recall Martin’s dreadful death in tandem with a grimly funny story.
About a week before he died, Martin had borrowed a pair of two-tone tonic mohair trousers from Lenny Byart, a great mate of mine – indeed, the boy I sat next to in school. Tonic mohair trousers were the last word in high style for a certain, more conventional set, and Nelson’s in Deptford High Street was the only shop that sold them in boy’s sizes. When Lenny went to get his, after many weeks of saving up, the store had just taken receipt of a single, very rare pair in the most sought after plum and blue mohair. You never saw this colour combination on our age group and, quickly snapping them up, Lenny talked about little else for weeks, even delaying his eventual debut in them until exactly the right event in his social calendar.
He had not wanted to loan them to Martin Connor, but the two of them were very best pals and Martin desperately needed something amazing to parade in at an upcoming family wedding in North London. So, after much pleading and, I think, the passing of a pound, Lenny let him have them, along with dire warnings about what would happen should they come back with so much as a thread out of place. A few days later, before the wedding was due to take place, poor Martin fell through the roof. He wasn’t of course wearing the precious strides at the time, but about a week later Lenny was among a small group of very close friends who were invited to come and pay final respects at Martin’s open coffin. Need I telegraph further exactly what trousers Martin had been laid out in?
Those who were there say Lenny reeled, he gasped, with many mistaking his desperate panic as delayed grief.
‘Me tonics! Me tonics!’ sputtered Len to his subdued chums, his voice at a respectful rasp. ‘But they’re mine. He can’t go down the hole in them – they’re mine! I’ll never get another pair, not like that. They cost me twelve quid!’
Martin did indeed go ‘down the hole’ in Lenny’s pride and joys. Many say Lenny openly wept at the graveside. Today a team of counsellors would spend many hours talking him down from such a trauma.
On a positive note, Mud Island was bulldozed into history soon after and no houses have ever been built in that area since. Not out of respect to Martin Connor’s memory, I suspect, but because there must indeed be something unhealthy and rotten in the very soil, the legendary mud, down through the Stink Hole. Tellingly, the only thing standing on the ghost of Mud Island today is Millwall Football Ground.
The visits to Mud Island were getting fewer and fewer by this time in any case, because girls hated the place and 1970 was the year I properly started courting girls. Sometimes men talk about a year they ‘discovered’ girls, but I can’t fathom that. Surely anyone who grows up with a mother, a sister and at least a brace of aunts knocking about can’t still find the existence of females a complete shock? And if he does, well then he has just not been paying attention. I’m afraid I can’t bring you any of that awkward, confused and tongue-tied ticket either. From a very early age I was happy and confident around the girls. I liked them and loved to make them laugh and like me too. I would happily sell out my male mates and badmouth them too if I thought that’s what the girls wanted to hear. Sorry, fellas, but it’s a cut-throat racket, face facts.
At Rotherhithe Primary School the beginning of each February would see the arrival of a red cardboard postbox that was placed in the main hall by the teachers. We children were invited to put in our handmade Valentine cards to anyone we ‘loved’. I used to get scores of the things. All cut-out pink hearts and glued-on lacy bits with giant X kisses scrawled on the inside. I would send plenty out too. Beverley Selway, wonderful bee-sting-mouthed Beverley, she was the main gal for me! Oh, and Marion Purkiss, I was mad for her too. And Christine
About a week before he died, Martin had borrowed a pair of two-tone tonic mohair trousers from Lenny Byart, a great mate of mine – indeed, the boy I sat next to in school. Tonic mohair trousers were the last word in high style for a certain, more conventional set, and Nelson’s in Deptford High Street was the only shop that sold them in boy’s sizes. When Lenny went to get his, after many weeks of saving up, the store had just taken receipt of a single, very rare pair in the most sought after plum and blue mohair. You never saw this colour combination on our age group and, quickly snapping them up, Lenny talked about little else for weeks, even delaying his eventual debut in them until exactly the right event in his social calendar.
He had not wanted to loan them to Martin Connor, but the two of them were very best pals and Martin desperately needed something amazing to parade in at an upcoming family wedding in North London. So, after much pleading and, I think, the passing of a pound, Lenny let him have them, along with dire warnings about what would happen should they come back with so much as a thread out of place. A few days later, before the wedding was due to take place, poor Martin fell through the roof. He wasn’t of course wearing the precious strides at the time, but about a week later Lenny was among a small group of very close friends who were invited to come and pay final respects at Martin’s open coffin. Need I telegraph further exactly what trousers Martin had been laid out in?
Those who were there say Lenny reeled, he gasped, with many mistaking his desperate panic as delayed grief.
‘Me tonics! Me tonics!’ sputtered Len to his subdued chums, his voice at a respectful rasp. ‘But they’re mine. He can’t go down the hole in them – they’re mine! I’ll never get another pair, not like that. They cost me twelve quid!’
Martin did indeed go ‘down the hole’ in Lenny’s pride and joys. Many say Lenny openly wept at the graveside. Today a team of counsellors would spend many hours talking him down from such a trauma.
On a positive note, Mud Island was bulldozed into history soon after and no houses have ever been built in that area since. Not out of respect to Martin Connor’s memory, I suspect, but because there must indeed be something unhealthy and rotten in the very soil, the legendary mud, down through the Stink Hole. Tellingly, the only thing standing on the ghost of Mud Island today is Millwall Football Ground.
The visits to Mud Island were getting fewer and fewer by this time in any case, because girls hated the place and 1970 was the year I properly started courting girls. Sometimes men talk about a year they ‘discovered’ girls, but I can’t fathom that. Surely anyone who grows up with a mother, a sister and at least a brace of aunts knocking about can’t still find the existence of females a complete shock? And if he does, well then he has just not been paying attention. I’m afraid I can’t bring you any of that awkward, confused and tongue-tied ticket either. From a very early age I was happy and confident around the girls. I liked them and loved to make them laugh and like me too. I would happily sell out my male mates and badmouth them too if I thought that’s what the girls wanted to hear. Sorry, fellas, but it’s a cut-throat racket, face facts.
At Rotherhithe Primary School the beginning of each February would see the arrival of a red cardboard postbox that was placed in the main hall by the teachers. We children were invited to put in our handmade Valentine cards to anyone we ‘loved’. I used to get scores of the things. All cut-out pink hearts and glued-on lacy bits with giant X kisses scrawled on the inside. I would send plenty out too. Beverley Selway, wonderful bee-sting-mouthed Beverley, she was the main gal for me! Oh, and Marion Purkiss, I was mad for her too. And Christine
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