TASHY DID - A LIFE
Hey kids, grand-kids, and any other nosey people who are reading these pages, this is for you to read now or sometime in the future. It may tell you a little
about how life was 60 or so years ago and rather more about me. Why am I doing it?
In the years after my father's death, way back in 1981, I kept thinking of things I wished I'd talked to him about. After my mother's death, just over
thirteen years later, there was less of a knowledge-vacuum because mother talked more about her past.
Just recently, my daughter and I unearthed my mother's diaries which went back to 1929, when she was just 13 years old. This reminded me of the 1998
incident with my 6 year old and I decided to put down here the story of my life so my children and grandchildren could, if they wished, read about what I had done. I would use my
memory and those diaries to build a picture from 1949 to the present day and add some personal observations.
So, here we go. Each week we will have a new year with preceding weeks being archived. In the first few years, as I will have less to say, probably, I will
add some info about your grandparents and their parents.
1970
This year had four moving moments, a momentous one and one of those ‘do you remember where you were when…..’ times.
At the start of the year, fully merged, the life quotations department moved back to Cheapside and, despite cosmetic changes, I was almost sitting in the
same position as before but facing the other way. My colleague had gone elsewhere, and left a year or so later, and so, if there were any queries about old Royal
Exchange stuff, I was the expert and still only 20. That was moving moment 1. Moving moment 2, in this context, came when, some nine months later, I was called
down to the Assistant Actuary and told I was being moved to a different department not dealing with life assurance but with something that, at the time, was
called Permanent Sickness Insurance. This was where companies, and individuals, could take out insurance to cover them in the event of long-term sickness,
long-term being anything after 4 weeks, 13 weeks, 26 weeks or a year. My old boss, the chain-smoking, shy, tail-gunner, had gone there the previous year and
it transpired that, when it was decided he would need an assistant, he had specifically asked for me. I was very pleased.
I was to start the following Monday in a different building, which I think has now been demolished. It was then known as Royex House, it was backing on
to London Wall and it was 17 floors tall. We were on the 14th floor. I hate heights. I hate lifts. I can assure you that I never, unless with someone I knew
really well, took that lift. Each morning I would climb fourteen flights of stairs and come down again at lunch time, return after an hour and run down in the
evening. I was pretty fit that year. Someone must have taken pity on me because in December we left the 14th floor of Royex House …………and moved to the 9th,
cutting 20 flights of stairs from my day and allowing for movement 3.
I had actually made some good friends at work and we would not only go out together some evenings but a couple of us made our way to the Isle of Wight in
the summer of 1970. Mother wasn’t happy and the coverage she saw of the event did nothing to make her feel better. I felt good though.
The fourth moving experience wasn’t physical. On 15 June father received a letter which had the stamp of Buckingham Palace upon it. He had, after 42
years of civil service service, been awarded an OBE, the first for anyone in the family. Even mother was impressed. I know there are those who will say that
if you work there long enough, you will get something, but I’m not convinced. By then his rank was that of Assistant Accountant General, as I may have mentioned
somewhere else.
I was certainly extremely proud of him. Not everyone gets to call their father an OBE, even if we did tell him it stood for Old Bald Englishman,
and certainly not everyone gets the chance to go to Buckingham Palace to see him receive it.
That, which was the momentous event, happened in November of this year. We all went in my car and were saluted by a guard as we went through the palace gates.
This briefly impressed me, until the car in front parked and a military man emerged. I think the guard may have been a bit slow to react. Once inside, father
disappeared to be given his instructions and we made our way through the palace, as instructed. Mother poked a well-dressed life guard, or horse guard or
whatever, to see if he was real; he was. Then she complained that Her Majesty hadn’t looked after the stair carpet very well. I’m not convinced it was actually
Her responsibility but mother thought so. “Threadbare” was her comment. We were eventually seated in a large room with music playing quietly in the background.
I looked around for the speakers until I discovered Her Majesty had neatly concealed a full military band up on a balcony.
After a long wait, and once the knights had been knighted, the dames had been damed and possibly the lords lauded, father emerged, I don’t remember if he
was announced, but he walked into the room, turned opposite Her Majesty and walked forward. He stopped,
She stooped and pinned his medal on his chest. She shook
his hand, said a few words and then, as we found out afterwards, she gently pushed father away, see why she shakes hands, indicating his time was up. He walked
backwards till he reached a suitable point, bowed, turned and walked out. It was all over in less than a minute. A working life acknowledged in a minute.
Afterwards, we went for a meal and father broke the habit of a lifetime, Christmas and cider excepted, and joined us in a glass or two of champagne. Once
we had eaten, he stood up to pay the bill, wobbled a bit, gave me the money and said you pay. He took mother’s arm, luckily she had it with her, and tacked from
the restaurant.
Going back to the summer and on 17 July 1970, twenty-one years after I was born, it seemed an appropriate date to celebrate my 21st birthday. Now, in olden
days, 21 was the big age, the age of majority, the age you reached maturity. However in January of this year, the government had changed all this to 18. Too late,
I had passed 18 without becoming mature and now I would not become mature at 21 either. This fact has kept me going throughout my life and allowed me to behave
in a completely immature way with full government approval.
I had a party at home. It started at 8 and ended at 4 in the morning. Actually this was on the Saturday and I had invited all relatives and some friends
from work. Jack Brabham couldn’t make it as he had run out of fuel a little earlier and this will only make sense to very old people or motor racing historians.
The previous day I had celebrated at work. Standard practice was that your colleagues would have a collection, those who contributed would then sign a card, you
would be given whatever present they had thought appropriate and then you would invite everyone for a drink. They would all arrive at different times, due to
staggered lunch hours and you would inevitably stay in the pub from 12 to 3, when it closed. Bosses accepted this on these infrequent occasions.
After returning to the office, you would then offer cakes to all those who had not come for a drink, one usually persuaded one of the females in your
section (sexism alive) to purchase these earlier. I duly carried out all these duties although things were a little hazy from some time during the pub section.
I do remember that when I offered my new boss a cake, by then it would be about 3.45pm, he suggested I might like to leave early that day and I thought it was
a good idea too. However, despite leaving early, I wasn’t home that much sooner. For those of you who don’t know, tube trains have no toilets and one must leave
the train and use the loo on the station. I did this a couple of times. By the way, this was a far more serious problem if you had been out late at night as you
were never sure whether you were on the last train. I should also mention that my toilet breaks were for the removal of excess fluid in the accepted manner, and
not any type of sickness.
During the summer I again played cricket twice each weekend so I will finish this year with two cricket stories. On 14 June, the date is easy to confirm,
I played in an all day match against a team in Honor Oak. They batted first and made 300 and something, including an opening stand of over 200 I think. I spent
quite a bit of time in a field at the side of the pitch, collecting the ball. We replied with a rather miserable 130 or so. Then we all retired for a drink to
the clubhouse and to watch England play West Germany in the quarter finals of the 1970 World Cup, football that is. At half time England were 2-0 up. I decided
to drive home and, I am afraid, that without my support, things deteriorated. I got home in time to watch extra time, Germany having scored twice in the second
half, and saw Germany score again to win the match. Since then I have been very superstitious about watching matches and sport. If my favourite is winning, I
will not change my seating position. There have been times when Ms Hantuchova and Ms Bartoli have stretched my pain barrier as I sit in the same position for
several hours. I just hope they appreciate it.
The other story concerns my umpiring skills, and indeed my reactions. It was common practice for the batting side to provide an umpire and as I seldom
batted above number 6, I would often take these duties first. On this occasion I was at square leg, if you don’t understand cricket skip this bit, when one
of our batsman was palpably, to me, run out. I raised my finger in the time-honoured fashion, and then noticed no one had appealed. Umpires only give a decision
after an appeal. I then heard an appeal, maybe someone was watching me, and immediately my finger progressed from its intended raised position to be inserted,
briefly, into my right nostril. Try it, it looks okay. I then said “not out”. Sorry, whoever you were.
In August mother stopped talking to me for a few days. Bit like when father guaranteed the loan I took for buying my car last year, I did something she was against.
Two guys from work with whom I was friends decided to go to the Isle of Wight in late August. There was a small festival there, music. They asked me to go along.
I agreed. The Isle was a trifle busy that weekend. It was fun. Not everyone can say they have shared an island with Joan Baez, Leonard Cohen, Richie Havens,
Jimi Hendrix and others. Oh, and Tiny Tim. There'll always be a Tiny Tim. Google him. Don't bother I just found this. Can you see me? No, neither can I.
And this
And this
Was life good or what?
Well not always. Finally the ‘where were you’ moment. Normally, this is asked about the assassination of President Kennedy and I can tell you that I was 14 and watching
‘Take Your Pick” with my family on that Friday night. However, the one I remember occurred when I came out of work on June 2 1970 and started my walk to
Moorgate Tube Station. The first newspaper billboard i saw flashed the headline, “Race Ace McLaren Killed In Testing Crash”. I was stunned. Following the
retirement of Stirling Moss in 1962, Bruce had been my hero. I had actually been patted on the head by him in 1958 when my father took me to Crystal Palace,
I avidly read his “From the Cockpit” pieces in Autosport and, once I had my own car, had driven down to Colnbrook for a site of the McLaren factory. I bought
an Evening Standard and read and re-read it on the way home. Just over seven years later, on what would have been Bruce’s 40th birthday, my first son was born
and I loved the fact that they shared a birthday. Even today, I remember exactly where I was when I saw that headline.
The fourth moving experience wasn’t physical. On 15 June father received a letter which had the stamp of Buckingham Palace upon it. He had, after 42
years of civil service service, been awarded an OBE, the first for anyone in the family. Even mother was impressed. I know there are those who will say that
if you work there long enough, you will get something, but I’m not convinced. By then his rank was that of Assistant Accountant General, as I may have mentioned
somewhere else.
I was certainly extremely proud of him. Not everyone gets to call their father an OBE, even if we did tell him it stood for Old Bald Englishman,
and certainly not everyone gets the chance to go to Buckingham Palace to see him receive it.
That, which was the momentous event, happened in November of this year. We all went in my car and were saluted by a guard as we went through the palace gates.
This briefly impressed me, until the car in front parked and a military man emerged. I think the guard may have been a bit slow to react. Once inside, father
disappeared to be given his instructions and we made our way through the palace, as instructed. Mother poked a well-dressed life guard, or horse guard or
whatever, to see if he was real; he was. Then she complained that Her Majesty hadn’t looked after the stair carpet very well. I’m not convinced it was actually
Her responsibility but mother thought so. “Threadbare” was her comment. We were eventually seated in a large room with music playing quietly in the background.
I looked around for the speakers until I discovered Her Majesty had neatly concealed a full military band up on a balcony.
After a long wait, and once the knights had been knighted, the dames had been damed and possibly the lords lauded, father emerged, I don’t remember if he
was announced, but he walked into the room, turned opposite Her Majesty and walked forward. He stopped,
She stooped and pinned his medal on his chest. She shook
his hand, said a few words and then, as we found out afterwards, she gently pushed father away, see why she shakes hands, indicating his time was up. He walked
backwards till he reached a suitable point, bowed, turned and walked out. It was all over in less than a minute. A working life acknowledged in a minute.
Afterwards, we went for a meal and father broke the habit of a lifetime, Christmas and cider excepted, and joined us in a glass or two of champagne. Once
we had eaten, he stood up to pay the bill, wobbled a bit, gave me the money and said you pay. He took mother’s arm, luckily she had it with her, and tacked from
the restaurant.
Going back to the summer and on 17 July 1970, twenty-one years after I was born, it seemed an appropriate date to celebrate my 21st birthday. Now, in olden
days, 21 was the big age, the age of majority, the age you reached maturity. However in January of this year, the government had changed all this to 18. Too late,
I had passed 18 without becoming mature and now I would not become mature at 21 either. This fact has kept me going throughout my life and allowed me to behave
in a completely immature way with full government approval.
I had a party at home. It started at 8 and ended at 4 in the morning. Actually this was on the Saturday and I had invited all relatives and some friends
from work. Jack Brabham couldn’t make it as he had run out of fuel a little earlier and this will only make sense to very old people or motor racing historians.
The previous day I had celebrated at work. Standard practice was that your colleagues would have a collection, those who contributed would then sign a card, you
would be given whatever present they had thought appropriate and then you would invite everyone for a drink. They would all arrive at different times, due to
staggered lunch hours and you would inevitably stay in the pub from 12 to 3, when it closed. Bosses accepted this on these infrequent occasions.
After returning to the office, you would then offer cakes to all those who had not come for a drink, one usually persuaded one of the females in your
section (sexism alive) to purchase these earlier. I duly carried out all these duties although things were a little hazy from some time during the pub section.
I do remember that when I offered my new boss a cake, by then it would be about 3.45pm, he suggested I might like to leave early that day and I thought it was
a good idea too. However, despite leaving early, I wasn’t home that much sooner. For those of you who don’t know, tube trains have no toilets and one must leave
the train and use the loo on the station. I did this a couple of times. By the way, this was a far more serious problem if you had been out late at night as you
were never sure whether you were on the last train. I should also mention that my toilet breaks were for the removal of excess fluid in the accepted manner, and
not any type of sickness.
During the summer I again played cricket twice each weekend so I will finish this year with two cricket stories. On 14 June, the date is easy to confirm,
I played in an all day match against a team in Honor Oak. They batted first and made 300 and something, including an opening stand of over 200 I think. I spent
quite a bit of time in a field at the side of the pitch, collecting the ball. We replied with a rather miserable 130 or so. Then we all retired for a drink to
the clubhouse and to watch England play West Germany in the quarter finals of the 1970 World Cup, football that is. At half time England were 2-0 up. I decided
to drive home and, I am afraid, that without my support, things deteriorated. I got home in time to watch extra time, Germany having scored twice in the second
half, and saw Germany score again to win the match. Since then I have been very superstitious about watching matches and sport. If my favourite is winning, I
will not change my seating position. There have been times when Ms Hantuchova and Ms Bartoli have stretched my pain barrier as I sit in the same position for
several hours. I just hope they appreciate it.
The other story concerns my umpiring skills, and indeed my reactions. It was common practice for the batting side to provide an umpire and as I seldom
batted above number 6, I would often take these duties first. On this occasion I was at square leg, if you don’t understand cricket skip this bit, when one
of our batsman was palpably, to me, run out. I raised my finger in the time-honoured fashion, and then noticed no one had appealed. Umpires only give a decision
after an appeal. I then heard an appeal, maybe someone was watching me, and immediately my finger progressed from its intended raised position to be inserted,
briefly, into my right nostril. Try it, it looks okay. I then said “not out”. Sorry, whoever you were.
In August mother stopped talking to me for a few days. Bit like when father guaranteed the loan I took for buying my car last year, I did something she was against.
Two guys from work with whom I was friends decided to go to the Isle of Wight in late August. There was a small festival there, music. They asked me to go along.
I agreed. The Isle was a trifle busy that weekend. It was fun. Not everyone can say they have shared an island with Joan Baez, Leonard Cohen, Richie Havens,
Jimi Hendrix and others. Oh, and Tiny Tim. There'll always be a Tiny Tim. Google him. Don't bother I just found this. Can you see me? No, neither can I.
And this
And this
Was life good or what?
Well not always. Finally the ‘where were you’ moment. Normally, this is asked about the assassination of President Kennedy and I can tell you that I was 14 and watching
‘Take Your Pick” with my family on that Friday night. However, the one I remember occurred when I came out of work on June 2 1970 and started my walk to
Moorgate Tube Station. The first newspaper billboard i saw flashed the headline, “Race Ace McLaren Killed In Testing Crash”. I was stunned. Following the
retirement of Stirling Moss in 1962, Bruce had been my hero. I had actually been patted on the head by him in 1958 when my father took me to Crystal Palace,
I avidly read his “From the Cockpit” pieces in Autosport and, once I had my own car, had driven down to Colnbrook for a site of the McLaren factory. I bought
an Evening Standard and read and re-read it on the way home. Just over seven years later, on what would have been Bruce’s 40th birthday, my first son was born
and I loved the fact that they shared a birthday. Even today, I remember exactly where I was when I saw that headline.
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