Carry on Jacki. You were 'wonderful' as well

So what do you think of the Carry On Films? Obviously for someone as current as me it should be really easy. I'm (by and large) from Brighton, I'm (sort of) modern, I'm (for a bloke in his 50's with a rather effective combover) rather down with the kids, and therefore I should obviously think Carry On was an awful sexist business which deserves no place in modern popular entertainment.
But I have to confess for a long-term sneaking admiration. Maybe I am alone here in the capital of right-on 'ness on the south coast but for me Sid and Bernard chatting up their 'birds' is still quite funny.
"Infamy, infamy they have all got it in for me", remains one of the best lines ever in British comedy, and I can laugh even today at Sid James in Bless this House, Terry Scott in Terry and June, Charles Hawtree in Carry on Sergeant and Bernard Bresslaw (my combover is better) in Carry on Camping. And, this confession will probably confirm once and for all that my political career is over, for men of my age (your guess will obviously be much younger than the reality) Barbara Windsor's 'assets' were the first bosoms we ever ever saw (for me the location ever seared in my memory was the Dome Cinema in Worthing).
Having got these excuses out of the way that was why I snapped up early tickets to 'Jacki Piper - A Right Carry On' on Saturday 28 November in the Vestry at the Museum of Comedy, Bloomsbury Way, London.
Admittedly I initially got Jacki confused with Angela Douglas . The latter had been in some earlier Carry On films but her new husband 'Kenny' More had banned her not been keen on her appearing in them again.  Some searches on google confirmed it was the Girl June from Carry on up the Jungle that I was off to see reminisce about her experiences working with legends of British comedy (and also Frankie Howerd*).
My guest at this event (who insists on remaining anonymous for fear of never being welcome in polite Brighton circles again) and I, settled into our seats early for the show. It was indeed a rather small crypt, rammed full of tiny chairs, and by 7pm swamped with enthusiastic Carry on Fans of - admittedly - a certain age broadly equivalent to my own.
In the dark it was difficult to keep notes, and I did not want to appear like a sneak in any case so the evening started on a great note with an admission that the Carry on Films were also 'low budget affairs.'
It was still - even in the midst of a 1970's era nostalgia-  something of a 'luvvie' fest. 
Jacki opened by admitting that 'I know most of you' (which made some of us feel out of it) but she went on to give some fascinating insights into the actors she had worked with:
"Terry Scott was a perfectionist".
"Charles Hawtree always came to the set with his mum. She was a chain smoker who dropped the ash into her handbag. Which was fine until her handbag caught light and the fire brigade put both her and her handbag out."
"Frankie Howerd had a 'terrible wig' (should have tried a combover) but was 'lovely' despite suffering from depression caused by trying so hard to be funny".
We also learnt Jim Dale refused the part of 'Ugh' in Carry On Up The Jungle because it involved "speaking like a gorilla" (as Jacki put put it "Health 'n' safety and political correctness never featured" in those days"). 
Terry Scott was also "lovely" (despite the loin cloth incident) and continued to be so till the end of his his life. Terry managed to star in 'A Bed Full of Foreigners' in a wheel chair on a tour of China, thereby denying the also "lovely" Jack Smethurst a part for which he had rehearsed on the flight from Heathrow.
Joan Sims was "so talented", Sid James was "wonderful and he played cards". He let Jacki pick "his horses" (maybe I should let her pick mine!).
Roger Moore was also "charming and lovely". Admittedly Roger was normally otherwise engaged (playing a certain spy) but he had tea with the 'Carry on' lot when filming James Bond.
Kenneth Williams was "an absolute hoot" and 'Bernie' (Bernard to you and me obviously) Bresslaw was  "an academic really, learned, quiet and gentle".
Jacki also confessed to starring in Dr in Trouble where she met Leslie 'Ding-Dong Nurse Bell' Phillips, before going to (admittedly 1970's) Brighton for Carry On At Your Convenience. It was filmed at a hotel/pub near the County Hospital, and the desperate industrial relations of their 1970's day were sorted out when Bernard, Sid et al went for a ride on the ghost train on the Palace Pier with the workers at the toilet factory (was Jeremy Corbyn an extra?).
Hattie Jacques was also "gentle, talented and wonderful" and had decided to give up dieting.
Leonard Rossiter was "a total perfectionist and workaholic".
The best of the lot was Ronnie Barker (agree there) and if there is to be a new Carry On it should star Frank Skinner (and I agree there as well).
On re-reading my notes I feel I may seem a tad critical (sorry Sam). Actually it was a wonderful 80 minutes. Jacki (rightfully in my opinion) refuses to dish the dirt. She simply exudes happiness for being involved in a golden age of British comedy. 
If she does one of these nights again then get along - you will not be disappointed.
And maybe Sam take the show to Brighton for next year's festival?

*Thank you the also wonderful (obviously)  Ms Potting Shed for correcting my terrible spelling of Howard

Newbury is on its way back

As I work my way round the racecourses of Britain it is becoming increasingly difficult to make my visit a day trip. To do all the courses in a year is going to require a greater familiarity with the railway timetables as I intend to stick with public transport as much as possible, and more effort at forward planning (which I admit is not a strong point).

Hence my boarding a train from Paddington heading to Bedwyn, which if you had asked me before I booked the tickets, I would have assumed was a mining village in the valleys of South Wales. At least I know now it's in Wiltshire.

I had decided to base myself in the even more prosperous (than Bedwyn anyway) Berkshire market town of Hungerford, for my trip to the Hennessy meeting at Newbury.
Sadly Hungerford is now forever associated with tragedy, being the location of the first American style mass shooting to have occurred in this country back in 1987. It's very grand these days, so smart that its high street contains a dozen antique shops, organic butchers (x 2), more designer women's dress shops (of the type which do not seem to have many clothes in them) than you could imagine in fashion heaven, and a nail bar where men (admittedly still Vietnamese) do the lacquering. Fortunately I also found a kebab van parked down a side road, and a pub which sold Greene King IPA. That beer is not totally to my taste but I forced down a couple of pints in honour of it now being China's favourite real ale.
Hungerford was chosen as it is handy for Newbury racecourse, and a lot cheaper to stay in than Newbury town when the racing is on. 

My 'single' room at the Rising Sun had 3 beds, and Don the landlord had 2 Staffordshire bull terriers which happily seemed friendly enough. They did also make mightily effective guard dogs on the landing outside my room, meaning I could safely leave my laptop behind when setting off for the racecourse in the morning.
The Hennessy at Newbury is the last long standing sponsorship left in racing. Most races now are sponsored by bookmakers or Qatar. It's sad that the Schweppes (Captain Ryan Price's legendary 'plots' still excite me today), the Whitbread, the Mackeson and even the Benson and Hedges are gone. Of course I still take great delight in calling these races after the original sponsor, which inside feels like a tiny victory against the Bet365's of this world. 

And in addition to this small victory there is no better way to study the form than over a full English. Don's breakfast did him proud. My instructions were clear. Eggs with runny yolk, bacon (well done and fried, not baked as is now the fashion in some hotels), sausages (grilled), baked beans (Heinz), black pudding and buttered (Kerrygold) toast (white obviously). He was delighted that I wasn't one of 'those vegetarian hippy types' which cheered me up no end.

In the first race at Newbury there was an interesting horse. See the World had run once before but was clearly something of a character (I was going to write Madame but it was male and indeed gelded!). The Racing Post reported that 'turning round the home bend four furlongs out he was cruising in the lead when he stopped. He let the other horses overtake him before starting again and sprinting up the straight to win easily.'  Despite the 'not one to be trusted' label I steamed in, hoping Emma Lavelle had ironed out the idiosyncratic traits. She had, but he still finished 4th.
Entrance to Newbury was a bit pricey at £30 for a premier ticket but it's only fair to report that the tea and coffee were only £1.60.

As usual I entered into the Placepot (it's almost a tradition) having not been put off by it only paying £2.60 at Lingfield the day before, and as usual I lasted one race. Mind you that's is still better than winning it and only collecting £2.60.

Newbury was once a great racecourse but there is a feeling round the circuit (I am almost part of it these days) increasingly that it has declined in recent years. The awful incident where two horses were electrocuted in the paddock was probably the nadir of its fortunes. I expected the worst but things are perking up, mainly as a result of an 'enabling development.'

Newbury is a desirable place to live, and the course therefore sold some land to build new homes. This housebuilding is paying for a revamp of the whole course.

It has even led to racing themed road names surrounding the course. There's Denman Drive, Hennesey Aveneue, Mill Reef Lane and (I hope no one paid for this suggestion) Racecourse Road. And the new management needs to be congratulated for its efforts to improve the facilities for stable staff. These unsung heroes (and more often heroines) of the game have to put up with awful facilities at may racecourses (Brighton being probably the worst example of all). I admit at first glance I thought the Lodge might be a meeting place for 'Larrys'*. On closer inspection it is an excellent hostel and cafe for the all too often undervalued stable lads and lasses who devote themselves to the horses we love to see run.

Inside the course there is a whole wall papered in old Racing Post newspapers. One of them was from February 7, 2012 highlighting the potential of the emerging talent, Darren Egan. Sadly today's Racing Post (obviously not papered to the wall) lamented the waste of the talent of Darren Egan - banned as a rotten apple.

It was good to see Dave Nevison in the betting ring, providing commentary for RUK. Mr Nevison wrote a very entertaining account of his life at the races (including an intriguing mention of a liaison with a Conservative MP!). He tells it as it is, and is willing to put us off betting each way in the 'jungle' when there is a solid odds-on favourite. 

The third race on the card included a 'handicap certainty'. Unowwhatimeanharry (Carpenter and Bruno presumably?) had won with a first time tongue tie (basically a bit of old stocking which helps a horse breathe) in a Cheltenham handicap two weeks earlier. That was a race for conditional jockeys (bear with me here non-racing pals please) so he could run in this race without a penalty - i.e. carrying a weight much lower than he really should. 

I am always sceptical about these handicap certainties. I duly backed the second favourite, which came second to the handicap certainty, who won 'hard held.' Obviously death and taxes can now join with any horse trained by Harry Fry carrying a weight considerably less than the handicapper thinks it should as the remaining certainties in life.

Despite these betting losses I was cheered by Newbury's proper fish and chips shop (with mushy peas and jellied eels).

And I even spotted the legendary Stephen Little in the betting ring, although sadly not wearing his rabbit skin coat.

Seeing Stephen reminded me of the other missing great 'professional gambler', Harry Findlay. For reasons I have never been able to understand he jointly owned Denman who triumphed at Newbury in an 'I was there moment.' Goodness knows what made the gentleman dairy farmer and point to point trainer, Paul Barber, team up with 'arry, but sadly he did. I am left wondering if Mr Barber knows where Mr Findlay is now? 
On balance then my conclusion is that  Newbury has had difficult days but it's recovering nicely. And I suggest underrated trainer Evan Williams' horse John Constable is worth following for the rest of the season. Unfancied for the Gerry Fielden hurdle he still finished a close second carrying a high weight. Lump on at the Festival.

Newbury marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 7
Atmosphere 6
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 6
Racecard (cost, quality) 6
Queues for bar 9
Viewing 9
Standard of racing 8

Total (out of 70) 51
Punting success lost badly - 3 2nds (hit the bar in football terms I guess) but at least I found 2p on a seat on the train back to Hungerford!

* Larry Grayson - masons

26 reasons to like Wetherspoons

Hungerford is so smart that it does not have a Wetherspoons. Stuck in a gastro-pub makes the heart grow fonder, so here are 25 26 reasons why I like and miss 'spoons (as us young people call it) -
1. Tim Martin's accent
2. Tim Martin's mullet
3. They often serve Hophead in the Sussex ones
4. The tinned craft beer that no one ever buys
5. They serve coffee at 8am but you cannot get a beer until 9am
6. The queue which forms at 8.58am in the Hove, George St branch that cannot be served for another 2 minutes (see 5. above)
7. 'Be rude not too.' The window cleaner who used to leave his bucket, cloths and ladder outside a Brighton and Hove 'spoons at 11am. He'd have 2 pints of Ruddles and when offered a third by a mate would reply, 'Be rude not too.' On finishing this one he would then collect his bucket, cloths and, yes, ladder before continuing on his round
8. There's one in Leamington Spa which has a seat made out of a toilet
9. You can stay in some of them
10. The 'spoons in Tunbridge Wells still hosts an opera at least once a year
11. Tim Martin once visited the Hove, George St pub on a cold, wet, Monday, November evening. He ordered half of Abbot and I was the only person who recognised him
12. Tim Martin saved us from the Euro
13. The double take from the bar staff when you order yoghurt and fruit for breakfast
14. The letters in Wetherspoons News
15. They serve steak and kidney pudding
16. Gluten free food (that's for my father-in-law)
17. Ham, egg and chips with a soft drink for £4.50
18. The menu tells you how many calories there are in each meal (actually cancel that one)
19. It annoys Andy Winter
20. The Winter Gardens in Harrogate
21. The most profitable (per sq. foot) is in Boredom Boreham Wood
22. I know Andy Winter does not believe this but you can watch the Parliament Channel in the West St one (silently with sub-titles)
23. Alan Howling 'Laud' Hope (leader of the Official Monster Raving Loony Party) prepared for his 2015 election battle against Boris in Uxbridge by visiting 500 Wetherspoons. He lost
24. Howling is a lightweight compared to Mags, who is doing a pilgrimage to every Wetherspoons in memory of her late husband
25. And finally Latin quotes over the bar. Floruit Floreat (as it has flourished so may it flourish). Go to The Hatchett Inn, Newbury for this you classicists. 
26. No there is an even more important late update made for hopefully understandable reasons. If you are 'caught short' (as my dear old mum used to say) at Victoria Station it's free in Wetherspoons  (upstairs next to platform 12) - and 50p in the Southern Rail toilets.

Please good Labour people for the sake of our country remove Mr Corbyn

This will be a brief post.
I am a Conservative because on the whole I think the Conservatives manage the economy better than the rest. Without economic competence you cannot have all the other things we value - sound defences, security, the NHS, decent public services etc.
That is not to say that I think my Party gets everything right. We are human and left to our own devices do get many things wrong.
To be any good a Conservative Government needs an effective Opposition. Some of  my Conservative colleagues think it is great that someone as unelectable and (even worse) hopelessly useless, as Jeremy Corbyn, is Labour leader.
Corbyn's 'leadership' means the Conservative Party is ahead by between 10 & 15 % in the polls even when doing all sorts of things which would normally make a Government very unpopular.
The absence of an effective Opposition is a bad thing. My Conservative #saveJez chums tell me not to worry, because the real opposition will come from Conservative rebels, the media, pressure groups and the few remaining brave Labour MP's prepared to speak out against their leader.
That's true to some extent I guess but misses one important point. Even the most effective, eloquent and persuasive journalist, pundit, pressure group or backbench Labour rebel is not an alternative Government/PM.
Please my Labour friends do your patriotic duty. Either remove Jeremy Corbyn as soon as possible and replace him with someone who is a potential Prime Minister - or leave the Party and form a new electable centre-left Opposition.
NB and here's a tip for free: the person the Conservatives fear most is Andy Burnham (only joking) Major Jarvis

Mr Cox got let in to Ascot

Phew, the famous bowler hatted gentlemen let me in after all (see earlier post). There were also some bowler hatted gentlewomen facilitating my passage, and great it was to see Ascot of all places striking a resounding blow for feminism. 
En route to the course from the station there was one elderly busker*, a half one-man band (i.e. playing an acoustic guitar and harmonica). His cap was brimming over with coins confirming once again that busking near a racecourse (on race days obviously) is considerably more lucrative than even the primest spot outside Waitrose. Racegoers have a tendency to be generous in the hope that their kindness will be reciprocated by the punting gods later in the day. 
Even for an obscure jumps card on a Friday in November the touts were out in force at Ascot, both buying and selling tickets. They do this openly, alongside notices warning of the perils of buying from unofficial sources, and within earshot of loudspeaker announcements telling you that if you buy a ticket from a tout it may not be valid. Needless to say everyone I saw who bought one from these 'entrepreneurs' had no trouble getting in, which must have been galling for those in the lengthy queue at the 'official' ticket counter.
Ascot has come in for something of a bad press in recent years on account of its new stand.

From a distance it is magnificent but at ground level it is reported to be a bit bleak, with poor viewing. My 'premier' pre-purchased non-tout ticket let me check all this out, and to some extent I can see where the critics are coming from. Joining those restricted to ground level the view of the racing at least could be better. It is difficult to see all the action from the viewing area in front of the grandstand, notwithstanding the otherwise excellent facilities bar/toilets/food/paddock wise.
Going up to the 4th floor though and you enter a different world. Carpeted stands, unreserved seating and a panoramic position enabling you to see the whole course with ease. I am not easily impressed but it was superb.

There has always been something about racing which brings the masses and the ruling classes together, often leaving out the middle classes in between. Ascot illustrates this phenomenon more than any other racetrack. Indeed three is even a piece of art and explanatory plaque

which celebrates this cross-class unity.
Country Living Christmas Fair day takes it even further. There is obviously the betting shop next to the caviar bar, there are the Dubai style shopping mall escalators, 

and to top it all there is 'market place' selling everything from pictures of dogs and horses on cushions, Emma Bridgewater Christmas plates (you can get one free if you subscribe to Country living Magazine), startsmart (tweed waistcoats for toddlers), and Helle Grabow scarfs (nope me neither). I was particular intrigued by a whole stall devoted to 'Chukka belts', hoping these were what an aspiring metrosexual non-candidate for the Labour leadership used to hold up his strides. Sadly no - they turned out to be a fashion item linked with Spanish polo.
The bowler hats are just as much in evidence inside the course. In fact at times there so many bowler hats in evidence it felt like I was attending a Clockwork orange convention. Actually the headgear is remarkably remarkably effective, as I ended up feeling guilty all the time, fearing I was going somewhere I shouldn't. Maybe Ascot are actually onto something. How about a premier league football club ditching the yellow jackets

for its stewards, and just getting them to wear bowler hats?
The races themselves all went off 5 minutes late. This was explained over the PA system as being because 'Ffos Las has been abandoned'. Us knowledgeable racing types all nodded sagely at this explanation. 
In truth the quality of the racing was not of the heights normally associated with Ascot. This was particularly poignant for me, because as a youngster I remember seeing on the telly what many people of my generation and older still regard as the greatest horse race of all time - Grundy v Bustino 1975. This took place at Ascot and the winner was ridden by Pat Eddery, who sadly died last week. Pat was only 63 years old, and obviously had his demons. He remains for many punters simply 'the champ.' Other jockeys were more stylish but us betting shop gamblers knew that if you backed a horse ridden by the champ your selection would be given every possible assistance from the saddle.


The Ascot authorities have been experimenting with appearance money for its chases to attract more quality entrants, but they were still only rewarded with fields too small for each way betting.
Nevertheless I think we may have seen a very good hurdler in Krugman, who is worth following in the top novice events for the rest of the season.


Next stop Newbury.

Ascot marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 7
Atmosphere 8
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 7
Racecard (cost, quality) 6
Queues for bar 9
Viewing 9
Standard of racing 8

Total (out of 70) 54
Punting success - just about ok (thanks again to Alan King's Wishing and Hoping) *should have more generous to the busker

And anyone else that knows me

Popmaster on Radio 2's morning show presented by Ken Bruce can be strangely compulsive.
Guess the year is fun. Why is the contestant nearly always one year out?
It's impressive when some pop brainbox gets 30 plus points and qualifies for the Champions League Popmaster. I reckon I could do that if all the questions were on Chas 'n' Dave - otherwise I would struggle to get more than one right answer.
I'd still like to go on just for the bit at end when Ken says,
"Would you like to say hello to anyone?"
The contestant usually replies,
"Yes Ken" before launching into a long list of family, friends, workmates, neighbours, distant relatives and old school chums before finishing with the immortal words "and anyone else that knows me."
I have never actually known anyone who has been on Popmaster and therefore always feel mildly left out at this point. Thinking about it though would I not been even more upset if I did know the person taking part but they had not named me and simply lumped me in the  'anyone else that they know' category of second degree importance?
All this leads me to think that when I do go on the Chas 'n' Dave Special Edition Popmaster and Ken asks me,
"Would you like to say a few hellos?"
I will simply reply,
"No thanks Ken".

A warm welcome, even for the Greens, in the twilight at Kempton

After a spot of tomb tourism, it was time to take in the delights of a 'twilight' meeting at Kempton Park on Wednesday.

In truth I expected my report to be short (hurrah says the dedicated reader) and direct. Something along the lines of 'All weather racing put on to give bookmakers something to show in their shops on a winter evening. A form of horse bingo. Low expectations of low grade sport comfortably met.'
4.25pm is a strange time for a first race (twilight geddit?) but I was early enough to stop off in the nearby Jubilee Public House for a pint and some diligent research of the Racing Post. It was just my sort pf pub. Large England flags, saloon bar shut, 'the coldest lager in town', pool table and a menu consisting of-
Burger
Burger and chips
Cheese burger and chips
Pork scratchings
Chips, and
Cheesy chips.
I went for the exotic (cheesy chips) and delicious they were too. Apart from a nervous moment when a shaven headed pool player with tattoos on his neck mistook his pint for mine, it was a perfect pre-race experience. I admit I may have looked a touch out of place in my tweed coat and trilby but the landlord wished me luck as I left, and his alsation/huskie cross even barked his support.
Are the Green Party still for banning horse racing? Natalie Bennett can certainly go to Kempton as part of her review, for not only does the racetrack have its own railway station ('trains only stop on racedays'), but there are also electronic car charging points in the car park and dedicated bike parking near the front entrance.
From the moment I arrived I was given a warm welcome, with the receptionist even asking me "Are you an owner?" 
By the start of the first race the 'crowd' had swelled to about 200. Service in the bar was swift. They sold Caffreys, which from memory was fashionable about 20 years ago. It tasted disgusting then and time had not improved it. It was nice though to have no queues, and without exception every member of staff was friendly and helpful.
As for the racing itself, it was of remarkably good quality for a wet evening in mid November. The maiden (a race for 2 year old horses which had not previously won a race) included a horse called Amanita. He had cost 280,000 gns as a yearling (Sheikh Hamdan had just outbid me!) and duly bolted up after a slow start.
Prize money for the 6th race on the card was in excess of £22k, prompting John Gosden to saddle Richard Pankhurst (at one time amongst the favourites for the 2000 Guineas).

The main drawback for Kempton is the strength of the betting ring. You can understand why a bookie might not be overkeen on a pitch in the dark and rain outside on a late autumn evening, but with only seven bookies standing the starting prices can be potentially manipulated to the benefit of the large off-course bookmakers.

Kempton Park will never be a pretty racecourse. It is functional and has a dedicated set of regular supporters. Trainers like running their good young horses there because the running surface is fair and safe. This gives the opportunity to see future stars on the first or second starts.
Whilst observing a bloke with a broken leg snorting coke in the gents after the 7th race was slightly disturbing, I left Kempton with a favourable impression overall. If I lived nearby I suspect I would be a regular visitor.

Kempton marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 10
Atmosphere 5
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 3
Racecard (cost, quality) 6
Queues for bar 9
Viewing 7
Standard of racing 8

Total (out of 70) 48
Punting success - down

Richard Burton's tomb

As a Calvinist, somewhat lapsed admittedly, I have never been keen on ostentatious memorials to the departed. When I'm gone a quiet cremation will do fine.
But I confess I also find grand tombstones eerily fascinating. Death is still the unspoken of certainty in life which makes us all equal in the end. Even the grandest of mausoleums on the scale of the Pharaohs cannot eradicate the fact that the body inside is every bit as dead as the one in a pauper's grave.
In my earlier life as a detective I often had to visit the mortuary in Lewes Road, Brighton for some rather grim post mortums. Feeling queasy and in a typically male fashion not wanting to show it, I would often wander round the grounds of the adjacent Extra-Mural cemetery and be amazed at some of the stonemasonry on display.
It was this somewhat morbid interest that found me this week walking through the West London suburbs of Putney and Mortlake, places more associated with the boat race than matters of life and death, searching for the grave of Sir Richard Burton.
My curiosity had been sparked by the Matthew's Parris Radio 4 Programme Great Lives, where Monica Ali had talked about the Victorian explorer's amazing exploits. Until then, like many people I suspect, I had merely associated the name Richard Burton with the thirsty Welsh actor who married Elizabeth Taylor twice.
The Victorian Richard Burton spoke 29 different languages, journeyed clandestinely to Mecca (he would have been killed if discovered to be European), wrote books on subjects ranging from falconry, human psychology and fencing to sexual relations, fought in India and the Crimean War, and explored large parts of Africa, Asia and South America. To some Burton was a Victorian pornographer, obsessed with sex and famous for translating the Kama Sutra. Rumours as to his sexuality were circulating in 'polite' circles in a day when it was not 'polite' to talk of such matters. Certainly Burton seems to have taken a great interest in the sexual habits of those he met on his travels, in a way which on reflection seems to have in certain cases been, shall we say, 'above and beyond the call of duty.'
I learnt from the radio programme that aged 40 Burton had married Isabel Arundell, a devout Catholic. There is a dispute when, or if, Burton ever adopted the faith, and this is where his tomb comes into the story and my curiosity was really triggered.
Sir Richard died of a heart attack aged 69 (I know, I know) in 1890, and Lady Isabel claimed he converted to Catholicism before the last rites were administered by a willing priest. Burton's friends suggested he remained an atheist until the end, and the last rites were only administered after he had died.
I am no expert obviously but I rather suspect the friends were correct. However what is not in doubt is that Isobel had lost the love of her life, and that having been devoted to Richard the whole of her adult life, she was devastated by his death.
Her last act of love for him was to commission an incredible above ground tomb in which his body (in a coffin thankfully) would be interred. Burton's family - his niece in particular - were opposed to this but ultimately comforted themselves because this apparently grand last resting place was in 'a shabby sectarian cemetery' which 'within 50 years will have been swept away by London's ever advancing tide.'

So that's why I found myself in Mortlake, on a wet November morning (ok I admit on the way to Kempton races as it happens) searching for the cemetery containing Sir Richard Burton's last resting place. It was not easy to find. The graveyard surrounds St Mary Magdalen's Church. I had the postcode - SW14 8PR - which enabled google maps to take me to the general area. I could just about make out (by jumping up and down) what seemed a rather grand monument behind the high walls of the churchyard. The nearby door in the wall was firmly locked and did not appear to have been opened for years. I contemplated climbing over, but a combination of age and fear of getting mistaken for a burglar put me off.
I was about to to give up when on my third circuit of the walls I noticed a gap down the side of the church, behind the Montessouri school. I walked along it cautiously, thankfully no one stopped me, and I found myself behind the church and facing what was obviously the Burton tomb.
It is made of stone but resembles a Bedouin tent. There are inscriptions on the front, including a rather good poem. Most curiously at the rear there is a cast iron ladder. Climbing this allows you to access a roof window. Daringly (for me anyway) I scaled it to see that inside there are paintings, vases and the coffins (with presumably their remains inside) of Sir Richard and Lady Burton.

This intriguing curiosity has now been there in an anonymous suburban cemetery for over 120 years. Planes coming into land at Heathrow fly directly over every two minutes but it seems to have survived intact. Part of me still does not really approve of such a monument but on reflection hats off to Lady Isobel. She got her way and if you are ever in Mortlake with nothing to do it's worth a visit.
And thank you to Monica Ali for sparking my interest.

Mr Cox goes to Ascot

Forward planning that's the key. By booking earlier in the week via its website I was able to obtain a discount on my ticket for Ascot's Country Living Christmas Fair (well done for not spelling it Fayre) raceday. My premier ticket promised me access even to the 4th floor of the stand and cost only £21. 
Obviously it is not the Royal meeting, or Champions Day (sponsored by Qatar), but not bad for a day's jump racing at Britain's most prestigious flat course.
I must admit though I was stumped by the myriad of choices I had to choose from as my tite when purchasing my ticket. In all there were 66 choices, including General, General Sir, The Marquess of ...., Reverend, Major the Hon, Earl, Lord (and The Lord) and Rear Admiral. After much consideration I settled for Mr. Presumably it was simply an oversight on the part of the Jockey Club that Mx was not amongst the 66. I sense a Brighton based Facebook campaign hitting Ascot soon. 
To be continued if I am allowed in by the famous bowler hatted gatemen. Update - I was see here.

Dad's Army ok but not Porridge please - unless Stephen Fry plays Mr Grout

The jury is still out on whether remaking Dad's Army is a good idea, but with Bill Nighy well cast as Sgt Wilson I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.
For reasons I cannot entirely explain I am far less enthusiastic about the proposal this weekend to remake Porridge. Surprisingly only 16 episodes were made of what Ronnie Barker considered was his finest piece of work. Ian La Frenais and Dick Clement, the writers of Porridge, also wrote my other favourite, the underrated (Whatever Happened to) The Likely Lads. 
Apparently they will be writing the new Porridge, which will involve Norman Stanley Fletcher's grandson being caged in a 'modern' prison for (groan) cyber crime.
It's got potential embarrassment stamped all over it. Maybe the only way I could be convinced is if they find a convincing replacement for genial Harry 'Mr' Grout. Grouty was a wonderful character, obviously based on Mr Bridger the cultured crime boss ('while we are on the subject Governor, I notice that some of that young mob in E block don't stand for for the national anthem') who organised the heist in Rome from his prison cell in the iconic film The Italian Job.
The casting of John Le Mesurier as Sgt Wilson was inspired, and Bill Nighy is a pretty good effort at following up. Even more inspired was getting Noel Coward to play Mr Bridger in the Italian Job. So who on earth could the BBC get to play a modern day Mr Grout? Stephen Fry is surely the nearest modern equivalent to Noel Coward, and probably the only way I could give an updated Porridge a go.
In the meantime the Times this weekend reminded me of why I enjoyed Porridge so much -
Asked about an inmate convicted of poisoning, Godber says,
"Is that why they call him arsenic Riggs?"
Fletcher: "No, that's because he once sat on a razor blade."

1 err, 2 err, sorry WWE I submit

This week WWE were in Brighton. I rather suspect that this momentous event may have passed the more cosmopolitan elements of our wonderful town city by.
Nevertheless the American wrestlers were besieged by fans outside the Metropole Hotel, and then performed fought before a capacity crowd at the Brighton Centre.
Part of me can understand why most of the citizens of our diverse city may have little interest in the 'sport' of American wrestling.  
And yet, and yet .... yes I may even have to suggest that WWE Raw has an appeal which even us slightly smug middle-class English progressives might do well to ponder. Clearly the fights are all choreographed, the wrestlers themselves are absurdly steroidly enhanced and there is an underlying sexism (even when it's the women who are 'wrestling'). 
But there is also something of the ancient morality play about the whole event. It's good v evil, heroes v villains, a soap opera for the masses where in the end right (as in not wrong - and also I concede possibly a bit rightish of centre in political terms) triumphs.
Ok that's my effort to defend the indefensible and understand the appeal of Amercan wrestling. Having done that it still has nothing on the old British wrestling of my childhood.
Greg Dyke is a great man - he invented Roland Rat, was Director General of the BBC and now runs the Football Association (the odd FIFA watch not withstanding) with distinction. But for many people of my generation he can never be forgiven for ending wrestling on ITV.
"Welcome grapple fans to the Empire Baths, Southend/Blackpool/Skegness/Clacton", are the words of Kent Walton which are seared in our memory. In the wonderful 45 minutes on World of Sport, after Dickie Davis gave the half times, and before the full-time football results came in, we were taken to another world on Saturday afternoons.
It involved goodies and baddies, old ladies in the audience hitting fat blokes in leotards with their handbags and my nan telling me that Mick McManus was a 'coward.' 
The tag matches were great. McManus (apparently a quiet man away from the ring who collected porcelain) teamed up with Steve Logan. The latter had greasy hair which he would rub in the eyes of the clean cut opponents he and Mick were fighting.
In contrast to McManus and Logan, there were the Royal 'Brothers'. Bert Royal was a balding middle aged bloke who fought alongside his glamorous 'brother' Vic Faulkner. They would often be losing to some nasty villainous adversaries, with Vic injured having mistimed a drop-kick, before turning the tables and gaining a much appreciated (by the old ladies in the audience anyway) last-second win.
I concede it's true that the wrestling in those days would not pass a modern diversity test. My favourites were Honey Boy Zimba (a kind of African chief), Johnny Kwango (who had a very hard head), Adrian Street (a gay caricature) and Tibor Szakacs (who I think was Hungarian and specialised in the karate chop).
Les Kellett was the great comedian. He ran a cafe in Bradford and was in real life as hard as nails. One villain even converted. Alan Dennison was a sneaky cheat, who wore black wristbands and gave the 'goodies' Chinese burns behind the referee's back. He then experienced some kind of epiphany and tried to behave himself but the audience - egged on by Kent Walton - just refused to believe him.
British wrestling started to go downhill when the Sun exposed the masked wrestler Kendo Nagasaki. Even Gorgeous George his manager, and one time tag team partner, was unable to explain how Kendo could wrestle in 6 different towns at exactly the same time on the same night. After that came the now, with hindsight, rather sinister Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks - a prelude to the Amercian stuff which eventually took over and gave us the WWE which was here this week.
There is a great book on the golden age of British wrestling called (appropriately) 'The Wrestling' by Simon Garfield . I have a copy in the loft and must dig it out.
In the meantime, as the ref used to say,"'1err, 2err......" I submit.

Scrabbling in the bins at Lingfield Park

It was only in the morning that I noticed the racing at Lingfield Park was over the jumps. Known for years as Leafy Lingfield, maybe it should be renamed 'Lucky for some Lingfield' for reasons which will become clear later.
Making it to the track with only 3 minutes before the first race cost me the chance to back the winner. Galling in itself, but when you are late because you are fulfilling a commitment to go to Haskins Retirement Home Garden Centre (to be subject of a whole separate report) then it is more like despair.
There are meetings at Lingfield over 60 times a year, making a season ticket very good value. The problem is that most of the meetings consist of poor quality horses running on the all-weather track to provide betting shop fodder. Most serious punters gave up wagering there some years ago, when it was suggested (falsely obviously*) that the senior jockeys decided who was going to win in turn.
Jumps meetings at Lingfield are now a rarity, and with these often called off because of water logging, the chance to take one in was too good an opportunity to miss.
The high number of race days has had a noticeable effect. Entry is slick, the gate staff know what they are doing, and there are those bloody fixed odds betting terminals in the on course Ladbrokes. These machines are mini casinos, and it was so dispiriting to see Tobys** sat playing them even during a race.
There is also a certain complacency about the place for what was to ARC (the company which runs Lingfield) presumably a low profile midweek meeting.The bars were understaffed, and most of the food outlets were shut. A small coffee stall sold 6inch greasy sausage rolls (not of the type The New York Times has discovered were made by the aristocracy). The one lonely 'Cornish' pasty was quickly snapped up. My hunger pangs were bad enough to lead me to buy a vegetarian pie. Does all veggie food taste of cardboard? The corporate customers and restaurant diners are obviously preferred by ARC to the ordinary racing enthusiast.
Halfway through proceedings a group of children appeared covered in sheets and (presumably) fake blood and engaged in a 'zombie walk.' It was all for Children in Need, so that's alright then.
The quality of the racing was actually pretty good. I reckon there will be a few future winners coming out of the novice hurdle.
Gary Moore had 3 winners at Sandown on Sunday, although suggestions his horses run at their best when he is in hospital are perhaps unfair. With the stable in such good form I backed his Mr Fickle in the 4th race. Mr Fickle duly lived up to his name by finishing second.

The highlight on the card for many was a hurdle race in which all the horse had to be ridden by flat jockeys. The paddock was a picture beforehand. Lots of jockeys, smaller than normal, smiling (having been able to eat rather than skip breakfast before a race) but now nervously contemplating going over the obstacles at 30mph plus. Since most of them  can do 8 stone 3lb or less, riding a horse carrying 11st 5lb meant the saddles were heavy with lead. 
The flat jockeys hurdle race was won by a punted horse ridden by Tom Queally,

Frankel's jockey. I could not back him at the price (6/4 on) and Tom's win may not not be seared in my  memory as was Frankel's irresistible triumph in the 2000 Guineas . He had been helped (understandably in the circumstances) by a number of normally brave jockey colleagues, who on this occasion 'did not give up the outside the anyone.'  Still at least I can truthfully say this time 'I was there Tom.'
To be honest I would have struggled to report much else from a routine day's racing except for Queally's triumph. The dull day  though was transformed by the drama provided by the little known Clerk of the Scales.
The 6th race was a poorish novice chase contested by 5 runners. The outsider bucked and broncoed on the way to start, threw his jockey off, did 3 circuits of the all weather track and was withdrawn. Already we were therefore down to 4 runners, had a 'rule 4' and no each way betting.
The race itself was nothing special. Arthamint, ridden by David England, crossed the line first and was well backed. Eaton Rock shouldered the burden of my funds and came second, never really looking like winning.
This gave me enough time to study the last in order to save wreck the day, when 'ding-dong' and the klaxon sounded for a 'steward's'. 
The PA announcer said, "Stewards' Enquiry, Stewards' Enquiry. There has been an objection to the winner by ......... (a dramatic pause?)  ..... the Clerk to the Scales.''  This was a  knowledgeable crowd. They knew immediately that the rider of winner had weighed in light. Jockeys are allowed a bit of wriggle room. They can lose up to 1 pound in weight during a race, but jockey David England must have lost more.
There was only one possible  conclusion - disqualification for the horse first past the post and Eaton Rock to be declared the winner..
By pure luck I still had my losing betting slip which was now a winning one. Judging by the  scrum round the bins across the course a lot of other people had already disposed of theirs.
It took a while but Eaton Rock was eventually officially declared the winner. I collected (thank you Bartholomew Barry), 

and then contentedly listened to the conspiracy theories as  to what had happened. The minority view was that the disqualified jockey had dropped a bit of equipment. The cynics suggested a deliberately lost weight cloth. The official explanation was that there no explanation. No equipment was missing. The jockey was fined £300, and said he must have sweated while waiting for the loose horse to be caught. 
Who knows? But what fun and an enjoyable postscript as well. As is normal for what had looked a straight forward race the on track bookies had been paying out out before weighed in was declared. In this case of course to people who had punted on a horse which was not the actual winner. It took someone with a heart of  stone (well most of us punters actually) to not feel a little bit sorry for the well known bookmaker Barry Dennis who shouted, 
"Can all those people who I paid out in error please form an orderly queue to pay me back''
Shockingly for the Romford Foghorn there were no takers.

Lingfield Park marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 4
Atmosphere 5
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 5
Racecard (cost, quality) 4
Queues for bar 2
Viewing 7
Standard of racing 5

Total (out of 70) 32
Punting success - small loss (but could have been so much worse)

*libel lawyers please note
** Toby jugs - mugs