The Word on the Street.

A cruel story runs on wheels,
And every hand oils the wheels as they run.
(Ouida 1839-1908)


Dear Holly,
Do you ever feel that life somehow swirls around and past you without handing out the information that it seems to impart to other people? I only ask because that was exactly the way I used to feel when I was about your age. It seemed that everybody at school knew all the cool and essential stuff that I only ever got to find out about afterwards. Mostly this doesn’t matter, but sometimes, just sometimes it does…

Point in question, early sixties English radio, which despite being the most avidly consumed form of entertainment, was still, as it turns out, a covert world. Thanks to some very creative people it was a veritable minefield of post war subtexts as the hide bound, stiff upper lipped morality of the BBC found itself increasingly under attack from within by a new and subversive strand of humour that used as its base camp (pun intended) the very delicate subject of homosexuality.
Now, back in the early sixties the world was a very different place. For a start we didn’t have media or homosexuality. Of course, the first of these existed in the bright, primary glare of the Sunday supplements who, between life affirming articles on Cardin and Courreges, also, found the time to enlighten its reader as to the whereabouts of the ‘bohemians’ and their like, who where apparently to be found loitering in and around the mews of Kensington and Knightsbridge. Meanwhile, back in the sticks, the rest of us just had to make do with the telly and the wireless, whilst those of us of a different persuasion simply batted, rather cryptically, for the opposition.

Television, by today’s standards, was a crude affair consisting of just two channels, the BBC and ITV, both showing in black and white, and on air for about eight hours a day. The output of both stations was very tightly regulated with all the programming subject to the most stringent moral censorship. As unbelievable as it may seem now, the evening news always carried a feature on the royal family, indeed such was the coverage that when I was a youngster, I actually felt that I knew prince Charles – now how’s that for state mind manipulation? And just to remind us who had placed the great and the good in their elevated positions and we in ours, the evening always ended at around ten thirty to eleven o’clock with a wonderfully innovative piece of programming called the epilogue. Yes, the final few minutes of every night’s schedule on the BBC was given over to a chap from the God squad, who came on and patronised the hell out of the nation in an Oxbridge accent before allowing us all to toddle off to bed. Bloody perfect.

The puritanical approach adopted by both stations was a direct reflection of the way that the state radio, aka the BBC, conducted itself. Whether it was music, comedy or a play adapted for radio, the first imperative was always the moral high ground. The BBC had a rather lengthy and meticulously observed set of standards and these were religiously enforced. Strangely enough it was just this straight jacketing that allowed some of the most precious comedy to slip under the radar.

The bravest, and most hilarious example of this was a little vignette that conducted itself on a weekly basis from within a program called Round the Horne. It involved two extremely exuberant gentlemen played by Kenneth Williams and Hugh Paddock, (Julian and Sandy) who conversed with the host (Kenneth Horne) on an infinite variety of subjects in a slang that I eventually discovered was called ‘polari’. This was, in fact, the preferred patois of the 40’s and 50’s gay man (and woman?) that allowed them a mode of communication that was all but unintelligible to the outsider. It also acted as a homing device for others of the persuasion. Everything from Renta-Chap was totally bona. Remember this was the suppressed, homophobic world that was still awaiting its liberation at the hands of the ‘gay lib’ explosion of the 70’s. In the world that Julian and Sandy were broadcasting ‘homosexuality’ was still viewed as an obscene act, an imprisonable offence and deemed to be a ‘treatable illness’. To be accused of homosexuality was no light thing. Even into the late 70’s the stigma still had the power to ruin reputations, careers and lives.

Of course, being a kids none of us understood any of this. We had all heard of people who were supposed to be ‘Queers’ but we had no real idea as to what the term actually meant. No, all we heard were three bloody funny people having a great time. This was to have totally unforeseen consequences.

Back in 1965 Peter, Alan and Chris were a pretty tight little gang. We did most of the things that children and young adolescents did at the time. That is to say we collected tea or bubblegum cards, stamps, coins and, of course, the old seven inch 45’s. We spent loads of time in the school holidays ‘over the fields’, building camps, sitting around fires telling one another lies and generally having a good time. Later we went to various church based youth clubs in the town, to play table tennis, drink orange juice, listen to music and lust (hopelessly) after the girls. And all this time Julian and Sandy were infiltrating our lives. No I don’t mean we were becoming gay. What we were doing was adopting, and adapting, the language.

All three of us had become Kenneth Horne fans, with a special emphasis on the Julian and Sandy segment. The opening catchphrase of “Ooh ‘ello, I’m Julian and this is my friend Sandy!” invariably heralded about three minutes of unrelenting hilarity in which the coded sentences flew like knives. Peter, being a good mimic, had started to incorporate certain of the lines and phrases into his conversation and Alan and I had soon followed suit. Within a year or so we had, what Peter dubbed ‘yer bleedin’ vernacular’ down pat, our own private language, which afforded us many a good laugh as we mystified the uninitiated around us. Our conversation was littered with words and phrases such as, ‘bona’, ‘bulging lalleys’, ‘dolly little palones’, ‘look who’s come trollin’ in ‘ere then’ and Peter’s favourite, ‘ Ooh! Ain’t he bold!’

Now all of this was a completely nonsensical litany, derived and delivered in much the same way that a youngster would have spouted ‘Goon-isms’ just a generation earlier. But of course ‘Goon-isms’ didn’t carry the coded double, and in some cases triple entendres that polari did…

Fast forward to the year 1967, the summer of love.
Peter, Alan and I had all just left school and had obtained gainful employment in nearby Oxford. Together we all travelled back and forth from Wantage on the 23E, the bus equivalent of an express. We were young, silly, and full of zest because life was completely wonderful, and indeed at such an age and in such a time, how could it have been any other than that? ‘Swinging’ London was now the centre of the known universe, with the Kings road and Carnaby Street as its hub. We were very privileged in as much that our innocence and naivety allowed a complete suspension of disbelief. This combined with our geographical location allowed us just enough proximity to catch the city’s mystic ripples, whilst being far enough removed so that we failed to see the papered cracks and blemishes that lay beyond the smoke and mirrors, seeing instead the beauty and perfection of the moment. The airwaves were full of flower power, with ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’, ‘I can hear the grass grow’, ‘Happy together’ and ‘Groovin’ all jostling and craning for our attention. It is worth remembering they had to be stood high-a-tip-toe if they wanted to achieve this, because standing in their way was a little gathering of songs collectively entitled ‘Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band.’
Man, we were in heaven.

I cannot be sure of course, but I’m guessing that the mansion that the Lord has set aside for me is entirely decorated in paisley silk wallpaper, has nothing but scatter cushions and sag bags littered around the studio floor with, as its focal point, a huge mono (yes mono) record system. Oh, and a walnut cabinet containing the entire Beatles’, Hendrix and Small Faces’ output on vinyl. Lord, if you don’t deliver I’m going to be extremely miffed.

But wait, there was more, I had met and fallen totally for a goddess from a neighbouring village. It still seems impossible to me that a simple blouse and mini skirt could have accommodated so much loveliness. Her name was Sue, and she remains to this day the most beautiful girl that I have ever seen. Even better, and to my amazement the love was reciprocated.
But fait’s largess extended even beyond these wondrous impossibilities for, as I believe I have already mentioned, this was 1967 and we were allowed to have icing on our cake. One of my two best buddies, the aforementioned Peter had met, and fallen for her younger sister Madeleine, (also a beauty) which was unbelievably perfect!

So this is how our days went. Get up, catch bus, indulge in yer actual bleedin’ vernacular. Work, catch bus, indulge in some bleedin’ more. Rush home, get changed, catch bus. (I think you’re getting the picture) See girls, have great time thus (always) missing the final bus back. Run the four miles home singing Sgt Pepper’s, Pictures of Lily, Silence is golden, et al. Get up on following day and repeat the procedure.
Like I said, life was pretty much perfect.

Which is where the unforeseen raises its head. One beautiful summer’s evening Peter and I, as was our wont, boarded the bus that would take us to the girls’ village. Because this was a fairly small and semi-rural community everybody tended to know everybody else. Now this piece of information may appear to be extraneous but is in fact a very important piece of the puzzle. Anyway…we boarded the all but deserted vehicle where the conductor, having checked our passes and having nothing better to do, fell into conversation with us. To the best of my recollection the conversation went something like this…

Bus Conductor. “Where is it that you two lads go off to every night then?”
Peter. “Over to West Hanney, to see the girls.” (Waving an inclusive finger) “We’re going out with sisters”
B.C (laughs knowingly) “Oh, is that what you call it?”
Peter. (Slightly confused.) “Is that what we call what?”
B.C. “Now come on lads, it’s ok, you don’t have tell me porkies.”
Peter. (More than slightly confused) “Well that’s where we are going, why?”
B.C. (Slightly defensive) “Oh nothing it was just something that I, ahem, (Cough, muttered expletive) “oh it was nothing.”
Peter. (Much more than slightly intrigued) “No, come on, you’ve started, so out with it.”
B.C. (Very defensive and slightly belligerent.) “Well, everybody knows you know, it’s the word on the street that you two…”
There followed a silence, broken only by the rumble and jolting of the bus. I had
absolutely no idea as to what was going on, but Peter, who was always faster off the mark than I, had finally tumbled the coded utterances into one cohesive and
understandable sentence.
Peter. (Scarlet with anger and embarrassment) “It’s the word on the what? Are suggesting that Chris and I are…”
B.C. “Oh come off it son, you both talk like a couple of bloody poofters!”
C.W “What in god’s name are you two going on about?”
Peter. “Congratulations are in order Chris, our friend here thinks that you and I are, er, engaged.”
C.W. “Well shit honey, that was sudden.”

I can still see the two of us now, haring across West Hanney’s lovely village green with the helpless, uncontrollable laughter of our delighted outrage flowing back over our shoulders like unfurling banners. Even now, after all these years, I can still stand on that green and catch the echoes of those juvenile hoots, can still feel the dull ache in my chest caused by the adrenaline rush, the running, the ecstatic outpouring. And if it is very quiet I can still catch a glimpse of those two totally innocent and carefree figures as they careen, bounce and rebound through the long shadowed sunlight.
For me the moment was truly priceless. It would not be until a lot later in life that I would be able to see the true injustice of that evening’s bus ride. And that was not that we had been accused of being homosexuals, but rather, that in our, so-called, permissive society, homosexuality could or should be the basis for being accused of anything at all.

There is a rather satisfactory coda to this little saga, and this occurred some two or so weeks later. Both Peter and I had that rarest of things, a Saturday off, which we had arranged to spend in Wantage with Sue and Maddy. The morning started early and went well. I seem to remember we paired off, arranging to meet later in the morning. You know, I can still remember how good it felt to be just wandering around Wantage holding the girl’s hand. Moving in and out of shops at random, going off at tangents as you bumped into friends who were just jumping off to here, or stopping off there. Wandering down the little back lanes bathed in sunshine where you had to keep stopping, had to keep holding, had to keep prising, pushing and playing.
“Chris, stop it. Someone’s going to see us in a minute.”
Her eyes, caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement, are never the less reflecting the heat that you are both now feeling, heat which owes nothing to the sun. When you’re sixteen going on seventeen this stuff matters. Anyway, having run out of alleyways we ‘troll’ around the market and Woollies for a while before ending up in Norton’s the record shop for an essential purchase. (I still have the copy of The Rush’s ‘Happy’ that I purchased there that day, and I still think it’s bloody marvellous.)

Finally, after many happy encounters and excursions, the four of us reunited and came to rest in the Windmill café, which boasted everything that a sixteen year old could wish for, namely, great milkshakes, frothy coffee from an honest to god espresso machine and a simply wonderful jukebox. It was Saturday, we were young, the world belonged to us and, with the unwavering optimism of youth, it was ours forever.
Trust me, all the fancy gizmos and doodahs that the world has to offer couldn’t even begin to furnish the complete sense of joy that this one morning had given me.
Perfect happiness lies in total simplicity, everything else is just stuff.


Full of frothy coffee and milkshake we decided to all head back to Sue and Maddy’s for the rest of the day, and accordingly we set off in search of a bus. Well, I wonder if you can guess who the conductor was on the bus that day? Now me, I was for letting bygones be bygones. I mean, this wasn’t the first time that the three of us had been on the same bus together since that evening, and by studiously avoiding the situation everything appeared to be settling down, so to speak.
Or not, as the case may be.

“Ooh hello. Well look who’s come trolling’ in ‘ere then!
I turned to find Peter, with Sue and Maddy clasped one under each arm, posing and (for god’s sake) pouting in the direction of the hapless conductor.
“Why Clippie,” continued Peter in his breathlessly nasal Kenneth Williams’ rush, “how simply marvellous to varda your dolly old eke. D’you know Heart Face, I just haven’t been the same since you ran your lallys through my riar the other night. Well I’d simply love to stop and talk but as you can see we’ve got the dolly palones in tow so we’ll just be trollin’ along upstairs. See you in a bit”
Mesmerised, I remained where I was as the three of them, laughing like loons, disappeared up the steps leaving a mortified looking conductor and a dozen or so very mystified passengers. He worked his way along until he came to me, where, dropping his voice to mere whisper, he said, “Bloody hell, he’s really pissed off isn’t he?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I’d say that was a fair assessment.”
“But if carries on like that everybody’s gonna think I’m a fucking shirt lifter.”
“And your point is?”
“Well it’s not true. Look, if I go and tell him I’m sorry about the other night do you think he’ll back off?
I patted his shoulder sympathetically in passing, “Well,” I said as prepared to launch myself up the stairs, “you must please yourself. I would imagine that Peter would be prepared to let it go, however… ” I paused and nodded in the direction of the assembled and attentive passengers, “I wouldn’t rate your chances with the word on the street.”

I guess the moral of the story is, if you are not prepared to varda the bleedin’ book, then you’d best nante kip the cover completely Heart face.

Love’n’stuff,

Chris Wilson White.

p.s. I still have absolutely no idea what any of this stuff means.

Dying to know

Sudden death is nature’s way of telling you you’re fired. (Anon)

Dear Holly,
Today’s letter starts on a sad note. Tom, a friend and fellow bus driver with whom I shared lodgings for a couple of years, died this week after a fall. Tom could never abide English winters and, as was his habit, had taken the opportunity to absent himself from this one in favour of the Caribbean for a couple of weeks. It seems that after an afternoon spent carousing he strayed from the cool of the bar into the heat and bustle of a sunlit street, missed his footing, and just like that, his life on earth was over.

THE STRAND.

How fragile is the strand that plays,
Through life, in which we’re always caught
Which, winding through our unmapped maze,
Proves so much shorter than we thought,
Spun days are marshalled into years
Hand dancing in the daily round
They glitter brightly in the sun
Then disappear without a sound
Don’t sleep with all that might have been
Don’t stand to watch the one that weeps
The spinner’s hands toil on unseen
Awake! Before the spinner sleeps.
(Chris White.)

Ignore that sound, its just Wordsworth spinning in his box. Now, young ladies of eleven are far too young to be thinking on death, come to think of it, we all are. What is the point of obsessing on, or worrying about the inevitable? It would be a bit like me fretting about my bus breaking down every time I took it out of the yard. Common sense tells me that it has got to break down at some stage, but until it does I’m simply going to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Anyway, we, as a society, have managed to get our priorities concerning life and it’s inevitable demise arse about face. The truth is that dying is the easy bit, my cancer taught me that. When my illness was at its’ bleakest, and the road leading back to normality lay hidden under a mass of medical complications, I became aware that opening my hand and letting go, so to speak, was the easiest and a not all-together unattractive option. Fortunately the hospital’s nursing staff along with family and friends made sure that there was never the time or opportunity for me to seriously examine this avenue of escape.
No, it is life that is the difficult art to master. It has often occurred to me that it should be approached the same way that a recovering alcoholic approaches his or her affliction, that is to say, one day at a time, and after all, a wine this wonderful deserves to be sipped! (Sorry, I know it’s wrong, but couldn’t resist)

Philip Larkin summed it up beautifully in his poem ‘Days’ when he wrote;

‘What are days for?
Days are where we live.’

It completely encapsulates the unavoidability of our situation. Days, he points out, are where we spend our allotted time, with the question, framed in the first line, being answered only when the priest and the doctor, in their long coats, come hurrying to aid our final moments.

Ah! The doctors and priests, here representing the twin corner stones of our society, that is to say science and religion, and that should in fact read science versus religion. For the truth is that both of these parties continually seek to gain the upper hand in the pursuance of knowledge in the area of the after life. Not content with that, they then attempt to enlist as many of us as they can, to stand a watch on their own carefully built defence platforms, where once installed, we are encouraged to hurl insults and platitudes in an attempt to unravel the other party’s rainbow. Given that the main aims of both camps seems to revolve around the acquisition of as much money as they can lay their learned little hands on, my advise to you Holly would be to ignore both camps and make your own way.
A fuller explanation required? Ok…

It is a commonly held view, and one often proffered as a form of consolation, that the only person who is not aware of the sudden death in the family is the deceased. From time immemorial we have banded together in our collective grief and offered a balm against our common loss. Echoing around the halls, the drawing rooms and the kept-for-best parlours of our burial/burning gatherings, the theme is always the same. Be it the well heeled, crested plate, catered-in affairs of Knightsbridge or the mean back to back tribal gatherings of inner city Liverpool, whether accented by the long voweled music of the valleys or the terse cut and shunt of Walthamstow, it’s the same old litany offered in tones of comfort and total certainty. ‘Well, at least he/she didn’t suffer.’ we say to one another, whilst balancing plates and cups on knees or arm rests. ‘I mean it’s hard on those of us who are left behind, but at least he/she didn’t know a thing about it.’

Oh come on, look me in the eye and tell me that you’ve never said it. Yes, I thought so. Well, I suppose I’d better hold my hand up here and admit that, whenever I’ve come face to face with the suddenly bereaved, my brain has invariably assumed the quintessentially British position of stone dead, and left me coming up empty in my desperate search for an original line of condolence. As a consequence I’ve suddenly heard the trusted, rusted and trite lines just falling out of my mouth. It’s as if another me has taken over, and although I know it is going to happen I am totally powerless to prevent it. And I hate, and I mean I really, hate myself afterwards. In fact, on the ‘amIdead?o’meter’ (patent pending) it’s right up there with that first bleary evaluation the morning after that unbelievably pissed night before. You know, the bit where you tell yourself that it could have been worse, and all the while the truth, in the shape of the incontinent, window licking, bus pass recipient is snoring her unshaven gorgons head off right beside you. (Sorry, bloke writing here)
There must be an alternative, a more authoritative approach.
Science!
Ah, well, science of course has this problem. Now whilst it’s true that a fair slice of those within academia have made a shit load of money telling us what cannot exist and why, not one of the God burying brigade has ever managed to get his finger on, let alone under, the veil. Although, come to think of it, making a shit load of money without compromising the status quo is pretty good going. So sorry, as you were fellows, science has not only not got a problem but is doing very nicely thank you.


So on to the church, which, come to think of it, is also doing very nicely. That really shouldn’t be that much of a surprise of course, given that it is the other half of the status quo, the yin to science’s yang.
Whatever, the established church must trot out a good line on this, I mean after all, it’s part of the job isn’t it?
Well, no, as it happens. The main job would appear to be managing vast tracts of the British Isle whilst pontificating about camels and eye’s of needles. And another thing, I’ve probably just missed it but you know I can’t find that bit in the new testament where Jesus, having just finished feeding the five thousand, turns to the multitude and says, “My bells need re-hanging, so with that in mind Simon-Peter and Mary Magdalene will now be passing amongst you with a bucket, feel free to give until it hurts.” Ah, it’s probably just me.
Anyway, the best they can do is trot out that twenty-third psalm thing, which for the uninitiated is a three thousand year old piece of rap supposedly composed by a King David. (No that wasn’t his stage name, that is in fact what he was.) Anyway, whilst hanging out in his pastoral idyll he’d find himself given over to flights of orthography and go banging on about fearing no ill because hey! the man upstairs, complete with his rod and staff, was going to be all over it at the moment of your death.
Really? Jam tomorrow anyone?

A PSALM OF DAVID.

The Lord he is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul;
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, thou I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil;
For thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

(King David) allegedly.


Well your majesty, truly great poetry, but sort of thin on the old reassurance level. And while we’re here, has anybody else got a question or is it only me? Apart from anything else, and resisting the temptation to be lewd, what is a rod and staff? No, I don’t know either, and I’ve got to be honest, anybody that comes at me with his rod or his staff whilst I’m busy walking through the valley is going to get a bloody good kicking. (Ok, so I gave in)

So if both science and the church cannot give me a satisfactory answer, then who can? Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but of course the answer is nobody. That’s right, absolutely know one. I don’t care if their name is Hawkins, Dawkins or Pope Eric the twenty-first, whatever they have to say about the subject, and no matter how cleverly they couch their arguments, it still comes back to that one small man shouting loudly into that good night. Refuse to go gently we may, but claiming we go knowingly we cannot. So this (for free!) is the unvarnished truth. For heaven’s sake live with it.

I’m going to leave the last word to a chap called Nathaniel Hawthorne, a 19th century American novelist who had this to say about passing on.

“We may sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a troubled dream; it may be so the moment after death.”

I can live with that.

Love’n’stuff.

Chris Wilson White.

The Roar.

Un-noticed when it came to stay,
Unheard, it never went away.
It mapped my course, until the day
It stopped.

No light could penetrate the roar,
No access, window, screen, or door,
It made all less, by being more,
So small.

Its heat that never comfort gave,
Dark peace, the silence of the grave,
Where anger substitutes for brave,
So cold.

And lastly, when it thought me dead,
Stole from that lodge inside my head,
And morning’s balm sighed in its stead,
Dear God.

Vast silence stole on deafening wing,
Through silvered fold and crystal ring,
I really heard the stillness sing,
It sang.

Were mornings burnished quite this bright?
Or weightless leavened quite so light?
Who sees afresh this reborn sight?
It’s me.

Chris Wilson White.