My discovery of Gastronomy.

After I left school I commuted by train to The City for 6 months from the south coast. It took its toll, and I seemed to be permanently travelling. Getting up at all hours, and returning home not long before catching the train back to London again. It really was a nightmare.

So, I then took a bed-sit in Bayswater. I never bothered with breakfast, I ate lunch thanks to a 4/6d daily Luncheon Voucher, and in the evenings I would regularly visit a 'restaurant' in Queensway called 'The Golden Egg'; egg-n-chips cost almost nothing. I NEVER cooked at home.

When I later became the manager of a West End gallery, I took a flat just north of Marble Arch, and again never cooked at home. I had my breakfast at Selfridge's, my lunch often at Odin's in Devonshire St (next door to the gallery), and an evening snack was usually supplied by a Pub' somewhere.

Then I moved to Lillie Rd Fulham, and on to Bramerton St Chelsea. Never did I cook, or even make coffee, at home. My flats were simply a place to sleep and store clothes. I moved around a lot in those days so ate wherever I found myself; although the restaurant 235 on the King's Rd was always a favourite.

During my college years we had a decent Cafeteria for lunch, and in the evenings I mostly ate greasy Chicken and Chips from a newspaper package. 

Once graduated I bought an ancient granite house on the Shropshire/Wales border, and it was here where I first started to take an interest in cooking. We would visit the nearby town once a week on Market Day, and buy vast amounts of vegetables for £1. They lasted us a week. We'd already had our oldest son by this time and we tried to follow Dr Bircher-Benner's 'Children's Diet' book, which was mostly veggie.

Then, when I bought our first big farmhouse in France I became totally fascinated by 'food'. Everything was so different to back home, and I found it all totally delicious. I was suddenly eating things I'd never eaten before, and I was hooked. I grew as much as possible, I had hens, ducks, and guinea fowl, and we suddenly became 'foodies'. I grew a field of Wheat, and another of Maize; I became a mini-farmer.

Since then I have preserved large amounts of my own vegetables, paté, and jams. I made hams, bacon, and various forms of charcuterie. I never looked back; until Brexit came, and now no longer have the luxury of a full growing season in S France.

During my 50 year absence, the gastronomy of the UK has changed hugely, and there is no question that we have overtaken most of mainland Europe. I am now very happy to have the huge choice of wonderful foods on offer here. France now seems very 'stuck in its ways'.

RIP Glynis Johns.

 

During certain of my school-days holidays, both my parents were very busy, and I ate my daily lunches alone at a small family run, very English, restaurant called 'The Spinning Wheel'; even the name itself tells you the type of restaurant it was.

The owner was a youngish man named Michael, and I believe my mother had asked him to put me on a table with any well known actors, working at the nearby Connaught Theatre. I suppose I must have been about 16.

The two I do remember lunching with every day (for a week) were Sarah Miles, and Glynis Johns.

Ms Miles was very beautiful, and I remember that she wore knee-length soft leather boots. She chatted a bit, but was not the ideal luncheon companion. We got-on OK, but that's about it.

Ms Johns, however, was an absolute treasure. She had a wonderfully evocative voice and was a perfect conversationalist. She was a total pleasure to spend an hour with over lunch. I really treasured those days. When our week of lunches together was over she even told me that she'd miss me; how about that!!!

I was really saddened to see that she has just died aged 100. She will be remembered mostly for her role as Mrs Banks in Mary Poppins. However, I shall remember her sitting opposite me at The Spinning Wheel restaurant. Her father was the equally well-known actor Mervyn Johns.

So, goodbye Glynis; our paths crossed all too briefly, but I shall never forget you. xx

Wrongly accused.

Could there be anything worse than firstly being accused of something you didn't do, and then being found guilty.

The very worst case of such miscarriage of justice recently took place in the UK, and involved over 700 Post Office managers/workers.

Back in 1999, a new and faulty Japanese computer system found that 736 sub-postmasters were guilty of having committed theft, false accounting, or fraud. They all declared their innocence, but were found guilty. Up until today just 83 have had their convictions overturned.

I do have experience of such appalling injustice myself. In my final weeks of school a friend had given my name, having been caught doing something that was definitely against school rules. I was called to the headmaster's study; and, without any questions, instantly sacked. When the truth was known I was recalled to see the headmaster and he apologised. My friend was quite naturally sacked in my stead.

In my particular case I took no notice of my punishment as I knew there had been some silly mistake, and I simply ignored both it and the headmaster. But these sub-postmasters were not so lucky; they have suffered years of prison sentences, bankruptcy,  and there's even been one case of suicide. As you can see by my illustration, 33 people have since died without having had their names cleared.

It may be that amongst the 736 accusations of fraud, one or two may have been guilty, but there is no question that the huge majority were 100% innocent of any malpractice.

A really dreadful case of the law being an complete ass! I hope that they all receive extremely generous compensation; they deserve it.

The matter has recently been the subject of an ITV drama 'Mr Bates v The Post Office'.

National Service (NS).

We've all seen them; they are everywhere. They hang around public places in small groups, wearing hoodies and masks, hoping (I presume) to intimidate passers-by. Worst of all, they do nothing other than maybe a bit of shoplifting, stabbing, and/or petty drug dealing. At night they spray squiggles on our walls, and piss on the streets.

They are basically anti-social lost souls. They try to look like hardened gangsters, but in fact they are mostly children who simply have no real direction in life.

The cry to 'Bring back National Service' is always in the background, but maybe at the moment that cry should be listened-to. Not as punishment, but to give these children what they've obviously missed from their school days (if, indeed, they ever went). Discipline and direction!

I personally missed NS by just a couple of years, but I did do CCF and participated in a short Officer Training course. I remained on a call-up list for proper officer training for several years. I'm quite happy to say that the call never came.

We live in extremely dangerous times. Several of the world's most evil tyrants are threatening The West, and they need to be taken seriously. What we mustn't do is smile at them and pat them on their heads. The West needs tough no-nonsense leaders, and we need to be well prepared.

A new style NS could be a good solution. These (mostly) young men could serve up to two years in a military/educational environment which would not only produce a stand-by trained armed force, but also offer them a future career.

When I was very young our gardener's son went off to do his NS. He'd been a bit wayward, but returned as a very solid young man. His two year training had given him all he needed to get his life in order. I'm sure that the same could be done for the likes of the youths above. They seem to enjoy the safety of 'a gang', so NS could suit them well.

The words 'National Service' still have unpleasant connotations, so I might suggest that we need another name. What we don't want is a 'National let me wrap you in cotton wool Service'. I would be pleased to have your thoughts on the idea.

I am definitely 'for'. There are probably hundreds of thousands of such children hanging about on our streets, and they deserve better. I feel that society is letting them down, and not vice versa.

 

Eels.

The last time I ate Jellied Eels was when I lived in London. There was a tiny 'Eels and Pie' bar in The City near to where I worked, and occasionally I would treat myself.

I was very surprised yesterday to find this tub in Sainsbury's. I just had to have them.

They're not everyone's cup of tea, especially those who assess with their eyes rather than their taste buds. They don't look that appealing; but then nor do Oysters or Spiney Crabs.

I suppose the only bit most people would complain about are the bones that run through the middle, but once the technique of removing them is mastered, it is no longer a problem.

The flavour of the Eels themselves is very pleasant, as is the Jelly that surrounds them. Would I buy them again? I'm thinking about it; maybe in a few weeks time.

Verdict: 8/10

 

Britannia Coco-Nutters Bacup Market

At this time of year, and at Easter, we expect to see Morris dancers in our villages, outside our Pubs, and generally in town squares. They have become a part of English culture, dating back possibly to around 1450.

I've always rather liked the Britannia side, who have the strange habit of beginning their dance by cupping their ears to unheard voices, then wagging their fingers at each other. I believe the 'blackface' refers to their coming from a mining community.

I've not seen any live Morris dancing for many years, but when I was young we saw them often. There's nothing 'refined' about their dances, but I think that's what makes them such fun.

So, here are the Bacup Coco-Nutters strutting their stuff. If you know nothing of Morris Dancing, these lads are a fine example.

RIP's of 2023

I'll start with a non-human RIP, and that is the Sycamore Gap Tree that some idiot sawed down. Several people will appear in court this year, and if found guilty I hope they'll have the book thrown at them. Vandalism of the worst sort, pure and simple!

Amongst notable deaths in 2023 have been Lady M's old IOW school friend Jane Birkin, and England's favourite Footballer Bobby Charlton. 

Artist Joe Tilson (who I once spent some time chatting with at the ICA), all-round genius Barry Humphries, and dog-lover Lily Savage (Paul O'Grady) also succumbed.

And finally, I would also like to remember each and every one of the 1,139 innocent Israelis who were so brutally tortured and slaughtered on October 7th by Palestinian Hamas terrorists.

May they all rest in peace.