Saturday 7 June 2008
Bernard Levin
In France, en famille, holidaying with Bernard. At the end of an unforgettable meal (as retold by Alan), Bernard saying "I could happily die now". Alan saying " I could eat it all over again."
Randolph Churchill
Hoping, nay expecting, we can fill some of the holes in the biography. The time Alan spent travelling and staying with Randolph Churchill, ghost writing some of his books, eating nectarines and caviar for the first time, dining with Onassis, challenging Evelyn Waugh in Whites club....His blistering diatribe against Malcolm Muggeridge used by Miles Kington to open 'Saint Mugg' on The Archive Hour, 19 April 2003. More of this please.
Northumbrian Fishing Song: "The Harrins Heed"
Oh what'll wi dee wi the harrins heed. Oh what'll wi dee wi the harrins heed. We'll mak it inte loaves of breed, Harrins heed loaves of breed and all manner of things. Of all the fish that's in the sea. The harrin is the one for me. How a ye the day, how a ye the day, how a ye the day. Me hinny oh. It goes on with verses of Harrins guts a pair of beuits. Harrins fins needles and pins. Harrins tail a boat that sails. Harrins eyes puddins and pies. Harrins scales a barrel of ale. Harrins belly a lass called Nellie.
Alan sang this song to me in the vernacular.
WHAT'LL WE DO WITH THE HERRINGS' HEAD?
V1:
(Leader): What'll we do with the herrings' head?
(All): What'll we do with the herrings' head?
(Leader): Make it into loaves of bread,
(All): Herrings' head, Loaves of bread,
And all manner of things.
Chorus (Sung): Of all the fish that live in the sea,
The herring is the one for me!
(Spoken): "How are you today?"
"How are you today?"
"How are you today, me Finny-O?"
V2:
(Leader): What' ll we do with the herrings' eyes?
(All): What'll we do with the herrings' eyes?
(Leader): Make them into puddin' and pies,
(All): Herrings' eyes,
Puddin' and pies,
Herrings' head,
Loaves of bread,
And all manner of things.
V3:
What' ll we do with the herrings' fins?
What'll we do with the herrings' fins?
Make them into needles and pins,
Herrings' fins,
Needles and pins,
Herrings' eyes,
Puddin pies,
Herrings' head,
Loaves of bread,
And all manner of things. Chorus:
V4:
What'll we do with the herrings' guts?
What'll we do with the herrings' guts?
Make them into pairs of boots,
Herrings' guts
Pairs of boots,
Herrings' fins,
Needles and pins,
Herrings' eyes,
Puddin pies,
Herrings' head,
Loaves of bread,
And all manner of things.
Chorus (Sung): Of all the fish that live in the sea,
The herring is the one for me!
(Spoken): "How are you today?"
"How are you today?"
"How are you today, me Finny-O?"
V5:
What'll we do with the herrings' tail? (2x)
Make them into barrels of ale,
Herrings' tail,
Barrels of ale,
Herrings' guts,
Pairs of boots,
Herrings' fins,
Needles and pins,
Herrings' eyes,
Puddin pies,
Herrings' head,
Loaves of bread,
And all manner of things.
Chorus (Sung): Of all the fish that live in the sea,
The herring is the one for me!
(Spoken): "How are you today?" "How are you today?"
"How are you today, me Finny-O?"
Alan sang this song to me in the vernacular.
WHAT'LL WE DO WITH THE HERRINGS' HEAD?
V1:
(Leader): What'll we do with the herrings' head?
(All): What'll we do with the herrings' head?
(Leader): Make it into loaves of bread,
(All): Herrings' head, Loaves of bread,
And all manner of things.
Chorus (Sung): Of all the fish that live in the sea,
The herring is the one for me!
(Spoken): "How are you today?"
"How are you today?"
"How are you today, me Finny-O?"
V2:
(Leader): What' ll we do with the herrings' eyes?
(All): What'll we do with the herrings' eyes?
(Leader): Make them into puddin' and pies,
(All): Herrings' eyes,
Puddin' and pies,
Herrings' head,
Loaves of bread,
And all manner of things.
V3:
What' ll we do with the herrings' fins?
What'll we do with the herrings' fins?
Make them into needles and pins,
Herrings' fins,
Needles and pins,
Herrings' eyes,
Puddin pies,
Herrings' head,
Loaves of bread,
And all manner of things. Chorus:
V4:
What'll we do with the herrings' guts?
What'll we do with the herrings' guts?
Make them into pairs of boots,
Herrings' guts
Pairs of boots,
Herrings' fins,
Needles and pins,
Herrings' eyes,
Puddin pies,
Herrings' head,
Loaves of bread,
And all manner of things.
Chorus (Sung): Of all the fish that live in the sea,
The herring is the one for me!
(Spoken): "How are you today?"
"How are you today?"
"How are you today, me Finny-O?"
V5:
What'll we do with the herrings' tail? (2x)
Make them into barrels of ale,
Herrings' tail,
Barrels of ale,
Herrings' guts,
Pairs of boots,
Herrings' fins,
Needles and pins,
Herrings' eyes,
Puddin pies,
Herrings' head,
Loaves of bread,
And all manner of things.
Chorus (Sung): Of all the fish that live in the sea,
The herring is the one for me!
(Spoken): "How are you today?" "How are you today?"
"How are you today, me Finny-O?"
"All his days he was on fire" Harry Pollitt: a biography by John Mahon, Lawrence and Wishart, 1976. One of the last books Alan pulled off the shelf.
The Ballad Of Harry Pollitt
Lyrics: Traditional
Music: Traditional
Sung acapella by Robert Hunter, probably at a 1961 performance with Jerry Garcia and Marshall Leicester. It took place at the Boar's Head coffeehouse, in a loft above the Carlos Bookstore. There is some doubt whether this Robert Hunter recording might be from another night.
Harry Pollit was a worker, one of Lenin's lads
He was foully murdered by those counter revolutionary cads
Counter revolutionary cads, counter revolutionary cads
He was foully murdered by those counter revolutionary cads
Old Harry went to heaven, he reached the Gates with ease
Said, "May I speak with Comrade God, I am Harry Pollitt, please"
I'm Harry Pollitt please, I'm Harry Pollitt please
May I speak with Comrade God, I am Harry Pollitt, please
"Who are you?" said Saint Peter, "Are you humble and contrite?"
"I'm a friend of Lady Astors," "Well, OK, that's quite alright"
OK, that's quite alright, well OK, that's alright
You're a friend of Lady Astor, well OK that's quite alright
They put him in the choir, but the hymns he did not like
So he organized the angels and he led them out on strike
Led them out on strike, Led them out on strike
He organized the angels and he led them out on strike
One day when God was walking around heaven to medidate
Who should he see but Harry, chalking slogans on the gate
Chalking slogans on the gate, slogans on the gate
Who should he see but Harry, chalking slogans on the gate
Well, they brought him up for trial before the Holy Ghost
For spreading disaffection amongst the heavenly hosts
Amongst the heavenly hosts, amongst the heavenly hosts
For spreading disaffection amongst the heavenly hosts
Well, the verdict it was guilty, Harry said "Ah, well"
And he tucked his nightie 'round his knees and he drifted down to hell
Yes, he drifted down to hell, he drifted down to hell
He tucked his nightie 'round his knees and he drifted down to hell
Now seven long years have passed, Harry's doing swell
He's just been made the first People's Commissar of Soviet Hell
Commissar of Soviet Hell, Commissar of Soviet Hell
He's just been made the first People's Commissar of Soviet Hell
Well the moral of this story is easy for to tell
If you want to be a Bolshevik, you'll have to go to hell
If you want to be a bolshevik, you'll have to go to hell
If you want to be a Bolshevik, you'll have to go to hell
Lyrics: Traditional
Music: Traditional
Sung acapella by Robert Hunter, probably at a 1961 performance with Jerry Garcia and Marshall Leicester. It took place at the Boar's Head coffeehouse, in a loft above the Carlos Bookstore. There is some doubt whether this Robert Hunter recording might be from another night.
Harry Pollit was a worker, one of Lenin's lads
He was foully murdered by those counter revolutionary cads
Counter revolutionary cads, counter revolutionary cads
He was foully murdered by those counter revolutionary cads
Old Harry went to heaven, he reached the Gates with ease
Said, "May I speak with Comrade God, I am Harry Pollitt, please"
I'm Harry Pollitt please, I'm Harry Pollitt please
May I speak with Comrade God, I am Harry Pollitt, please
"Who are you?" said Saint Peter, "Are you humble and contrite?"
"I'm a friend of Lady Astors," "Well, OK, that's quite alright"
OK, that's quite alright, well OK, that's alright
You're a friend of Lady Astor, well OK that's quite alright
They put him in the choir, but the hymns he did not like
So he organized the angels and he led them out on strike
Led them out on strike, Led them out on strike
He organized the angels and he led them out on strike
One day when God was walking around heaven to medidate
Who should he see but Harry, chalking slogans on the gate
Chalking slogans on the gate, slogans on the gate
Who should he see but Harry, chalking slogans on the gate
Well, they brought him up for trial before the Holy Ghost
For spreading disaffection amongst the heavenly hosts
Amongst the heavenly hosts, amongst the heavenly hosts
For spreading disaffection amongst the heavenly hosts
Well, the verdict it was guilty, Harry said "Ah, well"
And he tucked his nightie 'round his knees and he drifted down to hell
Yes, he drifted down to hell, he drifted down to hell
He tucked his nightie 'round his knees and he drifted down to hell
Now seven long years have passed, Harry's doing swell
He's just been made the first People's Commissar of Soviet Hell
Commissar of Soviet Hell, Commissar of Soviet Hell
He's just been made the first People's Commissar of Soviet Hell
Well the moral of this story is easy for to tell
If you want to be a Bolshevik, you'll have to go to hell
If you want to be a bolshevik, you'll have to go to hell
If you want to be a Bolshevik, you'll have to go to hell
Obituary Ham & High June 5 2008
Newspaper critic who loved life in beloved Highgate: Award winning writer felt on top of world in village
A journalist and critic from Highgate who had a distinguished career spanning 50 years has died at the age of 83.
Alan Brien, who was once married to feminist writer Jill Tweedie, penned reviews and columns for publications including the New Statesman, the Spectator, the Sunday Times and Punch. While writing on politics for the Sunday Pictorial, he became the first drama critic of the Sunday Telegraph and was twice awarded the Critic of the Year title.
He lived with his fourth wife, the writer Jane Hill, at their home in one of the most ancient cottages in the village in the Highgate Bowl.
A great walker, he loved Highgate for its proximity to open spaces and because so many friends from his career, including the Observer's film critic Philip French, live nearby.
"He always walked on the heath with our lurcher Solly", said Ms Hill. "He loved Highgate Wood and Queen's Wood". He walked all the way down to Soho for his theatre reviews and we would sometimes walk up to Finsbury Park and have a cup of tea and a biscuit together."
A regular reader of the Ham & High, Mr Brien featured in our Who's Who column in March 2002, where he said he enjoyed looking out of his window because he could see the tops of trees which made him feel like he was on top of the world.
His only complaints were that the village needed a nice arts cinema and the terrible steepness of the hill. "I sometimes see people hanging onto lampposts to pause for breath as they walk up it," he said at the time.
He was born in Sunderland on March 12, 1925, the fifth and last child of a tramways inspector. From his local grammar school he went on to read English at Jesus College, Oxford, where he was a contemporary of rival theatre critic Ken Tynan. He joined the RAF in 1943 and as an air gunner he took part in many sorties. Had he not been grounded by the flu he would have been involved in the Dresden raid.
By the mid 1950s he was the Observer's television reviewer and later became its film critic. He transferred to the Evening Standard, which sent him to New York.
But his main ambition was to write about the theatre, a role he took at the Spectator from 1958 to 1961. In 1967 he was recruited by the new editor of The Sunday Times, Harold Evans, who sent him to report in Moscow and Saigon.
"He just loved life," said Ms Hill. "He didn't care about possessions - he cared about food and friends, eating and drinking, politics and above all books.
"He had very devoted friends who admired him immensely. Even if he was critical of them it was in a way they found acceptable because they always trusted his judgement. People cared about him.
"He loved fires - the cottage was very archaic when we moved in in 2001 but nothing much was done to it. One thing he did do was to open up all the fireplaces - we always had open wood and coal fires.
"He was extremely nice to women. When we first met we just talked and laughed all the time. He was one of the most articulate people I have ever known and he was very funny.
"He was very loyal and was an astonishingly good writer. He did care about Highgate Village and about preserving it but he wasn't against new things. He was always open and thought the place needed to grow."
Mr Brien died on May 23 after a battle with Lewy Body disease. He is survived by his wife, his five children and three stepchildren.
Tan Parsons
A journalist and critic from Highgate who had a distinguished career spanning 50 years has died at the age of 83.
Alan Brien, who was once married to feminist writer Jill Tweedie, penned reviews and columns for publications including the New Statesman, the Spectator, the Sunday Times and Punch. While writing on politics for the Sunday Pictorial, he became the first drama critic of the Sunday Telegraph and was twice awarded the Critic of the Year title.
He lived with his fourth wife, the writer Jane Hill, at their home in one of the most ancient cottages in the village in the Highgate Bowl.
A great walker, he loved Highgate for its proximity to open spaces and because so many friends from his career, including the Observer's film critic Philip French, live nearby.
"He always walked on the heath with our lurcher Solly", said Ms Hill. "He loved Highgate Wood and Queen's Wood". He walked all the way down to Soho for his theatre reviews and we would sometimes walk up to Finsbury Park and have a cup of tea and a biscuit together."
A regular reader of the Ham & High, Mr Brien featured in our Who's Who column in March 2002, where he said he enjoyed looking out of his window because he could see the tops of trees which made him feel like he was on top of the world.
His only complaints were that the village needed a nice arts cinema and the terrible steepness of the hill. "I sometimes see people hanging onto lampposts to pause for breath as they walk up it," he said at the time.
He was born in Sunderland on March 12, 1925, the fifth and last child of a tramways inspector. From his local grammar school he went on to read English at Jesus College, Oxford, where he was a contemporary of rival theatre critic Ken Tynan. He joined the RAF in 1943 and as an air gunner he took part in many sorties. Had he not been grounded by the flu he would have been involved in the Dresden raid.
By the mid 1950s he was the Observer's television reviewer and later became its film critic. He transferred to the Evening Standard, which sent him to New York.
But his main ambition was to write about the theatre, a role he took at the Spectator from 1958 to 1961. In 1967 he was recruited by the new editor of The Sunday Times, Harold Evans, who sent him to report in Moscow and Saigon.
"He just loved life," said Ms Hill. "He didn't care about possessions - he cared about food and friends, eating and drinking, politics and above all books.
"He had very devoted friends who admired him immensely. Even if he was critical of them it was in a way they found acceptable because they always trusted his judgement. People cared about him.
"He loved fires - the cottage was very archaic when we moved in in 2001 but nothing much was done to it. One thing he did do was to open up all the fireplaces - we always had open wood and coal fires.
"He was extremely nice to women. When we first met we just talked and laughed all the time. He was one of the most articulate people I have ever known and he was very funny.
"He was very loyal and was an astonishingly good writer. He did care about Highgate Village and about preserving it but he wasn't against new things. He was always open and thought the place needed to grow."
Mr Brien died on May 23 after a battle with Lewy Body disease. He is survived by his wife, his five children and three stepchildren.
Tan Parsons
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