Old Photos...passport & driver's licence

Here are a few items that I found at the bottom of a drawer. Passport and driver's licence.

                                                                The old British passport

                   Passport photo - still hanging onto the quiff...quite impressive if I say so  myself ...used up handfuls of Brylcreem

                                    Green Driver's licence

             Driver's licence photo - not such an impressive quiff                   ...Brylcreem must have been in short supply.



These relics from the past are going straight back in the drawer, together with the now extinct quiff.

47 c. Question: When is Champagne not Champagne? Answer: When it was served at the Grand Prix.

QUESTION: When is a braai not a barbecue?

ANSWER: See below.

After one of our Sunday lunchtime sessions at the Grand Prix, the chef, a young Greek Cypriot guy named BABU, offered to roast a whole sheep for us and our friends on the beach across the road from the club. With great ceremony the sheep was impaled on a metal rod – the skinned carcass of the sheep I hasten to add – then slotted into two metal struts set either side of the fire… to which a metal turning handle was attached. 

Babu stretched out on a sun-lounger, lit a cigarette, opened a bottle of wine and spent the rest of the afternoon sipping, puffing and occasionally turning the handle to rotate the sheep…when I say the rest of the afternoon…I mean until a large wave surged up the beach and took out the fire, the chef and the half cooked sheep.

QUESTION: When is Champagne not Champagne?

ANSWER: See below.

Champagne at the Grand Prix Night Club was not sold in bottles but in jugs…that’s right, in jugs. Gullible customers who enquired after Champagne were told under Cape law the club had to sell Champagne decanted.

It may sound harsh but I truly believe that anyone prepared to buy Champagne in a jug, at a ludicrously inflated price, deserves everything they got. And what they got when they ordered ‘jugged’ Champagne at the Grand Prix Night Club was in no shape or form Champagne…it didn't originate in Europe let alone in the Champagne region of France. It was pure 100% South African concocted from mainly “Leiberstein” a low cost white table wine, which if I remember correctly worked out at about 2/6d a gallon – that’s roughly 15 pence in today’s Sterling currency, so if price is any indication to the quality I need say no more – and the remainder was lemonade. Yes, humble, common garden, lemonade. Lemonade was an important, if not the most imortant ingredient when making of bogus Champagne as it added the essential element, effervescent bubbles. The sorry excuse for Champagne was served ice cold – a 'gnat's...' off freezing.

The weird thing is no-one every questioned the validity of the ‘Champagne’, least not while we were there. I should add in passing that most, if not all, who ordered a jug of Champagne were legless.

QUESTION: When is grilled fish not grilled fish?

ANSWER: See below.

Another of the Grand Prix scams was their grilled fish. At the Grand Prix grilled fish came at a premium…a third more than the same fish fried. But when an order came in for - say grilled sole - what the customer was served with was fried sole, plus the criss-cross marks added by Babu with a red hot poker.

14 a. Cigarettes...Smoking a patriotic duty?

Nearly everyone I knew smoked and most were what we called 'chain smokers'. Which meant from the moment they awoke till they went to sleep they’d have a cigarette on the go. As soon as one was finished they’d light up another, usually from the tip of the one they were about to stub out.

It was a time when the majority of index fingers and middle fingers were stained an orange-yellow colour, so too the interiors of most cars especially above the driver's head. 

Southern Rhodesia was a tobacco producing country and with the genus Nicotiana accounting for over fifty per cent of its exports any suggestion that smoking caused health problems was resoundingly pooh-poohed. So certain were 'those in the know’ that smoking was a totally harmless recreational and social activity that they went so far as to name one brand of cigarettes – and I kid you not - “Life”.

Oh, yeah, and get this. If anyone caught a cold, had flu or bronchitis they were actively encouraged to smoke mentholated cigarettes such as “Avon” and “Consulate” as the minty, menthol fumes would clear the congested airways! Sounds crazy now, but we all bought into it…well, I know I did.

You could smoke anywhere in Rhodesia, in lifts (elevators), at garages (what we called petrol stations) while filling the car with petrol... during and  between courses   at restaurants... and even at the movies where little brass cup-shaped ashtrays screwed to the backs of seats in front were provided for the smoker. 

                                                      Estoril, Beira

On the subject of cinema, while on holiday in Beira we went to a movie house only to discover, horror heaped on horror, that smoking was banned. We couldn't believe it.  It was absolutely outrageous. How on earth were we expected to sit through a whole movie without lighting up..."Typical", we muttered condescendingly. "Trust those backward-thinking Portuguese to come up with something so bloody draconian".

It is true to say in the late 1950’s, early 60’s with tobacco being such a key part of Rhodesia's economy, it was regarded among certain citizens - those working in the tobacco industry -  that smoking was something of a patriotic duty and was to be actively encouraged…and from an early age too. I remember going on a school trip to a cigarette factory where we were taken through the whole manufacturing process of making a cigarette - from the bales of tobacco entering the factory, being graded, treated, shredded and finally rolled and packaged…what harm is there in that, I hear you ask. Nothing...nothing at all. But here’s the thing, the 'sting in the tail' so to speak. Before leaving the factory each and every one of us ‘school kids remember’ were given a carrier-bag filled with loose cigarettes (150 – 200) …and told it was a present for our parents. 

At the time I thought they were pretty gullible to imagine we would even consider handing over a cache of a hundred and fifty plus skayfes to our folks. But now, older and more cynical I can’t help thinking the ‘present for our parents’ was merely a smoke screen – pun intended. And they were actively targeting us kids, recruiting a whole new generation who'd be dependent on nicotine...Maybe I'm being unfair...maybe not. At the time it must be said I was more than happy to get my grubby hands on the bag of fags...and most likely sampled a couple in the bus on the way back to school . 

Tobacco auctions were held in Salisbury every year in a huge warehouse where literally thousands of bales of tobacco were set out in never-ending rows. 

The auctioneer, surrounded by the buyers, would work his way down row after row, stopping fleetingly at each bale to sell it. The speed at which the auctioneer conducted the sale, in a weird, sing-song, almost country and western voice, was both mind boggling and unintelligible…to the uninitiated it must have sounded like a square dance ‘caller’ on speed.

The great thing about the auction house was that it provided ‘all day breakfasts’ absolutely free. And what a sumptuous free-bee breakfast feast it was too. Eggs of every denomination; scrambled, fried, poached, boiled, omelets, steaks, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, fried potato, fried bread, toast... a whole array of cereals, a selection of fruit juices, orange, guava, grapefruit to name but three, plus there was a constant supply of coffee and tea on tap.…it really was a breakfast menu worthy of its name. 

Consequentially this mouth-watering, lip-smacking gastronomic attraction attracted a whole bunch of people who weren't there to buy or sell tobacco – in fact as soon as the auction house doors opened they made a bee-line for the canteen and remained there for the duration. I do believe most if not all the Chequers took advantage of the free-bee breakfast...though how we came to hear about it escapes me.

Come to think of it our singer Verlaine Crisp’s father worked at the auction warehouse…and that’s how we came to learn about the free-bee breakfasts. 

A belated thank you to Verlaine's dad.

30 c. The Mists of Mandara...and other memories of New year's Eve

Before we turned 'pro' and headed down South, the two Eves, New Years and Christmas were always bumper nights for The Chequers. We would embrace Capitalism whole-heartedly, particularly the law of Supply and Demand. Bands where in short supply and the demand for live music was massive - so we would up the anti and charge four, five or even six times our usual Saturday night rates. If Roy Wood had written his classic, “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday” then…we would have endorsed it whole heartily.  I remember we played at the Karoi Sports Club and at the CABS Building Society Christmas function…and if my memory serves me well, the Olivetti and Corona Typewriter Company New Year’s Eve dos…to name but a few.

But we had some great New year’s Eves B.C. - before Chequers …well before the band had started picking up regularly bookings. One in particular New Year’s Eve springs to mind.

The usual suspects had met up at our place 146 Victory Avenue, by which I mean, Mac, Roll, Alan, Donaldson, Milner, Nicky Goniface and Moig – it's strange how we  we called some mates by their christian names and others by their surnames -- But anyway, I seem to remember them all being there but don’t quote me on it.

Collectively we were called, “The Greendale Boys” a motley, testosterone fuelled crew of fourteen, fifteen and sixteen year olds. On this night of all nights the ‘Greendale Boys’ were at something of a loose end...we were party-less.

It was bad enough not having a party to go to on a regular Saturday night let alone New Year’s Eve. We had put out ‘feelers’ but to avail. There had not been a single ‘bleep’ on our 'Party Radar'. 

I’m sure you've heard the proverbs, ‘every cloud has a silver lining’…and ‘when one door closes another opens’. And in our case that is exactly what happened. 

The door that was closed was Greendale Sports Club's door. They were holding a ‘Ticket Only’ Dinner & Dance for old fogies (people over thirty). We were that desperate we sneaked in and attempted to melt inconspicuously into the gathering. That was the intention. But it is neigh on impossible to remain inconspicuous when you are fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and surrounded by thirty, forty and fifty-somethings. We looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel cake (Raymond Chandler) and were hunted down and to a man (boy) ejected.

Being ejected from the Greendale Sports Club's Diner and Dance was, figuratively speaking, the door being closed, which brings us to the door that opened. The door in question was the storeroom door at the club which we managed, by foul means or otherwise, to open. Inside, among other items, we discovered a large bucket of whitewash used for painting white lines on the club's tennis courts and numerous brushes. The large bucket of whitewash proved to be the catalyst of one of the funniest nights I can remember.

We ‘borrowed’ the said bucket of white wash and brushes and continued on our pursuit for a night of fun. 

Why we decided to borrow the white wash I’ll never know…it was pretty darn heavy and cumbersome. Maybe those jovial Gods of 'Levity' and 'Pranks' influenced our decision and compelled us to borrow it, who knows…but borrow it we did.

Anyway, we ended up on Wallis Road or was it Pringle Road wandering down a hill towards the Mandara Tea Gardens -- in those days it was a wooded area with not much going for it. The reason we had ventured to Mandara was because we knew a couple of school mates who lived in the vicinity and thought, under the guise of saying 'hello' and 'happy New Year', we could ask if they knew of any parties.

I should also mention, because it impacts on the story, that there was a dip at the bottom of the hill leading to the Mandara Tea Gardens which was prone to ground mist…and on this particular New Year’s Eve there was a thick covering. 

So there we were, traipsing down this hill towards a blanket of mist when whoever was to carrying the bucket stumbled and dropped it -- the lid was dislodged and a dollop of the white wash spilled onto the tarmac road. In that instance all was made clear. The reason the Gods of Levity and Pranks had compelled us to lug the heavy bucket of whitewash all the way from Greendale Sports Club to Mandara – a journey of at least a mile and a half. The reason was glaringly obvious. It was staring us in the face. Think about it. A black tarmac road devoid of white lines that disappears into a blanket of mist…and a bucket of white wash. Levity and Pranks were imploring us to paint white lines on the road...but not your regular white lines, white lines with a difference...white lines with a comic twist...literally.

Out came the paint brushes and off came the whitewash lid. Starting ten to fifteen feet before the mist and keeping to the very centre of the road, we ever so carefully painted a narrow white line. We continued with the white line a further eight feet into the mist and then...and here comes the comic twist... we veered off sharply into the ditch. 

This accomplished we spent the next five minutes rolling around on the ground shrieking with laughter.

After regaining our composure we continued on our way with the bucket of whitewash – still two thirds full – and armed with the paint brushes. It was as if we knew the Gods of Levity and Pranks weren't finished with us…and we were right.

We were still some way from our friend’s house when the unmistakable strains of a party drifted into earshot; singing cheering, music, laughter, etc. As we rounded a corner a house lit up like a Christmas tree came into view. The drive was packed with cars and those that couldn’t squeeze into the driveway were parked either side of the road outside the house.

Through the windows a crowd of people could be seen dancing, laughing and altogether having a great time.

It was felt that we could add to the enjoyment. We estimated that the majority of the party goers, as was true of most white Rhodesians in those days, originated from somewhere in the U.K. I had school friends whose parent’s had lived in Rhodesia for years and still referred to England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland as home …and homesickness and a yearning for the old country was always most prevalent on occasions such as New Year’s Eve when the booze flowed freely.

But how were a motley bunch of teenagers with a bucket of whitewash going to add to the enjoyment of people who were so obviously enjoying themselves? By giving them what they hungered for…a taste of home.  Something that was quintessentially British. Ironically, something that would warm the cockles of their hearts. I’m talking snow. Well, not exactly snow, but something that looks like snow, especially when you’re inebriated…Something that we had been carrying around in a bucket most of New Year’s Eve…you guessed it, whitewash! We would create a Christmas card winter scene for the good folk of Mandara in the very heart of Africa.

Without further ado we set about plastering the front lawn of the house and not just the grass, but the bushes and flowers with whitewash.  As we drew nearer to the actual house itself, we decided to keep the Christmas Card Wintry theme going by adding the white wash to the veranda. But still we were not satisfied. With the bit between our teeth, we turned our attention to the windows.

By this time the party goers had not only seen us but had started taking an interest in what we were up to. But instead of running out, hurling abuse and sending us on our way, to our surprise they just stood in the house and laughed. I mean, they really cracked themselves up.

I'm guessing their unexpected reaction encouraged us to go to town on the window panes. Which we did. To the wild amusement of the party goers, who hooted with laughter as we coated one pane after another with whitewash.

Finally there was but one  single solitary window pane left. The party goers crammed  around it and to a man and woman cheered and shrieked with delight as each and every brush stroke of white wash was administered to the ever diminishing pane…until a mere postage stamp size of clear glass remained…and then, with a finally roar of ‘Happy New Year’ from either side of the glass, it was covered.  

I don’t know who found the incident funnier, the party goers or “The Greendale Boys”…but it would be true to say that  I had never laugh so hard and for so long before or since.

Like a number of these reminiscences it seems totally ludicrous, but hand on heart it all happened.

Oh, yes, one more thing. On the way home we helped a driver and his girlfriend push their car out the ditch car...true as God.

47 b. There was far more to Madame Marguerite than met the eye

The heading number blog  (47 b) fits into the other blogs time- line between blog 47 and blog 48.

Seventeen-going-on-eighteen, one and a half thousand miles from home and playing in a professional rock band. No wonder I thought I was a man of the world... in fact, however, nothing could be further from the truth. In reality I was extremely naive... as the following incident illustrates. 

We were playing our regular Sunday Lunchtime Session at The Grand Prix Night Club in Sea Point, Cape Town . 

As usual the place was choker block. We had been playing for half an hour or so and announced we were going to 'take five'.  

                 The Chequers on the tiny Grand Prix stage


As we extricated ourselves from the cramped stage we were approached by a half dozen girls who looked like they’d just stepped off the cover of Fab. (60’s Teen magazine).

They turned out to be hostesses who worked at the Moulin Rouge Night Club. The owner of the Moulin Rogue,  Madame Marguerite, had asked them to accompany her to our session as she wanted to hear us play. Apparently Madame Marguerite thought we were terrific and wanted to buy us a drink. Anyone who thought The Chequers were  terrific and offered to buy us a drink were considered our kind of people. 

We followed the girls through the mass of bodies to a corner booth where an elderly woman sat nursing a cocktail. I say elderly, and at the time she certainly seemed so, but elderly to me 'then' doesn't equate to what I consider as elderly now…looking back in all probability Madame Marguerite was in her late thirties, early forties.

Anyway, Madame Marguerite invited us to sit down sent one of her girls off for our drinks.

What follows speaks volumes of the staggering magnitude of my naivety. For it never occurred to me, that this large, heavily made-up woman, with big hair, big bust,  big hairy hands and a large prominent ‘Adam’s Apple’...

... who spoke with  a deep gravelly baritone voice, was a man. The thought never entered my head. I had never heard of a 'Transvestite'. Never. I was totally clueless.

     

As far as I was concerned women wore dresses. Madame Marguerite wore a dress therefore Madame Marguerite was a woman. 

We sat around lapping up the praises dished out by Madame Marguerite. "Wonderful, dear boys." "Marvelous, dear boys." "So talented,  dear boys." Then she asked us if we’d ever consider leaving the Grand Prix…adding because if we did the Moulin Rouge would welcome us with open arms. I had a mental image of  being welcomed with open arms by the hostesses at the Moulin Rouge and it certainly appealed to me…and I'm guessing it appealed to the others as well.

Madame Marguerite must have sensed our interest because she invited us to her club that night as her special guests…we couldn't wait.

That night we arrived at the Moulin Rouge Night Club and knocked on the door. A small hatch slid open to reveal Madame Marguerite's beaming and heavily made up face. 

With a husky, “Welcome to the Moulin Rouge, dear boys” the door was thrown open and we were ushered in.

What struck me first when I stepped into the Moulin Rouge was the lighting, by which I mean the lack of it. They had taken subdued lighting to a whole new level...basically a dim red glow which when combined with the  smoke from countless cigarettes...it was hard to make anything out. 

It seemed everybody always had a  cigarette on the go in those days...and at 1/6d (7 pence) for twenty Rothmans Kings Size who could blame us.

Being a kindly soul who tries to give people the benefit of the doubt - bear with me while I polish my halo - I would like to think Marguerite felt the subdued lighting gave the club real atmosphere but in all probability the reason was to hide the tatty décor.

Anyway, we were escorted to a table and plied with drinks…and the drinks just kept on coming.  

Sometime in the early hours of the morning Madame Marguerite presented us with a sheet of paper. At first we thought it was a bill but it turned out to be a contract…a six month contract for the Chequers to play at the Moulin Rouge six night a week, Monday to Saturday, plus Sunday Lunchtimes.

Marguerite’s hostesses were all over us, encouraging us to put our signatures to paper…I can’t remember if we did or not…but seeing as we never actually ended up playing there I can’t see how we could have. 

There is a coda to the story. All the hostesses lived in rooms above the club. Madame Marguerite kept a tight rein on her girls...it seemed they provided other services to customers other than plying them drinks. 

Anyway, Jack, who had his eye on one of the girls, arranged for her to leave her bedroom window open. 

In the early hours of the morning Jack made his way furtively along the open corridor that ran the length of the block, found the open window and climbed in. A couple of minutes later he was out of there like a bat out of hell, butt naked, clutching his clothes.

According to Jack he had peeped through the open window - seen what he thought  was his intended lying in bed - climbed through the window, stripped off, and jumped in beside her.

Jack recounted how he slide his hand over the girl’s shoulder and instead of it being soft and smooth it felt wrinkly and decidedly hairy. The figure, according to Jack, gave a  shocked and disconcertingly deep grunt of surprise sat up and switched on a bedside light ...and Jack found himself face to face with a bald but otherwise extremely hairy Marguerite.

I'm sure you've noted that I have made capital of the crowds we attracted for our Sunday Lunch time sessions at the Grand Prix. Banged on about how they flocked in their droves to the club...something I'm sure Marguerite had noted and what prompted her offer. Recently, however, while writing this blog in fact, I have question this. Not that there were crowds -  but why they came. Up until now I believed it was because they wanted to see and listen to us. But a gnawing doubt has entered my consciousness. Was the youth of Cape Town flocking to the Grand Prix on Sundays because The Chequers we were so darn good or was it because there was hardly anywhere else to go to on Sundays, if you were into rock music that is. In that respect Sundays were pretty dead in Cape Town and the Grand Prix was among only a handful of venues open, and who had a live group playing...although it pains me to say it I believe this to be the case.

32.b Mac takes the lead and runs with it...literally!

The following happened in and around Salisbury, Rhodesia, 

before we turned 'pro' and headed South... for Cape Town.

I don’t know what it was with Mac and his gi-normous guitar lead. It was ludicrously long. We're talking at least 60 feet in length in an age when most, if not all, shop-bought guitar leads were between nine and twelve feet. Yes, Mac’s lead was in a league of its own...if it was a snake it would have been an Anaconda.

It has only just occurred to me while writing this that there was nowhere Mac could buy such a beast off the shelf. Which means he must have made it himself ...which beggars the question why? Was there an eureka moment when Mac leapt out the bath – figuratively speaking –  and shouted or sang, “Of course! That’s it! What the world needs now is not love, sweet love, but a gi-normous guitar lead - the like of which the world has never seen!”

Mac use to stow his lead in his bass guitar case, coiled up like some kind of cowboy’s lasso…

Oh, yes, I forgot to mention it was white…when all self respecting 60’s guitar leads were black.

At the hall or the club or wherever it was we happened to be playing, Mac would plug one end of the lead into his amp and the other into his bass and then, once the doors were open and the place was heaving, he would bid us ‘au revoir’ and disappear, threading his way through the throng of heaving bodies playing the bass line to the song as he went on his merry way. 

Lord only knows what he got up to on his walkabout... Lord only knows how he didn't get himself tangled up with the audience or trip up dancers or, as what happened to an unfortunate member of a  beat group in Umtali, find himself being throttle with a length of  guitar lead by some bolshie love-struck okie. Apparently at this session in Umtali the above mentioned okie thought the guitarist was eyeing up his 'goose' (girlfriend) - it's been known to happen - and tried to throttle him with a guitar lead ... talk about  being 'hoisted by your own petard'. 

We never knew what went on during Mac's jaunts. Once gone he wouldn't return to the bandstand for at least two songs, that's about five to six minute, possibly longer. We’d catch glimpses of him from time to time – well, glimpse of the top of his head bobbing above the audience…he stood 6’4” -- 6' 6" if you took into account the Chelsea boots with 2" Cuban heels all us Chequers wore...

When I say all us Chequers wore... I mean we all had our own Chelsea boots...we didn't all wear the same pair...that'd be ludicrous as well as impossible.

5c. First tentative foray into creative writing, “Cops, Robbers & Spies”

On moving from Mount Pleasant to Greendale Lea and I left Avondale School and enrolled in Courteney Selous Junior School - Standard 5 and Standard 3 respectively. 

                                    Courteney Selous Junior School Badge

Neil who was a few years older went off to Churchill High School.

It must have been around Christmas 1957/58, the end of the school year was approaching when Lea, who couldn't have been more than twelve at the time, cooked up an idea which if in the unlikely event of it ever being permitted it would take us out of reach of the teachers and away from the classroom for the last two weeks of term. The idea? To put on an end of year school show. But not just any show. A show 'by the kids', 'for the kids'.  Written, staged and acted by kids...to be watched by the whole school.

                      Me wearing my Courteney Selous school blazer

Although the odds against it ever happening were pretty remote, Lea, always the optimist, asked his teacher, a Yorkshire man named Robby. Robby mentioned it to Mr. Levitt the head master...and this goes some way in proving real life is indeed stranger than fiction, because Mr. Levitt gave the idea the green light...what was he thinking? 

We - I was allowed to take time out my class to help with the production - had two weeks to not only write the play, but to select a cast, procure costumes and organize rehearsals...so we needed to shift ourselves.

That night after the 'go ahead' had been given Lea and I, armed with dad's portable typewriter and a pot of tea, locked ourselves in our bedroom and set about writing the script.  We were under the impression writers drank numerous cups of tea... some kind of a tannin lubricant to oil the creative wheels...which in our case certainly didn't work.

After an hour and numerous 'lubricating' cuppas we gave up the ghost.  It just wasn't happening...the creative wheels weren't turning. In fact they had come to a complete stop. All we managed to come up with was the title, "Cops, Robbers and Spies"... (more a wish list of characters we'd like to play than a title). 

                        A picture paints a thousand words

That night we experience our first taste of writers block and as the blockage seemed to be set fast, it was decided we'd let the story-line evolve 'au natural'. By which I mean we would resort to what we did in the play ground at break time, i.e. make up and act out stories as we went along… today it has a loftier title,  'improvisation'.

Our cast included all the usual suspects,  Lea, me, Mac, Alan, Alec Moig, Robin Roll and a whole bunch of kids desperate to escape the classroom...needless to say we had to turn away hundreds of applicants…well if not hundreds a good few.

The great day arrived. We had turned up early and created a stage at one end of the classroom by pushing all the desks together and set out rows of chairs commandeered from nearby classrooms for the audience. 'We', by which I mean 'the cast', assembled in the boys loos dressed in our 'costumes' borrowed or stolen from our dads…this was exclusively an all male cast.

Lea who played the part of the Master Spy wore Dad's whiteTuxedo which reached almost down to his ankles...the rest of us were similarly attired in blazers and suit jackets, etc. Incidentally, to add 'character' to our characters - we had been split into three groups named in the title "Cops", "Robbers" and "Spies” - we used burnt corks and spent end of matches to draw mustaches, side burns and unrealistic looking scars (lines with dots either side) on our faces. We checked ourselves out in the mirror…although we must have looked ludicrous we thought we were the business.

We were as ready as we'd ever be and waited with growing excitement for the audience to get seated.

It was at this point, a few minutes before curtain -- not that we had a curtain -- that Lea received a sudden flash of inspiration. Something that would elevate our “Cops, Robbers & Spies”  from a confusing, structure-less anarchic turkey of a  show into a total triumph. That something in a word was Gobstoppers! He dashed off to the tuck shop and hurried back clutching a gigantic bag of them.

No sooner had he returned than someone ran into the boys loo and announced the audience were seated…the time had arrived to launch "Cops, Robbers and Spies" on the world.

Our appearance onstage was greeted with enthusiastic cheers…which died out as soon as the play began and the audience tried to figure out what they were watching. 

I know we incorporated a lot of guns shooting in our play…when I say guns I obviously meant index fingers and when I say shooting I obviously meant we shouted, “Bam!” or  “Ratta-ttata-ttata-Ratta-ttatta-Ratta-ttat!” if firing machine guns. There were also innumerable hand grenades thrown by dastardly spies,  which went something like, “Eeeeeeee---Boom!” And bombs, "Ker-Pow!" dropped on spies by unseen but  'audible' Stukka Bombers. "E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!!!!" I don't remember how the Luftwaffe came to be included in the story but included it was. 

Consequently with all this ordnance flying around the casualty count among the characters in the play was horrendously high, around 99%. On the plus side, however, it  meant plenty of opportunity for 'dying acting' which we all loved and stretched out for as long as possible. Our terrifyingly realistic howls of agony as we staggered round the stage after being shot or blown up and before gasping our last breath was a high point if not for the audience then certainly for those of us taking part.

And thus after a good fifteen minutes of murder, mayhem and a lot of dying on stage - literally! - our show came to a brutal and climatic end...with only one man (boy) left standing, brother Lea the Master Spy in the white Tuxedo

Confusingly instead of rapturous cries of delight - we thought it had gone brilliantly - our bows were met with polite but decidedly unenthusiastic applause.  I can only assume "Cops, Robbers & Spies" was one of those entertainments which are more entertaining for the entertainers than the audience...but all was not lost.

Lea, who must have had a premonition that our show, like the Stukka Bombers, would take a nose-dive,  took out the gigantic bag of sweets, looked out at the sea of less than satisfied faces and asked if they wanted a gobstopper. The mood changed instantly as in one voice they shouted, "YES!".  Lea had them in his hand, well the bag of  gobstoppers, and chucked a handful into the audience. A riot ensued as kids scrambled around the floor trying to bag a gobstopper. Another handful followed the first…more cheers more scrambling and more importantly, smiling happy smiling faces emerged from the scrum... another handful of gobstoppers rained down on the audience... and another...and another, until the bag was completely empty.

When asked immediately afterwards if they had enjoyed the show the audience to a man – well boy and girl -  nodded their approval…they couldn't say yes because they were sucking on a great big gobstopper…hence the name of the confectionery.

So, as the bard said, "All's well that ends well".