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.