Anecdotes
Ken Pratley & his exploits in the Metal Workshop
If I might I would like to add a couple of incidents I recall from my time at Barnsbury, that you may wish to post. Both concern the metalwork shop of Mr Bean where on one occasion I think when I was in 4T1 Westell needed some paint for his music stand "or whatever' and found it to be separated to sediment. No problem, Beany produced an L shaped stirring rod to be mounted in the chuck of the pillar drill, set spinning and fed into said paint. All went well at first then the stirrer made contact with the side of the can. Westell released his grip on the can in alarm which duly whirled around with great rapidity sending a thin stream of paint across Westell anyone else standing nearby and across the windows and machinery. The rest of the period needless to say was spent with everyone running round with rags and turpentine
I also recall another occasion when we had to clean the metal workshop windows. I'm not sure I can remember exactly who it was but it may have been Norman Burkett but whoever it was his parents owned a fish and chip shop. Anyway a large fume extracting hood that went over a deep fryer had developed a significant fracture near the rear bracket that fastened it to the wall. Norman bought it in to school to see if it could be braised welded or in some other way repaired. It looked like galvanised Steel so Beany thought that in order to braze it (and also burn some of the congealed oil off) it would be best to heat it in the forge first. So the forge was lit and in it went, and the blower was turned on. However rather than being galvanised steel it turned out to be pure zinc and it ignited with a bright but eerily phosphorescent flame. This immediately gained the attention of the whole class who watched in wonder as it was more or less totally consumed, filling the workshop with zinc oxide smoke that covered everything, windows machines and the floor with zinc oxide dust. In spite of our best efforts to clean it all up I seem to remember it persisted in various nooks and crannies for months afterwards. I can't imagine how Burkett explained the complete disappearance of the hood to his parents.
Barry Page
Boys will be boys, as the saying goes, and I was no exception to getting into trouble or taking unnecessary risks. Sure, you could buy simple and harmless chemistry sets from the toy shop, but my mate, Kenny Pratley, was fascinated with the effects of chemicals and, in particular, explosives and jet propulsion. With the proceeds from his pocket money he started building a chemistry laboratory, including test tubes; retorts; measuring cylinders, a Bunsen burner and pestle & mortar. Kenny’s father was a carpenter and built shelves, a bench and storage cupboards in the brick air raid shelter that was located in the small back yard of No. 1 Crane Grove. Every so often Kenny and I would go to the local oil shop to buy basic chemicals for experimentation. We made rudimentary ‘ammunition’ for mock battles using plastic soldiers and Dinky Toy army models. Gunpowder was obtained from penny ‘banger’ fireworks and, eventually we graduated to “Jetex” solid fuel capsules for propellents. ‘Shells’ or ‘mines’ were made with pieces of brass tubing, and aluminium cigar tubes made great rockets that could be launched from home-made ramps. We found a piece of magnesium that was filed into small fragments and, when set alight, made impressive pyrotechnics. Considering the extreme danger to permanently damaging eyesight or receiving serious burns (protective wear of any kind never entered our heads) we escaped relatively unscathed – probably more by luck than judgement.
John Prysky
I remember the Eden Grove metal workshop well, and Beanie. Oh the memories. I left Eden Grove in 1957. Do any of you remember Pop who use to sell sweets through the fence near the workshop at break time?
Keith Morgan
Dear GoBBs . . . Welcome Ken and thanks to James (great memories) and to Barry for a fab photo of the Eden Grove metalwork shop which I remember well. Aside from meagre attempts at metal fabrication 'blueing' this and 'brazing' that all I managed to achieve was a luggage rack for my bike (bent cold-formed rod) that bolted to the rear axle and attached below the seat) and a bracket that allowed for two headlamps at the handlebars. When I joined the school band McHugh gave me trumpet lessons in the metal shop on Thursday at lunch time. Mr. Bean was a cool guy, I remember a couple of field trips he took us on. When my class year moved to Camden Road 'Beanie' arranged for me to take woodworking in the technical block. So I went from mangling metal to wood butchery :-). The teacher was yet another ex-military man totally frustrated by us kids, and as I remember, by a relatively short supply of materials. Best Regards to All. Keith in LA..
Barry Page
Hi Keith:
Thanks for your memories, and describing your transition from metalwork to woodwork. When Camden Road (Upper School) opened in 1958, the woodworking master was Mr. Milsom. When I attended, the teacher was Mr. Derek Cooper, who was an ex-R.A.F. wallah, and as Keith mentioned, was totally dominated by the boys. Mr. Cooper was short in stature and had a mild, almost meekish, personality. Yes, materials were hard to come by, so we had to work with inferior deal and plywood. I remember the stinking glue pot (little beads melted down) and the smell of freshly shaved wood.
Indeed, Ken and I go back a long way (before BBS), although he was a year ahead of me.
Some of us recall our metalworking days - the older lads at the Eden Grove annex building, others at the Camden Road Technical Block. I loved everything about the craft, and relished in the workshop even though my skills weren't too stellar. That said, I don't have an image of Beanies' facility at Camden Road, but attached is a shot of the Eden Grove annex workshop in 1958.
I'm sure there are a few stories about George out there.
If I might I would like to add a couple of incidents I recall from my time at Barnsbury, that you may wish to post. Both concern the metalwork shop of Mr Bean where on one occasion I think when I was in 4T1 Westell needed some paint for his music stand "or whatever' and found it to be separated to sediment. No problem, Beany produced an L shaped stirring rod to be mounted in the chuck of the pillar drill, set spinning and fed into said paint. All went well at first then the stirrer made contact with the side of the can. Westell released his grip on the can in alarm which duly whirled around with great rapidity sending a thin stream of paint across Westell anyone else standing nearby and across the windows and machinery. The rest of the period needless to say was spent with everyone running round with rags and turpentine
I also recall another occasion when we had to clean the metal workshop windows. I'm not sure I can remember exactly who it was but it may have been Norman Burkett but whoever it was his parents owned a fish and chip shop. Anyway a large fume extracting hood that went over a deep fryer had developed a significant fracture near the rear bracket that fastened it to the wall. Norman bought it in to school to see if it could be braised welded or in some other way repaired. It looked like galvanised Steel so Beany thought that in order to braze it (and also burn some of the congealed oil off) it would be best to heat it in the forge first. So the forge was lit and in it went, and the blower was turned on. However rather than being galvanised steel it turned out to be pure zinc and it ignited with a bright but eerily phosphorescent flame. This immediately gained the attention of the whole class who watched in wonder as it was more or less totally consumed, filling the workshop with zinc oxide smoke that covered everything, windows machines and the floor with zinc oxide dust. In spite of our best efforts to clean it all up I seem to remember it persisted in various nooks and crannies for months afterwards. I can't imagine how Burkett explained the complete disappearance of the hood to his parents.
Barry Page
Boys will be boys, as the saying goes, and I was no exception to getting into trouble or taking unnecessary risks. Sure, you could buy simple and harmless chemistry sets from the toy shop, but my mate, Kenny Pratley, was fascinated with the effects of chemicals and, in particular, explosives and jet propulsion. With the proceeds from his pocket money he started building a chemistry laboratory, including test tubes; retorts; measuring cylinders, a Bunsen burner and pestle & mortar. Kenny’s father was a carpenter and built shelves, a bench and storage cupboards in the brick air raid shelter that was located in the small back yard of No. 1 Crane Grove. Every so often Kenny and I would go to the local oil shop to buy basic chemicals for experimentation. We made rudimentary ‘ammunition’ for mock battles using plastic soldiers and Dinky Toy army models. Gunpowder was obtained from penny ‘banger’ fireworks and, eventually we graduated to “Jetex” solid fuel capsules for propellents. ‘Shells’ or ‘mines’ were made with pieces of brass tubing, and aluminium cigar tubes made great rockets that could be launched from home-made ramps. We found a piece of magnesium that was filed into small fragments and, when set alight, made impressive pyrotechnics. Considering the extreme danger to permanently damaging eyesight or receiving serious burns (protective wear of any kind never entered our heads) we escaped relatively unscathed – probably more by luck than judgement.
John Prysky
I remember the Eden Grove metal workshop well, and Beanie. Oh the memories. I left Eden Grove in 1957. Do any of you remember Pop who use to sell sweets through the fence near the workshop at break time?
Keith Morgan
Dear GoBBs . . . Welcome Ken and thanks to James (great memories) and to Barry for a fab photo of the Eden Grove metalwork shop which I remember well. Aside from meagre attempts at metal fabrication 'blueing' this and 'brazing' that all I managed to achieve was a luggage rack for my bike (bent cold-formed rod) that bolted to the rear axle and attached below the seat) and a bracket that allowed for two headlamps at the handlebars. When I joined the school band McHugh gave me trumpet lessons in the metal shop on Thursday at lunch time. Mr. Bean was a cool guy, I remember a couple of field trips he took us on. When my class year moved to Camden Road 'Beanie' arranged for me to take woodworking in the technical block. So I went from mangling metal to wood butchery :-). The teacher was yet another ex-military man totally frustrated by us kids, and as I remember, by a relatively short supply of materials. Best Regards to All. Keith in LA..
Barry Page
Hi Keith:
Thanks for your memories, and describing your transition from metalwork to woodwork. When Camden Road (Upper School) opened in 1958, the woodworking master was Mr. Milsom. When I attended, the teacher was Mr. Derek Cooper, who was an ex-R.A.F. wallah, and as Keith mentioned, was totally dominated by the boys. Mr. Cooper was short in stature and had a mild, almost meekish, personality. Yes, materials were hard to come by, so we had to work with inferior deal and plywood. I remember the stinking glue pot (little beads melted down) and the smell of freshly shaved wood.
Indeed, Ken and I go back a long way (before BBS), although he was a year ahead of me.
Some of us recall our metalworking days - the older lads at the Eden Grove annex building, others at the Camden Road Technical Block. I loved everything about the craft, and relished in the workshop even though my skills weren't too stellar. That said, I don't have an image of Beanies' facility at Camden Road, but attached is a shot of the Eden Grove annex workshop in 1958.
I'm sure there are a few stories about George out there.
“Mind how you cross the road”
Tony Alger
Not a pleasant memory but my younger brother and I got half a crown pocket money for the first time in a very long time from my Dad. We were so excited we wanted to spend it on a toy or something in Woolworths which as you know was on Caledonian Road on the corner of Bingfield street. As we lived on Wheelwright Street next to Pentonville Prison it was quite a walk but as keen runner I decided to challenge my brother to a race to get there. We set off with me in the lead of course and I arrived at the Zebra crossing at the junction of Wheelwright Street and Caledonian Road first, checked to my right and as there was a trolley bus a little way off I decided to cross to the traffic island in the middle of the road and wait there for my brother. Seeing me and now my brother appearing from the left the trolley bus driver slowed down to a stop and on seeing this I beckoned my brother to cross and out the blue a large black Austin overtook the bus at speed and cut in front of it across the crossing sending my brother flying through the air with him landing on the forecourt of the ESSO garage on the left screaming his head off. The car was being driven by a smart suited spiv who looked totally shocked and I remember shouting at him as I rushed over to my brother ‘you have killed my Brother you ****!’ My brother was now surrounded by people checking he was ok so I decided to run home and tell my Mum who promptly called out to her Dad who lived on the second floor of our house to go with me to check on him. We both rushed back to the scene to find an Ambulance and the Police had now arrived and they were treating my brother who luckily had only suffered a broken right leg and right wrist from the impact of the car. The most comical thing was my Grandad a war veteran was advising the Ambulance crew how to fit splints and the rules of keeping the limbs still. Well as you can imagine the shock of all this caught up with me and I was ill for few days and kept getting flashbacks of the event blaming myself for beckoning him to cross the road. But of course time heals and thankfully my brother is still with us. As for the spiv I don’t know what happened to him but my Dad was pretty generous at giving out half crowns after that I assume at the spiv’s expense.
Terry Woodbridge
My father-in-law’s maxim: Could be adapted to many incidents in life!!
Here lies the body of William May
Who died maintaining his right of way
He was right dead right so goes the song
But he’s just as dead as if he was wrong
Paul Kenealy
Not exactly about crossing the road, but certainly words of safety wisdom from our old mentor Bill Bayliss.
“The rules of the road are a paradox clear,
which you learn as you drive along
If you keep to the Left you’re sure to be Right
If you keep to the Right you’ll be Wrong”
Barry Page
Tony Alger’s anecdote was brilliantly described, both in terms of incident and location. Tony’s brother’s accident reminded me of the time when I was late for school. Because I didn’t want a black mark for being late, all my attention was focused on running along Laycock Street towards the gate of Laycock Junior Mixed School. Completely forgetting all that my parents had told me about the kerb drill, I dashed into the road between two parked cars opposite the school gate. The next thing I knew was a sharp pain to my right leg and being bowled along the street like a rubber ball. I gathered my senses and looked at the female driver of the car that had careened into me. Her whitened face displayed total horror. Fortunately, the car was travelling at a slow speed (narrow road), so the extent of my injuries was slight - a bruised and grazed hip/thigh. After picking myself up, I continued staggering into the school building, not wanting to arrive late. The incident was witnessed by one of the teachers, who gave me a lecture into road safety, and, of course, word got home and my mother also gave me a tongue lashing! Couldn’t win!
Tony Alger
Not a pleasant memory but my younger brother and I got half a crown pocket money for the first time in a very long time from my Dad. We were so excited we wanted to spend it on a toy or something in Woolworths which as you know was on Caledonian Road on the corner of Bingfield street. As we lived on Wheelwright Street next to Pentonville Prison it was quite a walk but as keen runner I decided to challenge my brother to a race to get there. We set off with me in the lead of course and I arrived at the Zebra crossing at the junction of Wheelwright Street and Caledonian Road first, checked to my right and as there was a trolley bus a little way off I decided to cross to the traffic island in the middle of the road and wait there for my brother. Seeing me and now my brother appearing from the left the trolley bus driver slowed down to a stop and on seeing this I beckoned my brother to cross and out the blue a large black Austin overtook the bus at speed and cut in front of it across the crossing sending my brother flying through the air with him landing on the forecourt of the ESSO garage on the left screaming his head off. The car was being driven by a smart suited spiv who looked totally shocked and I remember shouting at him as I rushed over to my brother ‘you have killed my Brother you ****!’ My brother was now surrounded by people checking he was ok so I decided to run home and tell my Mum who promptly called out to her Dad who lived on the second floor of our house to go with me to check on him. We both rushed back to the scene to find an Ambulance and the Police had now arrived and they were treating my brother who luckily had only suffered a broken right leg and right wrist from the impact of the car. The most comical thing was my Grandad a war veteran was advising the Ambulance crew how to fit splints and the rules of keeping the limbs still. Well as you can imagine the shock of all this caught up with me and I was ill for few days and kept getting flashbacks of the event blaming myself for beckoning him to cross the road. But of course time heals and thankfully my brother is still with us. As for the spiv I don’t know what happened to him but my Dad was pretty generous at giving out half crowns after that I assume at the spiv’s expense.
Terry Woodbridge
My father-in-law’s maxim: Could be adapted to many incidents in life!!
Here lies the body of William May
Who died maintaining his right of way
He was right dead right so goes the song
But he’s just as dead as if he was wrong
Paul Kenealy
Not exactly about crossing the road, but certainly words of safety wisdom from our old mentor Bill Bayliss.
“The rules of the road are a paradox clear,
which you learn as you drive along
If you keep to the Left you’re sure to be Right
If you keep to the Right you’ll be Wrong”
Barry Page
Tony Alger’s anecdote was brilliantly described, both in terms of incident and location. Tony’s brother’s accident reminded me of the time when I was late for school. Because I didn’t want a black mark for being late, all my attention was focused on running along Laycock Street towards the gate of Laycock Junior Mixed School. Completely forgetting all that my parents had told me about the kerb drill, I dashed into the road between two parked cars opposite the school gate. The next thing I knew was a sharp pain to my right leg and being bowled along the street like a rubber ball. I gathered my senses and looked at the female driver of the car that had careened into me. Her whitened face displayed total horror. Fortunately, the car was travelling at a slow speed (narrow road), so the extent of my injuries was slight - a bruised and grazed hip/thigh. After picking myself up, I continued staggering into the school building, not wanting to arrive late. The incident was witnessed by one of the teachers, who gave me a lecture into road safety, and, of course, word got home and my mother also gave me a tongue lashing! Couldn’t win!
"Always Follow a Bus" by Paul Kenealy
Interesting all this talk about bus routes. I have two stories which I hope you find amusing.
When I was about 13 or so I decided to ride my Freddie Grubb fixed wheel flyer to Saafend (before I persuaded Griff Lewis to do the same). From Finsbury Park I followed the route via Tottenham and Walthamstow to the Arterial Road. After getting there and failing to pull a little sweetheart in the Kursaal I spent my last sixpence on a cup of tea and filled my pockets full of sugar lumps and started the long ride home. Going there is easy, the signs say Southend, and getting back easy too, just follow the signs to London. Except that when you get to Gants Hill you have a choice to make, keep left for City or right for North London. The fact that I lived in ‘London N5’ didn’t seem to give me any clues, and I followed the sign to The City. Eventually I realised I was completely lost. In desperation I decided to stop off at a phone box and ring home – Billy P-J always said I was posh ‘cos we had a phone – reverse charge as I had no money left.
My Mum answered and was apoplectic, I hadn’t said where I was going. I said I was lost, she gave the phone to my Dad, he was cool. Where are you he said, I don’t know, he said look at the wall of the phone box – it tells you the address. I said I was in the Romford Road. He told me to look out of the window and tell him the number of the busses, I said there was a 30. OK he said, follow the 30 bus to Dalston, you know how to get home from there. If in doubt always follow a bus.
The other story also involves a bus, but this was when I was doing The Knowledge. I was sitting in Mr Rance’s office at the Public Carriage Office in Penton Street and he asked me to call a route from Shaftsbury Avenue to Finsbury Park Station. Of course I knew the route. Forward Shaftsbury Avenue, forward Museum Street, right Gt. Russell Street (this was 1969 for you cab driving pedants), through Russell Square, etc., ending up through the back streets (no ‘bumps’ in those days) to Highbury Corner cleverly avoiding all the traffic via The Angel. Thence via Highbury Park to Finsbury Park. Brilliant (I thought).
“It says here on your application form Mr Kenealy that you live in Finsbury Park, is that so?” "Yes sir", I duly replied. “Well, have you ever got on the 19 bus?" "Yes sir", again. “Well, if I had got on a 19 bus in Shaftsbury Avenue I would have got to Finsbury Park before you did.” If in doubt always follow a bus.
Interesting all this talk about bus routes. I have two stories which I hope you find amusing.
When I was about 13 or so I decided to ride my Freddie Grubb fixed wheel flyer to Saafend (before I persuaded Griff Lewis to do the same). From Finsbury Park I followed the route via Tottenham and Walthamstow to the Arterial Road. After getting there and failing to pull a little sweetheart in the Kursaal I spent my last sixpence on a cup of tea and filled my pockets full of sugar lumps and started the long ride home. Going there is easy, the signs say Southend, and getting back easy too, just follow the signs to London. Except that when you get to Gants Hill you have a choice to make, keep left for City or right for North London. The fact that I lived in ‘London N5’ didn’t seem to give me any clues, and I followed the sign to The City. Eventually I realised I was completely lost. In desperation I decided to stop off at a phone box and ring home – Billy P-J always said I was posh ‘cos we had a phone – reverse charge as I had no money left.
My Mum answered and was apoplectic, I hadn’t said where I was going. I said I was lost, she gave the phone to my Dad, he was cool. Where are you he said, I don’t know, he said look at the wall of the phone box – it tells you the address. I said I was in the Romford Road. He told me to look out of the window and tell him the number of the busses, I said there was a 30. OK he said, follow the 30 bus to Dalston, you know how to get home from there. If in doubt always follow a bus.
The other story also involves a bus, but this was when I was doing The Knowledge. I was sitting in Mr Rance’s office at the Public Carriage Office in Penton Street and he asked me to call a route from Shaftsbury Avenue to Finsbury Park Station. Of course I knew the route. Forward Shaftsbury Avenue, forward Museum Street, right Gt. Russell Street (this was 1969 for you cab driving pedants), through Russell Square, etc., ending up through the back streets (no ‘bumps’ in those days) to Highbury Corner cleverly avoiding all the traffic via The Angel. Thence via Highbury Park to Finsbury Park. Brilliant (I thought).
“It says here on your application form Mr Kenealy that you live in Finsbury Park, is that so?” "Yes sir", I duly replied. “Well, have you ever got on the 19 bus?" "Yes sir", again. “Well, if I had got on a 19 bus in Shaftsbury Avenue I would have got to Finsbury Park before you did.” If in doubt always follow a bus.
Barry Page
Tobogganing at Hampstead Heath
During my childhood I remember that summer was summer and winter was winter. Snow was welcomed by children; even though their parents continued to grumble. I suppose looking through a child’s eyes, the ‘white stuff’ was magical and an open door to a different kind of fun. Inevitably, after the snowfall it was up to the flat roof of my buildings to frolic around and build that all important snowman. Standard, traditional design, of course. His accessories were whatever was handy – lumps of coal for eyes, nose, smile and buttons; a scarf around his neck and a tea cozy on his head. Dad even relinquished his pipe for Mr. Frosty to suck on (always remember that pipe; it was Dad’s favourite – a Captain Black briar). Later, I earned a few bob from the neighbours digging out the paths to their entrances. Could only use a small coal shovel, though, but it worked.
Ah, but the best time of all was tobogganing down Parliament Hill on Hampstead Heath. Dad and I would ride on a No. 611 trolleybus to Highgate Village or, alternatively, take the train to Hampstead Heath station. I pulled my trusty toboggan behind me in anticipation of the thrill of the descent. My Dad made a couple of sledges for me. The first was all wood in construction and painted silver. Somehow he managed to obtain the materials from a building site. The thing was rock-solid and performed well.
However, the next generation was even better. In fact it was awesome. Dad was labouring in a better construction job - this time steel-fixing. So he could find a few bits of discarded rebar and have a welder mate create the toboggan’s main frame and runners which made all the difference between the two models. A wooden platform was added to these formidable runners, and a substantial tow rope attached to the front of the frame. The toboggan was then painted fire engine red (the same paint we used for the scullery floor – a yearly ritual). It was a like a Rolls-Royce!
On my own one day, hurtling down the slope at breakneck speed (well it felt like it), a small boy on a wooden sledge crossed my path, and one of those formidable steel runners literally scythed through the flimsy wood, smashing it to smithereens, and catapulted both of us into the snow. Surveying the damage, not only was the wooden sledge wrecked, but the impact was sufficient to break one of the steel runner’s welds. The other kid was howling his head off and as I was thoroughly brassed off, I left him to his fate and dejectedly dragged my wounded toboggan back to the train station and home.
Tobogganing at Hampstead Heath
During my childhood I remember that summer was summer and winter was winter. Snow was welcomed by children; even though their parents continued to grumble. I suppose looking through a child’s eyes, the ‘white stuff’ was magical and an open door to a different kind of fun. Inevitably, after the snowfall it was up to the flat roof of my buildings to frolic around and build that all important snowman. Standard, traditional design, of course. His accessories were whatever was handy – lumps of coal for eyes, nose, smile and buttons; a scarf around his neck and a tea cozy on his head. Dad even relinquished his pipe for Mr. Frosty to suck on (always remember that pipe; it was Dad’s favourite – a Captain Black briar). Later, I earned a few bob from the neighbours digging out the paths to their entrances. Could only use a small coal shovel, though, but it worked.
Ah, but the best time of all was tobogganing down Parliament Hill on Hampstead Heath. Dad and I would ride on a No. 611 trolleybus to Highgate Village or, alternatively, take the train to Hampstead Heath station. I pulled my trusty toboggan behind me in anticipation of the thrill of the descent. My Dad made a couple of sledges for me. The first was all wood in construction and painted silver. Somehow he managed to obtain the materials from a building site. The thing was rock-solid and performed well.
However, the next generation was even better. In fact it was awesome. Dad was labouring in a better construction job - this time steel-fixing. So he could find a few bits of discarded rebar and have a welder mate create the toboggan’s main frame and runners which made all the difference between the two models. A wooden platform was added to these formidable runners, and a substantial tow rope attached to the front of the frame. The toboggan was then painted fire engine red (the same paint we used for the scullery floor – a yearly ritual). It was a like a Rolls-Royce!
On my own one day, hurtling down the slope at breakneck speed (well it felt like it), a small boy on a wooden sledge crossed my path, and one of those formidable steel runners literally scythed through the flimsy wood, smashing it to smithereens, and catapulted both of us into the snow. Surveying the damage, not only was the wooden sledge wrecked, but the impact was sufficient to break one of the steel runner’s welds. The other kid was howling his head off and as I was thoroughly brassed off, I left him to his fate and dejectedly dragged my wounded toboggan back to the train station and home.
Tony Canter
I was on a cruise with my wife off the North African coast and we were up on deck enjoying the sunshine and drinks when suddenly a Red Cross plane flew overhead. This was shortly followed by an announcement from the Captain saying we were about to alter course. Apparently a message had been received stating that a refugee vessel containing some 20 people who had been without water for three days was in difficulty and needed urgent assistance. Messages were also sent out to Spain and Algeria. Spain it seems did not want to know - it was said that it was an every day occurrence for them! The refugees were finally located in their rubber dingy. Princess Cruises lowered a boat and sent security guards out to assess the situation. We were told the security guards were armed - after all you just don't know what to expect - even on a cruise. Thirty youths and men were taken off the dinghy one by one and brought on board the ship. They were taken to the medical centre for a check up, then fed and watered (they had obviously heard how good the food and accommodation was). Meanwhile the Algerian coastguards turned up in their gunboat to assist. Then another SOS was received - the gunboat had broken down! Two more gunboats arrived and they took the refugees off. They were all Algerian nationals. They told our captain they were looking for work. The crew on board our ship must have got a bit jumpy - if you have been on a cruise ship you will know what I mean. We were very pleased to retain our cabin! The risks some people go to, to get a medical check and a good meal and ask for an interview for a job! Desperate times for desperate people. It was a holiday with some very unusual holiday snaps.
November 2013
Johnny Pearce
A story you might like. On my return from Thailand three years ago, I sat next to a young man who told me that he had been to meet his father who was living in Pattaya. He said that his father had been in a collision with one of the cars that tows off the boats from the beach at night. The Thai driver was badly bruised and had lost one of his fingers. The police arrived on the scene and the lad's father explained that he had hit the other vehicle which was driving on the wrong side of the road. The policeman took all the details and explained to his father that if he paid for the hospital fees, the damage to the car and compensation to the driver’s wife for loss of earnings, all would be happy. The boys father explained it all again and said as the driver was on the wrong side of the road he was not the guilty party. The policeman explained it all again to him and told him that refusal of payment would mean jail (have you ever been in a Thai jail? You do not want to be) and also he was firmly told that "IF HE HAD NOT BEEN HERE IN THIS COUNTRY IT WOULD NEVER HAVE HAPPENED".
November 2013
Tony Canter
One travel memory I can remember very clearly - as does my wife! It was the end of November, the beginning of December. New York was full of Christmas cheer. We had been travelling on the west coast of America for about three weeks. My company knew I was holidaying out there and asked if I would go to the New York office for a week prior to returning home. I agreed, of course. (honestly what you do to get on in the world).
Late one Sunday evening we arrived at a very nice hotel on Manhattan and settled in. The following day I went straight to the office and upon my arrival I was introduced to the local procedures for accessing the executive restroom (know to us as the gents). The procedure included retrieving the key to the said executive restroom, exiting the office, turn left down the corridor, then first left again and the executive restroom was on the right. Unlock the door and enjoy the facilities. Oh, I do remember this well. After a very busy day and an evening function to welcome me, I returned back to the hotel, very happy and suitably inebriated in the early hours of the morning. I got ready for bed and once my head hit the pillow I fell asleep straight away only to get up later to go to the bathroom. You guessed it - everybody's nightmare. Naked, I opened the room door, turned left down the corridor, then left again and ended up facing the elevator! Something was wrong, I shouldn't have been looking at a lift door! I immediately retraced my steps and started banging on the hotel room door. Luckily it was ours. Caroline woke up and thought I had got locked in the bathroom and then realised I was banging on the door from the corridor. She opened it, saw me and just laughed her head off, saying "did anyone see you?" I had no idea, but by then I was bursting. The following day there was a lot of security around on our floor - I wonder why!!
November 2013
I was on a cruise with my wife off the North African coast and we were up on deck enjoying the sunshine and drinks when suddenly a Red Cross plane flew overhead. This was shortly followed by an announcement from the Captain saying we were about to alter course. Apparently a message had been received stating that a refugee vessel containing some 20 people who had been without water for three days was in difficulty and needed urgent assistance. Messages were also sent out to Spain and Algeria. Spain it seems did not want to know - it was said that it was an every day occurrence for them! The refugees were finally located in their rubber dingy. Princess Cruises lowered a boat and sent security guards out to assess the situation. We were told the security guards were armed - after all you just don't know what to expect - even on a cruise. Thirty youths and men were taken off the dinghy one by one and brought on board the ship. They were taken to the medical centre for a check up, then fed and watered (they had obviously heard how good the food and accommodation was). Meanwhile the Algerian coastguards turned up in their gunboat to assist. Then another SOS was received - the gunboat had broken down! Two more gunboats arrived and they took the refugees off. They were all Algerian nationals. They told our captain they were looking for work. The crew on board our ship must have got a bit jumpy - if you have been on a cruise ship you will know what I mean. We were very pleased to retain our cabin! The risks some people go to, to get a medical check and a good meal and ask for an interview for a job! Desperate times for desperate people. It was a holiday with some very unusual holiday snaps.
November 2013
Johnny Pearce
A story you might like. On my return from Thailand three years ago, I sat next to a young man who told me that he had been to meet his father who was living in Pattaya. He said that his father had been in a collision with one of the cars that tows off the boats from the beach at night. The Thai driver was badly bruised and had lost one of his fingers. The police arrived on the scene and the lad's father explained that he had hit the other vehicle which was driving on the wrong side of the road. The policeman took all the details and explained to his father that if he paid for the hospital fees, the damage to the car and compensation to the driver’s wife for loss of earnings, all would be happy. The boys father explained it all again and said as the driver was on the wrong side of the road he was not the guilty party. The policeman explained it all again to him and told him that refusal of payment would mean jail (have you ever been in a Thai jail? You do not want to be) and also he was firmly told that "IF HE HAD NOT BEEN HERE IN THIS COUNTRY IT WOULD NEVER HAVE HAPPENED".
November 2013
Tony Canter
One travel memory I can remember very clearly - as does my wife! It was the end of November, the beginning of December. New York was full of Christmas cheer. We had been travelling on the west coast of America for about three weeks. My company knew I was holidaying out there and asked if I would go to the New York office for a week prior to returning home. I agreed, of course. (honestly what you do to get on in the world).
Late one Sunday evening we arrived at a very nice hotel on Manhattan and settled in. The following day I went straight to the office and upon my arrival I was introduced to the local procedures for accessing the executive restroom (know to us as the gents). The procedure included retrieving the key to the said executive restroom, exiting the office, turn left down the corridor, then first left again and the executive restroom was on the right. Unlock the door and enjoy the facilities. Oh, I do remember this well. After a very busy day and an evening function to welcome me, I returned back to the hotel, very happy and suitably inebriated in the early hours of the morning. I got ready for bed and once my head hit the pillow I fell asleep straight away only to get up later to go to the bathroom. You guessed it - everybody's nightmare. Naked, I opened the room door, turned left down the corridor, then left again and ended up facing the elevator! Something was wrong, I shouldn't have been looking at a lift door! I immediately retraced my steps and started banging on the hotel room door. Luckily it was ours. Caroline woke up and thought I had got locked in the bathroom and then realised I was banging on the door from the corridor. She opened it, saw me and just laughed her head off, saying "did anyone see you?" I had no idea, but by then I was bursting. The following day there was a lot of security around on our floor - I wonder why!!
November 2013
Bruce Weir
The Margery Street Incident
This was an event which could easily have led to a death of a young lady. Thankfully I interceded and a possible tragic accident was averted. It also had, I hope, a happy ending. But here’s the twist – I never saw the woman again, so I do not know what happened next.
During the 1970s, I worked in Islington Borough Council’s Architect’s Department in Margery Street. The street, located between Amwell Street and Farringdon Road, was a one-way, downhill rat-run. Cars drove fast past the large plate glass windows of our entrance area which looked directly onto the street.
While I was chatting to our receptionist, she suddenly pointed towards the street outside and shrieked, “LOOK…!!!”
In the middle of the road was a young woman deliberately trying to jump in front of every swerving car that came racing by.
I automatically reacted and immediately dashed out onto the pavement. Looking briefly to my right, I walked out and stood facing her in the middle of the road with my back to the traffic. I remember asking her what she was doing? And why? Then something in the back of my mind hinted subconsciously that this was not your typical English behaviour, so I said, “Do you speak English?” She answered yes and that she was German. She [quickly] calmed down then so I pointed to a low tiled wall, part of the landscaping outside the Architect’s Department, and suggested we sit down there to talk. She spoke English very well with a soft German accent.
She was about 20 years old, I’d guess, extremely attractive, intelligent, well groomed, clean and fresh looking, wearing a bright summer dress. She told me she wanted to kill herself. She said that her boyfriend was to meet here, outside the Finsbury Town Hall, and he hadn’t turned up. She’d been dumped. With relief I was able to tell her that she was not outside Finsbury Town Hall, but that she was outside the Islington Architect’s Department in Margery Street, and her boyfriend was most likely waiting for her outside the Town Hall which, as we all know, was in Rosebery Avenue, just around the corner.
I walked her up to the end of our building and pointed to Rosebery Avenue where she could see cars and buses passing by, and where she’d find Finsbury Town Hall and, hopefully, her boyfriend. We exchanged kisses continental style and off she went.
I am certain that they were meeting outside there to get married, so I hope she found him, got married and lived happily ever after! Have my doubts, though. So temperamental, such passion!
The Caledonian Road Incident
On my way to Barnsbury School one morning, I made a big mistake. I was late, and because I didn’t like being late for school I was in a hurry. And that hastening might nearly have led to a fatality. Mine.
It was 1953-ish and I was 12 years old when this happened, and although I was a good boy who looked left and right before crossing roads, I did not do so on that day – not properly.
I walked quickly and anxiously along Wynford Road, where I lived, towards Caledonian Road at the bottom of my road, to catch my bus, and as I approached the junction I glanced to my right a few yards before reaching the zebra crossing by All Saints Church. Looking that way, Caledonian Road rises towards a hump back bridge and then disappears around a tight bend. That short stretch of road was empty. I then looked to my left and saw my bus approaching on the opposite side of the road. It was slowing down towards the bus stop, but I knew I’d have to run to catch it.
I was still a couple of paces short of the zebra crossing, but my attention was focused on the bus. I stepped off the kerb onto the black and white stripes of the crossing and then reached - oblivion!
The next thing I remember was lying stretched out looking up at bright lights. I raised my hand and felt a large bump/swelling on my forehead. Then a nurse grabbed my hand and told me to keep still. I was in the Royal Free Hospital being X-rayed.
I was OK but for a headache and a developing black eye, but was kept in a secluded room under observation for 24 hours.
I later learned that an electric trolleybus had knocked me down as I stepped onto the crossing. In just a few moments that trolley-bus had come around and over the hump back bridge and rolled silently and quickly towards the zebra crossing. I obviously hadn’t heard it coming.
I also learned that I sat on the kerb with my head in my hands after being knocked down, and that a police car had taken me to hospital.
I don’t remember more than I’ve set out here, even of my parents visiting or taking me back home from hospital, or even of a doctor examining me.
But I do remember one thing with great clarity. Funny how certain memories get permanently etched on one’s mind. I had been in hospital for 24 hours and had not had a single pee in all that time. On the morning I was due to leave I woke up needing a very urgent pee.
I was in a strange place, bursting and getting frantic, but I couldn’t find the bell push for a nurse. Then I found a pee pot under the bed, a BIG, round china one. With great relief I started peeing. I pee’d and I pee’d and I pee’d. Now I was getting anxious as the pot filled up - it just kept filling and filling and filling! I stopped peeing just millimetres short of a very wide china brim. A close thing!
When a nurse eventually came to see how I was, she had to tiptoe very slowly away, balancing a very heavy pee pot carefully in front of her, trying as best she could not to spill a drop. And she succeeded.
The Incident with the Policeman
Another memory took place about 30 years ago. Caledonian Road was absolutely crammed chock-a-block with traffic at a standstill. I was on my BMW motorbike coming from beyond the viaduct towards the traffic lights, and because the traffic was not moving I overtook the whole line of traffic at a dawdling pace, but just on the wrong side of the white line. As I got nearer to the traffic lights, a policeman suddenly came charging out from nowhere and stopped me. He was fuming and in a right state. Anger and frustration pictured all over his face - not because of me, but because of the traffic mayhem. I, presumably, was the last straw. I cut the ignition, steadied the bike, unbuttoned my helmet and took it off. His attitude changed immediately when he realised he was looking at a man in his late 40s, and not a teenager. I was about his age. We had a little chat and his anxiety and frustration slipped away a little. He was on his own and maybe our chat was enough to calm him down.
I never did find out what caused the hold up!
The Metropolitan Cattle Market - A Quick Look Back
A familiar view here (photo courtesy of Bruce Weir).
I remember in the 1950s, when I was about 12 or 13, riding on my pushbike near the Cally Tube Station when I found that I couldn't go any further. The road was absolutely filled - jam packed - pavement to pavement - with countless cattle! A veritable sea of brown. Never have I seen so many cows, and especially along a London road. They were being herded over the viaduct, probably from the railway tracks below, and sadly going off to the Caledonian slaughter house. I seem to remember that there was always a 'smell' around that area whenever I passed that way!
The market was built by the City of London Corporation to alleviate the environmental problems and overcrowding of livestock at the original open air Smithfield market.
The Margery Street Incident
This was an event which could easily have led to a death of a young lady. Thankfully I interceded and a possible tragic accident was averted. It also had, I hope, a happy ending. But here’s the twist – I never saw the woman again, so I do not know what happened next.
During the 1970s, I worked in Islington Borough Council’s Architect’s Department in Margery Street. The street, located between Amwell Street and Farringdon Road, was a one-way, downhill rat-run. Cars drove fast past the large plate glass windows of our entrance area which looked directly onto the street.
While I was chatting to our receptionist, she suddenly pointed towards the street outside and shrieked, “LOOK…!!!”
In the middle of the road was a young woman deliberately trying to jump in front of every swerving car that came racing by.
I automatically reacted and immediately dashed out onto the pavement. Looking briefly to my right, I walked out and stood facing her in the middle of the road with my back to the traffic. I remember asking her what she was doing? And why? Then something in the back of my mind hinted subconsciously that this was not your typical English behaviour, so I said, “Do you speak English?” She answered yes and that she was German. She [quickly] calmed down then so I pointed to a low tiled wall, part of the landscaping outside the Architect’s Department, and suggested we sit down there to talk. She spoke English very well with a soft German accent.
She was about 20 years old, I’d guess, extremely attractive, intelligent, well groomed, clean and fresh looking, wearing a bright summer dress. She told me she wanted to kill herself. She said that her boyfriend was to meet here, outside the Finsbury Town Hall, and he hadn’t turned up. She’d been dumped. With relief I was able to tell her that she was not outside Finsbury Town Hall, but that she was outside the Islington Architect’s Department in Margery Street, and her boyfriend was most likely waiting for her outside the Town Hall which, as we all know, was in Rosebery Avenue, just around the corner.
I walked her up to the end of our building and pointed to Rosebery Avenue where she could see cars and buses passing by, and where she’d find Finsbury Town Hall and, hopefully, her boyfriend. We exchanged kisses continental style and off she went.
I am certain that they were meeting outside there to get married, so I hope she found him, got married and lived happily ever after! Have my doubts, though. So temperamental, such passion!
The Caledonian Road Incident
On my way to Barnsbury School one morning, I made a big mistake. I was late, and because I didn’t like being late for school I was in a hurry. And that hastening might nearly have led to a fatality. Mine.
It was 1953-ish and I was 12 years old when this happened, and although I was a good boy who looked left and right before crossing roads, I did not do so on that day – not properly.
I walked quickly and anxiously along Wynford Road, where I lived, towards Caledonian Road at the bottom of my road, to catch my bus, and as I approached the junction I glanced to my right a few yards before reaching the zebra crossing by All Saints Church. Looking that way, Caledonian Road rises towards a hump back bridge and then disappears around a tight bend. That short stretch of road was empty. I then looked to my left and saw my bus approaching on the opposite side of the road. It was slowing down towards the bus stop, but I knew I’d have to run to catch it.
I was still a couple of paces short of the zebra crossing, but my attention was focused on the bus. I stepped off the kerb onto the black and white stripes of the crossing and then reached - oblivion!
The next thing I remember was lying stretched out looking up at bright lights. I raised my hand and felt a large bump/swelling on my forehead. Then a nurse grabbed my hand and told me to keep still. I was in the Royal Free Hospital being X-rayed.
I was OK but for a headache and a developing black eye, but was kept in a secluded room under observation for 24 hours.
I later learned that an electric trolleybus had knocked me down as I stepped onto the crossing. In just a few moments that trolley-bus had come around and over the hump back bridge and rolled silently and quickly towards the zebra crossing. I obviously hadn’t heard it coming.
I also learned that I sat on the kerb with my head in my hands after being knocked down, and that a police car had taken me to hospital.
I don’t remember more than I’ve set out here, even of my parents visiting or taking me back home from hospital, or even of a doctor examining me.
But I do remember one thing with great clarity. Funny how certain memories get permanently etched on one’s mind. I had been in hospital for 24 hours and had not had a single pee in all that time. On the morning I was due to leave I woke up needing a very urgent pee.
I was in a strange place, bursting and getting frantic, but I couldn’t find the bell push for a nurse. Then I found a pee pot under the bed, a BIG, round china one. With great relief I started peeing. I pee’d and I pee’d and I pee’d. Now I was getting anxious as the pot filled up - it just kept filling and filling and filling! I stopped peeing just millimetres short of a very wide china brim. A close thing!
When a nurse eventually came to see how I was, she had to tiptoe very slowly away, balancing a very heavy pee pot carefully in front of her, trying as best she could not to spill a drop. And she succeeded.
The Incident with the Policeman
Another memory took place about 30 years ago. Caledonian Road was absolutely crammed chock-a-block with traffic at a standstill. I was on my BMW motorbike coming from beyond the viaduct towards the traffic lights, and because the traffic was not moving I overtook the whole line of traffic at a dawdling pace, but just on the wrong side of the white line. As I got nearer to the traffic lights, a policeman suddenly came charging out from nowhere and stopped me. He was fuming and in a right state. Anger and frustration pictured all over his face - not because of me, but because of the traffic mayhem. I, presumably, was the last straw. I cut the ignition, steadied the bike, unbuttoned my helmet and took it off. His attitude changed immediately when he realised he was looking at a man in his late 40s, and not a teenager. I was about his age. We had a little chat and his anxiety and frustration slipped away a little. He was on his own and maybe our chat was enough to calm him down.
I never did find out what caused the hold up!
The Metropolitan Cattle Market - A Quick Look Back
A familiar view here (photo courtesy of Bruce Weir).
I remember in the 1950s, when I was about 12 or 13, riding on my pushbike near the Cally Tube Station when I found that I couldn't go any further. The road was absolutely filled - jam packed - pavement to pavement - with countless cattle! A veritable sea of brown. Never have I seen so many cows, and especially along a London road. They were being herded over the viaduct, probably from the railway tracks below, and sadly going off to the Caledonian slaughter house. I seem to remember that there was always a 'smell' around that area whenever I passed that way!
The market was built by the City of London Corporation to alleviate the environmental problems and overcrowding of livestock at the original open air Smithfield market.
Paul Kenealy on Jerome Want-Sibley
Jerry lived in Langdon Court on the City Road. In the 5th year, Bill Bayliss was our form teacher in 5AT. One Monday morning in the term after Easter, Mr. Bayliss was calling the register. "- Kenealy." "Here sir." "Why were you absent on Friday?" "I was helping Want-Sibley and his family move Sir." He went on with the register. "Want-Sibley." "Here sir." "I hear from Kenealy that you moved on Friday, you had better tell me your new address." "21 Langdon Court, Sir", he replied. As Bayliss was amending the address he said "You were at 19 Langdon Court and now at 21 Langdon Court, is that correct, just two doors down?" "Yes Sir. My dad has emphysema and needed to live nearer the lift. "In that case", said Bayliss, "you and Kenealy can have a half-hour’s detention tonight for your cheek".
Jerry lived in Langdon Court on the City Road. In the 5th year, Bill Bayliss was our form teacher in 5AT. One Monday morning in the term after Easter, Mr. Bayliss was calling the register. "- Kenealy." "Here sir." "Why were you absent on Friday?" "I was helping Want-Sibley and his family move Sir." He went on with the register. "Want-Sibley." "Here sir." "I hear from Kenealy that you moved on Friday, you had better tell me your new address." "21 Langdon Court, Sir", he replied. As Bayliss was amending the address he said "You were at 19 Langdon Court and now at 21 Langdon Court, is that correct, just two doors down?" "Yes Sir. My dad has emphysema and needed to live nearer the lift. "In that case", said Bayliss, "you and Kenealy can have a half-hour’s detention tonight for your cheek".