when he got so old he only had one tooth left.
They say your porn name is your first pet and the first street you can remember, which makes mine ‘Brandy Caistor’. I reckon I’d do alright with that, then if I wanted to redefine myself as an actress and go a bit respectable later on in my career, I could always change it to ‘Brandy Caistor-Park’, which sounds much more distinguished. Brandy was a clever old bastard as well. The dustmen used to tease him in the alley where the bins were, so he worked out how to back up and make it look like his lead was tighter than it was, then when the dustman came to torment him, Brandy had him on the penny and gave him a right good biting.
When we’d lived in Plaistow, one of the things I’d liked doing best was driving over to Hackney to see Maud and Toffy on a Sunday. There were all sorts of different cars we’d go in – theyweren’t necessarily ours. In those days if you wanted a car, you just had one. You could do that then – thank God you can’t any more, because I don’t want anyone just taking mine. One of my dad’s cars (well, I say it was his . . . we certainly used it a lot) – a black Ford Zephyr – ended up in a pond at Victoria Park once after someone had nicked it and used it on a blag.
We’d jump in the car (whichever one it was) all suited up and looking nice to go off and meet the cousins while Mum would stay at home and cook the dinner. Even the mums who wore the trousers had to miss out on a lot of fun in those days, on account of their place still being in the home. My aunties Irene, Barbara (Charlie’s wife) and Joycie (Kenny’s wife) would all be back in their kitchens cooking up a storm, while their kids Scott, Spencer and Becky, Charlie and Maureen, and Tracey and Melanie came down to Hackney to meet us.
We’d go up to the flats first to see Granddad and Nanny. Obviously she’d have to stay at home to cook the dinner as well, so it would just be Toffy who came down to the New Lansdowne Club with us. It was a proper old East End gaff – a working men’s club with a snooker table and a boxing gym. My granddad had been on the committee so he had a lot of mates there, like Archie who could hit you with either hand. A few of them and maybe some of Charlie’s pals would come and join us until there was quite a gathering.
All the fellas would have a drink and a chat and the kids’d be fucking about and getting up to mischief, messing around on the drumkit. Someone might even get up and sing a song – me and my sister would do ‘Cinderella Rockefella’ or Sonny and Cher’s ‘I Got You, Babe’, and one of the uncles might give us a bit of Sinatra. Then we’d all head home in time for our separate Sunday dinners at three or four in the afternoon – there was never too much traffic on the roads on a Sunday.
I had a few tussles at the Lansdowne with my cousin Charlie’s sister Maureen, who was a couple of years older than us and even trappier than I was. She’s my cousin and I love her to death, but we did used to bicker a lot. That said, I remember one time when we were visiting her mum and dad in the Barbican, and me and Charlie were getting bullied by a gang of older kids, Maureen went and sorted them all out – shut them right up with a couple of swift right-handers. It’s a good job she wasn’t born a geezer because then she’d have been even more dangerous.
After we’d moved, being in Enfield exile made those weekly trips to the Lansdowne something to look forward to even more. It wasn’t actually much further to bomb down the A10 than it had been to drive over from Plaistow, anyway, and going there to see all the family felt like going home. When I went back to have a look at the old place again recently the building was still there – walk south down Mare Street past the Hackney Empire and the town hall and it’s on your right – but there were boards up all around it.
I’m hoping someone’s got some Lottery
They say your porn name is your first pet and the first street you can remember, which makes mine ‘Brandy Caistor’. I reckon I’d do alright with that, then if I wanted to redefine myself as an actress and go a bit respectable later on in my career, I could always change it to ‘Brandy Caistor-Park’, which sounds much more distinguished. Brandy was a clever old bastard as well. The dustmen used to tease him in the alley where the bins were, so he worked out how to back up and make it look like his lead was tighter than it was, then when the dustman came to torment him, Brandy had him on the penny and gave him a right good biting.
When we’d lived in Plaistow, one of the things I’d liked doing best was driving over to Hackney to see Maud and Toffy on a Sunday. There were all sorts of different cars we’d go in – theyweren’t necessarily ours. In those days if you wanted a car, you just had one. You could do that then – thank God you can’t any more, because I don’t want anyone just taking mine. One of my dad’s cars (well, I say it was his . . . we certainly used it a lot) – a black Ford Zephyr – ended up in a pond at Victoria Park once after someone had nicked it and used it on a blag.
We’d jump in the car (whichever one it was) all suited up and looking nice to go off and meet the cousins while Mum would stay at home and cook the dinner. Even the mums who wore the trousers had to miss out on a lot of fun in those days, on account of their place still being in the home. My aunties Irene, Barbara (Charlie’s wife) and Joycie (Kenny’s wife) would all be back in their kitchens cooking up a storm, while their kids Scott, Spencer and Becky, Charlie and Maureen, and Tracey and Melanie came down to Hackney to meet us.
We’d go up to the flats first to see Granddad and Nanny. Obviously she’d have to stay at home to cook the dinner as well, so it would just be Toffy who came down to the New Lansdowne Club with us. It was a proper old East End gaff – a working men’s club with a snooker table and a boxing gym. My granddad had been on the committee so he had a lot of mates there, like Archie who could hit you with either hand. A few of them and maybe some of Charlie’s pals would come and join us until there was quite a gathering.
All the fellas would have a drink and a chat and the kids’d be fucking about and getting up to mischief, messing around on the drumkit. Someone might even get up and sing a song – me and my sister would do ‘Cinderella Rockefella’ or Sonny and Cher’s ‘I Got You, Babe’, and one of the uncles might give us a bit of Sinatra. Then we’d all head home in time for our separate Sunday dinners at three or four in the afternoon – there was never too much traffic on the roads on a Sunday.
I had a few tussles at the Lansdowne with my cousin Charlie’s sister Maureen, who was a couple of years older than us and even trappier than I was. She’s my cousin and I love her to death, but we did used to bicker a lot. That said, I remember one time when we were visiting her mum and dad in the Barbican, and me and Charlie were getting bullied by a gang of older kids, Maureen went and sorted them all out – shut them right up with a couple of swift right-handers. It’s a good job she wasn’t born a geezer because then she’d have been even more dangerous.
After we’d moved, being in Enfield exile made those weekly trips to the Lansdowne something to look forward to even more. It wasn’t actually much further to bomb down the A10 than it had been to drive over from Plaistow, anyway, and going there to see all the family felt like going home. When I went back to have a look at the old place again recently the building was still there – walk south down Mare Street past the Hackney Empire and the town hall and it’s on your right – but there were boards up all around it.
I’m hoping someone’s got some Lottery
Similar Books
