Tuesday, July 4, 2017

IF

If.

It’s a funny little word, isn’t it?

It’s the title of a famous movie directed in 1968 by Lindsay Anderson and staring Malcolm Mc Dowel.


Only two letters yet the thoughts that could go with it are massive, and at times earth shattering.

Its origin is in the Old High German (iba), moving to the Old Saxon (eef) and onto Middle English of (gif).

Today it is classed as a conjunction and in approximately fifteen hundred and ten was first used as a noun.

The dictionaries of the world give its meaning as a conjunction as:

a. In the event that: If I were to go, I would be late. b. Granting thatIf that is true, what should we do?
c. On the condition thatShe will play the piano only if she is paid.

2. Although possibly; even thoughIt is a handsome if useless trinket.
3. WhetherAsk if he plans to come to the meeting.
4. Used to introduce an exclamatory clause, indicating a wishIf they had only come earlier!

And as a noun as:

A supposition; uncertain possibility: The future is full of ifs.

So now we are on the same page, I pose a question.

How many times in your life have you wondered “If only I’d done that? If only I’d crossed the road? If only I’d taken that turn?  If only I hadn’t had that last drink?

If, like me, you’ve asked such questions a million times during your lives, you’ll concede now that you’ve never fathomed out a reasonable answer.

Therefore they remain unanswered.

I am now going to attempt to answer a couple of my iffy questions, so bear with me.

What would have happened in my life if I had not accepted the job offer that brought me to South Africa way back in the late sixties?

I do not care to air the number of times I have examined this dilemma. It is numerous and each time I have ventured to answer it the number of other “ifs” entered the fray.

I was at the time in wed-lock to my first wife, a beautiful ex-Ballet-Rambert dancer, who I met whilst she was working as a stage-manager working in a Northern English repertory company. I was playing Octavius Caesar in a modern production of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.

She had played many leading roles for Rambert and was a rising star, but injury befell her and she had taken the stage manager’s job, wishing to stay in the theatrical industry, and hoping that her fractured ankle would mend quickly.

We had a whirlwind romance and were married when we both moved to London on completion of our contract at Billingham Rep. Our best man, was the soon to become famous, Bryan Brown,  for his role of Doug  Coughlin in “Cocktail” staring a young Tom Cruise.


He was also working at the time in the same Repertory Company. As a wild Australian boy, his paper work was not in order and a couple of weeks after our marriage he skee-daddled from his assistant stage manager job and headed homeward to move in front of the cameras and become a famous film star. He later married the equally famous Australian actress Rachel Ward while they were working on the TV series The Thorn Birds.

The Lady in Wedlock and I settled into a flat in Chiswick, we had only been there a month and the weekly queue at the dole office was beginning to get very depressing, when suddenly Maggie got offered job as a chief dresser on the Black and White minstrels show at the Victoria Palace Theatre.

Within a day I was working as junior fly-man in the tower. It was the dustbin men’s strike and then the miners came out and a three day working week was announced by the government. The streets of London looked like a pig-sty and the tube-men went on strike too.

So it was bicycles for the two of us. We only worked on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights with sometimes a Wednesday matinee for the OAPs, but in no time we became two of the fittest young people in show business cycling 8 miles from Chiswick to Victoria station and back to our flat.

Then one Monday morning the phone rang.

A ringing phone meant two things to both of us. It was ominous, either someone was looking for money we owed them or it was the offer of a job.

I answered it with trepidation, and was relieved to hear the dulcet tones of my agent, Miss Boo King. I was being offered two jobs and if Boo played it right I could do them both.

A guest appearance in the popular BBC crime drama Dixon of Dock Green, and another appearance in the new police drama Z-Cars. I played a long haired motor bike rider Kevin O’Brian in Dixon and long haired hippy student ban -the-bomb rebel Tony Monk in Z-Cars.
   


I did both and our bank balance began to look rosy. However I had just finished the Z-car’s job and another job was offered. I was to play a small supporting role in the BBC’c Play for Today series.



It was Penda’s Fen by the already famous David Rudkin. When it was screened in 1974, I was already in South Africa but I heard that it went on to acquire the status of minor classic, win awards and was rebroadcast several times on the BBC.










The job that took me to South Africa came under unusual circumstances. I was in University College hospital at the time, newly diagnosed as a type 1 diabetic, so I had to get special permission from my doctors to get a pass-out for the evening to meet the director and fellow cast, more of this another time.

The job was in Terrence Rattigan’s In Praise of Love a very popular play and the South African producer was assured of good houses as there was no television service in the country till the mid seventies.

Their president at the time, John Voster , and he called it the devil’s box.

I was offered the juve lead, Joey, the estranged son of an egotistical left-wing literary critic Sebastian.


There are only four characters in the play. Sebastian, his wife a part-Jewish woman called Lydia, who is suffering from a terminal illness, but she was with the Resistance during the Second World War, so she survives on her wits and her feminine charms. Then there is Mark, an American best-selling popular novelist and a friend of Sebastian's, who has long carried a torch for Lydia.

Sebastian is openly abusive to his friend Mark, and to his son, Joey, who offends him by working for the Liberal party: "A vote-splitting organisation," says Sebastian, "carefully designed to keep the establishment in power."

Joey himself is an aspiring writer, and is in rebellion against his father's overbearing manner and professed Marxist views.

On the surface the play takes the form of a comedy of misunderstanding, but it quickly builds into a situation of almost unbearable suspense as layer after layer of comedy and pretence is peeled away from each character to reveal the full measure of each one's unspoken love and pain.

As well as being an outstanding dissection of the nature of love and pain, In Praise of Love is as fine a statement about the loss of idealism and illusions in the nineteen seventies.

My fellow thespians were all well established Muriel Pavlov, Robert Flemming, and Canadian actor Robert Beatty.

They all worked, appearing in stage, film, television and radio productions. Muriel had just come from a film set were she played Kenneth Moore’s wife in the epic Second World War movie Reach for the Sky. Robert Flemming had just finished filming The Quiller Memorandum playing the sardonic British Secret Intelligence Service chief. And Robert Beatty had recently come off the set as one of the astronauts in A Space Odyssey and as General George Carnaby in the Richard Burton and Clint Eastwood’s epic war movie Where Eagles Dare.


So I was very pleased to be amongst such distinguished actors and I had a very long argumentative scene with Sebastian.

But it wasn’t the role or my fellow actors that really made me take the job.

What impressed me even more was the sound of my agent’s voice telling me I was to receive a salary of seventy five pounds a week for five months. That would certainly keep toddy full to the brim, and it didn’t take me long to discover that Mr. Robert Beatty was very fond of a very large Brandy and coke. And we were both introduced to South Africa's answer to Potcheen. The illicitly made Mampoer, made in the hidden stills in Groot Marico.

My previous job was with Prospect Theatre Company, I had toured Australia for five months and I received only twenty eight pounds a week. So the deciding factor of this first “if” was money with a capital M!

My first meeting with my fellow thespians was strange to say the least.

A tube and bus trip from central London to Hampstead Heath.

I was informed that our opening night was in five days and it was in Pretoria South Africa.

I was to have two rehearsals apart from this preliminary meeting; they were to be in the evening at the director’s house. The next day we were to fly to South Africa during the night, be taken to Pretoria have a technical run through, a dress rehearsal, and open the following night after a second dress rehearsal in the afternoon.

At the initial meeting I was asked, “How good are you at learning lines Cess?” “Ok”, was my reply. “Good,” replied the director, “Have them in your head for tomorrow evening’s rehearsal.” 

What followed were two read-throughs of my three scenes and then I was sent packing with my copy of the play clutched securely in my sweaty hands and my newly acquired insulin in a small cooler bag.

That evening I was learning my lines when the phone rang. It was unusual for my agent to make an out-of-office call, but she thought she had better fill me in concerning the producer for whom I was about to work for.

She told me I was a replacement; the SA producer was not happy with his original casting and had fired the actor. She gave me a full run-down on the rather infamous Pieter Torein, who I was to work for another three times in my illustrious career.

Needless to say I learnt my lines and the opening night was a resounding success.

The play ran on tour to Johannesburg, Cape Town, Port Elizabeth, Pietermaritzburg, and Durban and to then what was Rhodesia. All in all, a ten month run with constant full houses.

It was during the Johannesburg run which was about five months that I was introduced to the art of radio acting by some of the finest actors in this craft, the late Hugh Rouse, the late Denis Folbigge, Margaret Heale, Ian Hamilton and his wife Erica Rogers.

They taught me all the nuances of the craft.

How to portray distance and movement by moving on and off mike, how to use the telephone mike in its own little enclosure, and most importantly how to not pop my “Ps” and deliver lines when only a centimeter away from the mike.

This last technique stood me in good stead for all the voice-overs I would do in latter years for Castle Larger, thirteen years, Samsung ten years, British airways, four years, BMW five years.

Denis Folbigge was one of South Africa’s leading actor-writer-directors and was responsible for many long running and successful serials and series. It was he and another radio personality, Margaret Heale, who employed me constantly and who persuaded me to start writing for their series and serials.

Within a year I was performing the lead, and writing episodes of “My name is Adam Kane” and also writing the highly successful crime series, “Squad Cars”. A radio rip off of the BBC series “Z-Cars” that I had just appeared in.

So a few of my “ifs” have been answered, if I hadn’t taken the job I would not have learnt my microphone technique, I wouldn’t have seen every major town in South Africa, I wouldn’t have traveled to Zimbabwe. I wouldn't be writing these tales.

And I wouldn't have discovered Mampoer!!




But if I hadn't?


Now there’s the question!!!

Sunday, December 18, 2016

Dutch Bitterballen

Have you ever landed up at the right place but on the wrong day and time? This occasionally happens to a jobbing actor particularly if he's working on a production where the line producer and scene scheduler couldn't find their arseholes with a GPS.

I have found myself in this predicament four or five times in my illustrious career. Three of these events occurred while I was filming with Jackie Chan in his self-financed movie called "Who am I" at the turn of the millennium.


Jackie is a man of means by no means and he throws his highly talented self into all aspects of the production. Camera, lighting, props, wardrobe and make-up are at all times under his watchful eye. As he said to me shortly after joining the cast as the leading villain, "In 'oolywood production, producer he tell me what to do. In my production, I tell 'lem!".

And that he certainly did. Shooting schedules were changed constantly, locations, were shuffled like a pack of cards. In the sixty days that I shot with him in Rotterdam, I never knew what, when, or where I was wanted till Mr Chan had decided.

One morning eating a delightful breakfast in the Rotterdam Hilton, Susie Wong, a junior production assistant scooted to to my table,  "Ha Ceas , today we shoot on you, but only lata, the scene where you watch Jackie from stleet doorway."

"Scene number?" I asked

“Ha scene not litten, Jackie he lite it. I give you later."

I knew I was in for a long Hurry-up-and-wait session.

Ms Wong told me to be ready for pick-up in the hotel lobby in thirty minutes. I went up to my to my room and prepared for all eventualities,  camping chair and table, small cadac gas burner, expresso maker, cup, plate, ingredients, book, soduko, and crossword.

 An hour later I was ensconced on the pavement at a busy centre of the town's intersection. Ms Wong departed, "We is be seeing you lata."

After making myself a delightful expresso and getting into the first book of Asimov's triolgy Foundation, I found myself surrounded by three armed members of the Dutch constabulary . Unfazed I pulled my script out of the side pocket of my camping chair. "I'm filming in Jackie Chan movie and I've been told to stay here."

"Ah, Jackie Chan, we also," replied the tallest of them, "We will be controlling the traffic.

"Have you any idea when?"

"No, we at 10 o'clock here. We told to wait. Control she tell us."

"Can't they give you an update an ETA?". I thought I was being very clever throwing in the algolirim, but the reply I got showed that their English was not too advanced.

"You can eat across the road, about 11 o'clock she come. Very good bitterballen, she make. The gouda and spinach, she sehr gut!"

Bitter Balls are a unique Dutch invention for using up the left overs of previous meals. They are either served as a crumbed log or ball with some mild mustard on the side. This delectable snack is a must if ever you're in Holland.


They are made using the leftover of previous meals, usually contain cheese, all this is wrapped in mashed potato and cover with bread crumbs then deep fried and server with a mild mustard or sauerkraut.

My in built clock told me I'd have to wait about an hour till the magical bittenballen lady arrived, so I excused  myself from my newly made friends and dived back into my Asimov.

As I was beginning to understand the nuances of Asimov's 3 rules of robotics an enticing aroma filled the air, the distinctive smell of fried potatoes and melting cheese. Mrs Bitterballs had arrived and was busy erecting the side canopy on her converted VW camper van.

My friends from the costabulary were already across the intersection and were busy chatting  up a well endowed young lady as she shook her bitterballen discsrding them of the last droplets of cooking oil.

As I arrived she scooped the bitterballen, six of them,  onto a large paper plate that already had a mountain of cole-slaw testing its flexible form. The largest policeman delicately took the plate and deposited it on one of the three portable tables next to the caravan.

"Here Dirkie." Said the voluptuous cook, handing three plastic forks to the young constable who couldn't take his eyes off her bouncing bossom.

"Hurry up!" Yelled  his mates. Dirkie spun around, dropped the three forks, tripped himself up as he turned and stumbled towards his compatriots.

"And what would you like?" Asked the bossom, "they told me you were English, " she continued.

I could fully appreciate Diirkie's dilema. My eyes too were transfixed on the largest mamary glands I had ever seen. "You should try the spinach and feta and the bacon and gouda".

My eyes finally made contact  with hers as she repeated the bacon and gouda option. Somehow I managed to utter the affirmative reply. "Ja." I croaked through my dry throat. "five minutes," she said continuing, "take a seat, I bring it. With cole-slaw?"

I croaked another Ja and joined the seated constabulary.

"She carries them well, does Connie, she goes to the same gym as the boss, no wonder he's always late for role-call." Said Dirkie as he swallowed his last bite of bitterballen.

My mouth was really dry and I knew that it would be parched shut when Connie delivered my balls. I stood up, excused myself and darted back across the road to my HQ.

Two minutes later I was seated and plonked my 2 litre chateau-cardbord of dry red and 4 paper cups on the table. " Help yourselves, we won't be filming today."

I was waiting for the standard British cop's reply of, "Not while we're on duty,"  but was pleasantly surprised as the largest one, who I'd sussed out was called Willie, leant across the table and poured himself a cup of the finest Spanish Don Carlos red. He managed to turn off the plastic valve before Connie arrived with my bitterballen. Had he not I fear my Don Carlos would've flooded across the table.

Her mammeries decended to our seated eye level and four pairs of eyes were locked in Greek Chorus union, till she turned and returned to her caravan, which now had a queue of over a dozen males who wanted their daily bitterballen.

I side track to let you know that the bitterballen were superb and I was so impressed that I ordered another two each for myself and companions. I sent Dirkie to do this as I didn't want to suffer another Namib desert in my mouth.

It was close on three o'clock when Connie had closed her shutters and drove off into the Rotterdam afternoon traffic, which was quite heavy, but she was guided off the pavement by three slightly inebriated polcemen. I witness all this while sitting back in my camping chair, brewing myself an expresso coffee.

Dirkie and his mates, Willie and Herman, were standing in the designated smoking area ten metres away from the nearest supermarket's entrance. The no smoking regulations in Holland are very stringent, there is no smoking in any building or enclosed space. Individual companies have also tried to stop their employees smoking and put a no smoking area outside their main entrances.

 Walking along any pavement you are constantly coming across a yellow striped section, you can take one footstep off the yellow lines and your feet are suddenly surrounded by dog-ends, stompies and half finished cigarettes. Dirkie and his mates told me that at night the discarded dog-ends are scooped up by the druggies, the homeless drug addicts, who wander the streets in search of their next fix.

The sun was beginning to set silhouetting the high rise skyline, when Willie appeared hovering over my shoulder," You was right, no film today, we've been recalled to the station. We finish at six. And you? What you do?"

I was about to answer as my Lady Di's Mercedes cruised to a stop. "Ah Lon, we forget you, no?" Said Susie Wong  from the passenger seat, "Ah no, we no forglet you, Jackie she say silly. We do scene next week."

My new friendly constabulary helped me decamp and load my belongings into the Merc's boot.

"See you next week chaps, same time, same place." And off we cruised into the city's sun set.

It was three weeks before I regrouped with Dirkie, Willie and Herman. We shot the scene about ten in the morning and we were wrapped well before Connie's arrival.

Both myself and the three policemen were free for the rest of the day. Dirkie ran off to nearest supermarket to get an ample supply  of alcoholic beverages while the three of us ordered a full assortment of all the bitterballen Connie had on the day's menu. As she closed up she told us she was off to a “straat part” in one of the city’s outer suburbs and invited us to come along.

Within seconds we were in back kitchen section of her camper while Connie weaved through the back streets of the inner city. The constables told me we were going a the southern suburb,which was were most of the poorest immigrants settled, particularly those from the Nederlandse Antillen, the Dutch Antilles, particularly the island of Surinam. 

They were typically Caribbean, into their drugs, mainly cannabis, their reggae music, and Voodoo ceremonies which often left dismembered corpses floating in the canals, providing nourishment for the carp and eels.

I glanced at my three compatriots who still in their uniforms and quickly envisaged the four of us surrounded by an angry mob of weapon wielding Caribbeans who were stoned our of their tiny minds. I quickly asked if they had their Civies.

After a bit of Connie-assisted translation, she said she could lend them some jeans, trousers and T-shirts. She told them to search through a large plastic container packed in the cleaning cupboard.

They pulled out the container finding it full of numerous articles of men's clothing. I thought of asking Connie how she came by such a wide assortment of men's apparel. I thought better of it, as I remembered my mother's extra-curricula activities in the Old Poole pub in the latter years of the second world war.

Let sleeping penises lie, I thought as I imagined the many males of all shapes, hues and sizes, sprawled across the greasy floor grappling with Connie's over-sized mammaries.

I was pulled out of my fantasy as Connie brought the caravan to a jarring halt. "Aus!" She yelled as I and my now under-cover policemen disembarked.

They'd asked her if she would look after their uniforms. "In the plastic box, ja?"

Dirkie said one of their mates was on patrol that night for the "straat pary", and when he arrived he'd get the uniforms into the patrol car.

The festivities were in full swing, the hashish laden air shimmered in the setting sun. I wandered in the direction of the pulsating reggae music coming from a constructed stage in the middle of the large open square in which Connie had parked.

The troupe of eight musicians performing were all Caribbean apart from the lead singer, a white blonde dread-locked, quite beautiful, girl who must have been in her late-teens.

I sidled over to an pop-up bar, ordered a beer and plonked myself on one of the available stools. They played on for what seemed like a hour, but as I  was only on my second Heineken it must have only been half an hour, when they took a break. A DJ took over keeping the vibe alive. My plan was working, the lead singer was wandering  across to water her vocal chords.

 My instinct was on the ball. As she asked the barman for a Heineken I jumped in and deposited a glass and a Heineken in front of her.

"Cess Poole at your service," I said trying to make a courteous yet not abrasive introduction. 

"Quite an impressive voice," I continued.

 "Jennifer, Jenny for short, Fowler," she said in the broadest Scoucer's accent I'd heard.

"Not related to Robbie?"

She laughed, "You support them?"

"Since the days of Bill Shankly right  through to Keegan and Dalgleish." I said as we clinked glasses, "To never walking alone."

"So what brings you here?"

"I'm shooting in the Jackie Chan movie. Got another 2 weeks then back home."


"Where's that?"

"Johannesburg, South Africa."

"Quite a traveler. The Pool, Africa, and Holland."

"Yep, but not Liverpool, I was born and brought up in Blackpool, supported them in the days of Stanley Mathews, Jimmy Armfield, and onto Alan Ball, but he left for Everton in 1966, that's when I switched my allegiance to Liverpool, to spite him."

"So how did you end up here? Holland's Surinam?"

Got invited by Connie, the bitterballen lady, she's over there." I said pointing across the square.

"I know. Would you believe I share a flat with her. Her nickname is Helium."

"Helium?" I replied with a quizzical smile.

It took me a second or two before I cottoned on, "Her boobs, balloons, right?"

"Yep, she saving up to have them reduced."

"Well if the collection she's got of men's clothing stashed away in her van is anything to go by, she won't be waiting long."

"She makes more from her bitterballen than she does on the side."

"Good luck to her, they're superb," I added, "bitterballen before Jenny could grasp my unintentional double-entrendre.

“Got to go and do our second set,” said Jenny, “Are you going to stay?”

“Dunno,” I replied.

“I’m not into one night stands.” She said as she turned her back to  return to the stage.

“Neither am I,”I replied.

She smiled and walked off.

Quandry, quandary, I was in.

Should I. shouldn’t I? To stay or not to stay that was the question.

 I was about to answer myself when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. It was Dirkie, now dressed again in his police uniform, “You want a lift back into town, to the Hilton?”

“Yep.” I said. My grey matter told me I’d spent long enough being in the right or wrong place, on the right or wrong day, at the wrong or right time. I followed Dirkie back to his police car with its flashing light.

An hour later I was dosing off to sleep wondering if in the morrow dear old Jackie would know what when and where he was going to shoot at the right time on the wrong day but in the right place?


Only time will tell.

Friday, January 15, 2016

POEMS for a change

Well a change is a good as a change, and so Sir Cess has given you some poetry to read, for those who have read his early childhood stories will recognise  some of the sights caught in the poems re: his mother . Grandpa and Grandmother. Hope you enjoy.



Altzheimers
 (for my Ma)

In a frozen room of locked in time.
A careful mind of long years toil,
Sits in an armchair, walls completely bare.
Fittings, furniture speak the only lines
She waited all her life to hear.
Whispers of phantoms crawl through hollow walls
Tales to her listening ears


In the street below
A child screams a playful taunt to his mate -
Her ears , a hidden bait.
Sparrows herald in a summer dusk -
Her ears, forbidden lust.
The TV gorges fact and fiction to the hoardes
Her ears

Memories stored beneath floor-boards.



The Tranquil Storm

The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all
It’s eyes open from a dream encrusted sleep
Light falls the recesses of our shuttered lids
Stepping stones of bodies fall across its path
Over the river flows washing
Nothing waits for this stormy tempest
Once awoken no breakwater holds it back
No leaden vault can seal its harsh intent
No pit of our soul will it grace
The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all.


Sleeping or awake
It lives on its own
Biding time


The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all
Breaking glasses thrown at window panes
Smashing chairs of antique wood
Cursing loudly at friends in disguise
Wallowing pity and wishing it would go
To finish what it started so long ago
The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all

A blade of sharp-edged grass
Cuts finely through the lawn
While textured clouds foretell the doom
As apple blossoms perfumes sweet
And acrid vapour stale lover’s come
The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all.

Given time it’ll have its way
That tranquil storm will be released
No speck of dust will
Hide from the holocaust!
Hell no chance
When the tranquil storm takes leave
And stops
Lying hidden in us all.

Mother , son, daughter, father, wife and spouse
The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all.


Twenty-One Commandments

  1.    Broken images caught in time that should be given to somebody else.
  2. Acted times in a Glass Megnagerie.
  3. Visions seen when they should not.
  4.   Women I have known.
  5.  I spit scorn and derision.
  6.    They laugh and say it will pass.
  7. The smell of cats invade the room
  8.   Dead dogs yap at midnight’s call.
  9. Everyone calls to hear a joke I can not tell,
  10.    Try and understand the good book says.
  11.    It’s difficult.
  12. Thank god it’s past.
  13.   It’s unlucky for some.
  14.  The future will bring what’s locked in store.
  15. The whiteness of my tomb escapes.
  16. The sodden and trodden earth.
  17.   Spies have seen my hard drives and will see the truth.
  18.  They should! It’s their job!
  19.   Thou shalt not.
  20. Thou shalt.
  21.   I always have.






Water Child
(Caught in Rain)

Shrimp heads lay scattered
Upon the pebbled beach.
Wind blew Sand swirling
Through my hair
Spray mounting beach-front steps
Childhood memories caught in rain.

Used Jonnies – the rubber kind –
Floating on the surf.
Swollen now with sea-salt
Water filled, buoyant like balloons
They navigate carbuncled pier-struts.
Childhood memories caught in rain.


Lollipops and donkey rides.
Coco the clown with elephants as well,
Candy floss and toffee apple stalks,
Scattered flotsam, holiday maker’s junk,
Litter swirling on the empty prom.
Childhood memories caught in rain.


Grandpa dead – skeleton hr lay –
Grandma mad – mop in hand –
Pigeons cooing, seed they want.
Garden watered for the veggies to grow,
Tomatoes trussed – fertilised as well –
Childhood memories caught in rain,


  
Mother holding the wrath of God,
Sister crying, lost, forlorn,
Brother stupid – Eric was his name –
Bath-tub full –rising steam –
Naked lady – tits in bloom.
Childhood memories caught in rain


Back door locked – bolted too –
Barred from house and home.
Pants wet and backside sore,
Naughty boy – you did wrong –
Punishment taken from teacher’s hand
Childhood memories caught in rain.


Rain, rain in a pool
Water in a tub,
Sea in and out
Childhood memories caught in
Rain.