80 Not out - My brothers make a major milestone

Rog, Mum, Frank & Laurie at Mum's 75th

You may have noticed that I've not been as active as usual on the blog. Real life has been getting in the way! We went to Bristol to see my elder brother Frank and celebrate his 80th Birthday, a real milestone. It is quite interesting to note Frank (and his twin brother Laurie) are the first year of the Baby Boomers. I was born in the second last year, sixteen years later.  My Dad was still in the RAF when they were born. London was littered with bombsites, there was rationing. Families did not have tellies, dishwashers, central heating, telephones or microwaves. Home entertainment was either newspapers, books, musical instruments or the radio. Schools were very different places. My brothers arrived at St Vincents School as 4 year olds. My mum had walked up with them from their council house on Wise Lane. They were dropped off and were immediately naughty. Their teacher, Miss O'Donovan got the cane out and they ran and hid behind the piano. Eventually, the caretaker was summoned to extract them. They managed to swerve out and escaped, arriving home before 11am. They informed Mum that they didn't like school and weren't going back. Sadly, for them, they had to and they had to face the ire of Miss O'Donovan. Much has changed, four year olds are not caned and such an escape would prompt a major incident. 

As they grew older, they developed a love of music. When they asked my Dad to buy them guitars, he told them to build them, which they did. Both are natural musicians, far more gifted than me. When I was small, the biggest joy in life was listening to them jamming the skiffle songs of Lonnie Donegan and others. Frank got married when I was five and moved to Chelmsford to start a family, two years later his son Martin appeared. I was most exited. The age gap between Martin and I was seven years, less than half the gap to Frank. Frank loved football and got me interested in the game. In 1968, he tried to persuade me to support Manchester United. I plumped for City, my Mums team. This started a lifetime of good humoured banter. Laurie was not into sports. He considered them a waste of energy. He was always very into music though.. In 1968, Laurie played me the album Sailor by The Steve Miller Band and confidently informed me it was the best record ever made. A view I firmly believed until I discovered Punk Rock. As I have matured, I still believe it is in the top five. Laurie left home at 13 to study to be a Priest with the Mill Hill Missionary Order. In our family, he was considered a living saint, Mum and Dad's free ticket through the pearly gates. His education was away from home in places like Freshfields in Lancashire and Rosendaal in the Netherlands. Although Laurie lost his faith and vocation before he was ordained, he has always told me his education was amazing. Studying abroad gave him excellent language skills.  I suspected that he chose that route to get away from Challoner School and the attentions of headmaster Daniel Coughlan, a notoriously vicious character. 

Frank left shortly after to go to Finchley Grammar School. Frank got good O Levels and A Levels and went to University to study electronics. He has had a long career as a Rocket Scientist. In the mid 1970's, he had a spell running the family business, car crash repairers Mac Metals in Bunns Lane. He did a good job, but it wasn't really his thing. He did however learn vital management skills and when he returned to electronics, he managed large teams, working on such projects as The Space Shuttle and Giotto. Laurie set up a welding business, that continues to this day, called Bunns Lane Welding. Laurie is a highly skilled welder and is one of the few people in London to be able to fix alloy wheels.

I find it hard to believe both are 80 years old. I can remember, as a four year old, the excitement of their 21st Birthday Party. Both of them have played a massive role in my life. Both encouraged me musically and have supported me in developing the studios, on the industrial estate the family own. Both are very different but highly intelligent and have, over the years, given me much sound advice. As a sibling sixteen years younger, they are both good role models. If you met them, you would not recognise them as twins, but if you heard them jam a track, you'd see the link. 

I find it fascinating to see the different mindsets of the top and tail of the Boomer generation. They were born into a country in the height of austerity, I was born into a country rushing into the swinging sixties. Frank told me that he lost his faith when the Church started saying mass in English rather than Latin, when he actually understood what was being said, he decided it was a load of mumbo jumbo. Apart from when I was very small, English was always the language for me. I've never quite figured if I was more effectively brainwashed than my brothers, or I saw things as they were and figured it differently. Who knows?

I notice that many of our attitudes about issues are markedly different. I suspect that the punk rock generation are far more cynical about many things and we have a very different relationship with authority and the status quo. As for my brothers, I see a big difference in the way they see the world. I put some of this down to the fact Laurie lives in London and Frank lives in Bristol. Another factor is that Laurie has run a small business, whereas Frank worked on massive projects for huge companies. What they both have in common is their loyalty and love for their nuclear families. Having children is a massive challenge and they've both done an amazing job with their children. 

What I find difficult to get my head around is that their next keynote birthday should they make it will be their 90th! A date beyond what my Mum, Dad or any of their siblings reached. We are lucky, their are six of us and we are all still here. I see Laurie almost every day at work, Frank once or twice a year.  Many things have changed, but whilst they are still around, I feel the world is a better place. 

Happy birthday bro's!!!!!!

Fantastic Day !!!!!

"Anyone own the car outside and fancy earning £100?".

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 I was accused yesterday of being a miserable sod. Was this by someone who knew me pretty well? Yes, someone who knows me better than anyone. Regular readers will ask how could such a charge be aimed at someone so full of joy and happiness as me? I've always thought of myself as a happy and cheerful sort of person. Always the life and soul of the party. It seems like I'm wrong. It seems like I'm a grumpy curmudgeon who is never more happy than when I'm miserable. How can this be?

Well Madam asked me yesterday if I fancied a family outing to watch the new Harry Potter film. I responded that I'd rather stick needles in my eyes. She said "The kids really want to go and see it, you're being selfish". I responded "Watching films isn't a social activity, you take them". I secretly hoped that this would be the option as I really fancied sitting in a pub on my own and drinking a few pints of Guinness. At this suggestion the charge of being a miserable sod was levelled. It troubled me. I realised that if I'd rather sit in a pub on my own and drink guinness than watch a film with the family, I must be a miserable sod. When my mum was alive, I'd nip in to see her every night after work and have a couple of pints of guinness with her. We'd chat about this, that and the other. For some odd reason, this week I've really been missing her. She died of a Stroke in August 2008. Since then, I rarely have a chance for a quiet chat and a nice pint of guinness. I've realised just how civilised the arrangement was.

For all my mums many faults, she was always good company when I visited. She had a massive stroke in December 2000 and after that tended to be a bit anti social with friends and even other family members at times. Strangely this never extended to me (apart from when she was very ill). Anyway I was asked today "If you could do absolutely anything in the world for 2 hours, what would it be?".

It's a difficult question. Night of passion with Uma Thurman - yep that would be good. What about watch Manchester City beat Manchester United 5 - 0. That would be even better. Watch England win the world cup? That would be great. Watch the Ramones play at the Roundhouse? Now you're really talking.

Strangely enough, and I guess it must be something to do with being a miserable sod, I suddenly realised that what I'd really like to do most, is what I did many times and never even appreciated. I'd like to sit down in my front room and have a couple of pints of Guinness and a chat with my Dad who died unexpectedly in 1987 and my mum. Such moments seem as nothing at the time, but once people are gone, you suddenly realise just how precious these moments were. About a year before my Dad had a heart attack and died unexpectedly, I had a massive row with him. We didn't talk for six months. My old business partner and friend, Ernie Ferebee (who also sadly died in 2001) took me to the pub one night and said "Sort it out, you never know when people will pass away. He won't live forever, so treasure your time with him". I was really angry at Ernie for having the nerve to interfere in a family matter, but when I sobered up, I realised he was right and made up.

Six months later my father was dead, but we were on great terms. The last time I'd seen him, I'd treated him to a curry in the Mill Hill Tandoori and we'd had a great night (mum had been away). I suspect that the day he died was the day I grew up. I was always grateful to Ernie for taking the trouble to put me right. That is what a true friend does. Ever since then I've tried not to bear grudges. I may be a miserable sod, but I'm not one who bears a grudge (for too long).
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Readers may be puzzled by the rather odd quote at the start of this blog. The video is of Haircut 100 performing fantastic day in a 1982 video. The car in the film, the white triumph Herald ULN699F belonged to my sister Caroline. She was out in Soho and was asked the question. She replied "Yes, if I can come along with a few friends to watch the shoot". She'd paid £100 for the car so she was chuffed. I think we managed to drink the £100 before the end of the day. I guess I wasn't always such a miserable sod.

Have a great Saturday night

My secret weapon on the Mill Hill campaign trail

I have a secret weapon in the Mill Hill council elections. I have a whole campaign team who have been beavering away since 1947. Sounds strange? That is the year my family moved to Mill Hill, No 5 Wise Lane to be precise. We lived in Wise lane until 1960, when we moved to our current home in Millway (I bought the house from my mum in 1987, following the death of my Dad). My Dad opened his car crash repair business in Mill Hill, MacMetals in Bunns Lane around the same time.

My brother Laurie added to the family business team in 1977 when he opened Bunns Lane Welding. I've lost count of the number of people who have told me "I knew your Dad, he used to mend my car" or "I know your Brother, he fixed my table lamp". One useful thing about having an unusual name such as Tichborne is that people remember it. They can't spell it, but they can remember it (see extract from the Mill Hill Times circa 1966). Having five elder siblings is also a great assett. One old lady reminded me of when my sister was Carnival Queen in 1966, commemorated by the picture left when my Eldest sister Cath and England footballer Billy Wright performed the FA CUP draw for a  Cancer charity. Another question I get asked is "Is your sister Valerie still a nurse". Well I'm pleased to say she is. She lives in Florida and works for a Hospice performing home visits for the terminally ill.

Another resident taught art at Finchley Grammar School when my brother Frank attended. "How is Frank?" he asked. Frank is fine, although he was stuck in Germany under a volcanic cloud last week when the question was asked. My sister Caroline was also remembered by one old lady. "Your Sister Caroline was in the same class at St Vincents as my son Martin, do you remember him?" I most certainly did. I used to tease Caroline about him for years. She reminded me of Carolines greatest moment of fame "Do you remember when she was in the commercial for Pal dogmeat". I most certainly remembered that as well. I also teased Caroline for many years that she was only the Co-star and the real star was a Dalmation.

Until I hit the campaign trail, I hadn't realised how many people still remembered my Dad, even though he passed away 23 years ago.  It seems that half of the people who lived in one street actually worked for him. They all said the same thing "Great games of cards at tea break time". There was a three card brag game three times a day. Many more folk were customers. Perhaps the nicest comment of all was an old boy who said "Please don't tell anyone, but I've always voted Conservative and I've been a member of the party for 55 years. Your Father was so kind to me that I'll break the habit of a lifetime and vote for you personally".

Finally there are those people who remembered by Mum. I guess that having six children meant she chatted to lots of other Mums at the school gates. As my parents were active in the local church as well, all sorts of tales of the PTA, St Josephs College Garden Fete committee and other charitable events have been mentioned.

Now I'm not complacent and I don't think the fact the family have lived here for 60 years should entitle me to any special favours at the polls. I hope that anyone voting for me will be doing so on the basis that they think I'll do a good job. I hope that if anyone votes for me in the election, they also vote for Kim and Jeremy, as I can personally vouch for their commitment and hard work.

I just wanted to take the opportunity to thank my dearly departed Mum and Dad and my thankfully still very much alive brothers, sisters, aunties, uncles and all for their years of work for the local community, which has made the job of canvassing much more pleasant than it would otherwise have been. It is a real pleasure when you knock on someones door and they tell you something nice about someone you love. Mind you it drives the other canvassers mad when I stand jawing on the doorstep for half an hour.

A true vision of Hell in Burnt Oak

As regular readers of this blog will know, we like something different at the weekend. Have you ever wondered what Hell is really like? We have the vision of Dante's inferno style of hell, the fire and brimstone vision such as proclaimed by tub thumping preachers. Being a good Catholic boy, it is quite noticable how we never much hear about hell in the pulpit these days. In the good old days of the sixties and seventies, when I was a youngster, we'd be scared to death with images of Satan and Hell.

Sometime in the late 1970's or early 1980's, I was having a beer with my Uncle Jim. He was a real larger than life character, a WWII veteran of D-Day, a father of 10 children and owner of local building firm. He was one of the world leading armchair philosophers and like all of the Fanning family, a great raconteur. He could conjour up vivid visions with his words, and make some of the most seemingly trivial incidents seem to be world changing events of monumental proportions. He used to brew his own beer and for a skint teenager was a great source of an evenings entertainment.

One evening as we chatted (well he chatted and we all listened), he announced. "You know all of these stories of hell and fire are rubbish. Hell isn't like that at all". I asked curiously "How do you know". He replied "Because I've seen hell and it isn't hot and crowded, quite the opposite". I was intrigued. Did this happen on the beaches at D-Day? No he replied, it happened on a dark, cold, foggy night in Burnt Oak during the blackout. Jim explained that he was back from the front on leave and he'd arranged to meet up with a few mates for a beer. One thing had lead to another and a little pub crawl had occurred. At chucking out time, Jim merrily toddled off into the smoggy, dank night air. After a short while walking, he realised that he'd taken a wrong turn or two and was completely lost. Nothing moved, no lights were on, he could hardly see five yards. One hour turned into two, two into three, three into four. Cold set in, fingers, ears, toes. There was not a soul on the street. Every house looked forebidding and alien. The mixture of disorientation, cold, dark, loneliness and tiredness started to play tricks on his mind. What if he'd died at the front and imagined everything since. What if he was in purgatory or even worse hell? He knew Burnt Oak like the back of his hand, but everywhere looked alien. What if there wasn't a home? What if he was to spend an eternity wandering lost around the streets of Burnt Oak, looking for home, looking for family, looking for friends. He said as he trudged, feeling ever more miserable, he realised Hell wasn't a place of fire and swrming crowds, it was a cold lonely place with no home, no family and no friends. Somewhere where you were isolated from the things you loved forever, trudging searching in the dark and the cold. Exhausted he stopped and sat down, distraught at this awful realisation. Then in the distance he hear a noise and realised that it was something moving on the local railway line. Overjoyed he knew that if he headed in that direction, he could find his way home. The trainline was located and soon the welcoming door of 55 Milling Road, had been located. As he entered the door, his father (my Grandad) asked "Where've you been, the pub shut hours ago?" Jim replied "I got lost in the fog and dark". Grandad replied "You stupid bugger". He then made him a cup of tea and they chatted for a while by the fire. Jim tld me that after the cold, dark outside, a warm fire and a mug of tea with the family seemed like heaven.

Jim told me that the feeling of being lost, lonely and cold was one he never ever wanted to experience again. You may wonder what brought this to mind? Well I was thinking about the situation in Haiti with the Earthquake and someone describing it as hell on Earth. At our Church this evening, they had a collection for the appeal and I was pleased to see a whole selection of notes of different colours. As we had a sermon asking us to think of the victims I thought of Uncle Jim, who died many years ago and his experience of hell in Burnt Oak. That is what the people of Haiti are feeling, bit they aren't drunks in the smog. Their local town really has changed. Their homes have gone, whole neighbourhoods of families and friends have been wiped out. For many, they will be cold for days, months or even years. If Hell is as Jim said being "cold, lonely, lost, hungry, thirsty and without a home, a friend or a family" then the least we can do is spare a little of our cash to change the bits of that we can change, such as the cold, hunger and thirst. That is why I stuck every spare penny I had in my wallet in the collection for DEC. I just wish I we could fix the things money can't solve as well.

Picture : The long gone Burnt Oak cinema. A landmark from a time gone by

Am I glad my Mum died?

A year ago last week my dear old Mum died aged 83. She was racked with pain from Osteo-arthritis, she'd nearly gone blind, she was deaf. She could only walk a few yards following a stroke. She couldn't talk properly as she suffered from jargon dysphasia. She'd had several operations to alleviate spinal pain caused by a crumbling spine. She required help getting up, had meals on wheels for lunch and a dinner supplied by us or one of my sisters. One of my Sisters stayed with her three days a week, putting her own life on hold. Another one delayed plans to move from Edgware. She wasn't easy, she was completely unreasonable much of the time. Once her eyesight failed she had one pleasure in life - boozing. She'd share a guinness with me every night & then I'd pour her a large scotch for her bedside table.

I was in LA when I got the call to say she'd had a massive stroke and died. It was unexpected. How did I feel? I was devastated. I miss her like hell. Sure she was cranky as hell. She lead my sisters a merry dance, but why shouldn't she? She never lost her marbles & was as sharp as a button when it mattered. She hated how she'd become and regularly asked my big brother if she could borrow his shotgun to end it all. We knew she didn't mean it. She'd fought all manner of diseases and won, Diptheria, Cancer, Strokes, Ulcers, Pneumonia, and a few other I've forgotten. She had six children & a full life. My sister told me that she thought that when my mother realised the time had finally come to depart, she seemed more surprised than anything else.

So with all her problems and suffering was I pleased that her suffering ended? Well I thought I wasn't, the I read this article in the Edgware Times. Mikal Raven (aka Brian James Sweeney) aged 38, robbed, sexually assaulted and murdered 60 year old Sylvia Wilson. The judge said that he was more motivated by sadistic pleasure than greed and sentanced him to a minimum of 18 years. That means that he'll only be 56 when he's released. How would I felt if a 56 year old monster such as him had moved in next to my mum. I can sleep soundly at night knowing she's in a better place. How many people such as me will wake up to find that a monster such as Sweeney has defiled there elderly mothers. I read the story and was, for the first time, rather pleased she's not here.

People such as Sweeney have given up the right to mercy and clemency. When should they be released? When they pose no conceivable threat to vulnerable old dear such as Mrs Wilson or my mum. Generally that means they'd leave in a box. I'm sorry to say that I wouldn't want to take the chance with my mum when she was alive. I wouldn't want to take the chance with yours either. Scumbags such as Sweeney deserve no second chance, end of story. If they ever are truly repentant, they'd willingly serve their time out. If they are not, then they don't deserve to be released.

Gladys my heart to see you !

When I read the recent press coverage concerning Brian Coleman becoming mayor, one thing brought a rather large grin to my face. It is reported that Mr Colemans redoubtable mother, Gladys Coleman will be his official consort. Why should this amuse me? Well, and I would have been strung up if I'd written this when she was alive, my own dearly departed mothers name was Gladys. This may come as a surprise to any readers who knew her. You see she absolutely hated the name. She also hated her second name, Mary. When she was confirmed, she chose the name of Cecilia as her confirmation name. She immediately adopted this as her preferred name and woe betide anyone who referred to her as Gladys. She was also none to keen on her surname - Fanning. I am quite convinced that one of the reasons she was so keen to marry my father was his surname was Tichborne, a fine old English aristocratic name, even if he was born in a mining town in the outback of Australia. Of course the fact that he was an extremely handsome, dashing, funny and brave officer in the Royal Australian Air Force probably helped.

My mum was born to an extremely poor family living in Oldham, Lancashire. Her father was an out of war, invalid Irish immigrant, who'se health was destroyed in the trenches of the first world war. He loathed pomposity and snobbishness. Once my mother brought a potential suitor, a British army officer home for tea. My Grandfather greeted him by demanding my grandmother brought a bowl of water for his feet. He sat drinking tea, making objectionable comments and smoking his pipe. My mother was mortified. The officer made his excuses and left. My mother was furious at this display. My grandfather retorted "If he liked you he wouldn't give a stuff what your old man was like. He'd be keen to rescue you from such a terrible family". My father passed the test with flying colours, he thought grandpa was a real character and a wise man.

My mum's family moved to London for work in the 1930's. As soon as she arrived in London she set about shedding her Lancashire accent. As the fifth of six children in a very poor family, she was determined to move upwards socially. In common with all of her brothers and sisters, she was remarkably intelligent. She achieved a scholarship to a very good school and was at the top of her class. Like my daughter, she was also a champion swimmer. In 1938, disaster struck. She contracted diptheria and nearly died. She spent 6 months in hospital. She told me how other children would appear in the bed next to her. She'd make friends. Then they'd disappear. She'd ask what happened and the matron would tell her "They've gone to heaven". My mum confessed that she was jealous, as it sounded so nice. After the war, my parents started a local business and built up a successful firm. By the time I arrived in the early '60's they had a four bedroom house and were comfortably off. My mother once told me that she honestly believed that she had never really been "Gladys Fanning". She said that she'd only been called Gladys as she had a rich aunty called Gladys, who my grandmother thought may look after her if anything happened. She said that when she announced to her family that she was to be called Celia, they all took the mickey mercilessly. They'd greet her with "Gladys my heart to see you" in the morning. Boyfriends would be informed of her real name. I once asked her why the aversion to the name. She said that there was a famous character called "Gladys Conk" who she was teased about when she was a child.

The picture above is my mum, with my big brothers at her 80th Birthday party. Despite her age, chronic poor health, stroke induced speech problems, she wouldn't leave the house without "getting ready". She was a fiercely proud woman. Surprisingly maybe, given her social aspirations, she was a life long socialist. This caused much friction as my Dad was a Tory! I once asked her, if she was able to change anythig about her life - The Cancer, The Stroke, The Diptheria, anything, what would she have changed. She told me she'd have changed her name. As a result, I really thought long and hard about our childrens names. When my eldest daughter, Madeleine was born, we had kept the name under wraps. When I rang my mum to tell her the news - a daughter - she said "What is her name" I replied "Madeleine". My mother spat back "Oh no, you can't call her that. I have a book full of really nice names you can borrow". I'm pleased to say that Madeleine is happy with her name and my mum soon adapted. She never stopped interfering though. My wife's early attempts to raise the children as vegetarian were thwarted by my mother cooking them steaks when she babysat. Madeleine came home and announced "Mummy, meat is lovely, you should try some". End of that plan. As I said above, had I written this blog when she was still alive and well, I'd have been murdered, or at the very least disinherited. As it is, I suspect she's looking down chuckling.

Towards the end of her life, following a fairly major stroke, when she became very old, doddery and frail, I was out with my mother. I was staggered when she introduced herself as Gladys to someone. Later at home, I asked her why she had done this. She replied "because it's my name". I asked if she no longer wanted to be called Celia. She replied "look at me, who do you think I am trying to impress". Shortly after that she stopped putting her curlers in every day. Shortly after that she died.

Saturday Morning is Bacon Sandwich Time

Over the years, various Pope's have made many tragic mistakes. Generally these take about 500 years to be acknowledged and for an apology to be issued. In my own personal opinion, one of the worse decisions made in my lifetime was the one to do away with the traditional fast on a Friday. When I was a child growing up in a strictly Roman Catholic household, Friday was different. Friday was the day when no meat was eaten. For me, there was a big upside and a big downside. The downside was the fact that school dinners at St Vincents (a Roman Catholic Junior School) were usually inedible. Not only that but a team of nuns viciously enforced a policy of "eat it all up". Pockets were checked, floors were examined for any attempts to hide the inedible slop which we used to invariably be dished up. That was the downside. The upside was glorious. Every Friday evening, my Dad would arrive home from work with bags of Fish and Chips. As there were six of us kids, mum, dad and usually some strange northern relative visiting (nice old Aunty Mary, Harry Taylor (the Magician), John Rathbone (the guy who used to go to Crufts) or Bernard, my brothers friend from France (swimming & Karate Champion who I suspect my sisters all rather liked !). We'd all sit down with mugs of brimming tea and tuck in. If you've never witnessed the Tichborne Family en mass with food, you'd be shocked. Imagine a dead Wildebeast with a large pack of hungry lions. I was the youngest by a few years, so I had to be the meanest, or I'd starve.

To my mothers eternal horror, we all inherited our eating habits from my father. To him, dining was a challenge. His favourite trick was to distract the person next to him and steal the best item from their plate. I'll never forget my mothers horror and anger with him, when he did this to the Mayor at a charity dinner. Personally, I don't think I'd want a sausage from any of our current crop of Tory councillors, but hey that's another story. Anyway, I digress.

Anyway, as I was saying, Friday was a special day. I always thought the pope had imposed the rule because he was a great bloke. To this day, fish and chips is a treat. It's a great dish for when you've got visitors and you don't want to mess around. Pickled Onions and Gherkins, salt & Vinegar. Eat it with your fingers and wash it down with tea or beer. My dad was an avowed carnivore, so he was ecstatic when the rule was abolished. He could have a steak on a Friday (as well as Thursday, wednesday, etc). I was gutted, Friday was suddenly a bit less special.

One of the best things about the effect of Friday, was the fact that as my dad felt he'd suffered so much on a friday, the breakfast ritual on a Saturday was different. Every other day of the week, it was a rigid regime. A cup of tea, a slice of toast and a bowl of cornflakes or other cereal. My mum, who was never good in the morning would send one of us kids up with a tray of it for my Dad, who never got up before 9.30 am (allegedly for health reasons). He'd lie in bed, reading the paper, or saying the Rosary and eat his breakfast. Mum didn't mind this regime as she thought he was "Too cheeful in the morning". On Saturday, Dad would get up and make us Bacon Sandwiches. Mum would lie in bed and feel miserable. Saturday morning was the day we awoke to the smell of frying bacon. I was a vegetarian for 16 years (after I had an ulcer & nearly died). It is true that bacon is the secret weapon of all carnivores ! When I started eating meat again, bacon sanwiches where the first thing back on the menu.

To this day, I still think my dad made the best bacon sandwiches. he'd only buy the best bacon. He'd fry it in butter, with tomatoes. He'd get the best uncut bread he could and toast it under the grill. A spot of pepper on top and hey presto. As he died 22 years ago this week, I thought I'd make myself a dad style bacon sandwich for breakfast. It's hard to get proper hand cut bacon with rind these days. I compromised and got some expensive stuff from Waitrose. Sadly there was no rind. My mother always used to tell us about the times during the war when the bacon was rationed. Her father would have all the lean cuts and give the rind to the kids. He always used to tell them he'd saved them the best bit. They were always very grateful.

Anyway, I made my bacon sandwich a la Dad. It was great. The simple things in life really are the best ! Next Friday I think we'll all have fish & chips for supper. If you have any wacky Norther relatives visiting send them round. If you have any French Karate & Swimming champs send them around as well. I'm sure my 13 year old daughter would be most happy then!