youngest still intrigued by the possibility of escape. These sat on the highest branches of a dry looking tree, and fingered every loop of the taut black wire blocking the sky…exploring.

 The cage next to it held Lulu. She’d been there since 1961. Kennedy, The Beatles and Stones, Hendrix and Dylan had passed her by, the space race, glam rock, punk, the collapse of the soviet empire and the fall of the Berlin wall had all been and gone, and she sat there on the same tree in the same cage. A nursing home from birth. It was time to go.

We passed runners - well actually they passed us – running along circumscribed paths, but that’s a conceit followed my many who question the concept of freedom. These runners had choice, along with the prospect of a hot shower and a drink in a cool Lyonnaise bar.  

The following day I experienced another limitation on choice: language. I like to think I speak the language of the world with a happy smile, a shrug, sometimes a handshake. And of course you can point at things.

 You have to accept ridicule too.

 In Lyon I was puzzled by a word. We’d be waiting on the platform of the Metro and I kept wondering why every train seemed to be going to Prochain until my daughter, who is mostly very patient, told me Prochain wasn’t a destination, but advising us when the next train was due.  

It got from bad to worse. The following day we were in Annecy and I sat in the castle courtyard reading my Kindle. An elderly Frenchman sat on a bench opposite me, about ten feet away. He spoke to me, rubbing his forearms and glancing at the sky. I, too, looked at the sky, rubbed my forearms, and threw in a rueful smile. Clearly he was talking about the weather. He spoke some more. I resisted the temptation to spit out ‘Putain’, which my daughter assures me is a safe all-purpose word. Instead I shrugged and nodded, looked some more at the sky.

Five minutes later he stood up, inclined his head and said ‘Good-day’ in perfect English. I hadn’t fooled him. Even my body language lets me down. In this respect my ‘choice’ depends largely on the good will of others.

Midnight Cowboy and the Adventures of Robin Hood – the missing link

When we were very small we peered through our neighbour’s window to watch ‘The Adventures of Robin Hood on a black and white TV - with its 12 inch screen even smaller than us. Eventually we also got a TV and sang along to the hypnotically catchy theme tune. Listen to it once or twice and you'll be singing along too.

It’s only now, looking back, that the weirdness of its cast hits home. Richard Greene played Robin Hood. 

Clean cut and with an immaculate smile he was 1950’s man personified. To a child, knowing no better he suited Lincoln green well enough, but looking back now  I can more easily imagine him in a checked shirt and cravat, a jacket - cord or tweed, and cavalry twill trousers. He’d be drinking a pint from a dimpled pint glass and twinkling at Maid Marion in twinset and pearls sipping a Baby-Cham (a mildly alcoholic fizz for those who couldn’t afford champagne.) Having said that, Patricia Corbett looked a damn sight better in Lincoln green and well tailored leggings. 

 But where does Midnight Cowboy fit in?

 Well, we all have to start somewhere, even the sexually active John Schlesinger, who starred as Alan a Dale in an episode called The Dowry. One for quiz compilers everywhere.

And because this is a very short post, here a three samples aprox three minutes each.

episode

episode

episode.

The Triangular Flapjack

A seven year old schoolboy was hit in the face by a triangular flapjack. The incident took place in a school canteen. Immediately the headmistress took action. With Napoleonic vim she banned the triangular flapjack - one of those rare occasions when Brussels wasn’t consulted first.

From henceforth the flapjack would be rectangular – which in my view just adds another lethal corner. Maybe there had been some discussion in Castle View School’s senior management team – round flapjacks perhaps mooted and then discarded. These could well slice across faces leaving Prussian dueling scars. So square or rectangular it is. 

For how long?

Thinking back to my school the consequences of this are fairly predictable. Experimentation – flapjacks whizzing along corridors, down stairwells and across crowded classrooms, like edible Frisbees in search of the perfect aerodynamic curve. Pandora’s box once opened….

            My heart falls…looking back… Opportunity lost - If only we’d had the flying flapjack when I was a child. There were fusspots then, but they had more to worry about:

 Still, childhood is a state of mind. I’ve bought my pack of flap-jacks. Just waiting the suitable moment.