This episode (1977-78) incorporates turning 30, alarming to contemplate even at this distance – 30 years old and still playing at adulthood. The picture is dominated by the house in Westbourne Park where I lived with a shifting population of co-communards and co-workers from a variety of socially-funded (ahem) creative and self-help enterprises, whose livelihood was made possible by cheap food, rent, utilities, transport, and what now seems like an unbelievably laid-back system of State unemployment benefits.
My general self-absorption during this time is reflected in this panel by the absence of any depictions of wider social and political issues (ie: no reference to the Red Army Faction, Grunwick, the Yorkshire Ripper, 3 Mile Island, the death of Elvis, the Sex Pistols, Jimmy Carter, the Silver Jubilee, the Iranian Revolution, Margaret Thatcher etc). Let’s say I was living my politics at this time – surrounded by the invisible but highly ideological graffiti artists of North Kensington.
I was also surrounded by the weird and wonderful denizens of No.8. I’ve shown Peter, sharing a joint with me on the roof by moonlight, and playing The Irish Washerwoman whilst rhythmically thumping a foot on the wooden floor of his top storey room (you could hear him in the basement).
Berta, about to be buried under an avalanche of books that she had just brought from her flat in Ilford, to come and live with me (we had separate rooms). She put the shelves up herself, refusing my offers of help on grounds of gender autonomy (no comment).
David P. endlessly re-building or repairing something around the house (thank god someone was).
Anita and Sue doing something possibly dope-related on the carpet in the living room.
The communal kitchen table, although I don’t think that particular group of people ever sat round it all at the same time: Dave H., still trying to make a living as an actor; his scary pal Des, and Jill the artist who shared a room with Des and drove him into homicidal rages; Mick, shortly before he cut off his afro and went off down the district line to live with his new girlfriend; Pamela, whose cat was periodically witch-hunted by Jill for bringing fleas into the house; Maggie, one of the original communards from when the house was first bought by a rich Marxist; and the sinister David R. who was forever lurking round corners and chuckling to himself and had a reputation as a local poet and eccentric. The windows are full of the silhouettes of the many others who passed through, the good, the bad, and the drug-addled.
And on the steps outside I’ve drawn Myrtle, holding hands with one of her small charges from the local nursery where she actually had a proper job. Myrtle was one of the few points of connection we had with the West Indian population of North Ken. Our local was the Apollo at the corner of All Saints Road and we spent a lot of time in there, although we rarely had much interaction with the black people who also frequented it. Everyone rubbed along fairly amicably in those days without exactly socialising together (it didn’t stay like that – see the account at the link above).
And on the steps outside I’ve drawn Myrtle, holding hands with one of her small charges from the local nursery where she actually had a proper job. Myrtle was one of the few points of connection we had with the West Indian population of North Ken. Our local was the Apollo at the corner of All Saints Road and we spent a lot of time in there, although we rarely had much interaction with the black people who also frequented it. Everyone rubbed along fairly amicably in those days without exactly socialising together (it didn’t stay like that – see the account at the link above).
As well as signing on for Supplementary Benefit as an out-of-work actor, I was making pocket money from my fulltime occupation with Sidewalk Community Theatre. We worked hard and travelled a lot, first around North London and eventually the rest of the country and abroad to Holland. I still have clear memories and not a little fondness for the motley collection of vehicles that I borrowed, drove, mechanicked, and sometimes wrote off during this period.
Bob lent me his mini which I managed to get squashed under a lorry somewhere down the Caledonian road when I was late for a gig. (Despite my meagre income I did manage to pay him for it in instalments over the next 18 months).
Berta lent me her Honda Chaly bike on which I dodged other lorries along the Euston road on my way to rehearsals in Newington Green. Although it was tiny it had a 90cc engine which meant Peter was able to drive it on the M1, all the way to Hemel Hempstead in a thunderstorm with a 5-foot stainless steel microphone stand sticking up out of his rucksack.
Sidewalk had a series of old vans culminating in a 5-ton 1950s bread van which one of the group bought and had the windows customised to look like a clown face. It may have looked jolly but it was hellishly drafty inside and the heating kept breaking down. The whole thing eventually broke down in Aberdeen in January 1979. When we finally got it going again I and another group member drove it back to London without stopping, for fear of not being able to start it again. You had to drive with one hand on the wheel whilst keeping the other hand inside the engine block in the cab - one finger over an outlet on the carburettor so that you could release air bubbles as they formed, which happened at 10 minute intervals.
Peter and I drove to North Wales in his ancient Reliant Robin. It too broke down, in fog, outside Reading police station. Luckily we managed to get it started again quite quickly, which was a bit of a relief, as we had a large bag of homegrown weed in the glove compartment.
Sidewalk started off doing plays for children and graduated to adult plays in 78-79. I’ve depicted some of the characters I played, and also shown myself when I wasn’t wearing a costume. It is not easy to tell the difference. I remember how much I hated ‘materialism’ in those days – typified for me by the fashion industry, shopping malls, advertising of all kinds. I got my clothes from jumble sales and I remember this particular outfit very well: green corduroy jeans (with a bit of a flare), a woman’s waisted grey silk jacket, a woolly hat, grey suede boots that were a size too big, and…. BLOODY LEG WARMERS! (Oh the shame).
My children’s characters included: Cecil the Mayor, whose first appearance in his big red cloak had 5-years screaming with fear and scrabbling over each other to get to their mothers. Berkeley the snotty school kid who won gold cups and whose scatological war with his underclass neighbours got us banned from some of the Islington Schools where we performed. Podgie the Cat, tormented by Berta with a cut-down Emu puppet.
The adult characters included a sinister Punch and Judy man, a patriarchal paterfamilias in a play about the Women’s Suffrage movement, and Dave the well-meaning male chauvinist in ‘Son of a Gun’ (see the link to Sidewalk above), which was actually one of the first theatrical expressions of the burgeoning women’s movement in the UK in the 1970s. I’ve included a little visual tribute to Norma and Ken who starred in the first version of that play and who inspired me with performances of consummate comedy and bathos.
I look back on all this now as a kind of late late adolescence. A strange combination of community commitment and personal irresponsibility. My growing up would still be some time coming, but, flying in over Trellick tower in a NZ Airlines jet as 1977 came to an end, although unknown to me at the time, was its eventual cause.
