Upton house school remembered with fondness

Upton house school remembered with fondness

Like most boys leaving junior school in 1977 a letter dropped through the door to advise what senior school I was to attend after the six weeks holiday.
For me this was to be Upton House a large intimidating 7 floor modern (for the time) building that sat at the top of Homerton High street in Hackney.
The school had 6 houses Allard, Montgomery ,Vyner, Sutton ,Tyson and Urswick. All of the kids I was friends with at the time were either in Urswick or Tyson. Me I was to be in Allard.

My first actual experience of the school was my induction meeting with the head of Allard house, a formidable man by the name of Oliver Mclintock!
Mr Mclintock was around 6 foot in height, which seems very much higher when you are a small boy. As well as being very tall Mr Mclintock was also very large around 26 stone I am led to believe.
As I recall it I was waiting outside the office whilst Mr Mclintock met with my mum, once I was called in Mr Mclintock proceeded to show me the contents of the cupboard behind his desk.
It contained several different canes, riding crops and slippers for the purpose of discipline! He then proceeded to stricke the chair next to my mum to demonstrate how precise he could be at it. My Mum jumped out of her skin! Needless to say so did i!

Mr Mclintock was quite a character however and an exceptional teacher he was a brilliant badminton player and also had some incredible trampolining skills. His process for deciding the amount of strikes a person would receive from his hand was by the roll of a dice! I also recall on one occasion him sitting on a boy who was made to lay on a table in front of the whole class. those of us not underneath him thought that this was hilarious.

One of the other discipline processes I recall was the metal ruler across the palm. This was employed each day for each missing item from the list of pen, pencil, ruler, rubber and crayons. Each day there would be a roll call to check that we had each item. Just before there would be a mad rush to break pencils cut rubbers in half and share crayons to avoid that stinging palm.

Mr Mclintock was not the only teacher dispensing punishment in those days. There was also a chemistry teacher named Mr Brown.  Mr Brown was a no nonsense West Indian guy he took no messing about and his favorite punishment tool was a bunsen burner tube. I recall him hitting one lad across the face without flinching, much to the shock of the rest of the class. Needless to say pissing about with the gas for the rest of that lesson ceased with immediate effect.

One of the subjects in the curriculum at the school was French, not a popular subject to be fair. But for us just approaching our teenage years the fact that the new French teacher was a young attractive french mademoiselle made it a little more  palatable.

One day the  young teacher thought it would be a good idea to wear a pair of skin tight white trousers which you could see right through. As young boys the sight of a ladies knick knacks quite an event. The lad sitting in front of me (who will remain nameless)  thought it would be a good idea to faintly run his middle finger under the teachers under carriage as she leant across the desk adjacent to him. gasps rang out as the teacher spun 180 degrees slapping the lad across the face with a large amount of force.
So much so that the hand print seemed to last the rest of the day.

The boy however worn the hand print as a badge of honour telling people it was worth it! not a chance, but a great memory.

Talking of memories we had the battle of the ice cream vans take place just outside the school. There was a dead end road out the front of the building and there had always been an ice cream van there at lunch times. Not only did he do ice cream but he also did crisps cans of pop chocolate bars and best of all hot dogs!
Out of the blue another ice cream man turned up one day and battle commenced. The prices tumbled at one point they were almost giving stuff away to drive the other out of business.
I don't recall who actually won but there was talk of a fist fight to resolve the dispute. That pitch must have been worth a few quid.

Once we reached the third year we were then allowed to eat out at lunch times. I loved this as the there was so much choice. On Homerton high street there was a cafe which had the first Space Invaders machine I remember. Then there was Chatsworth road where the Wimpy did a roaring trade. Wimpy special grill 48p!
Alternatively there was Well street for good old pie and mash (god i miss pie and mash).
However a big group of us though made the bakers in Mare street our main hang out, and many a lunch time and afternoon lessons to be honest were spent there checking out the girls from Clapton girls school.

It was a tough school with some tough teachers and rules, but if you're on Trevor Fogah-Griffiths facebook page reading this then you can see we all still view that tough school with fond memories.

We'll sing what we want

                               We’ll sing what we want

So the society of black lawyers deadline day for the cessation of Spurs fans using the word Yiddo, Yid, Yid army and so on has now past!

As from the 20^th of November if Tottenham do not take action against its supporters The SBL will report them to the Metropolitan Police.

So here we are on the even of the first game since that stance was taken by Peter Herbert the spokesman for the SBL, and that game takes place in Rome at the Stadio Olimpico home of Lazio.

Ironically in the reverse of this fixture at White Hart lane the Lazio fans were reported for racist monkey chants and gestures against Tottenham’s black players.

The fine for Lazio by UEFA was 40,000 Euros. So Thursday night will show whether this fine has had any impact on Racism at that club.

As a Twitter addict I see that there are a sizeable amount of Spurs fans heading out to Rome for this game. Away days are very special for any football fan, making as much noise as possible to support your team being the highlight of the trip.

So my expectation is that of “YID ARRRRMMYY”  ringing out of the telly box loud and proud.

No doubt a colleague of Peter Herbert will be tuning in so he can prepare a sound bite ready for him for after the game to remind us he is still on our case. Possibly with one eye on the next fixture.

Come Sunday tea time the visitors to white Hart lane are West Ham United one of the originators of the Yid slurs of the 1970’s and 80’s.

Who can forget their proud renditions of Spurs are on their way to “Belsen Hitler’s gonna gas em again? “

The atmosphere will be red hot! Both sets of supporters will be up for it. There is no love lost between the two set of supporters 

This is a game of massive importance in terms of bragging rights as well as league standing, 

Spurs will not want to notch up a third London derby defeat in a row especially to bitter rivals.

If ever there was going to be a game to give Mr Herbert his opportunity to test his ultimatum with the club this is it.

I have read many articles since the Yid issue was raised and my time line on Twitter has been full of the topic.

Spurs fans from all walks of life from all over the world (and this does include Jewish people) appear to be united in the issue. 

We will not be forced to drop our identity because you do not understand our History!

So ……………………………….

“We’ll sing what we want

We’ll  sing what we waaaannnnt

We’re the Yid army

We’ll sing what we want”

Poo Problems

American Poo problems

A few years ago I took my family for a holiday to Orlando in Florida. We had been once before and loved it, but that time we stayed somewhere near Kissimmee in a house in a gated community. This time we had decided to stay in the Comfort Inn behind the massive MacDonald’s on International Drive. We wanted to be closer to the action and spend a bit more time eating out in the area as opposed to eating at home or in the Disney Parks.

Just across the road from the hotel behind the petrol station was a restaurant chain called Golden Coral. There is nothing to compare this to in England really but essentially it is an all you can eat restaurant. However at this restaurant you can have almost anything at all. From Pizza to steak to salad to ice cream. But all of these selections are available all day.

For me though the best time to go is breakfast. It sets you up for the day for about $10 all you can eat. Being a bit of a greedy bugger I used to start off with a bowl of cereal before moving on to scrambled eggs bacon and sausages. After that it was juice yogurt finishing off with a banana. Yum!

Not sure if it is a problem for everyone but for me travelling that far seems to upset my pooing schedule. It could be the time difference or even the type of food, but each time I go to the USA it seems to take a while to get back into the rhythm or a regular poo time.

So after about three days of non-co-operation from my bottom imagine my surprise as my bum started to twitch whilst I was finishing off my coffee after my lovely breakfast. I am not a great one for using public lavatories but when needs must then needs must. Three days is a long time to wait especially when you are normally regular.

So off I went to the toilets in the Golden Coral. As I entered the room I was pleased to see that it was empty, there were two urinals and two cubicles. So in I rushed pulling my shorts down as quickly as I could. As I was about to perch on toilet seat I noticed a massive, (and I mean massive by toilet cubicle standards) gap between the door and the door surround! I have to say for me having a shit is something I am very private about and I was not in the mood for a stalkers gap around my door. So with a little ingenuity I rigged up some toilet paper to cover the gap whilst clenching my buttocks together.

Finally convinced that my poo process was about to take place in private I settled down on to the toilet set ready to let nature take its course. Toilets are ergonomically designed to aid the process, open up the cheeks of your arse basically and allow for ease of passage. I can never understand the reason why Muslim’s have an issue with this and in some workplaces squat on the toilet seat instead, but hey each to his own, I digress. So with a few large bottom burps nature was finally doing what came naturally.

However mid poo I heard the door to the toilets open and someone enter. Not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I was there I was once again in clench mode. How long was he going to be? Is he going to have a wee and leave? Could I hold it in long enough? The thoughts ran through my mind. But no he was not going to have a wee he was going to go into the other cubicle, and no I could not hold it long enough!

Plan B then poo quicker than he can and get out before he sees who I am.  To be fair I had smelt dead rats better than what I had just produced, if you get my drift? So I knuckled down to complete my mission. As I sat there concentrating trying to be quietly efficient a loud gruff voice with a Hispanic twang said “Hello”. What the fuck I thought Hello! Who’s he talking to? I decided to let it go say nothing and hope I heard it wrong.

Barely a minute passed and there it was again “Hello” clear and loud in a deep Hispanic voice. He’s definitely talking to me here I thought to myself, nobody else came in what the fuck. Now by this time you have already guessed what I am thinking! Could this be an American cottaging hot spot? I surveyed my location as quickly as I could desperately hoping that there would be no spy holes or worse some big cock sticking through a hole in the wall.

At this point I was still plopping poo for England with no sign of completion; I was stuck between a cock and a shit place! Thankfully as I looked around there was not a cock in sight and the walls were intact. But then there it was again the same tough deep gruff Hispanic sounding voice for the third time “Hello”! at this point I thought to myself I cannot ignore this forever I have to say something back.

Problem with this however is that I am a Londoner with a not so tough guy voice, not squeaky and effeminate as such but compared to a gruff Hispanic (Mexican mafia) type voice I did not think it sounded manly enough. So with one hand between my legs wiping frantically I put on my toughest deepest geezer voice and replied “YOU TALKING TO ME”? And just as the words left my lips my mystery man began to speak in Spanish but not to me though the man of my wild imagination was talking on the phone!

What a prat I felt, what an idiot he must have thought. I quickly washed my hands and rushed out of the toilet back to the safety of my family. By this point though I could not contain my laughter. I wasn’t chuckling though I was proper belly laughing. In fact I was laughing so much I was making the people around me laugh even though they had no idea why I was laughing. As we left the Golden Coral I began to explain to my wife what had happened as I was doing so I laughed so much I ended up giving myself an asthma attack.

That was about 6 years or so ago now but every time I tell the story I does make me chuckle, not sure how it translates into the written word here but I hope it made you chuckle too.

England's on TV ....... yeah so what!

England’s on TV ……… So what

On Wednesday night I was sat on the sofa eating my dinner when my Mrs turned to me and said “shall I turn off Emmerdale, England footballs on”? Without even thinking I said “nah not bothered”.

As I drifted into a daze to avoid taking too much notice of Nicola King and her efforts to get Angel into private school, it struck me how uninterested I was in England being on the telly!

It’s really odd, I love my football and I am passionate about Spurs. If you are a Spurs fan then you will know the feeling of angst and excitement all wrapped up in one. You head every ball you make every tackle and your feelings on the day are dependent on the performance of your team.

As I look back to years go by I can remember a time when I felt the same way about the England team. As I sat there I tried to recall when these feelings changed. When did I stop caring? Because that’s where I am now. I honestly don’t care what the result is. Surely that’s not right? Is this just me?

Eventually Emmerdale finished and I did put the game on. I sat watching it and as Ireland scored I just shrugged. Oh well my disinterest was well placed. I didn’t stop watching the game I continued to watch until the end before heading off to work. To be honest I watch every game but for me now it is more out of a sense of loyalty rather than genuinely wanting to support the team. It’s almost like you have to watch rather than want to.

So when did my passion start to falter? I recall Italia 90 I was living in Bedford at the time and Bedford has a massive Italian population, the town was bussing all through the competition. When a live match was on the local Pizzeria did half price pizza’s it was great. It was the tournament of Gazza and the tears, well if that didn’t give you passion nothing would.

The next big tournament that sticks in my mind is Euro 96 here in England. Football’s coming home was playing nonstop on the radio and in shops and pubs all around. Once again Gazza was on fire the goal against the Jocks was sublime and unforgettable. The whole country was behind the team.

Ok so I was angry when the cheating Argies got Beckham sent off in 98, I felt sad when Kevin Keegan admitted he wasn’t good enough for the job. I was ecstatic when we smashed the Germans 5-1 in their own back yard, I even got a little excited when Beckham put that free kick in against Greece.

But to be fair that’s all it is, sparks of interest I have not had real passion for my countries national team at our national sport for nearly 20 years! It’s not that I have lost my passion for England. I get excited about the Ashes (even though I’m not a big cricket fan). Same with the 6 nations rugby and I was more interested than I expected over the Olympics. It’s just the football!

I am not alone either, it was spooky because just today I saw a tweet from someone saying the same as me, and they have no passion for England.

I looked at the enjoyment the Irish fans were having the other night and I’m jealous. I know some Dutch people and they are fanatical about their team dressed head to toe in Orange. Love them or hate them the Germans too seem to maintain enthusiastic support whenever they play.

I cannot say why I feel the way I do perhaps it is my frustration at the fact that the same players play each and every time whether they are playing well or not? Perhaps it is my annoyance that young players do not get brought through together to build for the future? Could it be that the England manager always seems to be the safe bet, boring with no visible desire? Could it be that the media hype lifts my hopes and then stamps all over them? Could it even be the lack of atmosphere which seems to be present and the ridiculously high ticket prices if you could even get one?

I don’t have the correct answer to why I feel this way; if I did maybe I could find the way to fix it. I want my passion back, but perhaps it’s down to the England set up to drag it out of me?

Patriotism not Racism

Patriotism not Racism

Like the majority of people around the country I was shocked and saddened by the brutal murder of a British solider on the streets of London last week.

I was on my way back from a short break in Cornwall when I originally heard the news on the radio.

As I was in the car driving I did not take in the fullness of the story of what and how this occurred, but I had a dark feeling about it and commented to my wife that this could cause big problems.

Once we were home and turned on the TV the full horror of the situation really hit home. Even though I do not know Lee Rigby or have any affiliation to the armed forces in anyway, but I felt a massive rush of grief and sadness as the story unfolded.

As a social network addict I did what comes naturally and took to my Facebook and Twitter accounts to take in the views of friends and followers. Amongst the RIPs and tributes there was also a massive amount of anger and patriotism sadly however there was also an element of racism bubbling along as well.

Having been born and brought up in Hackney I came across people from all ethnic backgrounds, I knew people from both sides of the Cyprus conflict for instance and people from India and Pakistan, Africans and West Indians. Later on moving away from London to Bedfordshire I then came across large elements of Italians and Yugoslavians (as it was then) as well as the original Polish community.

Over the years I have had problems/arguments with people from most of these communities in one way or another but I also have to point out that I have had issues and problems and arguments with a lot of white British Christian people at the same time!

I read a tweet from a guy called @spooky23 which said;

“I don’t care whether you’re gay, straight or Bi, I don’t care if you’re black or white. If you’re a cunt then you’re a cunt. “

This had not been written regarding the situation in Woolwich, I may have been written about a specific person for all I know, but whilst crude it is a fair comment. Being a burden on society, being a problem element is not based on race religion colour creed or sexual orientation. It comes from the person you are, the person you want to be.

I am proud to be English, my wife is English both sets of parents are English and both sets of our grandparents for both sets of parents are English. Beyond this who knows? People from all over the world have been coming here for as long as people could travel. They probably always will. Equally there are also British communities all over the world.

In the time of the great fire of London it was the French who were blamed as terrorists for starting the fire!

But did you know that now in terms of population London is the 4^th biggest French city?

The point is if you look at our culture our ways our language, all the things we hold dear they have all been influenced over time by the cultures and people we have come across in our lives.

The EDL, BNP and UKIP have had a surge in interest and support. And as well-meaning in their creation as they may have been these single issue parties are not the answer. Extremism from whichever direction will only divide us.

At this time unity and solidarity is what will overcome these difficult times. It is patriotism not racism that we need to promote.

And to the disaffected youth who are drawn towards a radical form of Islam you need to question how you became British in the first place.

Maybe your Parents or grandparents came to Britain seeking a better way of life for their families. They may have sought a place where they could practice freedom of religion and expression, freedom of speech, education and health care without fear of repression.

These are the things we all now take for granted.

However if you do not wish to live with non-Muslim’s and wish to follow Sharia law there are countries out there that have that, you can choose to go and live that life. That is your right.

If on the other hand you want to stay then feel free to, all we ask is that you contribute in your way and accept us in ours.

 

stolen from Facebook

When the phone rings

 

John, Mick, Nan (Dolly), Grandad (Joe),David, Dad (Peter) Brian

Not long before my sixteenth birthday in January I was sat at home in the flat I shared with my parents when the telephone rang.

I ambled along the hallway to where the phone sat on one of those proper telephone tables that were popular at the time. The table was at the end of a narrow hallway close to the front door. Looking back now it seems like a strange place to have the phone but hey that’s where it was.

I answered the telephone and a voice at the end said “that you Lee?” “Yeah” I replied “who’s that?”

“It’s uncle Brian, is your dad there”

“No they’re up the club” I said.

“Go and get him and tell him his mums dead”

“What? What did you just say” I asked struggling to quite grasp what was just said

“Tell him his mums dead he needs to get over here” Brian said, it was only at this point I could hear the breaking in his voice.

Within a matter of minutes I was dressed and out of the front door. We lived in a tower block right at the top twentieth floor. I didn’t wait for the lift I headed straight down the stairs jumping almost landing to landing.

My parents at the time worked in the Hackney Hospital in the social club that had been created above the kitchens for the employees. I had to get across Mabley Green and up Homerton high street to get to the hospital grounds. To walk this distance would take around 30 minutes I would guess, I ran the whole way and was at the stairs to the club in about ten minutes flat. I have no idea where I go the energy from?

As I walked into the club my heart started to sink, I could see my dad behind the bar in the distance. Up until this point it hadn’t quite hit me what had happened. I reached the private door to the bar and my mum came and opened it.

“You OK what you doing here?” she enquired

“Uncle Brian phoned” I stuttered out at this point sensing something wrong my dad appeared

“Nans dead!”

“What? What’s that Lee my mum?

This was the first time I had ever seen my dad cry, I will never forget the sound he made when asking that question. His voice was breaking and as it was sinking in you could almost feel the pain ripping through him.

Within a couple of minutes the bar shutters were down and we were out of the door and down into the car. There were no mobile phones in those days, Brian had given me very little information just that she had died. The only option was to make our way over to the house.

My Grandparents lived in Walthamstow which was probably about 30-40 minute drive away in those days. My dad kept asking me are you sure it’s my mum? My Granddad had for years suffered with breathing problems, he had asbestosis and so I think everyone expected him to be first to go. My Nan had done everything for him most of their married lives. She was a real Cockney mum figure a real head of the family type. She had had five boys with there being two sets of twins. They had never had much but all of them loved her and respected her, she was not one to be messed with.

Because my dad kept asking me if I was sure, all that did was put more and more doubt in my mind.

Did Brian say Nan? Did he actually say she was dead? Was it Joe (Granddad)? Was she going to be there when we got there had I made a huge mistake? I was actually shitting myself.

We arrived at the house and all of my uncles were there, but the inevitable was true. Dolly (as she was known) had passed away that morning. My Granddad was sat in his chair; he looked shell shocked and didn’t seem to know what to do.

It turned out she had woken up not feeling very well and ending up having a massive heart attack, because of being so frail Joe couldn’t help her and before an ambulance could get to her she had another heart attack and passed away.

I recall sitting on the stairs which were open plan overlooking the sitting room. Nobody knew what to say to each other there were tears obviously but my overriding memory was of shock Dolly was only in her early 60s which by today’s standards is young.

Because Joe had been so ill for so long it was clear that he was not going to be able to stay in the house and look after himself, and so it was decided that he would go home with Uncle Brian.

Brian only had one daughter my cousin Sharon; she is the oldest of all the grandchildren and was moving out that year to get married. Even though I was only sixteen, I was the next oldest. We only had a small flat in a tower block so there was no way he would be able to manage living with us. My other uncles all had young children so it made sense for Joe to go to Brian.

My dad really took losing my Nan badly, he had always suffered with his nerves to a certain extent but this really hit him for six.

My dad had to take time off of work running the club due to the stress. He sat in his arm chair in the lounge of the flat, next to him was a small coffee table and on this table was bottle after bottle of pills. At one point it got so bad the skin on the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet just peeled off in sheets. Literally sheet after sheet. His hands and feet were red raw. His feet were so bad he had to walk on his heels as it was so painful, he was even unable to wear shoes.

I always thought my dad was a tough man, and he was. I had seen him fight on more than one occasion, and he would never back down from anyone. But this really got to him and to be fair it took him years to really fully recover.

Six months after my Nan had passed away my cousin Sharon was getting married, it was to be a big traditional white wedding in the church in Chingford where they lived. The reception was back at the house.



Cousin Chris and me at Sharons wedding



It was the normal family thing everything seemed OK Joe was there sat in his chair in the living room, it was sad as Dolly wasn’t there but in these situations you try and focus on the brides happy day.

The most eventful thing to happen was when a neighbour knocked to complain about the noise. She was rather irate even given the fact that this was a wedding. Everyone was trying to calm the situation even my poor dad. He got caught up in the middle of it, the neighbour decided to lash out and my dad Copt it. “Don’t hit me love, I’m not from Chingford I’m from Hackney I’ll slap you back” he declared to which she slapped him again. Shocked he went for it only to be restrained by his brother. That really pissed him off! More than being slapped itself.

The very next day Sharon jetted off on her two week honeymoon. Because my mum and dad had been working as publicans for many years, they had never been able to get away on a holiday. However because the last 6 months has been a really bad time my parents decided they had to have a short break and decided to go somewhere up north.

My parents had only been away for a matter of days when once again the telephone rang whilst I was at home. This time Uncle Brian delivered the news that Joe did not have long left and that my dad was to come as soon as he got back!

It was almost as if he had given up when Dolly died but held on to see Sharon get married.

So once again I was in the unenviable position of having to deliver more bad news.

As I said there were no mobile phones at that time (there was but normal people didn’t have them) so all I could do is wait and hope that they managed to get back in time. I was dreading it to be honest, the last six months my dad’s health had really suffered and here I was again going to have to break his heart.

On their arrival home I quietly approached my mum first to test the water, things had been good my dad had been relaxed and refreshed. My Dad was also aware that Joe was not good. He had not said anything to me but the brothers had been prepared by Brian at the wedding.

Having that horrible conversation this time, although difficult was not painful and shocking. Dad made the call to Brian and arrangements were made to go over the very next day.

When we arrived all five brothers and their wives were there. I was the only grandchild as the others were younger than me and poor Sharon was away on her honeymoon none the wiser. Joe was bed ridden and barely conscious. When I entered the room, I couldn’t believe this was the same man who had been at the wedding a week earlier. He seemed so frail; he couldn’t speak and did not seem to recognise any of us. My dad held his hand on one side and my uncle John held his hand on the other. I recall Brian was stood by Joe’s head and Mick and David were stood behind my dad. Nobody seemed to know what to say. We all stood in silence for what seemed like ages.

In the silence Joe’s breathing was all that could be heard. It sticks in my mind because it was a constant struggle for him. As kids we were never allowed to hug Joe as he said it made his breathing bad. It was more because he was an old fashioned man, “Boys don’t kiss and cuddle boys” type of guy. But as I stood there on that day his breathing problems was all I could focus on.

Then almost out of the blue, it stopped! The wheezing sound just stopped. We all looked at each other, as if to say “what now”. Brian looked down at Joe and could see he had passed away. “He’s gone” he said. Almost as Brian finished the sentence a loud wheezing and gurgling sound was let out. It wasn’t a false alarm though there was no mistake; this was just the last air in the lungs coming out. My heart had skipped a beat as this occurred. I’d never seen anyone die before; in fact I had never seen a dead body before.

John was hit the worst that day; he had lived with my grandparent’s right up until he was 40. In fact it was his house they lived in, so more a case of they lived with him really. John and I were left with Joe as the others went out to tell wives and make arrangements for the ambulance and so on. I was close to John, (if you’ve read my other blogs you may have seen a story specifically about him) and so I sat with him for support.

 It was a sad time but somehow peaceful. I felt a real connection and a certain sense of privilege to have been at Joe’s side with his sons at this time.  I guess that sounds strange? Or even morbid perhaps? But for me it was like a defining moment of growing up, being able to share these last moments of someone you love, with someone you love.

Abuse! why would you wait to report it?

Abuse! Why wait to report it?

In this country at the moment we are hearing about and reading a lot about the abuse of minors by some of our best known and most loved celebrities.

We are sat in disbelief as the stories of Jimmy Savile emerged day after day. I sat with my wife watching the story unfold and to be honest my first thoughts were why wait so long to come out and say? Why wait for the man to die before you slander his name.

I couldn’t understand what stopped people from saying anything? Then time after time the story goes that the victim thought nobody would believe them! Additionally they all thought they were alone the only one!

I didn’t think much more about it until a couple of weeks ago. I belong to a group on Facebook dedicated to my old senior school. I hadn’t looked at it for some time but there was a notification that something new had been posted.

Being nosey I decided to see if it was someone new someone I knew, as it turned out someone had posted a group picture of a class at my old junior school! It made me smile so I opened it up to see if I could recognise any of the children in the picture.

As it happened I couldn’t but I did recognise the teacher stood at the end. Underneath someone had re-written the rhyme we had made up about the teachers of the time. There were also some comments about this particular teacher’s racist attitude in the way he conducted himself.

As I continued to read through the comments one struck me right between the eyes. “I wish I knew then what I know now I would’ve got the paedophile Mr XXXX arrested!

I continued down the comments and as I read I realised that something that I had not spoken about to anyone else ever was being repeated by someone else here.

Every morning at junior school it was customary for the whole school to come together for an assembly. This was essentially the headmaster and his teaching team leading hymens (regardless of your religion or lack of) and saying the Lord’s Prayer.   On this particular day (I must have been around 8 or 9 years old at the time) as the assembly ended and we were all shuffling off back to class, the headmaster shouted at me in an almighty voice and lent down off of the stage area and hit me right across the arse, it was really hard in my mind’s eye I can still see him swinging his arm towards me.

I was absolutely mortified, I was stunned with shock. I did not understand what I had done wrong? Because of his shouting it seemed like the whole school had stopped and was looking at me. I was very shy at the time and became very embarrassed to the extent it made me cry!

As quickly as this had happened we were whisked off back to class, nothing was said at all not by the headmaster or by my teacher. I just didn’t know what had happened.

Later on it the day just after the lunch time break I was sent for to go to the headmaster’s office. To say I was shitting myself was an understatement. Because this had happened in the morning it seemed like an age ago to me, but now I thought I was in trouble again.

As I entered his office this time he was very different, His whole demeanour had changed he was not angry anymore, he also had his chair turned to the side of his desk not behind it and he called me over to stand next to him.

As I stood there between his legs he began to speak explaining that he had hit me because I had been talking and not taking any notice, (which was untrue) he did not want to tell my mum and dad and did not want to punish me any further. As he was talking to me however the whole time he had his hand rubbing all over my backside.

Even at that young age I knew this this did not feel right and I felt really uncomfortable, I don’t recall a lot of what was actually said to me and to me the time I was there seemed like an eternity. Once I was out of his office though I just put it all behind me and I never mentioned it to anyone. Initially this was because I didn’t want to get in trouble at home with my parents. After that I then didn’t mention it because I was embarrassed. Then much later I didn’t mention it because and here is the punch line,

I thought I was the only one, and that nobody would believe me!

It has however taken nearly 40 years for me to come to the realisation that it wasn’t just me and I would be believed maybe not at the time but certainly now in this day and age. There are people saying the exact same thing as I am this was his pattern his ploy to get you alone. I am not claiming I was abused in anyway but by todays standards his actions were inappropriate to say the least.

I do realise my situation is not anything close to what has happened to children at the hands of some of these celebrities, or indeed to abused children all over the world, but what it has shown me is that we can be manipulated quite easily and that waiting 40 years to come forward does not mean it did not happen!

My mate Scotty

My mate Scotty

Over the years I have made many friends, most of them I still keep in touch with but sadly not all.

I have moved about a bit over the last 30 years and this has made it harder to keep strong friendships going as much as you would want.

Facebook for all its problems has made a big difference to our relationships (if used in the right way) by allowing us to connect with people from our school years or teenage years.

I have personally been able to find friends and have friends find me that I had lost touch with in the 1980s.

Last year I was talking to a couple of friends who I had gone to school with and we recalled that we had last seen each other at the Highbury pitch invasion FA cup semi-final against Wolves in 1982! It took us 20 years to see each other again!

Although we don’t see each other regular we keep up to date through the internet and text and so on, and it’s like the years apart haven’t happened.

Les Danny and me Bill Nicolson pub Tottenham 2011

 Unfortunately not everybody is as easy to find as others. In those cases you’ve only got your memories and anecdotes to fall back on.

My Friend Scotty is one of those people for me.

Although we actually went to the same school Scotty and I did not actually know each other then. He was around 3 years older than me so coming up to his last year as I was starting my first.

We met (as I did with most of my mates) in my teenage years through going to football at Spurs. As I was coming through the ranks Scotty was already a well-established face, and although older than me and my other mate Ricky was happy to accept us as part of the group.

We travelled extensively to away games as I have said in previous blogs by hook or by crook. Scotty was a character his name wasn’t actually Scott at all, this was a nickname he was given at school.

Originally born in London his mum married a Scotsman and moved to the Gorbals in Glasgow.

Apparently this is a really tough area of the city and when the relationship failed and the family returned to London, Scotty had a very strong Glasgow accent.

By the time I had become friends with Scotty his mum was in a relationship with an Irish fella and he and his brother were living with the family in a flat in Hoxton. Scotty had a brother and two little sisters. Scotty was a tough guy who could well handle himself. Scotty was also a bit of a ducker and diver. He knew the way things worked and made it work for him.

Even though he was only about 20 at the time he was already married. But this was a marriage of convenience. He married a girl from Eastern Europe so that she could get a passport. He was well paid for this service, remember at this time there was no freedom of movement and so people setting up this scam could earn big money.

 

me and Scotty new year 1983



Scotty did have a bit of a reputation within the estate where he lived. He was known not to be messed with. He had a quick temper as well and once he went off on one that was it get out of the fucking way!

I was on the estate one day with a friend from Broxbourne named John. We were waiting for Scotty to get his stuff from his mums flat as we were off to John’s house for the weekend.

It was the summer so no football to go to, so the next best thing was a weekend on the piss.

The flats that Scotty lived in were the real old style not the tower block type but the three or four stories with walkways all along the front.

As we were sat there all of a sudden we saw Scotty running along the balcony! We jumped up as he shout “Fucking get him”

It was then I realised he was chasing someone, so like the good mates we were we ran to assist. The target managed to get out of one block and started up the stairs of another.

With Scotty taking the stairs on the left John and me went up the stairs on the right! So as he ran along this balcony he was confronted by us. Straight away you could see in his eyes that he knew he was bang in trouble!

He turned from us to see Scotty heading his way. This was when the “Scott mate you OK” bravado started. In London in those days the boys had a certain swagger you know the sort shoulders back springing from one foot to the other swinging your arms. This was how he approached Scotty trying to show he wasn’t some Toby.

Scotty though was having none of it “don’t fucking mate me I aint ya mate” he snarled at the guy grabbing him by the Fila tracksuit top he was sporting. “Am I some sort of cunt to you? Well am I” “Nah man course not” was the reply “well why you trying to mug me of then”?

“It’s just a misunderstanding I never took anything I promise” the swagger had gone it was all about damage limitation now.

Before another word could be said Scotty had this fella up against the balcony wall and was trying to throw him over. Seeing the enormity of the situation John and I ran and grabbed the guy who by this time had his full torso hanging in mid-air with his feet off the floor.

Scotty was determined he was going over the top! It wasn’t a massively long way down but it would cause serious damage and the fella knew it.

John and I held on for dear life as the guy was pleading to be pulled back in!

Then out of the blue the mist seemed to clear, Scotty grabbed him harder and we pulled him in.

As soon as he felt his feet firmly on the floor he was gone like a shot, we all looked at each other like what the fuck was that all about? Apparently he was a friend of Scotty’s brother and he had been accused of lifting some jewellery from the flat. That is really not the thing to do.

When he had gone to get his stuff he had noticed the guy coming out of another flat. The theft was not a new thing it had happened months before, but he had been avoiding being seen.

Inevitably at the first opportunity the red mist of revenge descended and the chase was on!

He was a very lucky boy that day as I have no doubt what could have happened has John and I not been there.

On a separate occasion when we had been out drinking at the end of the night we felt a kebab would be the answer (as you do).

And so we went along to the local kebab house, this was not the takeaway style you see today it was a proper sit in and eat off of china style. It was a really nice place.

Being pissed however does mangle your brain and for a laugh we decided to do a runner. (I know stupidity of youth) So as the guy at the counter was busy carving we were off on our toes.

I was very thin then and to be fair fast but the sight of a geezer with a kebab knife in his hand behind you made me just that bit faster! I shit you not. As we were running down the high street towards the grave yard I heard a crash, still running but looking behind me I could see in the distance that Scotty had hit the deck.

Within seconds a couple of kebab knife wielding Turks were on top of him. Now he may well be game but he wasn’t a fucktard, Scotty knew unarmed you’re bolloxed against a big knife like that. So as one stood over him the other Turkish guy pulled Scotty’s money from his pockets, not just the kebab money but all his money, an off they went shouting cusses at him in their own language.

By the time I got back to him Scotty was livid he was shouting and swearing and going mad. “Those cunts have nicked my money” he was shouting “that’s it I’m sorting them wankers out”. He could not be calmed down the irony of the situation was lost on him, he had been wronged in his eyes!

Once again the red mist had descended and there was no reasoning with him.

“Give me my money you thieving cunts” he began to shout after the Turks as he headed towards them, however these guys were no push overs they turned and faced him waving the kebab knives as if to say “come and get it”.

As I said he wasn’t an idiot he was just angry so without thinking he punched the nearest thing.

The trouble was the nearest thing happened to be a 15 foot plate glass window for a clothes shop.

Let me tell you that sort of glass is hard but he put his fist straight through it.

My god was there an almighty crash as the window collapsed, but then on came the alarm and so we ran and kept running. It was only when we were a safe distance away when we stopped Scotty noticed the damage he had done to his hand.

There was blood pumping all over the place, clearly the running had not helped.

Next stop Hackney hospital, in the end I think he had around 70 stitches in the wound with about half of them being internal. The next day he had a knock on the door from the police. They had actually followed the trail of blood from the window to the hospital and so it cost him in compensation and court fees as well!

We actually went back to the kebab shop a couple of weeks later, the guy who owned it just said laughing  “you gonna behave tonight boys, or am I gonna have to chase you again”? 

We did have to pay for our food upfront after that but there was no hard feelings.

Scotty was a nightmare there is no denying and he was also a rogue but if he was your mate he was a diamond. He got me the job at the factory where I met my wife and he had my back on more than one occasion during those years.

I lost touch with him and that is a shame but my memories of him in those days will stay with me that’s for sure.

Yids bringing people together

Yids bringing people together

This was my first ever article and was featured on

www.thefightingcock.com and was also mentioned via an article in the Huffington Post

Having been brought up in the 1970s and 1980s in Hackney in east London, it was easy to get caught up in racism.

Skinheads, Punks and rude boys were the main groups to become a part of and these all had there own set of beliefs that you had to support.

I was a scrawny short white boy and also painfully shy when I went to my secondary school.

It was built over 7 floors and there was around a thousand boys (no girls unfortunately) at this school and they were from everywhere.

We had West Indians, Pakistanis, Indians, Africans, Turkish Cypriots and Greek Cypriots all in the same class.

On top of this there was more than a share of Irish, Scottish and to top it all a scouser.

Each group however seemed to find themselves grouped together ethnically (much like an American prison community). Safety in numbers became the order of the day.

Me well I found my way into the skinhead culture of the time where the love of Jamaican Ska music was only matched by the dislike of the people who created it (ironic the stupidity of people).

I did all the things your supposed to do, Union Jack badges, red laces in your boots and the hanging around street corners looking aggressive to anyone different to you.

The truth is it gave me my first feeling of belonging, being part of something.

It didn’t seem wrong at the time, my dad didn’t try and dissuade my views, truth is he had deeper racist views and a real feeling of being treated unjustly in his own country because of immigrants.

In 1978 a couple of my school mates took me to White Hart Lane for my first game.

There I was in the cage in the shelf feet barely reaching the floor when the crowd was jumping and singing.

As I was jumping about just along from me was another boy from my school who I recognised.

He too was jumping about and signing really enjoying the atmosphere.

As the game went on we started to talk and join in the songs together and the jumping about.

After this game we became best mates and went on to travel all around the country to all home and away games.

Nothing strange in this story really apart from the fact that my mate was Black and I was white and we had been living in our own little groups. And then out of the blue we weren’t black or white we were Yids! We was the future of the Tottenham fan base.

 

The fact is football brought us together and gave us a common identity, It allowed me to meet one of the best friends a man could ever have. It also enabled me to realise that the colour of a mans skin or his religion doesn’t make him my enemy or the cause of all my problems. Football showed me that we had common ground, we loved the same things we had nothing to fear from each other.

We have been at football matches where we have been abused as dirty Yids and had the gas chamber noises made at us. The Tottenham fans took this prejudice and threw it back at them. We became the Yid army all in it together standing up for the Jewish community who had and still do support our team.

We wear that badge with pride, there is nothing wrong in being Jewish and the 36000 people along side me agree. Your hissing sounds will not intimidate me as I have the rest of the Yid army by my side!

So here we are today with the Association of black lawyers claiming we are racist? Racist for standing up for our community against bigots?

As a twitter person I have people from all over follow me. Black white Asian Arabic Jewish Christian Muslim Male Female.

But we are all as one, one community we are Yids together .

Sweet Caroline

Sweet Caroline

In 1983 my friend at the time Scotty (so nicknamed because he lived in Glasgow for a while) told me of a vacancy at the factory that he worked in.

It wasn’t a great job it was a warehouse man in a clothing factory. The pay at the time was £70 per week before tax £53 after deductions. As I was on the dole at the time and only getting about £15 there was no hesitation. Going to Spurs every week and pubbing it at the weekend was a struggle on £15!

The company was called Carfax gowns and was split in to two sections. In one building there was section for designing the clothing, a section for cutting out the patterns and then a section for the tagging and bagging (for transporting) of the finished item.

Along the road there was a second factory where the cuttings were actually stitched together into the clothes.

The east end of London was once known for its part in the rag trade, there were hundreds of factories as I have described. However by the 1980s these factories had almost all died out. It was a very competitive trade. Carfax was in Cambridge heath road in Bethnal Green The building is still there today although not as a factory.

 

The guys who owned the business were very good, they kept the business coming in and at the time we were working for the big clothing store of the era C&A. (long since gone)

Not long after I started Scotty left he was a bit of a character and a law unto himself to be fair, I could probably write a whole story just about him.

Anyway I digress, as he left a new guy started named Les. We got on well and became friends.

Essentially our role was a general dogs body, we would unload roles of fabric, load up orders, put tags on , add the size toggles on the hangers and so on.

We also had to take the cut patterns over to the machinist factory and bring back the finished items.

Going over to the machinist factory was a bit of a treat as this factory was where the younger women worked. When I say younger they were all much older than us we were only 17 but younger than the old hags at our factory.

People always think men are letches who make women feel uncomfortable, well try being a young lad going into a factory full of women! Some of these women can make a young boy feel very embarrassed.

Very early on before she knew it I had noticed a young machinist she was very shy and very quiet. Her hair was fairly short but it had a long fringe that fell over her left eye. She would sit with her head down so her hair hid her face so she could not see you looking at her. Her name was Caroline!

We didn’t speak, she had a boyfriend at the time and I was aware of this.

 

I was unaware when her boyfriend broke up with her, and oblivious to how upset she was about it. We did eventually start to speak but it was more the three of us as friends. She would come to our factory a lunch times some days and Les and I would dive bomb her onto the roles of fabric!

Some days when Les and I were going to the pub we would pass her on the way to the post office to buy a stamp!

I never thought about why she needed so many stamps, who was she sending letters to?

She used to wear these tracksuits, not like nowadays chav tracksuits these were classy and typical 80s fashion leg warmers and pixie boots. I used to ogle he bottom once she was passed me, she had a lovely figure.

I think we both realised at the same time that there was an attraction going on. She later told me she only went to the post office to buy stamps just in case she would see me. (bless)

 

One day she invited me and Les to a party at her house, apparently her parents were having a moving party as they were leaving where they lived in Dagenham to go to Billericay.

Me I had never heard of Billericay I thought it was in Ireland somewhere. Even when she said it was in Essex it just struck me as somewhere far away.

The fact that she lived in Dagenham threw me as even there seemed a bit of a trek from Hackney!

We agreed to go to the party and Caroline arranged for us to be able to sleep in her little brother’s room.

On the day of the party I went out to the west end to the Benetton shop and bought some new green cords and matching coloured jumper (it was the fashion at the time trust me).

At this period in time I was right into the football scene, and going off to Dagenham did have its issues. Dagenham and the areas you go through to get there were well know West Ham United (or wet spam as we Spurs fans like to call it) areas. Having a bit of notoriety around football meant you had to be a little careful.

 

Les and I took the underground from Bethnal Green to Stratford where you changed to an over ground train. Not having been to Dagenham before I wasn’t sure where to get off, the required station wasn’t even Dagenham it was Chadwell Heath, so it’s no surprise when we didn’t notice the train go straight past.

It only dawned on me when the train pulled into Billericay station that we had got on the wrong train.

“I thought Billericay was further than Dagenham” I said to Les? “Wrong train” so off we jumped and over to the other platform to head back where we had come from.

We sat on a deserted platform for what seemed like ages before a train came going back the other way, Caroline thought we were going to let her down.

We finally made it to Chadwell Heath and called Caroline from the phone box. Yes phone box there was no mobile phones then! No texting Facebooking or tweeting just a 10p in the box after the Pips.

Within 10 minutes or so Caroline appeared she had walked around with some friends one of whom was an ex-boyfriend!

He seemed OK to be honest think he just came to check me out make sure I wasn’t someone a bit dodgy so fair play to him for looking out for her.

We arrived at the house which was full with all of Caroline’s family; Caroline has a big family and they are very close.  I must say it was a little intimidating. Because we turned up late (and I don’t think anyone actually expected us to turn up) we drew a fair bit of attention as we came in. I am not sure being all dressed in green (like Robin Hood) helped much.

I don’t recall actually spending much time talking to anyone else during the party; It was just Caroline and I for the rest of the night. We got on really well. We had never really spent anytime just us on our own. We had always had Les with us as we had just been mates.

But I think we both knew that there was a connection an attraction.

After the party Les and I slept in Caroline’s brother’s room in their bunk beds. It was really strange because where they lived back onto a field. It felt so quiet; on top of this her dad had aviaries in the garden. I didn’t even know you could do that keep birds at your house. In the early hours of the morning those birds were chirping like mad. What a fucking racket I thought to myself.

If this was country life you could stick it up your arse! Imagine it though this was Dagenham it wasn’t out in the sticks, this wasn’t the country side. I didn’t have a clue, to me if I didn’t know where it was it must be in the country.

We were up fairly early the next day, and to be honest it was a bit uncomfortable. Caroline’s mum was not very welcoming and we were probably in the way. So we decided to make a move. Anyway Spurs were playing Nottingham Forest on the Sunday at White Hart Lane; it was the first live televised match. It was my ritual weekends were for football and beer whichever way around it came. Anyway I didn’t want to miss the chance of being on the telly!

Caroline walked us to the station and we parted not really talking about the night before and our attraction. But by then I had made up my mind, Caroline was the one for me.

At the party Caroline’s Nan asked someone if I was Caroline’s new boyfriend? “That will never last” she was heard to comment.

That moving party was 30 years ago in October this year (2013) and in May Caroline and I will be celebrating our silver wedding anniversary! We have been through a lot in those years (some of which you will have seen in other stories on my blog) but somehow we have managed to fight to stay together.

Caroline will hate the title I have given this story because she hates the song but to me she is my “sweet Caroline”!