You Must Be From Away

>Somewhere around 1969/1970, I shared a flat in Clapham (Sarf London) with 3 guys – Chris D, John Mc and Peter S.

Bloody tiny place. 2 rooms plus kitchen and bathroom.

Not 2 rooms plus 2 bedrooms plus kitchen plus bathroom.

2 rooms plus kitchen and bathroom.
Euphemistically called a “garden flat”, which meant it was virtually subterranean. Cue for a song.

I moved out west in 1970 and we sort of kept in touch and then didn’t (as one does. Or doesn’t)

And then I get an email from Chris D, who’s still flogging carpets for a living and pretending sales is a really tough job, when we all known that it really only involves is taking your customers out and getting them and yourself pissed.

He must be really good at the former, anyway, because he’s got this mansion on the edge of the Cotswolds and I’m glad to see that he appears to be doing very nicely indeed.
Anyway, we get around to reminiscing about old times as one does at our age and he mentions the Beatles story which is a bit worrying, because I didn’t have a clue what he was on about and you do tend to think your mind’s going on occasion.

I remembered the whorehouse in the flat above us featuring a bevy of West Indian beauties and the couple in the flat above the whorehouse who went to Europe for the first time and – seeing duvets (also for the first time) – complained that the beds hadn’t been made and John Mc’s 21st birthday party to which he invited Princess Anne (who surprisingly didn’t front up) and at which I got immensely drunk and disappeared, to be found sometime later pelting passing cars with snowballs made from the first snow I’d seen in my life and Peter S’s sexual exploits with all and sundry.

But I didn’t remember the Beatles bit.

Chris tells the story thus:

Re Beatles
When we first moved in to Gauden Road there was a smell of incense , you may recall that they went through their meditation period with the Maharaja or whatever his name was, anyway it turned out that our place in Gauden Road was used as a temple with the fab four regular visitors.
When we first moved, in we were going through the cupboards and there were several returned cheques, as was the normal practice in those days; when the cheque had been cashed they returned it to you for your records.

THERE WERE CHEQUES FROM ALL FOUR OF THEM & WE THREW THEM AWAY!!!!!

(Must go and have a lie down)

Bloody hell, I would too.

Not sure what sombre music would be appropriate – Lowell George’s “Easy Money”?

“Hello Goodbye” is as good as any, perhaps.

>If there’s one thing I’ve missed in Germany, it’s subtle and witty advertising.

Television’s infected with fake dentist’s wives touting toothpaste, middle-aged people being attacked in the middle of the night by snaking, sparking electric wires (you can keep them at bay by taking magnesium tablets..) and happy, Teflon-coated families becoming even happier by remotely deploying the sun awning.

This is more my sort of stuff.

Posh-looking bird. Flash mansion. Elegance.
As soon as she opens her marf (sorry, mouth), out pours Sarf Lunnen. Innit

But there’s hope.

Paulaner’s one of the few wheat beers that I drink and their advertising is choice.

Three Indian businessmen clutching dictionaries in a Biergarten, one says “I don’t want to buy this carpet. Please”
Waitress looks bemused, returns with 3 glasses of Hefeweizen.
“Have a good trip”, he says.
“You’re welcome” she smiles.

Fast forward to last night and the first time I’ve laughed out loud at an ad for a long time

The same three Indian chappies, except this time he orders “a freshly drawn Paulaner for me and my friend” in an exquisite Bavarian dialect.
“Perfect” says his friend.
“Get well soon” says his mate.

And as they say in the ad – different comparative and superlative qualitative forms apply when it comes to beer.

“Good, Better, Paulaner…”

I’ll drink to that