Mathematics thesis

In light of the Cambridge Prof plagiarism perfuffle (Jason Arday), how I wish I was studying Maths at University now rather than failing back in 1965.

My thesis would have been “Critical Number Theory- the inherent discrimination of 10.

A summary:
11 is bad enough – why these two ones don’t make 2 is hard to understand; one is worth more than the other one, but at least they are in a very real sense equal and reflective of each other. 
With 10, one is elevated above the other – it becomes ten times bigger on the back of that extra digit which is literally nothing, often called a big fat zero bringing in sizeism as well.

11 is prime – both digits reinforcing each other in their uniqueness. 10 is not prime, it is divisible by other digits, showing that 0 reduces the whole in transfiguring its’ [sic] very substance. Zero does that to every number that it ends, ensuring that the number is divisible and hence zero is shown to be less than nothing.
Anything multiplied by zero becomes zero too, yet when we divide by 0 we see the infinite, showing that the intervention of the underdog is vital for human progress and once more proving the ineffable value of imports from Islamic scholars.

1 is erect, reflecting the patriarchy and at right angles to the horizontal – “normal” in the language of geometry as well as being straight.
0 is a literal hole, woman reduced to nothing, especially on a chalkboard and even worse when written with black ink and if we make 10 binary, it becomes 1010, much worse !

Thus 10 demonstrates the intersectional violence of the straight, white normal dominating the feminine of no value while free riding on its back.

Guaranteed a First and an academic post with tenure.

Sky Blues

I started to follow football when Jimmy Hill took charge of Coventry City and rebranded them as the Sky Blues with our own new song:

Let’s all sing together, play up Sky Blues
While we sing together, we can never lose
Proud Posh or Cobblers, United or anyone
They can’t defeat us
We’ll fight ’till the game is won
Posh being Peterborough, and Cobblers Northampton who were perennial rivals in Div. 3.

It was a magical time as we rose through the Divisions until we arrived in Div 1 and stayed there for 34 consecutive seasons between 1967 and 2001, the longest ever run by anyone in the top flight. And this season (2026/7) we are back again and they’re still “my” team even if I have no idea who their players are and never watch unless I catch them by accident on TV.

One of my favourite memories though is more than 60 years ago, March 26th 1963, when we Div 3 minnows faced an FA Cup replay against the mighty Sunderland. That had been a wicked winter and one of our earlier round matches had been delayed a record 16 times.
As often happened back then, straw had been spread on the pitch to stop the frost and when I came home from school that day I read in the Coventry Evening Telegraph that anyone who went to help clear the straw would be allowed to stay in the ground and watch for free. Brother Jon and I wolfed our tea and we headed up to Highfield Rd, a 20 minute walk away.
True to their word, we were allowed to stay on the Spion Kop (we had one too) after we’d done our work, but as the record crowd built up we were being crushed against the wall. To ease the press the staff told us to jump over and sit in the straw, so we watched in comfort in a nice warm seat.
We went 1 down in the 1st half but equalised and then won in the second.
The reward was a sixth round home tie against Manchester United, so the following Saturday saw us back on the terraces all mixed up with Reds fans enjoying a great game which we lost as expected but did not disgrace ourselves.

I was looking up the details of this recently and came across this website:
<https://www.ccfpa.co.uk/?p=113035>

When scrolling through it, I looked at the last photo and unbelievably it shows Jon and I. That’s me with my left cheek seemingly resting on the megaphone and Jon to my right in direct line of fire from it. I had never seen this picture before and had no recollection at all of the megaphone man. Amazing.

Topical Poems

I sometimes like to turn old poems into new based on what is in the news.

The latest was written in July 2026 as Burnham took overe as PM:

A comment about Andy “Maybelline” Uturnham today “what me, Aw shucks” got me thinking….

There once was an ugly duckling
Laboured with Blair and Brown
He tried to get ahead, but the other MPs said
Quack get out of town
Quack get out,
Quack quack get out,
Quack quack get out of town
And he went in a flash with a flutter of a lash
As his efforts all tumbled down

That poor little ugly duckling
Went canvassing far and near
He failed in 2010 and in 15 yet again
They said Quack, get out
Quack quack Get out,
Quack quack get out of here
So he went with a sneer for a curry and a beer
With a mascara smudging tear

All through a decade he hid himself away
Mayoring up North, doing what others might say
All through the decade taking credit, jean’ed and tee’d
Till the PLP spied him there and very soon agreed
You’re the leader we all need!
PM? Me, the one? Ah, go on!
And they said: “Yes, you’re the one
It’s just you on the ballot you see”
And he looked, and he saw, and he said
“I’m PM! Whee!”

I’m not such an ugly duckling
No mandate or policieeees
For in fact these MPs all in hock to the Chinese said
Quack the best in town
Quack, the best,
Quack, quack the best,
Quack, quack the best in town”

Not a quack, don’t look back, no-one else is up to whack
But a smirk and a wink and a wife in a blue sack
And a head up his arse so high
Say: “Who’s an ugly duckling?”
“Not I”
“Not I”

Apologies to Danny Kaye

Here’s one from Covid times which I entered in a Times competition:

Half a pole, half a perch,
Half a rod [1] distant,
Please keep this far from Death
Said our brave leaders
“Forward, the NHS !
Carers clean up our mess
All in the shadow of Death
Rode the six million [2].

“Forward, the Health Brigade!”
Was there a nurse dismayed?
Not though the doctors knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
All in the shadow of Death
Rode the six million.

Coughs to right of them,
Sneeze to left of them,
Hawking in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with snot, expelled,
Virus from lungs as well
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six million.

When can their glory fade?
How much should they be paid ?
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Health Brigade,
Noble six million!

[1] A rod, perch or pole are the same measurement, half a one would be
2.5M so more than recommended

[2] An underestimate – there are more carers than that and then 1.5m
NHS employees…

For those who don’t recognise the original:

<https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45319/the-charge-of-the-light-brigade>

Here are some entries to various Times Carol competitions. Even I can’t remember all the topical events I am satirising 🙂

World King Boris was kicked out
On the tenth of Ju-une
All the Brexiteers a-pout
No, they said, too so-oon
Brightly shone the Civil Blob
But their judgement cruel
Boris did a lousy job
Because is a foo-oo-el.

But the Hallet Inquiry
Throws a different light
For those whose minds will let them see
His instincts were quite right
No lockdown was far the best
Sweden proofed the pud
Results were just like all the rest
But economy still goo-oo-ood.

I’m afraid I have a bit of a speech impediment today so all my P’s sound like T’s.

I saw 3 ships come sailing in                                    On Polling day on Polling day

I saw 3 ships come sailing in                                    On Polling day in the morning

Sir Starmer, Rache and Eddie too                          On Polling day on Polling day

14 years to plan what to do                                       On Polling day in the morning

First we’ll kill off the very old                                    On Polling day on Polling day

By making sure that they’ll be cold                        On Polling day in the morning

Net Zero pushed at Ed’s behest                             On Polling day on Polling day

With unreliables, what a jest                                   On Polling day in the morning

An appointment now with your GP ?                     On Polling day on Polling day

An impossible task, but it’s all free                        On Polling day in the morning

Survived all that, but lost the will ?                        On Polling day on Polling day

Here’s an Assisted Dying Bill                                   On Polling day in the morning

Old Tories dead and in the ground                         On Polling day on Polling day

That should make finances sound                         On Polling day in the morning

Meanwhile changes to VAT rules                           On Polling day on Polling day

No time to find kids other schools                         On Polling day in the morning

High NI costs , employment hell                             On Polling day on Polling day

Payslips safe, fewer jobs <shrug> oh well  !        On Polling day in the morning

The Farmers tax, they have to pay                          On Polling day on Polling day

By selling land – no food today !                              On Polling day in the morning

Then let us all rejoice again                                      On Polling day on Polling day

When Nigel’s at last in No. 10                                 On Polling day in 2029

or please God much sooner

O little Labour government
How still we see thee lie
Before the poll you kept control
And let the truth go by
Yet in these dark days shineth
The everlasting light
Our hopes and fears in 4 short years
You’ll all be in the shite

This one was written in 2018 just before we left Ceriana when we hosted our last dinner with the actors I performed with occasionally in the San Benedetto festival in Arma di Taggia each February
and I wrote a little poem to celebrate our time together and especially Umberto’s work as writer, director and wonderful actor and friend.

Apologies for the Italian errors of number sacrificed on the altar of rhyme in the last line, and for some of the other dodgy rhymes too. The nipotina is my grand-daughter Vivi who also performed with us at Taggia and as Cobweb in MSND,

A pompous Englishman – and fat
Why would Umberto think that that
Would be a part for ME to play ?
It’s still a puzzle to this day…

And so I joined for my first play
I even had some words to say !
But they were in my mother tongue
Not really much that could go wrong

High-heeled shoes upon my feet
And dressed up like a 3 piece suite
A lovely shade of pink velour
I really couldn’t ask for more

The next time there was just 1 word
I struggled with – I sound absurd
When I say TURCHI. Roll that R
Impossible, a word too far
And Vib there too, she hid in hay
Why did it have to rain that day ?

Another play as Hamlet’s Dad
That really couldn’t be too bad
English lines, easily said
Even by someone not quite dead

And then the ultimate crowning glory
A moving tale, a desperate story
An English sailor, cast ashore
A type-cast drunk – need I say more

Italian lines, with words so hard
I gave an inch – he took a yard
Italian dogs and meat and cane
To me all sound, well, just the same !

Next a really magic Dream
It made us laugh, such a scream
I gave my Oberon and Bottom
The closing lines ? Well I forgot em.

With my wife and nipotina
A special treat, you should have seen her
As Cobweb ‘n one of the Orfanelli
I think she’ll end up on the telly

Such a talented performing troupe
You made us welcome in your group
Pray not my last San Benedetto
Grazie amici, sei perfetto

I wrote this one when Vivi was tiny and indeed long and thin and was also a rference to me thinking that toothpicks in Italian were stuzzi cadenti (falling stizzi’s whatever they are) rather than stuzzici denti – poke your teeth.

A meteor shower in March

A little star from heaven

Fell into our lives

A wish…

A wish for love,

Family,

Peace

A small Italian village

Viviana, Micki, in memory

Rose, a beauty in bud

Smiling and strong, long

And thin like a toothpick,

A blazing trail in the sky,

Brightening our lives.

Stuzzicadenti

Stella cadenti

Robin said the picture of the bear on the beach at the end of We’re Going On A Bear Hunt was very sad, so I wondered what happened next…

The bear said
I was fast asleep
In a lovely dream
And you woke me up with a terrible SCREAAMMM

So now please stay, don’t go away.
Stay and play – we’ll play all day

Come back, don’t run
We’ll have such fun.
Down on the strand
With golden sand

So leave your snow and grass and mud
The river so cold to freeze your blood
Being alone is hard to bear
Don’t make me a lonely bear.

So the children came back the very next day
And said we’re here to stay and play
And they all had such marvellous fun
By the sea on the beach in the summer sun.

Sonnets

It began with a short letter which read:

“Dear Sir, you have been accepted on the Creative Writing Course.”

Just a few simple words containing no suggestion of the nightmare that they would lead to.

It started well. They were a nice group of people on the course, who did some wonderful work and I learned a lot. The course leader and the others were very supportive and constructive in their criticism and my confidence grew.

The small exercises we did though were just that – exercises. They did their pedagogic job, but they were very unfulfilling. I could be very clever and entertaining in these brief pieces, but they didn’t say anything. There was no soul to them. They were held up only by their own sesquipedalian conceit, the easy jokes and “tricksy endings” as one critic had it. It was like the emperor’s new clothes in reverse – a flashy exterior concealing an empty shell.

In part this was because I didn’t want to inflict long pieces on the group; five hundred words seemed about right for reading out, and that length has its limitations. But at heart I knew that it was laziness on my part. I was not prepared to put in the time and effort to produce something deeper, and I also knew deep-down that I didn’t have the stamina for the novel that I’d day-dreamed about. Leaving it for my retirement was just procrastination, if I’d been serious about writing it I’d have made a start fifteen years before.

Then one early November night, an exercise was set. Among the choices: a politically correct version of the Emperor’s New Clothes; a story ending “…so it seems to me that I created my own Frankenstein monster” and the final fateful choice: “Take a sonnet and rewrite it in modern language”.

I’d done The Merchant of Venice years before at school, and heard about the Sonnets of course, but I’d never actually read one. Shakespeare had always seemed rather dull stuff, but in recent months I’d read with interest the speculation as to the identity of the Dark Lady of the Sonnets, and also seen Robert Lindsay in Richard the Third which was hugely enjoyable. So I thought I’d take a look at these poems and see what they were about.

I logged onto the web and did a search and soon came up with a site that listed all the sonnets, beautifully presented and with detailed commentary. What was this ? Bawdy, innuendo, double entendre ? This was my kind of stuff. I read on and was fascinated. In just fourteen lines the sonnets could be funny and rude and capture an essential element of the human condition.

I’d been toying with writing something about the loss of children in an earlier exercise, comparing sons and daughters leaving home for university with the actual loss of a baby. I searched the sonnets to see if there was something along these lines. Nothing came to light, so instead I thought that I would see if I could write something on this theme rather than modernise the master.

After a while the poem took on a life of its own and veered away from the original theme and on to the associated idea of the growth and maturation of love itself. This is what I wrote:

When first we loved we weren’t in youth’s first flush,
We’d had spring blazes separately before.
But Ash and Hornbeam intertwined and lush,
We fuelled this summer fire and made it roar,
With wood so hard and dry it burned with passion,
And sparks flew out and threatened flames anew.
Two embers caught and blazed and in this fashion,
From our hot fire, two lovely saplings grew.
Sometimes while they rose our flame was smothered
And guttered in a chill autumnal draught
Then one of us would fan ‘til it recovered
Both expert now in old Prometheus’ craft.
Now, banked for winter, just a cosy glow
Your steady flame is all I want to know.

The night I wrote that I had trouble getting to sleep. I was so pleased with myself. I can see the faults in its structure now of course, and even then I wasn’t happy about the first line cliche. But it actually said something that I felt deeply about my wife and my life. It only took a few hours to write, but it was so satisfying. I could use a fancy word without seeming too erudite and make those sly little sexual jokes without appearing coarse, as the easily offended would not even see them.

That was where the addiction started, all those years ago. I devoured the analyses of Shakespeare’s works but was never satisfied. Books, the internet, discussion groups, nothing was enough. And always I wrote my own sonnets seeking to approach the Bard’s perfection. Some were better than others, but none of them were good enough. Work and my home life suffered but it didn’t matter. Like any junkie I was hooked and had to get my fix at any cost.

Sonnets became an ogre that started from my single act of creation but then ran wild and took over my whole existence. So it seems to me that I created my own Frankenstein monster.

Exercises set November 8th.

• First line of a story “It began with a simple note/letter which read…”
• Take a sonnet and rewrite it in modern language
• Story ends with the line “… so it seems to me that I had created my own Frankenstein monster.”
• Write a politically correct version of the Emperor’s New Clothes.

Luckily the final paragraphs of the story were pure fiction and I ddin’t become addicted. I did write one more sonnet though the next week rather taking the piss out of myself and my efforts (the early paragraphs above about my style and laziness are very true):

I bring you now these words in my conceit,

That they will please you, and perhaps seduce.

I bring you now these words in my conceit,

That they will please you, and perhaps seduce.

With perfect meter but no sixteen feet,

My hidden meanings you may here deduce.

No money motive – I’m not here to sell,

Although I hope you’d find me a good buy.

A verse of love is all I have to tell,

But is it for a girl or for a guy,

Or is it meant for all the waiting crowd ?

So I recite with trembling and fear

(I’m nervous when I read my work aloud)

A critic speaks up now –  I thrill to hear

“It rhymes and scans” (then condescending swipe)

“But at its heart it’s trivial and tripe”

Exercises set November 15^th.

• Seduction

• Ulterior Motive

• Trivia

• Fear/Phobia

• Money

• Condescension

Homonym poem

I wrote this for Simon and Victoria to take to school many years ago, all
real English words (or common abbreviations).

Originally 1 was spelled correctly, but then a friend in UMRA (a newsgroup M’Lud) suggested belle.

Weir taut two reed inn piece its plane,
‘and tort too right, butt awl inn vein
Sew rays yaw I’s too yore rheum’s sealing
‘n’ prey: “Deer Laud, sett brake belle peeling”.

Memories of KHVIII School Coventry

It’s interesting reading the different recollections. Mine were that it was a good but unremarkable school (but what else did I know), but brother Jon (5 years after me) didn’t enjoy it at all I think although he did much better than me both academically and with the 1st XV.

That brings me to my first memory of school. My Dad was a pretty well known Coventry forward and had also played for RAF, Combined Services and had England Trials. At the first rugby lesson Mr. McGawley looked at me, said something like “You’re too small to be a prop like your Dad”  and put me in as hooker. Th e first scrum collapsed with my arms bent behind me and I refused to go back in and that was the end of my school rugby career. Quite right too, I was not gifted at sports like Dad and brother.

My favourite teacher was FRC Dunn – the initials on his briefcase having been altered to give rise to his nickname of Fred. He was the reason I passed A level maths, but I was really at my limit there and should never have attempted a degree in it. I really struggled with calculus and only briefly understood it when I read a description years later of how Babbage’s Differentiation Engine worked mechanically.

I also remember Alfie Crocker who was a good teacher and a nice bloke as Ii found out later watching school rugby games featuring Jon after I’d left. My best friend at that time was Derek Earl who was a whizz at chemistry and could work out what the substance we were analysing in practicals in about 2 minutes (it took the rest of us 2 hours). He’d write it up as if he’d done all the experiments and then spend the rest of the afternoon doing experiments of his own, blowing out bunsen burners and silver plating coins. Once as a punishment we were told to clean the chemistry store room but that just gave Derek access to auric salts and so he gold-plated pennies !  We also regularly “borrowed” 20 ccs of ethanol which we added to a bottle of Corona and consumed over the fields by the London Rd cemetery.

We also used to skive off on free lessons and cycle down to town for a coffee at the Kongoni where Derek had a Saturday job. Unfortunately one day we were spotted by Pop and told to report to the Deputy Head. We had to face away from each other while facing Piggy Shaw so we didn’t set ourselves off giggling, but we managed it and escaped with just an hour of litter picking after school as punishment. Apart from that I just had a few detentions, never on a Saturday, and no physical punishment at all, but I do remember a PE teacher beating someone with one of the hanging ropes in the gym.

I didn’t have Pop for physics – can’t remember the teacher we did have, but we were definitely the B stream and we were all delighted when we did better than his class at A levels. Earlier I was taught by Chubby Boyle and remember an incident in the old GS labs when he was doing an experiment to demonstrate Charles’ Law or something and we were all gathered round the apparatus. He’d warned us a couple of times about behaviour and on the 3^rd time he grabbed a bit of rubber tube to exact retribution but unfortunately it was attached and he brought everything crashing down round his head, mercury, hot water, broken glass everywhere. Hysterical.

Didn’t do much biology, possibly because an abiding memory is of Slug burning urea or blood or something and filling the lab. With a disgusting smell and relishing the looks on our faces. Nasty man.

To my shame I was one of the many pupils who made a new French teacher’s life hell, and I also had Mona Lidiard – I’m sure it was that spelling as istr that it was his looks as well as the moaning that gave rise to the name. I think he bought a cushion into class a lot, so maybe his piles were causing him distress apart from my French. I wasn’t very good at it at school although I did do French Reading as a 6^th form subsid. Subject, but that was mainly because it was a good skive. Funnily enough though I fell in love with Nice after a 2 month assignment there and eventually persuaded Texas Instruments to send me back and this time we stayed for 5 years so my French was and still is pretty fluent. Now we live in Italy I get by in Italian too.

I had Pip for Latin and he was always falling asleep in class too and having things pinned to his back. Another trick was for a boy under a desk on one side of the room to emit a high-pitched “PIP”. Once he’d wandered over there another boy would do the same from the other side. Repeat ad nauseam.

So many other incidents and faces come to mind with names of boys and masters long forgotten.  Happy days (mainly). 

Sacha’s Scribbles

This is a link to another site where I wrote some whimsical imaginings of our first grandson’s first visit to Italy.

<https://sachas-scribbles.blogspot.com/2010/06/hello-sacha-here.html>

The Mayor of Dudley

Flying a JP  < https://youtu.be/ycJ1m0PRYEM?t=346>

Mess night < https://youtu.be/R_Dl0IkefB4?t=1296>

Most of this is true – I certainly wasn’t a very good pilot, my mess uniform was second hand and I did have a slight Midlands accent back then. The fights “over the fields” in Coventry really happened and there was a knife involved often, but it wasn’t GBH, but Ian Henson who was the opponent. The Mess nights were pretty much what went on and the fight in the mess happened exactly as described too, but it was against someone called Dick Lumley I think.

What did NOT happen was the tomato sauce incident, or that I was ever mis-treated by anyone – FO Gabriel was a complete invention, but there was a hint of Dave Webley with the Healey 3L. He was always a great friend to me though. No snobbery at all, but maybe I was too innocent back then to notice 😊

Writing exercise, Wednesday 24th Jan 2001

A short story, on a theme of your choice, or Revenge.

999 words

My first RAF Mess Night was in the winter of 1967. As the time for pre-dinner drinks approached I was still fighting with my bow tie – not a very familiar item in the terraced back streets of Coventry that I’d recently left behind. I was excited but nervous. I was coping with the intellectual challenges of the course, but flying wasn’t going as well and socially I was struggling with each unfamiliar experience.

At last my tie formed a semblance of a bow and I smoothed the wing collar on my starched dress shirt. A brush of the lapel of my “monkey jacket” where the shadow of the previous owner’s wings were still visible and I was ready.

As I crossed to the main building I met some friends and the banter began. We teased each other about our appearance but we were all young and slim and actually looked rather elegant in our formal wear.

The entrance hall of the Officer’s Mess had a temporary bar serving aperitifs. This was all free and we took full advantage until we were called into the dining room. It looked wonderful. The only lighting came from candles and hundreds of flames were reflected in the silver and crystal. I found my place and looked round. My heart fell as I realised I was opposite Flying Officer Gabriel and his cronies, but decided that with the wine flowing freely during the meal I could cope.

Course followed course, the alcohol started to take effect, the noise-level was climbing and everyone was joking and laughing. David leaned over and said in a stage whisper:

          “Want some ketchup on that Rog ?”

I coloured as I recalled the faux pas of my first week. The dark hid my embarrassment though and I couldn’t let him hear he’d struck home.

          “Tomato sauce on beef Dave ? HP on dark meat don’cha know ?” I replied in an exaggerated Home Counties accent.

He grinned and turned to his friends.

          “Have you heard this one chaps ?” he asked and put on a thick West Midlands accent:

          “Doctor, Oi’m having trouble making love.”

          “Doctor: ‘Are you impotent ?’”

          “Yer, Oi am importent, Oi’m the Mayor of Dudley.”

He led the laughter.

          “D’ya get it ? Rog’ll explain it, that’s his neck of the woods.”

I rested my chin on my palms, my hand covering my mouth. Don’t let them see it hurt. I hated being told I had a Brummie accent. Nothing wrong with it – I just didn’t think I had one. I can hear it now of course, now that I’ve lived away for 30 years, but the Coventry accent is very mild compared to the Black Country.

I contemplated my oppressor. David Gabriel. Cut glass accent. Public school education. A first from Oxford. His family had money. Hell, he had money. Austin Healey 3000 outside. Immaculate clothes and new uniforms tailored for him. Tall. Thick, dark, curly hair. Heavily built, but not running to fat. Yet.

Worst of all he could fly like an angel.

I ignored him and carried on eating, but it was tasteless now. I couldn’t leave the table until after the toasts, so I just sat there and drank, fuming.

My chance for revenge came later that evening. After dinner, everyone moved to the bar. The serious drinking began and we played the traditional games of mess rugby, Colditz and so on. Later, people were starting to flag, but there was still an armchair pyramid being constructed so the builders could put footprints on the 20 foot high ceiling. Gabriel joined our group just as we decided to have a wrestling competition.

In round one I was paired with someone smaller and lighter who was also very drunk so it was an easy win. A bye saw me through the second round as my opponent was injured from his first bout. In the other half of the draw David had had two easy victories, using his height and strength to catch and crush his victims.

So in the final I faced him. He was grinning confidently. I stared at him. I thought back to my childhood and having to look after myself as the only grammar school boy in the area. You learn to fight by fighting and there was plenty of that in the long summer evenings over the fields. In particular I remembered George Bernard Henshaw. He lived up to his initials even then. He often carried a flick knife and liked to tease us with it. I remembered the time when he’d backed me into a corner, joking of course, but I had to avoid the knife and grab his wrists. We’d wrestled back and forth, neither giving way until we reached an agreement to call it a draw. We let each other go. George grinned at me, but with a degree of respect now.

I snapped back to the present as the referee called:

          “Seconds out, round one. . . ”

I feinted towards my opponent and pulled back. As he lunged at me I dropped down and swept my right leg round, taking his legs out from under him. He went down, I sprang up and jumped on his back, grinding my knee into his spine. I rammed his right ankle behind his left knee and with one hand pulled on his left foot while the other hand pulled his head back.

As his head and foot approached each other he croaked:

          “Submit.”

I looked down at him. I felt sorry for him. We shared a disappointment. I was not good enough to fly single seaters. He was too big for them, even though he was one of the best pilots on the course. Neither of us would ever fly the fighters that we all dreamed about.

I increased the pressure and whispered in his ear:

          “Who’s impotent now Dave ?”

          “I am” he gasped as I let him go.

        “No Dave, it’s the Mayor of Dudley. Orlroight ?”

A la recherche du pain perdu.

This silly pun came into my head the other day for some reason, but it made me think – old Proust was right wasn’t he ?  The taste of madeleine biscuits transported him to his youth and there are so many foods that trigger memories of my past.

One of my first memories of food – and indeed anything – was when we lived in the flat above a bank on Ramsden Square in Barrow-in-Furness, when I said “that meat is very bloody Daddy”, playing with what I knew was a swear word even at the age of 6, but that it was OK because the raw joint was exactly as described. Cooked meat was never bloody in those days 😊 I don’t recall how that roast tasted but I do remember many other meals that Mum cooked regularly:

• breast of lamb, a young, tender, boned (mainly but some small ones got through occasionally) piece of meat that was laid flat, smeared with sage and onion stuffing, rolled and roasted. Very rich, but also crunchy bits on the outside and absolutely delicious
• heart, usually lamb, but occasionally pig, well cleaned out and tubes removed, stuffed with sage and onion again, placed on a square of foil with a knob of lard, seasoned and then a rasher or two of streaky bacon wrapped round of it before being wrapped and roast. A strange texture, but again, delicious.
• We had other offal too, Dad liked chitlings (best with added straw – ugh), faggots and tripe that I hated, but I enjoyed kidneys in steak and kiddle-i pie (don’t you mean kidney ? I said kiddle-i diddle-I ?) or even better S&K pudding made with suet pastry; liver, usually over-cooked but it laid the foundations for my enjoyment later of Fegato alla Veneziana; kidneys on their own, particularly chicken, either in pate or fried (I remember a spectacular dish of chicken livers fried and topped with a fried egg in a hotel in Vienne after a long day’s drive across France) and regrettably, foie gras.
• Sunday roasts of all sorts, usually small and never pink – but there were always leftovers that served for Monday and if there was a bone that would go into a stockpot. 70 years ago chicken was far too expensive but gradually became more affordable – but it always had a hint of the sea about it though from the cheap fishmeal they were fed, so not that nice.
• Sometimes the leftovers were served as curry made with curry powder and a few fried onions and always raisins for some reason – not authentic at all but very enjoyable and laid the foundations for more exotic versions (once I’d got past the Vesta dehydrated versions).
• There were other stews and casseroles – Lancashire hotpot was particularly good – all starting with cheap pieces of meat and vegetables cooked very well, long and slow with the aforementioned stock.
• When we had Sunday lunch at 81 Bull’s Head Lane (maternal grandparents Fell) Grandma Ada (Sussex born and bred) always had to do Yorkshire Pudding for Granddad Lionel who hailed from Dronfield and that was served ahead of the main meal with gravy to fill you up, just as pasta does in Italian cooking. I can smell it now and hear Billy Cotton’s Bandshow on the wireless.
• Tinned tuna served hot with home made parsley sauce and mash, cheap, but filling and tasty.
• Proper home made fish cakes with salt and malt vinegar and slabs of bread and butter to make sandwiches – a favourite for Saturday tea on our laps with Doctor Who. An alternative would be sausages with tinned tomatoes.
• All sorts of sweets and desserts, especially bread and butter pudding and of course Mum’s legendary mince pies that nobody can come close to. Her pastry was so short it crumbled as you looked at it but tasted divine.

Dad also cooked, but usually only breakfast at weekends. I especially remember one morning before Jon was big enough to come with us, just the 2 of us went out early to pick field mushrooms which we then had for breakfast. A feast ! Funnily enough I picked a big flat mushroom in the garden today (Aug 3, 2023) and had it fried with bacon and some butter and that was almost as good as the memory. Back in Coventry we had various forays to find mushrooms – once memorably at Avon Dassett where as we were driving home I saw some white objects in a field so we stopped and looked and they were mushrooms the size of dinner plates – we had one each for tea – epic !  I also found a spot near Stoneleigh that often had them so I would cycle there (only 30 minutes each way, thought nothing of it) at the end of the summer holidays when everyone else had gone back to school except us Grammar School boys, and come back with a basket full.

Dad always grew vegetables, in the back garden at the house in Ormsgill and in his allotment at the end of the street when we moved to 104 Strathmore Ave. He often chose quantity over quality though so the broad beans were very strongly flavoured and we didn’t know to peel the outer layer off – it was a revelation to try the Ceriana specialty of young tender fave shelled and eaten raw with salami as an antipasto. What a treat as all the best seasonal foods are for example asparagus bought at the farm gate (or briefly from the garden when we had our own asparagus bed). Similarly Dad’s runner beans tended to be a bit too old and stringy, but they are still a favourite vegetable to grow myself as there is nothing like them picked fresh and not too big. Similarly for purple-sprouting broccoli (not Calabrese Vib) and early potatoes.

Dad also astonished me one morning when I was about 10 and we were staying in a hotel when he ordered smoked haddock with a poached egg. Fish ? For breakfast ?  Now a firm favourite as well as kippers (that love passed on to Vic), and a appreciation of fish generally including skate which we also had today and other seafood. If I had to choose between fish or meat for the rest of my life it would be a tough decision.

Once I left home I started to broaden my tastes and was always willing to give new things a try, first on holidays to Spain although I only really remember the Sangria and churros on the beach at Estartit on a Club 18-30 holiday. Then when I worked in the South of France for 2 months in the early 70s I discovered bouquet de crevettes, at the Neptune on the beach at Cagnes-sur-Mer – a bunch of lovely cooked prawns, served cold with properly crusty baguette, butter and mayonnaise just made with fresh eggs and olive oil. My god what a treat. Snails too with garlic butter and fish soup with aioli. I also found the Auberge de Vieux Cagnes, where Berle would turn you away if she didn’t like the look of you, but I was introduced by a regular and advised to come on a Friday night which I did for the next 8 weeks. It was always paella (I hadn’t discovered it in Spain and have never had as good out since anywhere). A huge pan just to myself, washed down with lashings of white wine. Dessert was a sorbet, either lemon or orange, served frozen into a scooped out fruit. And then blue cheese and walnuts with brandy. I have no idea how I got my MGB to the place through the narrow streets, or indeed how I drove home either. There was another restaurant at the top of that village that made a classic Coq au Vin too and later I discovered l’Oursin (sea urchin which I tried) in ANtibes with wonderful seafood, especially seiches a l’Armoricaine.

Having tasted Nice, I really wanted to work there full time so kept asking for transfers and finally in 1975 I landed a job at TI HQ. Just before I was due to leave though I was asked if I’d divert to Rieti “just for a couple of months” to stand in for the DP manager who’d resigned and while they found a replacement for him. Inevitably it lasted much longer for which I am eternally grateful.  

I didn’t think so at first though. I moved there in January ’76. There was no snow on the mountains and I really didn’t like the food as I had no background of eating pasta and really didn’t like tomato based sauces (and still don’t much). The food in the canteen at lunchtimes was awful and I subsisted on thin soup with bread and lost a lot of weight – Mum wore one of my shirts from those days for many years afterwards and it wasn’t too big for her. Eventually though I fell in love with the place, initially through skiing and found the dishes I did enjoy

• Abbachio arrosto at the Calice d’Oro (Golden Chalice) restaurant at the Miramonti hotel – a very small lamb roasted so crisp outside but still juicy in the middle
• Roast suckling pig that of course led to my love of porchetta and the offerings of the Incubo da Peppa man (Peppa’s nightmare).
• Any number of dishes at Mariachi’s restaurant, but especially Linguini alla Monte Rosa – only done when Mamma could get the freshest ricotta which also had sausage in it and something else I don’t recall possibly a dribble of tomato paste to make it pink. I’ve never found it anywhere else or online. Also pappardelle with ham, pea and mushroom or pasta with just a blue or white cheese sauce. Meats were a pork chop, saltimbocca or scallopine always with spinach and saute potatoes. Always finished with a caffe Livronese – hot espresso spiked with San Marzano liqueur It had a reaction with the spinach sometimes so you couldn’t delay getting home – another reason for weight loss maybe 😊

Another favourite restaurant was Valentinos at Vazzia crossroads where the eponymous owner had a huge open fire that he’d grill meat on, all kinds of sausages, chops and steaks. We often went from work on a Friday lunchtime esp. in the colder months and there would be a table of us expats and a table of Romans next door on the way to skiing in Terminillo and Valentino would always charge them twice what he did us ! We went back to Valentino’s a few years ago and amazingly he was still there, very old and tucked into a corner next to the fire. We said hello and I’m sure he didn’t recognise us after 30+ years, but he recommended the spaghetti carbonara dish to me which was a favourite of mine there too, so maybe…

Another Friday lunchtime favourite in the summer was Il Grottino where Paul and I used to like to have trout and a bottle or 2 of wine. We also liked to drive out to Isola del Giglio in his little Alfa – 3 of us squeezed, in, but my legs worked back then and bent in the right places. There I discovered the wonderful seafood of Italy including spigola, fritto misto, octopus and squid,  spaghetti vongole and cozze impepata.

Paul had always said it was a shame I hadn’t been in Rieti earlier when an English girl had worked there as he thought we’d have got on. I followed in this girl’s footsteps in many respects, starting out at the Miramonti and then living in the same little flat in Lisciano. Eventually this girl rejoined TI in Rome and was sent by her boss to meet me to discuss automating his reports and that’s how I met Vib !

She was my introduction to Roman cooking (and nightclubs and Negronis) including deep fried artichokes and pizzas near Piazza Navona. Eventually we moved into a house together in Rieti and a fond memory was a lunch we would have at least once a week, scrambled eggs on bread toasted on the gas hob and hard unsalted butter, eaten on a little terrace in the sun outside the kitchen. Vib also introduced me to cinnamon toast, the first time I’d had anything like pain perdu – stale bread soaked in a milky mixture (no eggs she tells me), sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon powder and fried in butter. Luxury from humble ingredients and quicker than pancakes.

Then I experienced a Clark traditional Danish Christmas Eve – sild and schnapps, roast pork with crackling, red cabbage, roast potatoes and gravy and lots of wine, followed by rice pudding with one hidden almond and a marzipan pig to the person who found it (always the newcomer amazingly). What nights they were. And still are as we continue the tradition with our children and grandchildren and her siblings and neplings.

A brief interlude in Texas where about the only thing to enjoy food-wise was the beef, chicken fried steak and surf and turf – still the best lobster ever with the warm clarified butter and lemon.

I also used to enjoy the Taco basket at the Spring Creek canteen with all the Mexican foods mixed in, but I was never that keen on that cuisine even when introduced to the real enchilada by a Mexican girlfriend on a visit in 1973. Wasn’t so keen on the Thanksgiving dinner that year though – some weird combinations for an English palate.

Back home we stole from all these recipes and either cooked them as we remembered them or modified them slightly to our own tastes. My steak pie now has no kidneys in, and uses beer rather than red wine as the cooking liquid. Long and slow is still the secret and I even taught this to Italians at the informal occasional Ceriana cookery classes in the Vecchia Fattoria, showing them my method for preparing the meat etc and putting it in the oven from which I whipped out two I’d prepared earlier. It seemed to go down well – Italians are always polite about your food, but all the plates were cleared too which was a good sign. While preparing the two-I-made-earlier at the restaurant, Fabio (the boss, although Maura might disagree) returned with a haul of porcini mushrooms which he proceeded to clean and slice and cook breadcrumbed – ambrosia.

We loved several dishes there although they were sometimes hit and miss – the pizzas of course, stinco (a pork knuckle cooked while the pizza oven cooled down overnight and even better than the schweinshaxe that I loved in Munich), ravioli in a sage and butter sauce and their hot and cold antipasto from sea and land.

Simon and Rach had their wedding reception there and we had 8 courses, not including the antipasti that were ready when we arrived. Everything was delicious and spread out over several hours with speeches between courses (not inter-course speeches)  it was not too long. Well lubricated too of course with Pimms and prosecco to start with and then red and white wine. When doing the planning with them we chose the wines and then asked how many bottles per table. They didn’t understand the question. We explained. What do you mean – we replace a bottle when it is empty. But these are English people. No matter, they said and did what they promised and it was all extremely reasonable.

Specialties of the Liguria region which we love include deer, rabbit and wild boar. The first time I cooked the latter I asked Daniele our builder (most men in Italy are good cooks too as well as their womenfolk) for advice. There was lots of stuff about making sure it was dry before sealing the chunks of meat but it was basically my stew recipe. “Make sure though to put in walnut as it takes away any bitter taste”. I followed instructions and D. asked me the next day how it was. “Delicious, thanks for the advice, and the chopped walnut disappeared completely”. “Chopped ?  You’re supposed to put a whole walnut in it still in its shell !”.

I also experimented with paella on an open wood fire and it is the best way as Thomasina Miers said. And then I built an outdoor wood oven and we perfected the art of pizzas with lots of advice from Dami’s family and friends. One of the best meals though was cooked the next day in the still warm oven when we put a joint of veal in first thing in the morning and it was perfectly cooked for lunch.
Vib also learned how to make excellent farinata which we still enjoy, but not torta verde so that’s a treat for when we go back.  

So much delicious food – no wonder I am overweight especially as I love potatoes: roast, boiled, new slathered in butter, jackets, mash – are you noticing a butter theme here ? (a bit of mash fried and added to a fried bread, egg and bacon sandwich really makes a difference too), shepherd/cottage pies, chips, saute, boulangere, lyonnais, pommes anna and also potatoes in moussaka using the Patrick Leigh Fermor recipe.

Very little processed or ultra-processed ready-meal type food. Mainly prepared from scratch with lots of fresh veg, ideally grown ourselves, either simply prepared or more elaborate such as melanzana parmigiana or the aubergine crisps that Vib is cooking as I type that we loved at Lithero in Lourdas. And of course the ‘cellos, starting with the standard limoncello, but then adapted to use limes, oranges, raspberries and the best of all cherrycello that we made again this year with wild fruit from our old garden.

And still so much I’ve left out – Rijstaffel in the Netherlands, authentic Malay food in Borneo, Thai, Japanese and Indian dishes, Ottolenghi, Hungarian food and esp. roast goose first eaten one Christmas with Jon and Sheila. I’d have it every year if it just went a bit further than 4 people 😊

Cake, fruit, mmm cake.

Bon appetit !

William the OAP

In an early version of Social Media in 2001 somebody wrote:

> There was a rather pleasant play about Richmal Crompton on R4 thisafternoon. I was surprised to hear she was in the middle of a new William story when she died after the war, but I’m sure I’ve heard/read a piece (not by her) in which William and the Outlaws were grown up and participating in said war. A meringue ?  Anyone remember such a work ?

Which was the inspiration for this story for my Creative Writing class.

The old man woke up with a start. That loud and tuneless whistle reminded him of something. He looked round the unfamiliar surroundings of the nursing home that he’d been moved to earlier that afternoon. Another old man was being hustled along by the senior nurse. He was wearing baggy khaki shorts that were held up by red braces. His bandy legs disappeared into shapeless grey socks that had gathered round his ankles above muddy shoes. Despite the shorts he was wearing a blazer and a bacon and egg tie that was slightly off-centre.

“Right Bill, you sit here until tea-time”

“Jolly good Matron, what’re we havin’ ?”

“You’ll find out when it gets here.”

As she settled him into the chair she tugged off his beret, tousling the already untidy hair that surrounded his bald crown.

“Hello ol’ man, just arrived ?”

“Yes, I’m Henry.”

“William Brown.”

Henry looked at him, recognition slowly growing. He knew he’d heard that whistle before.

“William ?  Good God, it must be 50 years !”

“Have we met old man ?  Good Lord yes, Henry and it’s been more than 50 years. Wonderful to see you.”

“And you too William.” Henry nodded at the retreating back of the nurse, “Trouble ?”

“Oh that” said William scornfully, “not really. Dot said that she needed a little Easter outin’ so I jus’ took her for a walk. It wasn’t my fault that the brakes on her ol’ wheelchair weren’t workin’. But the pond wasn’t very deep, just a bit muddy is all. And Dot said she enjoyed the paddle.”

Henry grinned.

“Sounds like old times. Do you ever see any of the other Outlaws or the rest of the crowd ?”

William sighed and offered Henry a pear drop.

“No, not for a long time. I heard Douglas became a secretary somewhere foreign and writes ol’ thrillers now. We lost touch though. Ginger died early in the war. His Group Captain wrote to me, Johns I think his name was, said what a brave chap Ginger had been and how fond he’d been of another officer who died on the same raid. Buggersworth or something. Joan and I met the C/O a few months later.”

“You stayed in touch with Joan Crewe all that time ?”

“Oh yes” William smiled sadly “we stayed together orlright, as long as we could. That RAF chappie was bad luck for the Outlaws though. He dropped Joan and I into Occupied France and she was captured. I never saw her again.”

Henry thought back to that lovely, slender little girl and how much she’d adored William, but without ever being soppy about it. She was the only girl who was ever allowed to join the Outlaws.

“I’m very to sorry to hear that, Joan was wonderful, much nicer than that silly girl at the big house.”

William looked at him, grinning “Vi ?  Oh we met up at the end of the war. V.E. day was aptly named. Well V.E. night actually. Don’t look so embarrassed old man, you weren’t to know. She grew up into a fine woman. Had speech therapy for the lisp and saw real life driving an ambulance in the East End all through the Blitz. We had many happy years together.” William’s voice trailed off and he looked down.

“What happened ?” asked Henry.

“Cancer. She had a very painful end. She screamed and screamed. She was very sick.

They sat in silence for a while.

William looked at his watch.

“Time for tea Henry, come on I’ll show you the way, and afterwards we’ll go down to the woods. No gamekeepers now chasin’ us an’ all.”

“And no Jumble either.”

William looked at his old school friend, tears in his rheumy old eyes.

“No, they’re all gone. Jus’ us two left, but they’ll always be with us.”

The old men shuffled into the dining room, arm in arm. They picked at the sandwiches and cake, and completely ignored the jelly. Henry fell asleep again. William got up quietly and left him. He walked out of the home and down the lane to the woods, hands in his pockets, whistlin’ tunelessly.

© Roger Tilbury   2001