Best Life ?

 

Dynamite Kid Returns To His Roots

Veteran star of stage and screen , Brian Blessed , charmed a small but appreciative crowd , when he turned out in Mexborough to unveil a blue plaque on Friday 27th October.

“ I’m not going to say GORDON’S ALIVE “ he bellowed . The crowd responded with laughter and a round of applause. In a lower , more reverent key , he said he was here to tell us that “ Harry’s Alive “ as a prelude to a potted history of his former mentor’s career and importance to many generations of actors , including Keith Barron and himself.

Brian reminded us of Mexborough’s illustrious theatrical past , which included Mexborough Green Room and Mexborough Theatre Guild and other Dearne Valley groups which have both entertained us and nurtured talent over the years.

The crowd began to build at around 2.45pm for the three o’clock unveiling. There was lots of speculation as to whether Brian was already in the Montague Arms , although a number of people who had just left there denied it.

A lady alongside me, told me that she was a cleaner for “ The Mont” and that she had given a framed photo of Brian an extra polish , in case he did pop in.

Another bystander asked  “ What’s going on here , then ?” 

“ It’s that Brian Blessed…he’s uncovering a plaque at three…” his pal informed him.

“ It’s only ten to” the first man said   “ I’m not hangin’ on that long…  I’ll see thee on Monday night “ and off he went up Bank Street.  I think Brian would have liked that.

The Dynamite Kid is the title of the first volume of Brian’s hilarious autobiography.

He went on from the unveiling to front a sellout “ Evening With Brian Blessed” at Mexborough’s Empress Building.

ACTION HERO

 

He always had a sense

of someone hiding

behind doors, ready

to throw him over

tables to the far wall,

but since his heyday

there very often wasn't.

Tony Noon

Castle View Escape

 

ADVENTURES IN RADIO

 

I had two radios. Both were mono , but you could adjust the tone. On a Saturday afternoon , I would switch both on . One had a full bass tone , the other was set with a high treble output.

I collected money for the local newsagent on Saturday morning. This didn't involve standing outside the shop with a collecting tin. It did involve setting out on foot around 9am with a satchel and a book of tickets and addresses. The satchel held a small float of notes and coins and the tickets showed the number of weeks each customer owed. 

For a small shop in a small mining village , the extent of the "empire" was huge. My route would be a round trip of around five miles , taking me past the allotments , over the railway lines and along a footpath we called " The Bridle Path" down to the dog track , then left , beyond the scrap yard into the estate , where the round began.

The estate was a rabbit warren of concrete semi-detached houses. A main road meandered east to west and to each side occasional cul-de-sacs took me off to find the house at the bottom of the loop where there was either no one in , or the wife had all the money and she was out for the day , or the curtains twitched angrily at me until I decided to move on.

To be fair , most people paid up and my satchel got heavier and heavier as I wound my way to the bungalows at the end of the route. Then the long walk home , mostly along the same route.

I was only 15 and enjoyed a good walk, so apart from the heavy bag , it wasn't much of a problem.

Of course, this was an all weather event , so it was less pleasant if it was raining...Maybe snow stopped play , but I don't remember. Certainly a bit of frost didn't hold me back.

Anyway , the important thing about it all is that I got home around 1pm every Saturday , hungry , tired and ready for my two radios.

By two o'clock , I was fed and the family was in the other room watching racing or knitting or something.

I was left to my own devices , which meant I laid on my back on the floor , two cushions under my head with one radio each side of me.

The open fire crackled to one side, warming my aching bones and then Alan Freeman kicked in for two hours of prog rock and album tracks . He was particularly fond of Emerson,Lake and Palmer , but full versions of tracks from Yes , Pink Floyd , Genesis and many others were guaranteed.

One favourite which seemed to play every other week was "Driving Through Mythical America" by Pete Atkin. Sometimes he would play the sublime "Rider To The World's End" by the same artist.

I eventually bought an album of Pete Atkin songs , and was surprised and delighted to find that the words were actually written by Clive James , who later became a national celebrity with his quirky chat shows and newspaper columns.

For two hours each week , I could close my eyes , turn both sound buttons up and blow my mind.

It wasn't really stereo, of course, but it worked for me.

Old Men Of Rock and Roll

 

I don’t know if the Arctic Monkeys set at Glastonbury was rubbish. 

I do know that I switched onto it on Friday evening to find a band which didn’t match my expectations.

 A lot of other people felt the same way, apparently.

To be fair , lots of others leapt to their defence. Including my nephew, whose musical views I respect greatly.

He told me that the set wasn’t rubbish... It’s just that people don’t expect bands to develop . They expect forty year olds to still be singing about nights out in Sheffield…

I can see that… up to a point.  Everyone changes as they grow older. 

Experience always moulds the creative urge ... but sometimes the mould is stronger than the urge.

It has always been a brave band which changes course.

We have to accept that , to some degree , successful rock bands have always been commodities.

Freewheeling , do as we please , anarchy has always been part of an overall brand strategy. 

The Sex Pistols were a product. So were The Beatles and so are The Rolling Stones.

Supporters of an evolved Arctic Monkeys will see these bands, perhaps, as old hat , but they are key to a long term view.

The Sex Pistols had a brief but blustering career which exploded on their only US tour. 

They didn’t develop . Maybe they couldn’t . 

John Lydon found his way forward with a completely different kind of band in Public Image Ltd.

The Beatles did develop during their life cycle , and the fan base by 1970 was probably different to the crowds who saw them singing “Love Me Do” , but the creative differences that took them from there to The White Album and beyond eventually split them. 

The individual members pursued their own directions, to greater or lesser degrees of success.

As commodities , though, The Beatles and The Sex Pistols live on… and I think this is how people increasingly view music. They select music to suit their particular mood.

I’m equally at home listening to classic Beatles as I am to Punk or any variation of Rock.

 If the mood suits me I will listen to jazz or classical music.

The point is , I choose to listen to the songs as I like to hear them.

The title of this piece “ Old Men Of Rock And Roll” is not a criticism , but an observation.

It comes from a 10cc song called “ Old Wild Men” which says

 “ Old men of rock and roll , can’t bury music. Where are they now ?” 

The answer came last night. Elton John rocked the Pyramid Stage with a catalogue of hits spanning half a century…Did it live up to expectations ? Oh Yes !

MILKING IT - Mexborough's Golden Age Of Cinema

The thing about cinema in Mexborough is that , as it is so long since there was a proper picture house in the town , almost all recollections about it can be deemed to be golden age.

I don’t remember most of the town's cinemas , although some , like the Hippodrome , I have at least heard of. I only actually remember the Majestic , but having visited similar cinemas of the time I can say it was absolutely representative of its genre.

Officially, dedicated film theatres , or picture palaces. Unofficially , and affectionately, known as flea pits.

These were all single screen venues with two tiers of seats. Stalls on the lower level , and a Balcony which was very useful for throwing things from ,without being seen from below.

There would be, typically,  two “Houses” which consisted of a main feature , a Bond film or whatever , and a second feature , known now as  B movie ( although this lends it a cult status mainly undeserved in the UK ). 

This could be anything from a “Looney Tunes” cartoon if the main feature was over long , to an independent drama with unknown stars , or a documentary.

The second house started with the support feature , and replayed the main feature afterwards. If you were a cinema glutton you could stay all the way through and watch the main film twice. More likely , though you would arrive late for the first house and then stay just long enough to see the bit you missed ... 

We weren’t offered an experience in those days. There was no IMAX or MotionMaster , although some of the seats wobbled a bit. No , we just went to the Pictures , or Flicks.

The programme usually changed twice a week and in the sixties and early seventies it was often the only chance we got to see films in colour.

I never saw a commissionaire at the Majestic , but I understand many local cinemas had them. There was a ticket desk , which just sold tickets , and a kiosk where you could buy sweets and soft drinks ( especially Kiaora). If you wanted anything else there might be some Westler’s hot dog sausages boiling , and an usherette would bring a tray of choc-ices  out between films.

For folk brought up in the digital age , the term Flicks , refers back to the earliest type of moving picture. “What The Butler Saw” machines had drums containing lots of individual photographs which spun around quickly , flicking the pictures past the viewing aperture to create an illusion of movement.

Film projection works on the same principle of running lots of sequential images past the projector lens to create the moving images on screen.

In the old days of the golden age , the films occasionally overheated and snapped causing the film to stop abruptly, usually at a crucial moment.

The usual audience response was a slow hand clap , while the projectionist tried frantically to fix the problem . If he was lucky the slow clapping would be too loud for him to hear people shouting  “ Put a Bob in It !” or even worse “ Gerrof and milk it …”