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Two Islands: England and Eel Pie Island
London in the early sixties; a backdrop of rhythm and blues music on a small island in the
River Thames; some forgotten insights to those days.
Anglers have fished along the banks of the River Thames since time immemorial.
“Did yer catch anything?” is a common greeting to these surly folk.
“Naw, not today. Had a few bites.”
Nothing has changed with them¯neither their keep nets, fishing rods, Thermos flask of tea, gruff
speech patterns nor the fish they seek: dace, perch, roach and eel. They dislike the latter because
it tangles fishing line. For most anglers the coming and passing of the Beatles was of no consequence;
fathers fished with their sons in harmony, undisturbed by the new generation of music. I was an exception.
Located about 16 kilometres from central London, Eel Pie Island in the River Thames, Twickenham,
was a nascent centre for British rhythm and blues in the 1960s. In the summer of 1963
I frequented Eel Pie Island Hotel to listen to the Rolling Stones. They had made a 45
single called “Come On,” a Chuck Berry song that was played on the crackling 208, Radio
Luxembourg. For a young person living in South London, it was a rite of passage to walk across
the footbridge and visit the dimly lit Eel Pie Island Hotel’s dance hall with its beaming floorboards.
I now reside in Vancouver, Canada, but often return to towpaths of the Thames encompassing Richmond,
Twickenham, Teddington, Kingston, Hampton Court and East Molesey; the swans, deer in the neighbouring parks,
trains and train stations have not changed since my youth. No, 1963 and ’64 were not idyllic years. I was just
a teenager growing up in postwar Britain with little in common with my parents. I had ceased fishing¯but what
is amazing is how regularly I am reminded of those days by way of the era’s music and its now aging mega-star
personalities.
You could buy fish and chips and eat them out of newspapers, paying with only a half
crown. Many young men of the time wore Italian suits and pointed shoes but not on Eel Pie
Island. Cords, jumpers and college/university scarves were the norm. Girls were gypsy-like;
it was an era before the mini skirt. Only a few people owned transistor radios and only
certain young people had a telephone at home or as it was said in those days,
were “on the phone.”
I recall one summer Sunday evening sitting on the grass outside the Eel Pie Hotel, drinking cider
and staring at the River Thames. We thought we were hip, drinking amongst a pseudo-student crowd. Just
youth. Licensing laws were strict but the drinking age was vague. There were no drunk driving laws,
but back then we didn’t drive. You had to be twenty-one to vote but you could be drafted and killed
at eighteen in a foreign war. Of course, if you lived in Northern Ireland, you might be twenty-one
but still not have a vote. The word Empire was not dated, and England was proud of the Commonwealth although
restricted immigration was in place due to some 1962 act of Parliament. But we were not sure if that
meant anything. Then, people lived in England, not the U.K., and England was not part of the Common Market and
unconvinced it should be. The first Surgeon General’s Report on Smoking and Health was issued in 1964 and
made the front pages of newspapers, but people still smoked everywhere. What didn’t make the headlines
then were the 1963 findings of a few scientists of carbon dioxide emissions. We didn’t know anything
about skin cancer; and we thought “the more the sun the better.”
Our counterparts in Berlin and on the Left Bank in Paris were discussing serious topics.
But the Eel Pie patrons were like soccer fans, except we spoke of groups and venues and not
players or teams. We all knew of someone who was in a musical group band or who was going
to start a band. Was the music we were listening to any good? Well, yes, but so was the music
of Dmitri Shostakovich, Igor Stravinsky, Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane, of which we were unaware.
I used to believe that the patrons of Eel Pie Island and other musical venues in South London
were egalitarian. In retrospect, this was not true. Most of these people were white and probably
never went on to higher education. It was a fine balance trying to pass O and A –levels and being
part of this music scene. It’s all but forgotten that in the early sixties it was difficult to
gain admission to a university. Most of my school friends who’d gone on to university were not
part of the Eel Pie Island scene. Like many studious people, they were shy and uncomfortable
in social gatherings.
We’d been conditioned that we had received a good education. British history was the only history
and, according to all the books, concluded in 1914. The books did not include much about the Irish
famine or the Black and Tans. Best not to cover India in the syllabus either. In 1964, I had my
first calculus lesson, and the world changed for me.
Looking back at those Eel Pie Island days in the early sixties, I now see the abject ignorance
we had of culture¯including our own. We really lived on two islands: England and Eel Pie. We were
unaware of Picasso, Debussy, Satie or anything from Europe except Radio Luxembourg. Would they
have printed Vincent Van Gogh on a biscuit tin in 1963? Which Christmas saw the first Haworth
biscuit tin? What did we know of Virginia Wolfe, John Osborne or Edward Elgar? Scientific
and engineering advancements eluded us even though many of us purported to be engineers
or scientists. We could use logarithm tables but not all the functions on our slide rules.
While twelve-bar blues played, so did world events during the interval between 1963 and 1964;
in 1964, Alec Douglas-Home was the prime minister, John F. Kennedy was assassinated in November
1963, and earlier that year he had said, “Ich bin ein Berliner.” Paul VI succeeded Pope John XXIII
and the British spy Kim Philby was in Moscow. In 1964, violence erupted on Cyprus between the
Greeks and the Turks, and Turkey’s inability to accommodate the Greek Cypriots dating from
this period appears to have derailed their membership in the European Community, even
with a pope’s nod.
Sport was not dead in England while the Graham Bond Organisation played on: West Ham won the F.A. cup,
beating Preston North End. George Best was playing at Manchester United with Dennis Law and Bobby Charlton.
England lost the Ashes to Australia. The Springboks beat the Welsh Rugby. Roy Emerson, the Australian, won
Wimbledon singles in 1964.
Lester B. Pearson was the prime minister of Canada when much of the above unfolded.
My associates in Vancouver and elsewhere are intrigued that I once saw George Best play
with Manchester United but flabbergasted that I never attended a Wimbledon tennis match.
I did go to a Seven-a-Side tournament at Twickenham and cheered for the Harlequins.
The late Long John Baldry used to live in Vancouver, and I had a pleasant conversation
with him a few years ago. I understand Andrew Loog Oldham lives somewhere in Vancouver.
Chris Barber gave a great concert here some time ago and we had a chat in the auditorium.
I take lunch near a record shop that has a poster of Rod Stewart, MBE, advertising the Great
American Songbook Volume IV. I last saw him singing with the Jeff Beck Group, and before that
at a school dance with Jimmy Powell & The Five Dimensions. Eric Clapton, the guitarist of The Roosters,
will be playing in Vancouver soon. A month or so ago Ronnie Wood had an art exhibition here.
The Rolling Stones recently played Vancouver, although Brian Jones of course was not with them.
Many of the luminaries of those days played at our school dances, including the Rolling Stones,
but that fact is of scant interest to the people with whom I have lunch or play tennis, so
I keep it to myself. On Christmas Day my wife gave me Elton John’s Christmas Party CD
( I also have Oscar Peterson and Oliver Jones on my desk). I checked, and yes, Reg Dwight
had been the keyboards player in Bluesology, which then included Long John Baldry. Yes,
I have nostalgic memories of those Eel Pie Island days and I’m amazed at how personalities
of that far-off time have travelled with me through the years.
It’s Free!
Peter C. Newman discusses his new memoir,at the Vancouver public library, 7pm, free.
Chamber Ensemble, Saturday 7:30 at the United Church Ticket Price: Admission is FREE.
You can visit the Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia, on Tuesdays from 5 to 9pm, for free. On Thursday evening at the same time, the Vancouver Art Gallery is free. No I am not attempting to offer a list of fun free activities to save money but an illumination of our lives that does not involve the immediacy of the exchange of money. The wind is free, so is boardsailing. Your friends can walk along the beach and watch you spill, thus providing free entertainment. What about witnessing a great sunset or viewing Hercules and Corona Sorealis? The autumn colours and Christmas lights are free.
Let us go through a hypothetical mid-week morning in late August. Monica, my wife decides to sleep
in because she has performed volunteer work the previous evening at Lions Gate Hospital but
I rush onto the sundeck and with several blue jays see the day break. The moon is still
there creating an extraterrestrial scene above Grouse Mountain. I switch on the radio
for a time check and the news. Classical music follows with organ music by Camille Saint-Saens.
At the front door, I wave at the neighbour’s wife and pick up the free local newspaper along
with a small promotional bar of soap and various coupons, too many for me to sort. As it is the feast
day of St. Augustine, my favourite saint, I decide to go to church.
I take the short cut to St. Ambrose’s church via Hippo Park. This park always has a profusion of colours
and scents from the labelled flowerbeds and attracts bees, butterflies and birds. In the afternoon,
it attracts hand drummers from Marrakesh who generate syncopated rhythms near the bandstand.
The garden’s sundial tells me I will be late for the service.
As I enter the church I hear the sermon, sort of, which is half motivational, half autobiographical,
on the life of St. Augustine. Since it is not Sunday, there is no collection and unlike the European
churches, St. Ambrose does not proclaim the 7 Euro entrance donation. Wednesday, is the day the
organist practices… hence 45 free minutes of Bach. With its clock tower, St Ambrose can also
provide you with a 174 steps free cardio workout and a local history primer of the Fraser River
and Fort Langley. Spiritually nourished, I head for the library. It starts to rain so I dart
into a super market to keep dry. Two schoolboys ask me the time at the door. Inside a pretty
girl with long red hair offers me small dry crackers with different kinds of goat cheeses.
The super market is adjacent to a larger shopping mall and changes in muzac differentiate the two.
I walk around the mall for a bit and use the washroom. At the other end by the escalator there
is a cluster of Eastern European gentlemen playing chess. I watch one game and play two.
Doing the crossword or maybe a Sudoku Puzzle, in the library, is now on my mind.
I phone Monica on the courtesy phone by the information desk. She asks me to look out
for the Continuing Education Booklet and to bring her one. In the centre of the mall,
a local school has a still life art exhibition. Exiting the mall someone hands me a
free “vote for Campbell” button and I take a California Roll sample. Some Japanese
students ask me for directions to the Tourist Information Centre. I walk pass my bank
and see there is a customer-appreciation day taking place. I have a coffee and one small
cookie. In the bank I meet Paul, a former tennis partner. We arrange to play Saturday morning
at 8am on a free public court. I will arrive earlier to practise against the wall.
I will visit the library another day so I head for home. In my mailbox there is an offer for a time-share seminar
in Whistler with one night’s free accommodation and a postcard from a friend in Manchester. Tomorrow, I will rake
the “free” leaves, weed the “free” weeds and work on the compost that will eventually give me free rich soil.
On Saturdays, rain or shine, I can always go and watch my nephew play soccer at a nearby field. This coming
Saturday afternoon, I will listen to my piano teacher perform at a free Jazz concert down at Lonsdale Market.
In the evening Monica and I will attend the free lecture presented by the Vancouver Institute. On Sunday
morning we hiking on Grouse Mountain and in the afternoon visiting the Emily Carr Institute of Art and
Design’s free Grad student’s exhibition on Granville Island.
Are things really free? Are we paying without knowing? Who wrote “everything is free until you buy it”?
Do relations really give beneficial free advice? At the Tourist information Centre the Japanese students will
pick up free maps and information sheets full of advertisements, most of which they will not understand. The
free pen at the insurance office has its name on it. My key ring says Nortel. I have some BP gas maps at home;
do gas stations still provide free maps? Did you pay for your Net Browser or screensavers? No!
I seem to have a hotel pen from Sun Peaks on my desk along with a note pad from a local realtor. I am looking
at famous Canadian people on the bank’s free calendar. Yes, many free items are promotional but still
they are useful. A map is a map! Using GPS services is free; I didn’t pay to launch the satellites.
What should be free? There are many items free in life that we may not always value as being free.
Pleasant memories are free. So are waves from friends.
John Joyce was born at Hampton Court, in England. He held school records for running
the mile. He was educated in London and Salford, Lancashire where he gained an honours degree
in electrical engineering. Subsequent studies have been at Dalhousie University, University
of British Columbia and Capilano College. John Joyce started writing philosophy at school
and has been extensively published. "Moniques's Interview" was his first short play and
"Going Standby" is his latest. He departed England for Montreal to go around the world,
living at different times in Montreal, Toronto, Ottawa and Dartmouth.He resides in Vancouver,
Canada with his wife Diane. Altus Arts Agency promotes his works worldwide.
Email: John Joyce
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