Rum Little Ditties

This Blog is growing on a regular basis. It is about little self indulgent things that concern anything. A lot of the things are about Britain and the past. This is because I am a Brit and I suppose I identify more with such things.

There are also odd little blogs about other nation's peoples and events too. These are usually things that sparked an interest at one time or another. There is also the odd little gimmick thing going on. The strange fact is; one of the gimmicks attracts a high percentage of traffic.

I like to go back and touch things on nostalgia - things from my past sometimes stroke a little feeling in me and I can see and touch a moment from yesterday. I have a very good memory and can see things right back in my early years.

I was born in 1961 in Bow, East London, UK and have some vivid memories of that time. When I say 'that time,' I don't mean memories of 1961 obviously, but I do mean the sixties. I can remember screaming crowds on the news and policemen trying to hold back the crowds as the Beatles got off of a plane.

Another strange thing that plesantly niggled me was the Scottish football teams; Hamilton Academical and Forfar Athletic. I can always remember watching football results on the television. I used to have my tricycle turned on its side and would sit on the wheel. When the results came on the television, there would be a man on a seat that swivelled around to face the camera. It was dark and he would be looking at a screen or something. As the light came on he would swivel around and look out of the television at me. I would be on my tricycle wheel and could swivel around also - just like the man on the TV who would then read the results. I would copy every word he said - announcing the scores. For some reason I liked to hear him say Hamilton Academical and Fofar Athletic. I, in turn, took great delight in repeating; 'Hamilton Academical,' and 'Forfar Athletic.' To me, these words were great inventions, because they sounded splendid! For some childish reason I loved saying 'Hamilton Academical 1, Celtic 3.' I was not interested in the numbers; I just wanted to say Hamilton Academical or Forfar Athletic. Even today I can't help getting a buzz out of the football results because as soon as I hear those names I think of when I used to sit on the wheel of a tricycle and be the man doing the football results in the 1960s.

I suppose I like all little things that take me back. Don't get me wrong; I love the way things are today, despite the endless bad news. There as always been bad news on television. I remember old people saying; "it wasn't like that in my day." No it was bloody worse - they had the depression, national strikes and two world wars. Today is much better and I am very contented and think things are progressing. We just don't always appreciate this.

I don't have a great deal to gripe about really except I would like to earn a lot more money then I do, but then, so do multi millionaires. So, I'm in the same boat as a multi millionaire. He's just got a better seat then me, that's all.   

I now live in Essex, Leigh-on-Sea at the mouth of the River Thames Estuary as it flows into the North Sea. It is in the district of Southend-on-Sea. At this time of 2011; I am 50 years of age. However, I still think I'm eighteen until I look in the mirror and see some middle aged geezer staring back at me.

I love the computer and the Internet and I'm constantly finding new things to do. I love doing this blog because you can reach out and touch people on different things and maintain a certain anonymity. You can be a reserved person and scream your head off to the world. Of course most people don't hear, but you have or you would not be reading this... :)

And then there was those blooming horses!

Another thing that springs to mind is betting shops. I had the total wrong idea about betting shops, when I was a kid. For the life of me, I could not understand why little kids were not allowed in betting shops where a group of blokes sat around a table talking about things until one turned to the other and said, "No it's not."

Then the man talking in the first place insists, "Yes, it is so."

Then both men would hold out a hand to shake and say, "Want a bet on it."

There was nothing adult about 'want a bet on it.' I said it all the time with my class mates at school and I was good at it.

I thought my Dad went to the betting shop because he couldn't stand watching those boring horses running along a grass track. I found them blooming boring too, so why the heck could he not take me with him.   

Reculver Abby.

When I was a kid, my Mum and Dad always took my sister and I to Reculver. It is a rather strange place that is eerie because of this ruined abbey or what ever a proper historian would call it. The left tower is right by the cliff edge and I used to look out at the blue sea on the summer days we went here. There is a strange bleakness about the place, as though people of the past have gone and this old ruin is like an echo of what was once here. I find it compelling and spooky at the same time and I have great affection for the place because it brings back some of my earliest childhood memories.

On the other side of the building, in the above picture, each tower has an arched stairway entrance that is locked by rusty old metal doors today. When I was a kid in the sixties the ugly metal doors were not there. I used to go up the winding stone steps with my Dad and there is a landing or battlement that goes from one tower to the other, where the central apex is. The two long arched windows are just above the walkway landing. You could look out of them across the sea and I wondered about the Romans, Saxons or Normans, my Dad spoke of, and they must have looked across the sea from the same spot too. It was like standing in the past and I loved it. Every now and then when I have one of those 'coming up for air' moments I drive across the river and up the A2 for Herne Bay and then to this little place called Reculver. I always seem to be able to touch a memory at this lovely spooky place. It has a compelling sadness because it has bygone times that echo in my memory. Not the Romans, Saxons or Normans who left their signatures here, but my own past and all the kind memories of being a kid and not worrying about anything in the world.

You can smell the sea air and the gulls making their usual noises. I always toy with the idea of moving here, but then I think, I might destroy the comforting nostalgic memory I have of the place. The nice things would become lost on me as one starts to take things too much for granted. I'll just come here to breath the air and think of times past now and then - keep it a special place.

Bucking Bronco Christmas 1966

Bucking Bronco

As a boy, I had a variety of different toys. Many of them were enjoyed, but recently I recalled a special one after my aunt Iris passed away. It was one of those little things that jog a memory. It must have been about two or three days after Christmas of 1966. At least I'm almost certain it was that year. It was evening and I can remember my Mum and Dad being happily surprised when my Uncle Fred (Mum's elder brother) knocked on the door with aunt Iris. All were happy and I can remember my aunt Iris giving to my sister and me each, a splendidly wrapped box with a bow. This was a delightful bonus a few days after Christmas. I can't remember what my sister got, but clearly remember genuine joy and astonishment when I opened my Christmas present. It was a key clockwork wined-up bucking bronco (horse) with a colourful cowboy in a yellow tartan like shirt and a dark plain scarf, a hat that came off, side guns and spurs - the whole cowboy package as far as a little boy was concerned. When one turned the key, the bronco bucked and the cowboy would be thrown off. I thought it was marvelous and I remember thinking the cowboy was smashing, because he had side guns and I could pretend that he was able to get off his horse and walk about with bow legs.(In my kiddie imagination) Plus if you never turned the key, you could pretend the horse was well behaved and carried his cowboy from place to place in the normal well behaved manner. Well, you know what its like at that age, you love cowboy and Indian flicks - John Wayne and Co. I thought this toy was the full shilling with a bit of mustard to boot. I never remembered what happened to it, but I do believe my old aunt Iris and Uncle Fred must have put a lot of thought into that one. When I heard aunt Iris had passed away, that 1966 Christmas time visit and the little box of delight sprang to mind - a little moment in eternity for aunt Iris. x
(17th April 2011 my Uncle Fred died aged 85. He is to be buried on Thursday 28th April in the same plot as Aunt Iris and their son young Freddie - my eldest cousin)


My Dad's 1947 Austin 16

My Dad and I about 1962/1963

An old Austin 16 made 1947. The picture is taken in 1963 with my Dad and me. I can't help thinking what these old cars would be worth now. I would love to go back in time and get one of them and bring it back in such condition.

My Dad and me in the early 60s

Dad and Me

My Dad and I in the early sixties. I've been wading through photos and thought I might play safe and not loose them if I put them in a blog space. I was born in 1961, so I'm guessing this is about 1963. I'm obviously enjoying the day, but I don't know where it was taken. In the background there are a lot of other people who seem to be enjoying a day out. It might be Theydon Boyes - we used to go there a lot.

My Dad's Wolsely 680 (1954 Model)

My Dad, my Sister and Me

When I was a kid I thought this car was very big. We lived near Limehouse but we would always go away to places in Kent. Not many of the other kids parents had cars but my Dad always seemed to have one and he was always tinkering about with them. That's me on the right of the picture and my sister and Dad on the left. It was a Wolsely 680 and was built in 1954. The picture is about 1965. I wonder what a car like that would be worth now? It was probably an old banger by then, but now it would be a vintage classic car. I can remember them well, when I was a kid, but they did seem to vanish from the roads very quickly. I can't recall seeing many by the 1970s. I really like the retro look of the old British Cars and back then, almost every car on the roads of Britain, where British made motors. I would love to see one that has been restored to its former 1950s glory - they looked great.

Dad on left, Bushie Cauldroy in middle and unknown mate on right

The year is about 1958 and the man with dark hair on the left is my father Alan Powell. The three squaddies are at a British Army Barracks in Germany (Herfad) and he is doing his national service. The man in the middle is called Bushy. I think it might be Bushy Couldroy or something like that. He remained friends with my Dad when they both left the army. I think he worked on fruit and veg running a stall or shop along Burdett Road near Mile End station in East London. I can vaguely remember him in the 1960s as a kid, but by about 1968 they had lost contact.

I don't know who the bloke on the right is, but he obviously does - he has written 'ME' on the photo with an arrow pointing to himself. All three were great Army buddies and spent their national service together. My Dad on the left is now 72 years of age and his hair is white, but still very thick with a Teddy boy bung slopping forward from the top - he has put on a little more weight, as can be expected, but he is still fit and up and about in Hornchurch, Essex.


1967: I Remember this photo being taken. 

Me, My Mum and Sister

This picture was taken in 1966 at Number 1 St Anne's House, St Anne's Road in Stepney, East London. I can remember a man coming around one day and we had to sit on the sofa while he took this photo of My Mum, Sister and me. He then went and a few days later we had this photo.

I went to a school called Cyril Jackson. It was the old school at first but then we went to a new one across the road. The old school has since, been pulled down. I remember going to Cyril Jackson school across East India Dock Road and down Three Colt's street from 1964 to 1967 before we moved.

I went back about three years ago to look around. I was driving through the area with a delivery. It was a whim and I decided to do a George Orwell - coming Up for Air thing. Everything was different and I come away feeling very disappointed. I don't know why, because the area is much improved to the run down way I could remember it. I suppose I felt robbed of a memory and for that I was disappointed. Sometimes you try to touch your past or grab a piece of nostalgia but it doesn't happen the way you expect.

My Mum (center) and two of her sisters 1968/1969

The two boys in the photo are my cousins. Steven with fair hair and Joey with black hair. They are both Aunt Eileen's sons. She is on the right with Joey on her lap. On the left is my late Aunt Marie (wearing glasses) with Steven on her lap and in the center is my Mother. I don't think my sister and I were at this gathering, but I am certain it is between years 1968 to 1969.

Mum's notes from early 1960s.

When I was a kid I stumbled upon these old notes in the back of a pocket Oxford dictionary. They were my Mothers and she had aquired the book on 11th October 1958. The front page reads:

Miss Shirley Hayward

52 Gough Grove

Poplar

London. E14

My Mother and Father were married in 1960 and I was born in February of 1961. Today is 14th February 2010 - one day after my forty nineth birthday. The next one is the big 50. Today I visited my mother and she dug out the old dictionary and gave it to me. I was pleased to recieve this because I thought it was lost back in the late seventies, because that was the last time I remembered reading it. I have come home and photocopied the pages and pasted them on this blog. They might be of interest to some people who like such rum little ditties. They are written blogs on each year - small notes of things in her life and mention of the bad winter snow of 1963, the US President's assasination in 63 and Winston Churchill's death in 65, plus other things concerning our family. To me, these notes are special because they start just before my first birthday in January 1962. I was so pleased my Mum came upon these and it was a nice little unexpected suprise when she dug the book out and gave it to me for a keep sake.

You will need to click on each page to see whole page layout. When you have done this, if you click onto page along the top lefthand tool bar, go down to zoom and click 150% then you will get larger text and be able to read the writing more clearly.

The three wheeled Scammell Mechanical Horse

Scammell Mechanical Horse

I've always wanted to do a little blog on the three wheeled Scammell Mechanical horse trucks because they are very much part of my little Retro Brit world of memories. When I was very small - going back to about 1964 or 1965; I lived very close to Mile End station, in the old Southern Grove buildings. I remember going down the shops with my mother right by Mile End tube station, and one of the vivid memories I have, is that of these yellow Scammell Mechanical horse trucks, coming along the main road. I can remember old black taxis and these peculiar little trucks. I can see one now, in my minds eye, coming under the railway bridge that goes across the main road before getting to Bow station.

These old scammells were still about in the early sixties

I also had loads of toy cars in an old brown suit case and among them was a toy Scammell truck. In my little kid's world, I thought this toy three wheeled truck was marvelous. They are rather ugly looking things and I'm sure they are not as practical as some of the trucks we have today. They are all gone now, except for those owned by collectors.

Toy Scammell Mechanical Horse

The video on the the main Retro Brit blog is from YouTube and it is owned by an enthusiast who has kept it looking well. I think it is even older then some of the Scammells I remember seeing as a kid.

Old school photo 1965/1966

I am sitting on the bench at the back with my hand on my face. I am second from the end next the boy with the blue anorak. On my right is my sister Elaine in a white coat with black flecks and buttons and a red ribbon at the back of her hair. The year is 1965/1966 and the school is the old Cyril Jackson in Limehouse, East London. Shortly after this picture was taken, we were sent to the new Cyril Jackson across the road. This old school has been long pulled down. 

My Grandfather, George Powell (1915 - 1979) also went to this school. I think he was there from 1919 - 1926 and he lived in Three Colts Street at the time. 

Old school photo from 1972 (Hornchurch, Essex)

This was taken at Bush Elms School in my first year of seniors at Christmas time 1972. I am in the black tank top and Oxford bag trousers with a boy resting his chin on my sholder. To my left is David Morris (Mole) Phillip Sullivan (Sully) and Danny Quinlan (Quinnie)

An Inconvenient Convenience



One day, when I worked for the post office, in King Edward building London, I was having my dinner break, but needed to go to the lavatory. Nature had suddenly reared her head and was making it clear, in no uncertain terms, that her divine call should be answered. It is, of course, the sort of call that one does not trifle with.

In King Edward Building's north east side there was a rather tantalising collection of toilets on each level as one went down the staircase. One floor ladies the next gents, then ladies, then gents - all the way from the top floor to the sub-ground and lower basement.

The whole area had been closed off for several weeks while builders had renovated the entire stairwell and its many toilets. But they had finished - the north east staircase was close by and awaiting my discreet attention. So, with great aplomb, I hurried off and found the first level toilet door open. I whizzed in and noted the plush way the builders had done it out - I remember thinking, "This is bloody nice." I caught an impressive, yet fleeting glimpse of a neat line of sinks and the long open mirror where the urinals used to be.

Crash! I slammed the lavatory door and bolted it - pulled down my strides and skats then allowed my traumatised posterior to hover menacingly over the lav. I thought no more of the plush and newly renovated toilet because I was intent on my little party act in the isolation of my comfy cubicle. (Incidentally, I don't get invited to many parties.)

Suddenly I heard a group of young ladies enter the toilet and they were talking about a number of girlie things. I froze in terror - my bowels did too - I think they quickly developed a personality of their own in that terrible and bleak moment. It was then, that it dawned upon me, and I realised why; there was a line of wash basins, plus a fine long mirror, where the bloke's urinals were supposed to be. I had just run in with the main door already open. The one that would say Ladies or Gents. I had made a dreadful mistake and all the girls were outside the cubicle chatting away.

I found it a bit difficult to continue, yet I really needed to. What could I do? I was not going to pull my strides back up, open the door and say, "Sorry, my mistake." and walk off. I wanted to scream out a choice colourful metaphor that sounded like 'cough' but my masculine pride triumphed and would not let me.

However, if the young ladies outside stayed any longer, I would not have any masculine pride left. I'm sure you, the reader, could understand the delicate nature of my predicament. In the end, I just had to go ahead and fulfill my obligation to nature's stringent demand. As I was about this rather inconvenient task, the anonymous group of girls suddenly fell silent and I'm sure it was because of me.

I remember the patter of their feet as they scurried off amid incoherent whispers. No doubt wondering what little flowersmelt so bad - probably being glad she was not in their little gang. It took me ages to pluck up the courage to open the door and bolt out. Fortunately, there was no one around and I was able to descend to the next floor and wash my hands. I certainly checked the sign on the next level, but it was a bit like closing the stable door after the horse had bolted.

Muscles like a Greek god

When I was eleven, I was in my senior school first year. After the games lesson of football, we had just gone through the shower, which was freezing cold, before we got changed. We would run through as quick as possible and come out the other side still caked in mud.

While drying off, one of my school mates made a comment that I was skinny. I felt a little put out because I thought he was quite tubby. For a moment or two I reflected and began to grow more indignant by his comment - the way an eleven year old might.

Only a few days earlier, when at home, my mother said I was developing and growing - the way most mums like to big their sons up on occasion. Being a little naive, I took everything she said very literally. She said to my sister, "That boy is getting muscles like a Greek god." She was taking the piss, but at the time I sucked it all in.

Therefore, back in the changing room, and with ill deserved confidence, I retorted to my tubby friend, "I've got muscles like a Greek god."

"Who told you that boyo?" It was my Welsh PE teacher who over heard what was said.

"Me mum," I replied suddenly feeling a bit of a plonker.

When the PE teacher creased up holding his stomach with laughter, I knew I had dropped a bit of a clanger. Suddenly the rest of the class were laughing too. I wanted Scotty from STAR TREK to beam me up. It was at that moment, I learnt not to take everything my mum said literally - everyone thinks their own kids are marvelous - especially mums.

The Great Golf Gaff 

Ugleh!







I used to do a five day shift in the Royal Mail during the mid eighties. It started on Tuesday and finished Saturday afternoon. It was more of a four and a half day week really. Most of my work mates on this shift would play golf on their Monday off.

When we returned to work on every Tuesday, the conversation was always about the previous day's golf as we played cards, at the canteen table. The rest of my work mates were always full of their golf talk baloney, ('Colin did this' or 'Bear did that.') ('Ronnie hit an eagle,' -'Chris got a birdie.') It was always golf chatter and I had no interest in the game at all. I was more into our cards recreation, so the golf banter was more like white noise. I became familiar with terms like, 'par,' 'birdie,' and 'eagle.'

Well on one particular Tuesday morning we were in the canteen, dealing the cards, the golf talk commenced. I was looking at my card hand and heard a work mate called Paul Janes. I heard him say that he he almost hit a squirrel on the Monday golf game.

My ears pricked up. I had heard of an eagle, a birdie and par or under par, but I had never heard of anyone hitting a squirrel. What sort of golf jargon was this? Was it something super sonic and really mega under par?

"What's a squirrel?" I asked innocuously and expecting one to tell me how much over or under par this was. Perhaps it was not quite a birdie, and I quickly found out it was nothing like a birdie when Paul Janes informed me.

"It's a little furry thing that lives in trees and eats nuts you silly C-U-Next-Tuesday!"

I felt as though I wanted the Earth to open up and swallow me as the rest of the table screamed and roared with laughter. I had to wear that colourful metaphor that Janes labelled me with, all through that card game. I can't stand golf and am sure I would be crap at it. I don't think I'll ever visit a golf course. I'm sure golfers will be pleased to learn of this. But I was always the C-U-Next-Tuesday bloke for a long while after that incident.

Perhaps there is such a thing as an ostrich in golf jargon.

Robert and Paul in 1988. Two of my four sons. This is all I have of them from old VHS. The others I lost and dearly wished I had not absent minded thrown them away.

Lilly Our New Moggy Kitten

Today 7th April, we acquired this little Moggy Kitten called Lilly. She was born 5th February and is two months. She was meowing all the way from Canvey Island to Leigh-on-Sea, because she was a little confused. However, once indoors, she seemed to settle down and become very nosey concerning her surroundings. As I type these words, Lilly as fallen asleep on my lap. I think she has taken a shine to me.

We are going to allow her to have a litter when she gets older, but until then; no acne faced Toms are getting anywhere near her. She has become more settled and playful as time goes by. At first she was crouching nervously as she explored, but a little later, Lilly became bolder and started moving around with more confidence.

She enjoys her toy mouse filled with catnip - a garden herb that cats are attracted to.

Next Day 8th April.

Lilly seems very at home now and is jumping and running about - climbing all over Carole and me while we watch tv. I'm wondering if she is enjoying the attention more, because there were about seven or eight kittens in the home we got her from. She uses the litter tray and is looking out through the conservatory windows into the garden. Obviously she is too young to go out just yet, but soon she'll be able to and then Lilly will be able to explore a whole new world.

Coming Home to the Queen's Diamond Jubilee

I came home from my sister's farm in Lincolnshire and walked straight into my street's Diamond Jubilee Street Party to commemorate our Queen's reign of sixty years. If Queen Elizabeth II reigns for three more years, and I'm sure she will, her reign will exceed that of Queen Victoria. Queen Elizabeth II will be the longest ruling monarch of the UK.

In the above picture, I am at the back on the crowd's right, in front of the black car, in a white cardigan. Carole is in front of me and slightly to my left with copper coloured hair. Further to my left and at the back, by the side of the car is Lloyd, my first son, holding up a beer. And just down to Lloyd's left, in front of the dark haired boy waving, is my third son, Robbie. He is waving to the camera and has ginger hair with a dark top.



Although I was not looking forward to my dad's wake, it turned out to be uplifting. So many relations I had not seen for many years. The Legion had a guard of honour with Union Jack over his coffin and they played the Last Post. All from his days in the army. Beforehand, my sister and I went to the police station. We saw the TV footage of his last moments. It made my sister and I feel much more settled. He was not hit by a car. He just fell forward and died while crossing the road. We saw CCTV footage from police cameras and a dash camera from a ladies car that stopped. Lots of people with him. He had a great day out and died on the way home. God just turned out the lights I felt so much more settled. I could not help laughing. He was walking home passed the houses with their CCTV running. Hands in his pockets and not a care in the world. When he fell forward. He still had his hands in his pockets. He had had a right skinfull too. His friends told me that he left the Legion at 9.30 at night and was blissfully happy after a great day out. All his Grandsons (Mine and Sister's) and I carried his coffin into the crematorium. I think my Dad would have liked it.