Maureen had Radio 4 on yesterday morning. Because I like my news and current affairs programmes to come without bias, it is a station that, for me, loses more appeal with each passing year.

There may be lots of well-made programmes on minority politics and interests, but these are ceaselessly punctuated by hourly news programmes that vilify Brexit, Trump, Corbyn, Russia and, of course, ‘hate speech’.

By sheer repetition, the station sets up a series of ‘consensus’ villains and lays down an ever-more-onerous protocol of political correctness, which stultifies independent thinking and constricts everyday language. If only the topics of debt and war were burrowed into with such monotonous regularity as the Brexit deal and LGBT rights. The tightly-controlled narrative also peeks through in debates, where the parameters are increasingly restricted.

If not quite an Orwellian trumpet, Radio 4 unashamedly propagates the status quo, unquestioningly advancing the notion that our Western ‘democracies’ are still somehow alive.

Democracy has never worked for me. My vote should (somehow) express my will that resources are allocated so that everyone is taken care of. Conversely, debt-based capitalism under an elite class of plutocrats is stripping the planet bare and consigning billions to poverty. The Tories always get in where I live, greed out-bidding the public good. Even when Labour govern, they lack the balls to challenge and reform the finance system, or tell the war lobby to go fuck themselves.

So my ears pricked up yesterday when a female author named Roxanne Gay said that she wrote her 2017 book ‘Hunger’ because it is “so hard to be a human”. I stopped what I was doing, because the six words resonated so deeply. Such a profound truth, contrasting so starkly with the typically dry narrative pouring from the Beeb.

The weather was beautiful. I jumped on the bike and took a long ride. The thawing countryside was stunning.

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Stopping for a cuppa, I mulled over the reality that, aside from childhood, and the years from age 18 to 21, and then 40 to 43, I have found being human to be a ferocious test. Often through my own decisions. A little of that has emerged in the blog. More to come.

Cycling is a great way to unwind. A bonus is that blog topics tend to spring up from nowhere and crystallise. And while I prefer to write about my life, far bigger themes nag at me.

All of this a long-winded way of introducing my perception that the ‘Yellow Vests’ in France – the ‘Gilets Jaunes’ – are rejecting the Radio 4 narrative that globalised capitalism is the best possible system for humans. From my view, the 8-9 December protests, riots, call them what you will, look like the possible beginnings of a cross-ideological uprising, evolving from an initial opposition to President Macron’s new fuel tax to an outright howl against austerity. Eschewing the tired old divisions of political parties and united in disdain for their leader.

Admittedly roping in far right players, alongside the students, workers, housewives and middle classes, but why not? Your politics do not have to be leftist in order to call out the economic and financial consequences of globalisation, and high taxation, which has left more and more French workers unable to meet their bills. We know that story all too well in Britain. Neoliberal policies that have shredded unemployment benefits, pension funds, free education, national health care, public hospitals and so on.

The reaction of the French police has been telling. While media images proliferate of tanks in the streets, teargas, water cannons and rubber bullets, there seems to be some sympathy and a recognition of common concerns. According to Alexandre Langlois, secretary general of the VIGI Police Union, “most of us back the Gilets Jaunes”. He told RT that “we can’t live where we work, because it is either too expensive, or we would be arresting our next-door neighbours, so we drive significant distances.”

It was equally telling yesterday evening, when French government ministers appealed for the anti-government protests to stop in the wake of events in Strasbourg, where a gunman killed three people and injured several more. The fear among those in power of losing control of the narrative, despite the non-stop brainwashing enacted through TV and other media, is palpable.

Never forget that Macron is privileged, a former investment banker. Who will never know the austerity he glibly touts. This rankles with many French women and men.

It thrills me to see such a passionate social outburst against a leader whose lips have embraced Satan’s bell-end like a favourite lollipop. I have no clue whether the Yellow Vest movement will gain in strength, and continue to spread to other EU countries, beyond Belgium and the Netherlands, but it has made me so proud to have a French surname.

This is my opinion. Things cannot carry on in the current vein, but the paths forward are narrowing. On the face of it, the automation sweeping the world looks set to bring more surveillance, more brainwashing, more militarised policing, more work for less pay, and the disappearance of safety nets as state money runs out. All lighting up Macron’s little Bonaparte-like countenance. In essence much more of the slavery that Orwell described in 1984. If Trump gets his finger on the button, we might destroy ourselves altogether.

The other option is harder to imagine, and you won’t hear about it on Radio 4. Let’s call it the Lennon option. The abundance option.

In which human consciousness changes so dramatically – and as rapidly as the fall of the Berlin Wall – that the current punitive systems fade like a bad dream. The Out of Essex option, where we will work of our own free will, doing the things we want to do, at our own pace. Where it is not “so hard to be a human” being. Hands up who has a better idea. We already have all the tools we need. But how to deploy them?

I’ll let the great man remind us of his wisdom:

Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today… Aha-ah…

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace… You…

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world… You…

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one

Quite a difference between the 20-year-old who wandered drunkenly around Stratford and LLoret de Mar and the 61-year-old who wandered almost soberly into a Great Portland Street pub last Friday. The Birmingham University student would not have appreciated the Cock Tavern’s welcoming old fireplace, nor the massive lanterns hanging outside. He would not have ordered two halves of ale.

From any cold or wet street, I’m a sucker for the welcoming low lights and twinkling optics of a London hostelry. Is that not a temptingly magnificent edifice?

Close to Oxford Circus, in Fitzrovia, the pub was the phase two location for a chat that must have lasted around four hours. My companion was the astute observer of layers, Al Campbell. Knowing my financial paucity, he very kindly bought me an end of year lunch in Picture, a restaurant a few hundred yards away.

Six tasty, small courses that slowly filled us, abetted by a glass of champagne, then wine. Richard Coles sat with a mate in the corner while we talked about any manner of topics.

Boy did we talk.  Al filled in a couple of items absent from my bullet pointed holiday descriptions (Blogs 69 and 70). He pointed out that during the Russian trip, a lad named Colin Godbold became very drunk on local vodka and puked in a sink. I played the altruist, he said, by poking the bits down into the Russian sewerage system with my fingers. Eliminating some of the evidence of Colin’s misadventures as teachers began checking out what was going on.

You know how good gardeners are referred to as green-fingered? Might top class vomit hiders be known as orange-fingered?

Al also stirred me with his recollection of an evening in southern France during our second venture to the Giens Peninsula, in 1975. It all made sense, in the light of Bread and Cheese hill (Blog 52), Cambridge and Stratford. It seems we visited a disco on the road to Hyeres, and walked back to the camp when the local taste in music became unendurable. Al and I found two chairs at the side of the road, and decided these would be ideal for sitting in outside our tent.

We slung them over our shoulders, and were stopped 10 minutes later by French rozzers with nobody else to nick. Why did we think it was acceptable to steal this property? You boys will report tomorrow to the police station with your passports. Which we did, with no consequences. But intriguing how the police provided regular punctuation marks in my young life. We eluded their scrutiny another time on that holiday, when commandeering two ‘pedalos’ and paddling them a couple of miles down the coast, abandoning one in the water after it ceased to function.

The only negative in the Cock Tavern was its lack of decent single malts. Ironic, as a nearby shop which we visited, the Whisky Exchange, was filled with the stuff.

There were bottles priced at £4,500, £7,000 and higher for rich and avid collectors. And several 1973 bottles. What on earth does a 45-year-old single malt taste like?

The 61-year-old Kevin Godier went home feeling his age. The small glasses of champagne, wine and beer provided a slight wooziness that the student Kev would have shrugged off.

But Al’s company was invigorating. We chomped our way through Brexit, democracy, soccer, novels, wives, parents, and so much more, with all the intimacy of old lovers. What a pleasure to know him still after 50 years.

There was a choice for the 1977 summer holiday. Majorca – with the Southend boys, again – or Lloret de Mar with Keith and his two of his Scouse mates. I didn’t hesitate to choose the Spanish town where I was conceived, even though that piece of information had yet to be revealed.

More pertinently, my friends at Birmingham, and Keith in particular, were always more open to transgressive behaviour than their Essex equivalents.

To get some dosh together, I put in a few weeks of very tough and exceptionally well paid work at Fords car plant in Dagenham, stripping out and replacing swathes of fibreglass lagging that insulated several huge machines in the building.

The pay was a hefty £50 a day for the entirety of the three week maintenance period. Enough to pay for Spain and buy myself a long leather coat when home again.

So I packed a suitcase and hitch-hiked from Romford up to Manchester. Never any doubts that I would get a lift. Big Dad met me, and took me to meet his mum and dad in Droylsden. We toured a few pubs, driving slowly across to the airport. Ray Howarth and his mates were in the bar with Keith, and my new mates John and Mike. Lovely blokes. Much wine and beer on the plane, and then an early morning coach to our destination for a fortnight of wassailing.

An open sewer ran through the town, which was still being built, skeletal high rise blocks dotted around the outskirts. I remember how awful the hotel meals were. A congealed egg concoction sticks in mind. Keith and I shared a room, from which there was little rising for breakfasts.

For the first time, I witnessed the efficiency of the Germans in all aspects of poolside strategy. Krauts were all over the place, with towels and cameras. John was a great swimmer and diver, who could hold his breath for abnormally long periods. He delighted us several days running by placing a chair at the bottom of the pool, donning his shades, and reading a magazine. The Brits appreciated this genius far more than their European counterparts.

For most of the fortnight I felt ill, with a low level bug. Almost certainly picked up from the Mediterranean, and more specifically from the sewage outlet pipe that ran into the sea a few hundred yards from shore. The remedy was masses of cheap alcohol each evening. Lager generally, as we rummaged around the many bars, clubs and discos. After a week, I was ready to go home, bored and slightly lonely.

Lots more frustration with women. A girl from Cumberland chatted me up at a disco, danced teasingly with me and then disappeared. Then a female from Skegness puzzled the daylights out of me. She was all over me at a barbecue. Then, as she became increasingly drunk, started to rail at me angrily for being male, and having only one thing in mind. I was baffled, and again by a dark little Liverpudlian girl who took me down to the beach, asked me to bite her neck all over, and then pushed me away. Had I volunteered to take part in a mad nightmare?

Events culminated on the final night, when two of us ended up in a bodega with two Surrey girls. One was quite a looker. The other was desperately unattractive and two or three times the size of her friend. Political correctness cannot override those very real details, or her lack of any charm.

As the evening proceeded, it transpired that their idea of the perfect nightcap was a swinging time back in the hotel. Even now, it remains a no-brainer. I have never been able to muster any sexual enthusiasm for girls that I didn’t fancy. It’s just me, for better or worse. I knew that my predatory companion would muscle in with the fairer of the two when events hotted up, which would leave me in pole position (or lack of?) with her mate. Yuk!

So how to get out of this situation? Eventually I invented the sight of one of our mates walking past the door, looking lost and lonely. Off I shot on the pretence of looking for him, and was told the next morning that the joys of double fellatio had featured among events. The menu also included a tearful bitching session between the girls.

The next afternoon I was back in Manchester, knocking on Ray’s door in Wythenshawe, feeling flu-ridden. A few beers and a magnificent kip in his spare bedroom sorted that out. Back out in the morning to a main road heading south, where a lorry driver was going all the way to London. A new term was looming in Birmingham, which was such a cheering prospect that I decided to return early.

 

 

Neither Shaun nor I can precisely remember who went to Stratford-upon-Avon in June 1977. The pair of us, plus Big Dad and John Noble, or Big Youth as we liked to call him. Did Simon tag along? Whichever noble kinsmen, we took the train from Moor Street one midweek morning, alighting in Stratford at the end of the 45-minute trip.

Culture wasn’t our priority in the bustling birthplace of William Shakespeare. Unless you count pub tourism. Many lunchtime ales were sunk. As you like it, measure for measure. The draining of the brew. As the afternoon peeked through the hostelry windows, it was suggested that we might take a look at the Royal Shakespeare Company theatre that backs onto the River Avon. The next thing I can remember is pretending to be in a Viking longboat as we traversed the High Street, using the paddles that had been lifted from a boat somewhere.

Then a Chinese meal. The usual story there, where the quantity of food met stomachs already full of ale. Much ado about nothing. Inevitably, back to a pub. Where I had the genius idea of phoning Keith back in Birmingham. Told him that we had all been arrested for riotous behaviour, and to pass this story onto our Maple Bank flatmates who might be worried about our absence. The true motive being to elevate the legend of the Four Pint Can Club. My intellect working at its peak.

X pints later, we returned to the railway station. Dad tarried awhile in the loos, maybe for a Richard the Third? Then the train departure back to Brum seemed to be delayed. Suddenly a tempest of police erupted swiftly onto the platform and straight to our carriage. Next stop Stratford police station, ferried there in the back of a van. We were all charged with (something like) the destruction of a toilet cistern and associated piping at the railway station. Nobody owned up. Upon our release, we faced a massive walk home.

The only option was to call Keith and tell him we had all been arrested for riotous behaviour!

And could he please come and get us. And so he did, God bless him. We walked along the A34 in some kind of midsummer night’s dream until he hove into view and relieved our tired legs.

All’s well that ends well? Nearer to tragedy. Dad took responsibility for the station damage, and later returned to Stratford to plead guilty and receive a fine.

 

 

 

About 16 years ago, Maureen took the kids out one Saturday afternoon. I filled the bath, poured a glass of whisky, and was about to sink into the warmth when it occurred to me that multiple televisions were emitting sound around the house. I turned four off before ablutions could commence.

Now our residence is so quietly becalmed that the noise of our ‘dustbin lids’ is rather delightful with each return. Lauren and Josie came around for dinner Thursday night and filled out the place with their good cheer and ever-ready conversation. Rory will be back next weekend for three weeks, adding his own dynamic. In all cases, feelings and emotions are usually available for discussion, and various issues can be aired freely and without judgement.

In between we never quite fill the gaps left by their absence. On the plus side, Maureen and I have learned the deliciousness of silence with each other. On many occasions there is nothing new to say. That adds allure to other times.

But when all five of us are back together it makes M and I very happy. There is a feeling of having built something worthwhile.

It makes me feel for Eric, who sits alone with his thoughts for much of the time. His two ‘dustbin lids’ try to keep him buoyant and make sure his affairs run well but I don’t know how much longer he can operate solo as his short-term memory worsens. He turns 91 in January.

Such is the flow of time, as summed up by the great Byrds song :

To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

I received the following WhatsApp message on Thursday night from Shaun Wilson. “Pete Shelley. RIP. Brilliant songwriter. “Why Can’t I Touch It?” Stunning.”

It is a great tune. Mesmeric. Listen to the guitars and bass talking to each other between the verses. Longer than the average Buzzcocks song, with little pointers to Can, the Flamin Lips, and the Stone Roses. Somebody once said the Buzzcocks were the ‘punk Kinks’, which nails it for me. My favourite was “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays”, but pressed strongly by “Harmony in my Head”. Goose bumps listening to both of those just now.

Shaun’s musical taste was always unerring. I had read about the mighty Little Feat in my NME, but he had the albums. ‘Sailin’ Shoes’, ‘Dixie Chicken’ and ‘Feats Don’t Fail Me Now’. When punk emerged, I’m certain that he was the first student in Maple Bank to bulk up his record collection with the Pistols, Clash, Costello, Jam, Jonathan Richman, Ramones, Buzzcocks, Eddie and the Hot Rods, Ian Dury, Siouxsie and X-Ray Spex. Any visit to Shaun, Andy and Dad’s kitchen provided all sorts of aural education, pushing me out of old comfort zones. “New Boots and Panties” in particular. Shaun loved ‘Billericay Dickie’.

Together, Shaun and I watched the Clash at Barbarellas, Magazine and Television at the Odeon in New Street. And the ‘Bunch of Stiffs’ tour at the Town Hall – Dury, Costello, Wreckless Eric and Nick Lowe. Probably other gigs that I have forgotten.

Four decades on, Shaun is one of the world’s biggest fans of Half Man Half Biscuit. Possibly England’s best band. Satirical story-tellers par excellence. Much of the HMHB guitar sound is a living tribute to punk.

Shaun has countless things going for him, aside from musical good taste. Always the first to buy a round of drinks. He and Big Dad once drank 20 pints each over the course of one day. An alcoholic Everest that I was never able to surmount. And Shaun’s biting wit was the counterbalance to many a boastful claim by Keith.

In the post-university interim, he has become a creative, thoughtful gardener and cook. Before retiring a few years back, he was a deputy head teacher who learned the names of every kid in his schools, and never took a day off sick for over two decades. Also a terrific dad and husband, from the available clues.

This weekend, he is serving for the first time behind a community-run bar in Faye-la-Vineuse, somewhere in mid-France.

Santé, my old friend!

 

So easy to say in retrospect. But I do I wish I had paid many times more attention to my American Studies degree course at Birmingham, which began in autumn 1976. I enjoyed the literature courses: reading Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, Poe, Fitzgerald, Hemingway and so on. But coasted in my lowest gear through the large history component of the course.

What a story to skim over. The Puritans and Founding Fathers, Manifest Destiny, War of Independence, the push westwards, the genocide against the natives, and the Civil War. Industrialisation and the constant schisms between isolationism and foreign intervention.

Above all, the 61-year-old Kev would like to have studied, in some depth, the struggle to escape the pull of the British Empire and the City of London.

In Out of Essex, Chapter 15, I inserted the following quote from Thomas Jefferson, a principal author of the Declaration of Independence and the third US President. “If the American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their currency, first by inflation, then by deflation, the banks…will deprive the people of all property until their children wake-up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered.”

TJ was on the money. In an 1816 letter, he wrote: “And I sincerely believe….banking establishments are more dangerous than standing armies; and that the principle of spending money to be paid by posterity, under the name of funding, is but swindling futurity on a large scale.”

My course had significant competition. Principally the enjoyment to be tapped elsewhere, including a first taste of marijuana sometime that autumn. On too many mornings sleep was the winner, after alcoholic nights out. Tutors tore a few strips from me over my minimum efforts. I rode my luck.

Despite the futility of the Cambridge violence, I threw a milk bottle that smashed a fellow student’s window one drunken evening.

Above all, I needed a female to calm me down. In stepped Jane Simpson, an Everton fan who lived upstairs. She declared an interest just before Xmas 1976. I was quite mesmerised by this wilful woman, who could twist me around her little finger. And was almightily jilted when Jane called it off after a term together. I’ll always be grateful for that time, which saved me from the darker shores of myself.

After an Easter 1977 trip up to Liverpool to stay at Keith’s house, and meet his Scouse mates, it was back to Brum, for a great summer term. Another landmark ‘sketch’ came on Silver Jubilee Day. June 1977. Big Dad led a pack of us to the Plough in Harborne, where the merriment let out fully equalled the ale taken in. After the pubs had closed, a group of us congregated in the road, singing our drunken homage to something, probably not the monarchy. This stopped a double decker bus, and Dad proceeded to scale the side, Bonnington-like, to the driver’s incredulity.

En route back to Maple Bank, Dad and some lads decided to break into a swimming pool in an unoccupied Edgbaston house. As a man whose criminal record was still fresh, this seemed like intrinsically dangerous behaviour. Others chose to climb over walls and steal some expensive-looking plants. I sat on a wall by the road with a couple of unknown girls, and waited to see what transpired.

Two of the lads returned with potted plants, and began debating whether to take a swim in the pool of the particularly sumptuous house to where Dad had toddled, and whose owners were obviously away.

Suddenly, with next to no warning, a police car came screeching to a halt just feet away from our little wall. You should have seen the scramble. Males and females, left and right, over walls, behind bushes. One instinct told me to do the same, while another said stay put, because you are guilty of nothing. Micro-calculations in less than a second, resulting in me remaining wedged on a wall with plants for companions.

The coppers asked if I knew any of the culprits. No, I had met them in the pub that night. They wanted names and descriptions, so I invented some, and sat in the back of the police car while the information was sent to HQ. They told me to stay in the car, and went outside again, sniffing around.

Now the tour de force. A never-to-be-forgotten image appeared in the wing mirror. A bloke walking down the road, whistling. A yellow lilo slung over his shoulder. At night, in the middle of Edgbaston. As he neared, I could see it was Big Dad. He had lifted the lilo from the pool, and was giving it a new home. He walked past the coppers, who were still scrambling around for clues or suspects, and said  to them, very politely, “evening officers,” before winking at me and ambling on. They were too preoccupied to notice. I received a lift home for co-operating.

There was also a fantastic afternoon when Jonny Price, from Norwich, got hold of a horrific mask. I was keeling over in delirium at the anticipated fun. We found a ladder and sent lads up to look into people’s windows wearing this macabre item. The dare was to stand very still on the ladder and look into the room until the victim turned to see them. The screams were ear-piercing, and the laughter unparalleled. I was stretched out on the ground, ready to die of happiness.

Brother Neil also came up for an evening, stopping off on the way to an interview at Stafford Polytechnic. The poor bugger left the worse for wear the following morning. Late for his appointment. Whoops. He still remembers that Dad had requisitioned several hundred burgers from somewhere, and that our diet was accordingly narrow.

And then another time when Shaun and Andy’s Geordie mates came down for a weekend. What a lovely bunch of blokes. Ken, Mac, Sel, Steve Gav and Mike. Perfect drinking companions. As we looked out from Shaun and Dad’s kitchen, well-lubricated, a dreamlike vision appeared on the grass below. Andy dancing naked, uncoordinated, face to the skies, arms aloft, in some kind of heaven in his blond head.

It was a beautiful summer. Lots of exhilarating friendship, memorable come-ons from women, tons of beer. I got into the habit of letting my tongue out in Lake Hall bar, centimetre by centimetre, until its full length was on display to onlookers.

A riotous visit to Stratford-upon-Avon deserves a separate blog.

We listened to Derek and Clive non-stop. I just played it again, going back 41 years in time, tearful with joy as Peter Cook noted that “I was having a wank, going slightly beserk, clinging onto things……it was just a run-of-the-mill, nine o’clock, Wednesday morning wank.”

Returning to Romford at the end of the term I ached with a cocktail of sorrow and joy. As the coach left Digbeth, it was clear that some of those play peaks could never be repeated.

In the warmer months, gardening and cycling are my favoured outdoors pursuits. But when autumn and winter bed in, I try to walk every day. No more than 5 minutes from our house is The Langleys, a country estate dating back to the early 18th century.

I tend to enter the grounds through the southern gate, past this lodge. Latin translation reads: “To be, rather than to seem”.

The photos were taken in the order that the walk unravels. One of the delights of this stroll from April to early October is the cows. A local farmer rents much of the fielded areas for his herd.

The main building is listed Grade 1. The Tufnell family owns the estate. They keep a very low profile. I’m glad it’s open to the public. Dog walkers are warned to pick up all excrement.

The trees across the estate are stunningly gorgeous.

Above is the West Lodge, where I turn sharp right.

The cow shit produces brilliant autumn mushrooms.

The path heads back towards the main house.

The barn below is empty. Maureen reckons it could be a thriving tea shop and craft centre. Maybe. It would spoil the blissful sense of peace.

This house opposite the barn enchants me. The tenant left several months ago. I feel a sense of magic whenever I pass. Living there with a log fire roaring and the sound of the nearly river would suit.

The path leads past the house, down to a small bridge over the River Chelmer.

On ‘Brexit’ day in June 2016, and the following few days, the Biblical storms that erupted sent a raging torrent across this small weir.

Kids find this old building spooky.

Children like to play poo-sticks from the bridge.

If elves and faeries exist, I reckon this little area will be one of their strongholds.

The path flattens out here and runs east.

The Essex Way footpath branches off left. The estate path swings right, out to the North Lodge, less than half a mile away.

 

Below are my favourite two trees. How many years have they been companions?.

In early spring, an owl could be heard most evenings along the path below.

Heading back now. I love this spot.

I usually exit at the gate below, and walk back into Great Waltham.

Good eh? I also like this walk at night.

The tale of the non-consenting event in Maple Bank, briefly touched on in Blog 39, still makes me feel uneasy. Thursday night’s episode of ‘Eastenders’ was astoundingly well crafted, digging deep into this topic.

The entire 30 minutes was set within the Queen Victoria pub. The camera danced around the room, moving quickly from character to character, capturing exactly the point of view that their age, history, gender and psychology would warrant. From Phil Mitchell’s chuckling as his wife Sharon extolled the virtues of a ‘real man’ shagging her up against a wall, to the pain and misery of Ruby, the girl who has brought rape charges against two local lads. And a gamut of positions and nuances in between. The men accused – who said she had given her consent – featured before being chucked out.

It gladdens me when scriptwriters slip free of their standard mould. The camera pirouetted and swerved from view to view, never tarrying, offering a communal cross-section of individual experiences that prompted any interested in-looker to consider their own stance and experiences. The arguments were often heated and spilled over into the sexual pressures in marriages and other relationships.

If there was consensus, it was that grey areas linger. And are best avoided. Maureen and I had a cracking chat this morning, swapping our own takes on this.

I began watching ‘Eastenders’ to be a more companionable husband. And have come to realise that it is the best of the soaps by a country mile. Not just the innovative ways that it addresses social issues. Acting, dialogue, humour, camera work. Now I’m waiting for the series to go ‘macro’ and tackle the biggest topics of all: debt and war.

As they build up to that, the scriptwriters might like to consider an X-Files-style episode where a UFO loses its way to Antarctica and lands in Albert Square for refreshments at the Vic. The extra-terrestrials showing no surprise as the ghost of Frank Butcher serves up their pints. “This place Sharon – it’s doin’ my ‘ead in!” says Phil Mitchell, as he volunteers to accompany them to the South Pole.

 

This afternoon I met my brother Neil in my favourite pub, The Alehouse in Chelmsford. Just for 50 minutes or so, to catch up.

I have enjoyed so many enjoyable hours in this lair, as the trains to and from Liverpool Street rumble overhead along the viaduct. Never less than a wonderful choice of real ales and craft beers, and a great set of single malts. Nicely mixed crowd of all ages, with many commuters popping in for refreshment on the way home. Have had some hugely enjoyable conversations here with John Devane, and Martin Clark, the best ones spread across long summer evenings.

I hardly drink beer now, unless the occasion begs hard, or the fare is irresistible. However the most gorgeous pint slipped down my neck. Choosing Procrastination, from the Wilde Child Brewery in Leeds. A fairly weak 3.2% pale ale, but so fruity and aromatic. It had to stand for a couple of minutes to clear. The wait was worthwhile.

The picture of Neil is slightly blurred. Do we look like brothers? According to one of our very vocal New Jersey relatives, we simply cannot be related. What a great brother though. Utterly generous and reliable and trustworthy.

A decade or so ago, cycling back from Littley Green to Chelmsford, my bike sprang a puncture. He offered me his, on the grounds that he could run alongside, and so build up his fitness. So we chained mine to a fence and run he did, for six miles.

We had a second drink this afternoon. A Bowmore single malt for me. For the first time in a long time, I wanted to carry on.

To drink through the evening, looking out at the crowds and twinkling lights, slowly drifting out of time.

But obligations called. I bussed it home while he went to see Eric.