Nostalgia is a powerful weapon.
Today’s liberation anniversary got me thinking of the time I visited the France’s Côte d’Albâtre — the ‘Alabaster’ part of the Normandy coast dominated by Dover-like chalk cliffs —where, in May 1982, the 12 year-old mini me did the dorm thing in a charmingly picturesque village called Étretat on a week-long school trip.
This was was my first holiday without family and, crucially, my first time venturing outside of Britain, where the goss from the other side of the Channel via one of the boys in the bunks was that “Madness are Number 1”, the Nutty Boys’ House Of Fun 45 leapfrogging over fellow Camden resident Adam Ant to claim the top spot before an impatient Mr Goody Two Shoes could assume pop’s pole position.
But could I find Ant music in Normandie? Could I bugger. Though I do remember seeing Kim Wilde’s Select set emblazoned everywhere, so at least some ’80s Brit acts had invaded the consciousness of these notoriously proud and patriotic natives.
Even more noteworthy, if you’d whispered in my oreille that one day I’d be living in France I would’ve laughed you out of the nearest P-P-P-P-Painerie (thanks Eds).
In fact, if you’d have informed me of that same crystal ball reading as recently as 2010 I would have still thought you dodgier than the last remnants of French Toast, which, according to that same Mrs Monsoon, “defies eating at the best of times.”
As there’s a General Election on in ‘ole Blighty it seems more than d-devilish to recall the time a Conservative Party questionnaire landed on the Dulwich doormat of the house we’d just bought and moved into in March of 2010.
The Tories were asking for suggestions on what “the next government” should prioritise once in power. Through I was no admirer of Gordon Brown, I actively disliked David Cameron more, and gleefully decided to deface the promotional bumph and send it to the to Freepost address help drain the party coffers. Every little helps, right?
Apologies to my many French friends but of course, moi was only jesting about nuking France; just playing up juvenile schoolyard antipathies. Mind you, the Gallics had to contend with the little corrupt dwarf Sarkozy at the time, so, well, you know. I’m sure the international hoo-ha surrounding Jacques Chirac’s nuclear testing in the Pacific played a part too.
I guess I was slightly more serious about the Tory bashing suggestions though. Having spent precisely one afternoon in Dulwich Village before we made the move from North London (Gascony Avenue, adieu), the only thing we knew the area was famous for was it was the southern suburb (“South London?!”) where the Thatchers scarpered to after being kicked out of Downing Street. So I can see why the Iron Lady would have figured in my thoughts. The colostomy bag less so — perhaps Cliff Richard had just come on the telly?
Oh, and if you’re unfamiliar with my shady backstory and assume I’m some kind of cloth-capped Commie, Facebook fwend and Patreon donor to this wvery website Gaynor Gregory has arguably the best one-liner about me: “Left or right, male or female, Steve Pafford is an equal opportunities insulter.”
Indeed, there was a national election imminent at Westminster then too, and as I was heading to Nunhead station on the first official day of campaigning in the April, I got a sarcastic satisfaction from seeing Harriet Harman campaigning in our road for the 2010 poll.
Not only was Harman canvassing in the same road where her government colleague Jacquie Smith lived (recently relieved of her Home Secretaryship by being embroiled in a homes-flipping expenses scandal) but the slightly harridan Harriet was Deputy Labour Leader, Labour Chair and my local MP for the East Dulwich fringes — officially titled the constituency for Camberwell & Peckham, but those inner city locales seemed like another word to the leafy middle class suburbia we now now resided in.
With a brief impromptu decision to make some reference to a disastrous photo op when Harman came under fire for wesring a stab-proof police vest during a walkabout in her own fecking constituency, I smiled at her benignly then went in for the kill with a single line:
“I’m surprised you haven’t got your flak jacket on.”
Bip bip bip. Bop bop bop.
(Long pause then nervous laugh):
“Oh…. You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers!”
Then she flashed me an embarrassed but defiant wide toothy grin as one of her minions shouted “Vote Labour!” to absolutely nobody.
The strange thing was, Harriet was so perfectly made up and coiffured (old sow-like) that her doll-like demeanour made her seem vaguely mildly attractive in the flesh.
Bless her though, because the only thing this veteran politician was gonna get round here was a battered sausage from the Chinese Chippy next to the station.
Mindful that I wanted to catch my ride on time, I very quickly popped into the Ivydale Road newsagent to top up my Oyster card. When I came out there was Harriet bloody Harman still grinning at me, hesitantly, wondering if I was about to pounce with barb numero deux.
Oh, whatever; Sweetie.
As I headed up to the London Bridge bound platform I found myself wondering for about a tenth of a millisecond if I’d been too cutting.
Was I bugger! Happy D- Day mon amis.
Champers all right for you, Pats?
Steve Pafford
