Part Two Book Five Epic and Autobiographical (A Versified Finale)

Edited 3/12/17

Book Five

 

Epic and Autobiographical (A Versified Finale)

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1960s

 

Born on the Goldhawk Road

Provides a fitting preface

To a long autobiographical piece,

Consisting almost entirely

Of versified prose, and linear in nature,

Which is to say,

Beginning with my birth,

And leading all the way

To the early 2000s.

Whilst dealing with my earliest years,

It was fashioned only recently.

Although An Autobiographical Narrative

Has been composed not solely of

Stray pieces of prose

That failed to make the first team.

For it includes

Further versified phenomena,

Such as refugees from the memoir,

Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child.

The piece itself is a versified version

Of one much reproduced

In various forms throughout my writings,

Although it bears little resemblance

To its original, which first glimpsed

The light of day in around 2002,

As a meagre and mediocre slice of prose,

And while it can still be read

On the World Wide Web,

It's undergone much modification since then,

Including the alteration

Of all names of people and places

For the solemn purpose of privacy.

Although it was first published

In a form resembling that found below

At the Blogster website,

On the 1st of February 2006.

Born on the Goldhawk Road

I was born at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road

Which runs through Shepherds Bush

Like an artery,

And in the mid 1960s,

Served as one of the great centres

Of the London Mod movement,

But I was raised in relative gentility

In a ward of nearby South Acton

Whose vast council estate

Is surely the most formidable

Of the whole of West London.

Although my little suburb

Has since become

One of its most exclusive neighbourhoods.

 

My first school was a kind of nursery

Held locally on a daily basis

At the private residence

Of one Miss Henrietta Pearson,

And then aged 4 years old,

I joined the exclusive

Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud,

Where I was soon to become bilingual

And almost every race and nationality

Under the sun was to be found

At the Lycee in those days...

And among those who went on to be good pals mine

Were kids of English, French, Jewish, American,

Yugoslavian and Middle Eastern origin.

 

While my first closest pals were Esther,

The vivacious daughter

Of a Norwegian character actor

And a beautiful Israeli dancer,

And Craig, an English kid like myself,

With whom I remain in contact to this day.

For a time, we formed an unlikely trio:

"Hi kiddy," was Esther's sacred greeting

To her blood brother, who'd respond in kind.

But at some stage, I became a problem child,

A disruptive influence in the class,

And a trouble maker in the streets,

An eccentric loon full of madcap fun

And half-deranged imaginativeness.

 

And my unusual physical appearance

Was enhanced by a striking thinness,

And enormous long-lashed blue eyes.

Less charmingly, I was also the kind of

Deliberately malicious little hooligan

Who'd remove some periodical

From a neighbour's letter-box

And then mutilate it before reposting it.

The sixties' famed social and sexual revolution

Was well under way, and yet for all that,

Seminal Pop groups such as the Searchers

And the Dave Clark Five;

Even the Fab Four themselves,

Were quaintly wholesome figures.

 

And in comparison to what was to come,

They surely fitted in well

In a long vanished England

Of Norman Wisdom pictures;

And the well-spoken presenters

Of the BBC Home Service,

Light Service and World Service,

Of coppers and tanners

And ten bob notes;

And jolly shopkeepers

And window cleaners.

At least that's how I see it,

Looking back at it all

From almost half a century later.

 

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1960s

 

In its most primordial form,

Snapshots knew life as spidery writings

Filling four and a half pages

Of a school notebook

In what is likely to have been 1977.

 

And these were edited in 2006,

Before being tendered a new title,

Subjected to alterations in punctuation,

And then finally published at Blogster

On the 10th of March of that year.

 

Some grammatical corrections took place,

Which were suitably mild

So as not to excessively alter the original work,

From which certain sentences were composed

By fusing two or more sections together.

 

Ultimately, parts of it were incorporated

Into the memoir, Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child,

And thence into the first chapter

Of the definitive autobiographical piece,

Seven Chapters from a Sad Sack Loser's Life.

 

But recently, it was newly versified,

With a fresh set of minor corrections,

Although as ever with these memoir-based writings

The majority of names have been changed,

And they are faithful to the truth to the best of my ability.

 

Snapshots from a Child's West London

 

I remember my cherished Wolf Cub pack,

How I loved those Wednesday evenings,

The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps,

The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair

During the mass meetings,

The solemnity of my enrolment,

Being helped up a tree by an older boy,

Baloo, or Kim, or someone,

To win my Athletics badge,

Winning my first star, my two year badge,

And my swimming badge

With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys.

 

I remember a child's West London.

 

One Saturday afternoon, after a football match

During which I dirtied my boots

By standing around as a sub in the mud,

And my elbow by tripping over a loose shoelace,

An older boy offered to take me home.

We walked along streets,

Through subways crammed with rowdies,

White or West Indian, in black gym shoes.

"Shuddup!" my friend would cheerfully yell,

And they did.

"We go' a ge' yer 'oame, ain' we mite, ay?"

"Yes. Where exactly are you taking me?" I asked.

 

"The bus stop at Chiswick 'Oigh Stree'

Is the best plice, oi reck'n."

"Yes, but not on Chiswick High Street,"

I said, starting to sniff.

"You be oroight theah, me lil' mite."

I was not convinced.

The uncertainty of my ever getting home

Caused me to start to bawl,

And I was still hollering

As we mounted the bus.

I remember the sudden turning of heads.

It must have been quite astonishing

 

For a peaceful busload of passengers

To have their everyday lives

Suddenly intruded upon

By a group of distressed looking Wolf Cubs,

One of whom, the smallest,

Was howling red-faced with anguish

For some undetermined reason.

After some moments, my friend,

His brow furrowed with regret,

As if he had done me some wrong, said:

"I'm gonna drop you off

Where your dad put you on."

 

Within seconds, the clouds dispersed,

And my damp cheeks beamed.

Then, I spied a street I recognised

From the bus window, and got up,

Grinning with all my might:

"This'll do," I said.

"Wai', Dave," cried my friend,

Are you shoa vis is 'oroigh'?"

"Yup!" I said. I was still grinning

As I spied my friend's anxious face

In the glinting window of the bus

As it moved down the street.

 

I remember a child's West London.

 

One Wednesday evening,

When the Pops was being broadcast

Instead of on Thursday,

I was rather reluctant to go to Cubs,

And was more than usually uncooperative

With my father as he tried

To help me find my cap,

Which had disappeared.

Frustrated, he put on his coat

And quietly opened the door.

I stepped outside into the icy atmosphere

Wearing only a pair of underpants,

 

And to my horror, he got into his black Citroen

And drove off. I darted down Esmond Road

Crying and shouting.

My tearful howling was heard by Margaret,

19 year old daughter of Mrs Helena Jacobs,

Whom my mother used to help

With the care and entertainment

Of Thalidomide children.

Helena Jacobs expended so much energy

On feeling for others

That when my mother tried to get in touch

In the mid '70s, she seemed exhausted,

 

And quite understandably,

For Mrs O'Keefe, her cleaning lady

And friend for the main part

Of her married life

Had recently been killed in a road accident.

I remember that kind

And beautiful Irish lady,

Her charm, happiness and sweetness,

She was the salt of the earth.

She threatened to ca-rrown me

When I went away to school...

If I wrote her not.

 

Margaret picked me up

And carried me back to my house.

I immediately put on my uniform

As soon as she had gone home,

Left a note for my Pa,

And went myself to Cubs.

When Pa arrived to pick me up,

The whole ridiculous story

Was told to Akela,

Baloo and Kim,

Much, much, much to my shame.

 

I remember a child's West London.

 

The year was 1963, the year of the Beatles,

Of singing yeah, yeah in the car,

Of twisting in the playground,

Of "I'm a Beatlemaniac, are you?"

That year, I was very prejudiced

Against an American boy, Raymond,

Who later became my friend.

I used to attack him for no reason,

Like a dog, just to assert my superiority.

One day, he gave me a rabbit punch in the stomach

And I made such a fuss that my little girlfriend, Nina,

Wanted to escort me to the safety of our teacher,

 

Hugging me, and kissing me intermittently

On my forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks.

She forced me to see her:

"David didn't do a thing," said Nina,

"And Raymond came up and gave him

Four rabbit punches in the stomach."

Raymond was not penalized,

For Mademoiselle knew

What a little demon I was,

No matter how hurt

And innocent I looked,

Tearful, with my tail between my legs.

 

I remember a child's West London.

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1960s

In September 1968,

While still only 12 years old,

I became a Naval Cadet

at the Nautical College,

Welbourne,

Situated then as now

In the Royal County

Of Berkshire.

Which may have made me

The youngest and unlikeliest

Serving officer

In the entire Royal Navy,

If only for a very, very short time.

The Four Precious Years (I Spent at Welbourne)

My third and final school

Was the former Nautical College, Welbourne,

Where at still only twelve years old

I became the youngest kid in the college,

And an official serving officer

In Britain's Royal Naval Reserve.

Founded at the height of the British Empire,

Welbourne still possessed her original title in '68,

while her headmaster,

A serving officer in the Royal Navy

For some quarter of a century,

Wore his uniform at all times.

However, in '69,

She was given the name Welbourne College,

While the boys retained their officer status,

And naval discipline continued to be enforced,

With Welbourne serving both

As a military college

And traditional English boarding school.

The Welbourne I knew

Had strong links to the Church of England,

And so was marked by regular

If not daily classes

In what was known as Divinity,

Morning parade ground prayers,

Evening prayers,

And compulsory chapel

On Sunday morning.

Later in life, I felt grateful to her

For the values she'd instilled in me

If only unconsciously, even though,

By the time I joined Welbourne,

These were under siege as never before

By the so-called Counterculture.

And in the early 2010s,

I'd insist if I possessed

A single quality that might be termed noble,

Such as patience, or self-mastery

Or consideration of the needs of other people,

Then I'm at least partially indebted

For such a wonderful blessing

To the four precious years I spent at Welbourne.

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1960s

 

For all the Beatniks of SF consists of

Edited and versified extracts

From one of my earliest

Existent pieces of fictional writing.

Dating at an estimate from about 1970,

It reflects the spirit of the times,

Even though it's been sanitised

For publication.

In the years immediately following

The revolutionary events of '68

I was deeply in sympathy

With the West's prevailing

Adversary Culture

Or Alternative Society

Which is very much not the case today.

And my attitude is dictated

Not by increasing maturity,

But by my Christian beliefs,

Without which I might

Be an ageing hipster by now,

Blithely festooned

With ostentatious symbols of revolt.

 

For all the Beatniks of San Francisco

 

Shirley Brown was a very beautiful girl,

And her brunette hair

Hung down her back

And as the wind blew thru the window,

It waved around. It waved around.

She was making sandwiches,

And was packing them with fruit,

And two massive bars of fruit

And nut chocolate.

She lit a cigarette, picked up the basket,

And with a nod of her head,

Waved her hair backwards

And walked out the back door

Into the alley where,

Propped up against a fence

Was a blue mini-moped.

She mounted the bike

And with a little trouble, started it.

And the rider made a sudden jump

As a horn blew behind her,

And a leather jacketed youth

Sped by on a butterfly motor-cycle.

 

People turned away

And the music blared on

And the youths talked on.

Then, a park keeper came

But the youths took no notice.

"What are you kids doing?"

The keeper shouted,

"I've had complaints from all over,

Clear off, wilya,

This is a park

Not a meeting place

For all the Beatniks in San Francisco."

 

John Hemmings started dancing:

"Cool it, grandpa, get on,

Get going, don't bug me!"

The kids had gone too far

And they knew it.

Some of them turned away,

As the radio blared even louder,

Litter was scattered everywhere.

"I ain't chicken of dying,"

John Hemmings then said,

"We've got to go on,

ALL RIGHT! Who are the crumbs

Who want to chicken out at this point,

Just take your bikes and go.

We're free people now.

Nothing can stop us,

We'll rule the streets,

The young people will triumph."

He was perspiring wildly

And his black hair

Hung down his back.

It waved around. It waved around.

 

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1960s

 

This jackadandy's original title was

An Essay Written by a Guy

Who Was Too Lazy to Finish It,

And it dates from

My college days, ca. 1971,

At a time I was yet enamoured

With the hedonistic

Hippie way of life.

It's been reproduced more or less

Verbatim, notwithstanding

Some minor editing,

And versification.

And I don't think it's necessary

To add there is no such cologne

As Monsieur de Gauviche.

As the first title implies,

It was never finished,

But I've taken the liberty

Of belatedly turning the protagonist

Into a dandified danger man

Somewhat in the mould

Of Peter Wyngarde's

Stylishly overdressed secret agent

From the classic television series,

Department S and Jason King.

 

Englishman, Jackadandy, Spy

 

He made no move at all

As the alarm clock went off.

But ten minutes later,

It was obvious he was awake.

He lifted himself out of bed

And went towards the bathroom.

He shaved himself

With a Gillette Techmatic

After having sploshed himself

With a double handful

Of icy cold water.

He washed again, dried his face,

Put on some Monsieur de Gauviche

And got dressed.

He wore a Brutus shirt,

A Tonik suit and a pair of

Shiny brown boots.

He was six foot two,

And he smoked sixty Players

Medium Navy Cut cigarettes

A day, and he lit each one

With a Ronson lighter.

His name was Titus Hardin,

And he had the biggest

Wardrobe in London.

 

He was a fair-haired man

And very good-looking.

He was thirty two years old

And a bachelor,

And lived near Richmond, Surrey.

He was immaculate,

Wore long sideboards

And a long moustache,

And his hair was shortish

And well-combed.

His shirt was light blue,

And he wore a dark blue tie.

He wore two rings on each hand.

He washed himself

After his usual breakfast

Of toast, black coffee and health pills.

He cleaned his teeth thoroughly,

Put some more cologne on,

And then went to do

His isometrics.

His name was Titus Hardin,

And he had the biggest

Wardrobe in London.

 

He was born in London in 1940.

He went to Eton and Oxford,

Had taught at Oxford for eight years

But was sacked.

He had been an Oxford Rowing Blue,

And got a degree in English, Art and History.

His father was Lord Alfred Hardin, M.P.

Titus loved teaching,

And not many people know the reason

For his dismissal at the age of thirty one.

He was nearly expelled from Eton

For smoking, drinking,

And being head of a secret society

With secret oaths, but he was

Too promising a sportsman,

And all the boys respected him

As a prefect.

He was a fair-haired man

And very good-looking.

He was thirty two years old

And a bachelor,

And lived near Richmond, Surrey.

His flat was beautifully furnished.

His name was Titus Hardin,

And he had the biggest wardrobe in London.