Gaston, Gangsters & Gran
The boy Ashley, aka Marconi's revenge, is back on the radio with the 'Golden Oldies.' Sadly, there's no actual tactile vinyl, it's all preordained computer activated playlists. Virtually idiot-proof, it must be, they ran it past me first.
Although there are dangers lurking in the 45rpm grooves. A good chum in Canada, Gaston, was an overnight radio jock and one night in the wee (very apt) small hours presenting the graveyard shift, he needed a comfort break. He stuck on Don McLean's 'American Pie' assuming it was the full-length version (8'41') – alas, 'twas the truncated version (a scant 5 minutes). The Chevy barely got it to the levee, never mind finding it dry. Fully expecting a full 7 or 8 minutes of relief it came to a shock to the system when the tune finished before he had. Rushing back he forgot to duck the low hung speakers and ran pell-mell into them. There was claret everywhere and an unthey zipped platter player spark out on the floor.
What would have worried me if I was in radio management (if I ever consider this please shoot me immediately)nobody noticed as the turntable kept on spinning playing the record label for 2 more hours. Gaston recovered, but was never quite the same and soon went native, trekking up to the Yukon hunting muskrats for their valuable pelts, living in an igloo eating whale blubber and I might just join him. Because, being back at a radio station presents proof, if it was ever needed, I'm ageing and it does not best please me.
I'm surrounded by painfully cool hipsters. God's boots, I've got a verruca older than most of them. I said to one young whippersnapper on his phone to 'hang up.' The puzzled reply was; “How do you mean – hang up?” I felt every single one of my years at that moment.
Another sign of advancing knackerdom is the discovery that a volume knob also turns to the left. Here's a further tester – should you fall down in front of a group of people. If they laugh, you're young, if panic, you're old. Mind you, there are pointers when you are departing the first flush of youth, but not quite ready to don a pair of tartan slippers and trip out on Werther's Original – man. You're on a sweltering Costa Blanca beach, and a Señorita walks past, almost wearing a bikini - you'd find more cotton at the top of an Aspirin bottle and you muse; “Gosh, I do hope she's wearing a 50-factor sunblock.”
As that tough old bird Bette Davis opined “Old age ain't no place for sissies.” Something my Granny Gert would take on board. I never knew how old she actually was, but she must have been born around the Siege of Mafeking, which lasted 7 months, Gran would have had that done and dusted in a heartbeat and still have time to donkey stone the front doorstep. She was a formidable woman, nothing phased her and nobody took liberties. She was the first to take me to London on the Brighton Belle, all silver service and servility.
Thinking about it now, I suspect she would have preferred the grease and grime of a Harley Davidson, bombing up the A23. We ambled around Hamleys Toy Shop, and one glorious day Gran bought me a spud gun (under 60s Google) - which I fired randomly in Hyde Park at the pigeons (never got one) but they did fly off and leave a calling card on my pudding basin haircut administered by Gran. “Why waste money on those Teasy-Weasy pantywaisters?”
Although they were golden days I suspect Gran would have felt more at home in Whitechapel with a Makeson in her hand at the Blind Beggar Pub, hanging out with the Kray twins rubbing shoulders with George Raft and Barbara Windsor. Instead, we finished up in Lyons Corner Tea House on the Strand. Gran always had Gammon Grill (5/-), I fancied exotic Macaroni à l'Italienne (3/-) but she said I couldn't have that foreign muck, although that may have more to do with a brief liaison with a dodgy Italian costermonger behind the Ritz Bingo Hall, and nothing to do with the Tuscany tucker.
Still miss you Gran, and if I may nick a Pink Floyd lyric; 'Shine on you crazy diamond.” You were a shining force in my life.