The chaos first reigned back in July when soaring temperatures began to melt the mercury on thermometers and barometers everywhere you went. Here in our 33rd floor apartment, Annie and I cranked up what is normally an efficient and responsive air-conditioning system to gain some relief. But on the day that a record high of 108 degrees was recorded a few miles away at Newark International Airport, the coolant began to boil, not to mention those who it was supposed to be refrigerating. Having lived in the south and visited sweat-boxes like South Africa and Hong Kong, I can honestly say that I have never felt so uncomfortable in my life. All in all, the atmosphere became little short of brutal for the next several weeks.

Somehow we learned to live with the humidity, the kind that belonged in a rain forest rather than a normally temperate metropolis like Manhattan. But then, just when things began to settle down, along came the next challenge. An Indiana Jones scenario not usually associated with the local terrain. On what started out as an ordinary Tuesday afternoon late in August, tremors from a 5.8 magnitude earthquake epicenter-ed in Virginia shook the city and sent seismologists racing to their digitizers and accelerometers. Whilst not on a level of the truly serious earth-moving moments felt by Californians, the shock waves nevertheless did tens of millions of dollars worth of damage to buildings and infrastructure.

What the hell was going on? Well, nothing compared to the next round of fun and frolics that blew in just a few days later. “In Hertford, Hereford, and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly ever happen”. So said the Hungarian film producer, Gabriel Pascal. Once upon a time the man’s assertion (it evolved in “Pygmalion”) could logically be extended around the New York area to include Harlem, Hoboken and Hell’s Kitchen but not any more. The final weekend in August was the date on the calendar when we were introduced to Ms. Irene. Hurricane Irene, to be precise. This enormous ball of Atlantic tempestuousness barreled inland at speeds approaching 110 miles-per-hour, and it landed a direct hit on the city.

The Mayor of New York, Mike Bloomberg, straightaway put into action a well-rehearsed strategy that involved evacuations and closures throughout the whole of Manhattan. To see Times Square totally empty as the rain lashed down and the winds did their worst, was a sight I shall never forget. Curfews were put in place and all but official vehicles disappeared off the streets. It was as near as you could get to a futuristic doomsday movie out of Hollywood. What nobody had foreseen was the flood damage that would be caused upstate in the Hudson Valley and along the shores of Connecticut. To that end, it was good to know that such notable area residents as Ernest Borgnine, Ronnie Spector and Keith Richards were not baling water or stuck up trees.

It is all a good deal calmer now, with the prospect of some far more agreeable conditions settling in for the immediate future. Hopefully, the long-range forecast will be kind to Charleston, South Carolina, (a truly delightful part of the world) as the Colmans are due to attend a society wedding there in a few days time. Much shopping has been done upfront, with the result that yours truly will be decked-out in a brand new suit from Macys, whilst Annie will be proudly showing off a little figure-hugging number from Bloomingdales. I’m keeping my fingers crossed, because the weather aberrations we’ve suffered have been playing havoc with the lady’s wardrobe of late.

For the final touch, a case of chilled champagne, glassware and crisp white napkins had been thoughtfully placed close at hand. In due course, the seven less than temperate eccentrics adopted the name “The Sons of Neptune” and the local press was invited along to report on the proceedings. Whilst all of this might sound like a barrel of fun, there was an underlying current – in more senses than one. Freddie Drabble, Geoff Nunn, Captain Sydney Smith, Chris Found, Cecil Ridley, Bryan Dew and Charles White, were in fact drawing attention in their own sweet way to Scarborough Town Council’s decision to pump untreated sewage directly into the North Sea.

Aside of all the high jinks and the jackass jocularity, the task in question was an extremely serious one. Apart from anything else it showed just how out of touch the authorities were with environmental developments. It was also out of kilter with the wacky ways of the Neptune’s star turn, Charles ‘Dr Rock’ White. This Dublin-born podiatrist has long been larger than life, both literally and figuratively. He broadcasts regularly on the BBC, he has written articles for the Observer and the Independent, and he’s authored books about his rock & roll heroes, Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis. His personal philosophy to “live life to the full ’cause this ain’t no rehearsal” sums the good doctor up better than any ham-fisted P.R. release.

Charles White is now the Neptunes’ number one son, in that he has written “The Adventures of The Sons of Neptune” which was published on August 1st. Within the book’s 310 purified pages, he tells how the group fought a 20 year battle that fundamentally changed EU laws on the dumping of toxic disease-laden sludge into our seas without proper treatment. When the establishment cut off the democratic life line, the Sons, supported by the worlds leading scientists, came up with their outrageous stunts and adopted catch phrases such as “Britannia Waives The Rules” in order to enlist the mainstream media to get their message spread world-wide.

The good news is that the Sons of Neptune’s bizarre efforts have paid off. From the days when raw human waste along with 180,000 gallons of detergent was being pumped directly into the ocean and the council treated the immediate coastline as a treatment plant on the basis that the sea would kill off bacteria, Yorkshire Water is now planning to invest more than £40 million to upgrade Scarborough’s sewage network with the aim of attaining the new EU excellent standard for bathing water off the Yorkshire Coast. To underline the point, a blue flag is already flying in the North Bay. Congratulations are therefore in order and Knighthoods cannot be ruled out. Just one question remains for the man at the helm. Does a news conscious chiropodist with a freshly-published book keep his clippings?

Having spent the past few weeks sifting through a trough of fresh material, I now have a top-ten of demos flying around the grey matter and sure enough the darned things won’t let go. It’s more than a professional price to pay, because if a phrase and a chorus line turns out to be particularly catchy then woe betide because you will not be able to shut the things down.

What rubs salt further into the wound is the fact that your brain tends to become extra alert at a time like this. That’s when you find yourself, like it or not, inadvertently paying attention to television commercials, movie themes and even radio station jingles when you least want to. You can only begin to imagine how much more frustrating this development can be, when an assortment of ‘outside’ items suddenly crops up in amongst the new stuff. I’ll give you a prime example.

I happened to be within earshot of a TV when the Turner Classic Movie channel trailered a re-run of “The Music Man”, and I found myself humming, of all things, ‘76 Trombones’. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the darned thing out of my mind. At one point I was even whistling the entire bothersome refrain. That is until my ever patient wife, Annie, stopped me in my tracks. It’s just as well she did as I didn’t even know I was disturbing the midnight air.

The worst point, though, comes after you’ve been recording in the studio all day long. Sometimes day after day, sometimes week after week if you’re doing an album session. It’s then that you become faced with the task of eradicating the stuff that has gone down onto tape. If you don’t make the effort to counter what’s fast turning out to be some sort of Hell’s Jukebox, then you will almost certainly bid farewell to a decent night’s sleep.

Going on past experience, the antidote to all of this has always been to keep a store of comedy shows at hand to play on the way home. This is based on the theory that instead of the theatrically sung cadence, you will be hearing the spoken word when you need it most. So, a hefty dose of The Goon Show, one of Dean Martin’s Roasts, or a classic edition of I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue will always do the trick. Providing, of course, you don’t start mimicking the gags.

Duane has the distinction of being the first ever rock & roll guitarist to enter the elite signature field. In 1960, Guild Guitars introduced the Duane Eddy Models DE-400 and the deluxe DE-500, then in 2004 the Gibson Custom Art and Historic Division introduced its own Duane Eddy Signature edition. Here in the present day, the Gretsch Guitar Company has launched its G6120DE Duane Eddy Signature Hollow Body model and what a beauty it is. The instrument is a slim neck single-cutaway, and it combines many of the features of Duane’s original 1957 model with all the latest developments that together pay fitting tribute to the undisputed King of Twang.

The new ‘Desert Sunrise’ lacquer-finished wonder was very much a talking point at the recent Duane Eddy Convention held in London at Kings College in the Strand. The sell-out crowd was given the technical lowdown by way of an extremely clever digital video, and many an order was being placed once the proceedings were through. But that couldn’t happen until the resident “Twang Gang” did their thing in the name of vibrating E-strings. For the first time in several years (this was the 33rd Convention), yours truly got to join the line-up on bass, as no less than ten players strove to turn the the ‘gang’ into an orchestra. There was not a dry leg in the house.

The reception was tremendous, but the thing that really wowed the crowd was the news that Duane Eddy will be playing Glastonbury this year. On a bill that promises Coldplay, Big Audio Dynamite, Beyonce and The Wombles, Duane will be appearing along with his turbo-charged tenor sax player, Ron Dziubla. He will also be debuting his new album, “Road Trip”, which has come to fruition through the sterling efforts of Richard Hawley and his manager Graham Wrench. The former Pulp and Longpigs axeman was at Duane’s table when he picked up his Legend Award at last year’s Mojo’s. So if you want the real thing, then do yourself a favour and check out the man who really knows how to swing an axe in the name of rock & roll.

January 12th 1960 is relevant because it represents the moment in time when Bill Haley and the Comets became the first recording artists to remake their rock & roll hits. Bill was then approaching his mid-thirties, and the enthusiastic fervour he’d once injected into ‘Rock Around the Clock’ had turned into an exercise in sophistication. Fast forward three years and the task of revisiting former glories was placed in the hands of Jerry Lee Lewis. The Killer did a fair job of shifting ‘Great Balls of Fire’ and ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ into the world of High Fidelity, but the updated versions he cut for Smash would never outdo his classic Sun originals.

The Everly Brothers were next in line to take up the challenge, and to their credit they managed to recreate their Cadence hits for Warners without too much discomfiture. But, sad to say, from that point onwards it was downhill all the way. As the decade progressed, a succession of trailblazers, including Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Carl Perkins and Fats Domino, took the bait and unashamedly threw caution to the wind by declaring open season on their catalogues. However, if this was a trying time for rock & roll then it was nothing compared to the lame main features that the motion picture industry was beginning to thrust upon an unsuspecting public.

Celluloid cloning had been around for some time, but the practice seemed to broaden when producer Sam Katzman cheekily remade “Rock Around the Clock” as “Twist Around the Clock”. A backlot bean-counter by any stretch of the imagination, Katzman was famous for paring back his budgets to the very bone. He even used the same sets, costumes and locations from the earlier outing to make his Twist movie. The profits that his ‘quickies’ realized clearly influenced the Hollywood comptrollers, and the era of the big-screen remake got underway with a vengeance. To begin with, “Pocketful of Miracles”, “Move Over Darling” and “Meet Me in St. Louis” were all conceived during the 60s, whilst “King Kong”, “The Jazz Singer” and “The Fly” came on stream a decade later using the same titles as the originals.

From here onwards, anything and everything was fair game for the faux format, and nearly always with dire results. If you’ve ever had the misfortune to see Steve Martin attempting to displace Peter Sellers in “The Pink Panther”, then you’ll get the picture. Larger-than-life characters like Inspector Closeau can only ever be portrayed by an actor who would truly live and breathe the rôle. “The Ladykillers”, which also starred Peter Sellers, is another body of work that should be left well enough alone. The fact that Touchstone Pictures ever considered reworking one of the all-time great comedies then ended up drowning the dialogue in a sea of profanity, makes you wonder who the heck was minding the store.

Spare a thought too for Michael Caine. Obviously, not a lot of people at Warner Brothers knew that you simply shouldn’t mess with a masterpiece like “Get Carter”. To have hired Sylvester Stallone to play the mob enforcer, Jack Carter, some three decades after Michael had nailed the part, was like getting Julie Andrews to star in an update of ‘Deep Throat’. Which brings us to another blown job. Hampered by a ridiculous relocation to Los Angeles and yet another awkward miscasting, the 2003 version of “The Italian Job” is a stark reminder that the Mini Cooper spectacular should only ever be watched if the Caine mutineer is in charge.

Just a couple of weeks ago here in New York the TCM channel gave a rare screening to “Bedazzled”, the surrealistic comedy perceived by Peter Cook and Dudley Moore in 1967. A real period piece, the film has retained its sparkle thanks to a witty script and the on-screen chemistry of the ‘Not-Only-But-Also’ duo. Imagine, therefore, how much glitter fell to the floor when the idea was resurrected some 33 years later with Elisabeth Hurley cast in Peter Cook’s rôle as the Devil. Yet that’s not half as ludicrous as the latest and most pointless remake of all, which concerns the dear, departed Dudley Moore.

“Arthur” was made in 1981 and it boasted Dudley Moore as a playboy who felt no pain, Sir John Gielgud as his butler, Liza Minelli as his reluctant girlfriend, and a theme tune to die for. It was simply one of a kind. The finely-tuned elements were so magical, you felt like preserving a print of the film in aspic. On April 8th British audiences will get to see a new “Arthur”, this time with ‘comedy actor’ Russell Brand in the rôle. Woe betide, because we are talking about that Russell Brand. Gone is the flair, gone is the charm, gone is the warmth that a talented individual like Dudley Moore could project. In its place we have a galumphing star-gazer who doesn’t have a clue about how to get sloshed in style. Once again we have to ask the question, “Why did they bother?” Russell Brand is simply the wrong kind of nutter. The producers would have been far better off getting Richard Hammond from Top Gear to play the part. At least he’s the same height as the man who was known as a ’sex thimble’ at the height of his powers.

The curtain came down on a Monday afternoon, exactly two months after a fellow peer group pioneer perished at the hands of a deranged gunman in Manhattan. The site where John Lennon fell, the Dakota apartment complex on the corner of 72nd Street and Central Park West, happens to be two blocks from the Pythian Temple at 135 West 70th Street. In the days when Decca Records were paying the rent, this was the building that housed the studio where Bill Haley & the Comets recorded some of the most powerful, ground-breaking rock & roll sides of all time.

In terms of a price paid, Bill suffered the consequences of being the first real Rock & Roll star. He had no one to reference when it came to avoiding the pitfalls and the problems that were almost certainly going to materialize. Instead of the comfort zone that today’s pop out-patients have at their disposal, Betty Ford clinics, chi-chi treatment programmes and so on, Bill simply lit a Stuyvesant and opened a six-pack if things began to go pear-shaped: And that they did. The root cause of what might be termed Bill’s ‘professional hardship’ can be traced back to his manager, ‘Lord Jim’ Ferguson.

This excuse for a respected representative, was a reckless gambler who chose to ‘lord’ it by investing in a worthless art gallery and a non-operating steel mill. Instead of helping to put the books in the black, Ferguson’s aberrations simply compounded Bill’s issues with the IRS and his ongoing alimony payments that were rarely if ever met. To cap it all, the harebrained wheeler-dealer took out a six-figure loan in order to stave off the debts. Unfortunately he neglected to inform his boss that the cheque he cashed was signed on behalf of the Cosa Nostra.

In the course of time I got to interview Bill Haley for Radio One, and I can only say he was one of the most dignified individuals you could ever wish to encounter. Bill had the kind of presence that commanded respect, and that old but accurate description of someone having charisma was never more appropriate than when ascribed to this most amiable man of pop music. However, when Bill Haley died there was still the odd hint of snobbery. Whereas the Red Tops all deemed the story worthy of inclusion on the front pages, the Sunday Express left it to the opinionated Steve Race to fob the man off rather than laud him in amongst his weekly music column.

For my part as a flag-waving fan, I was invited to share my thoughts on the day in question by way of a tribute on BBC-TV’s Nationwide. Thirty years on, and the Haley message still comes through loud and clear to these ears. So much so, that I have just completed the annotation on a new double CD entitled “Bill Haley & His Comets – What a Crazy Party: The Best of the Decca Years.” Released by Fantastic Voyage (www.fantasticvoyagemusic.com), the digipack is replete with hits and lesser-known but equally commendable titles. Let’s just say this. After witnessing the Black Eyed Peas on the Super Bowl last weekend, I’d rather have a little daily Haley any day of the week.

As usual, many of the names in the running are about as far removed from the genre as you can get. Nevertheless, there is one shining light on the horizon. But first of all, here’s something to consider. It is truly ironic that so many record bosses from ‘rock’ music’s first generation ended up outliving their artists. Whilst so many young guitar pickers and pioneers of the music were tirelessly treading the boards, their custodians managed to avoid the stress and the toil by choosing the next hit single from the comfort of an armchair.

Let’s cite some of the expounders, beginning with Elvis’ man at Sun Records, Sam Phillips. Sam chalked up 80 plus years, making him almost twice the age of his legendary denizen at the eleventh hour. Then there’s Bill Haley’s A&R chief, Milt Gabler. He reached his 90^th birthday whilst the ‘Rock Around the Clock’ man didn’t live to see 56. And we mustn’t forget Ken Nelson, one of the bigwigs at Capitol Records who very nearly got to blow out 97 candles. That was in contrast to his leather-clad charge, Gene Vincent, who died in 1971 aged 36. All of this brings us to someone who has seen off the majority of his signees, yet is still very much around. We are talking about the owner and operator of Specialty Records, Art Rupe, an industry instigator who is about to be lauded by the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

Resume-wise, the sprightly nonagenarian became a force to be reckoned with as far back as 1946, which was when he first introduced his distinctive black, white and yellow logo-ed label. Success came early via the big bands of Roy Milton and Jimmy Liggins, and through the svelte cocktail blues of Percy Mayfield and Camille Howard’s bouncy piano boogies. The screw was turned even tighter after Art opened an office in New Orleans, which was when he began working with Lloyd Price. ‘Lawdy Miss Clawdy’, the first single, hit #1 R&B in the summer of 1952 and it remained on the chart for the rest of the year. Then just a few months later, and with the help of a young pianist named Ray Charles, ‘Guitar’ Slim mirrored the feat with ‘The Things That I Used to do’.

Art’s big payday finally arrived in the fall of ’55. The date on the calendar signified the permutation of rock & roll as a musical form, and he’d just signed one of the main protagonists of the new movement. Little Richard was simply born to personify Specialty. His powerhouse vocal defined the label’s identity, and his hair was as wavy and extravagant as its eye-popping logo. Although he would think of his music as being rhythm & blues, Richard could write, perform and play rock & roll as if he was falling off a log. His hit trail was nothing short of phenomenal. ‘Tutti Frutti’, ‘Long Tall Sally’, ‘Ready Teddy’, ‘The Girl Can’t Help It’ and ‘Good Golly, Miss Molly’ were just some of the milestones that Specialty elicited during the late 1950s. Seeking to extend the message after Richard broke the doors down, Rupe proceeded to bring in Larry Williams, followed soon after by Don & Dewey, Sam Cooke and Art Neville.

Then suddenly, after he’d raised the profile of Specialty to just about as high as an independent could go, Art Rupe ceased operations. Many reasons were cited, including Little Richard’s religious life change, Larry Williams getting into trouble with the law, and Lloyd Price de-camping to ABC-Paramount. But essentially, the wily Mr. Rupe was simply playing his cards close to his chest whilst concentrating on a series of financial pursuits. Now, all these years later, the man has been invited to step up to the plate to receive his long overdue pioneer award. It’s just a shame he wasn’t born in the U.K. as opposed to Pennsylvania, because the thought of a Sir Arthur N. Rupe strutting around stirs the emotions far greater than some of the desultory dubbings that have been thrust upon us in the past few years.

The Jazz Standard is a long-established eaterie located just north of Gramercy Park in downtown Manhattan. To say that the place is roomy would be an understatement, as there are three floors to cater for the carnivorous clientele. It was the genial basement area that provided the dining experience when Miss Ann and yours truly joined friends to see the Houston Person Quartet last month. Houston is a tenorist of the highest order, with a resumé that speaks of gigs with Buddy Johnson, Richard ‘Groove’ Holmes and Billy Butler from the Bill Doggett Combo. Judging by the delights that were to befall us, one could only hope that the band got a free dinner as well as a decent fee.

Not to be influenced by the plateful of fresh oysters that arrived on the table to next to ours, I settled for a half-rack of Memphis Baby Backs. Ribs turned out to be the house specialty, so this was my preference over the Kansas City Spares and the Texas Salt & Pepper Beef feast. Regardless of the fact that there wasn’t a finger-bowl in sight, these juicy little tenderizations were, shall we say, just out-of-sight. Equally pleasing was the Sauvignon Blanc; a 2008 Sancerre, Fournier, from the Loire Valley. The description in the wine-list spoke of peach and gooseberry, and for once the palate was not deceived. I say that, because so much vino plonk tends to get served in live-music establishments. It was highly appropriate that our order of warm pear and sour cherry crisp (laced with a generous serving of toasted almond ice cream) arrived just as the Person-to-person quartet was achieving its most mellow mood. Indeed, the tone and the taste buds were truly as one on this memorable occasion. In terms of the information highway, the Jazz Standard can be found at http://jazzstandard.net.

At this point we high-tail it across the Atlantic to the North West corner of London known as Hendon. And there we stop and ask directions to the Jewish, Chinese restaurant whose co-owner prays to only one guitar God. This is a genuine question and most of the locals would know the answer. Philip Pell happens to be an ultra-loyal Duane Eddy fan who has wisely kept his day job rather than toting a Gretsch 6200 for a living. What’s more he took his lead from Marco Polo rather than Marco Pierre White, and he named his elegant dining establishment KaiFeng after a ninth century city in East-Central China. By way of a reminder, China’s a long way from Church Road NW4.

When I flew over with the delectable Miss Ann, we experienced the usual round of long-haul hassles. So, much so, that the experience of relaxing in the confines of an Oriental oasis with a Rabbi scrutinizing the comestibles, was far more reassuring than the sight of a kilt-wearing Scotsman going through an X-ray security machine at JFK. Philip is what you might call a hands-on restaurateur, in that he is a Sommelier as well as an acting maître de. To our table he brought a selection from the bill of fare that included generous portions of steamed sole with ginger & spring onion, a Tibetan fiery lamb curry, and what seemed like a lifetime’s worth of barbequed beef with black pepper, mushrooms and pancakes. As a guru of the grape, he made sure we partook of a bottle of Puligny Montrachet ‘les Nosroyes’; a 2002 white Burgundy that dissolved all memories of the battery acid we’d been served earlier at 35,000 feet. Finally, when le Café et Nurofen arrived we knew we’d found the ultimate way to stave off jet-lag

After playing a concert at the Royal Festival Hall, back in October, Philip invited Duane Eddy and his wife Deed to dine at Kai Feng. Duane proceeded to endorse the meal by telling his host – “the Duck is to die for”, to which Philip replied, “there’s no need to do that. We can deliver”. All that you could wish for at Kai Feng can be found at http://www.kaifeng.co.uk. Cool cuisine by anyone’s standards

HGS, to use the appropriate colloquialism, was founded in 1903, and it achieved Grammar School status when the current building was erected in 1933. Crowned by a majestic clock tower, it is quite an edifice and looks more than impressive through a camera lens. The reunion attracted folks from far and wide, with some of us flying over from the States. Others came from Europe, and there was no shortage of locals who probably had a better chance of recognizing one another after such a long time. By and large, we turned out to be a pretty lively bunch. Mercifully, there wasn’t a vegetating Victor Meldrew amongst us. But that very area is where the problem so often lies. There’s always the risk of a homecoming turning turtle, simply because some people do change. We all know the comedic clichés that were invented to raise our hopes then dash them. Take for instance the tale of ‘Ginger’ Johnson, who was once the life and soul of the party. He became an evangelist. Then there’s ‘Chalky’ White. He ended up marrying Doreen Smith, the legendary raver who was once queen of the back row at the ABC cinema.

When our tour of the premises eventually got underway, it didn’t take long before we were awash in a sea of nostalgia and fanciful flashbacks. This was, quite naturally, par for the course. In fact, it wouldn’t have been the same had we not been able to tap into that wonderful vantage point known as hindsight. Our unfolding thoughts suddenly intensified when the school’s one-time dress code came up in conversation. It’s hard to believe now, but the males of the species were expected to don a striped cap similar to that worn by the Fat Owl of the Remove, Billy Bunter. This would be paired with a blazer which was little short of the Ralph Lauren designs that have recently been adopted by the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Club. As for the girls, their jaunty berets had a distinct air of the French Resistance about them and their red gingham dresses brought to mind visions of tablecloths from a Texas diner. In those far off days there was never any likelihood of favouritism or preferential treatment. So woe betide if a prefect caught you without your official headgear or your buttons undone.

Greeted at the main entrance by dignitaries from the present day, we immediately felt at home when the school / town motto came into view. By way of explanation, “Arx Celebris Fontibus” translates from its Latin origination into “A citadel famous for its springs”. I never could figure out what this meant in terms of the school, but it did at least form an endorsement of the region’s health spas. Not in view, but certainly in the mindset, was a roll call of nicknames that we’d once bestowed upon our tutors from decades past. First of all there was ‘Eggzar’, the mad maths master. Then came ‘Pinhead’, our intrepid physical training coach. ‘Taffy’ Webber, the traditionalist music teacher whose world revolved around Jean Sibelius, once put yours truly in detention for having the temerity to utter the words Rock & Roll in class. Thereafter came ‘Oscar’ Christie, the camp Scottish art master, whose namesake Oscar Wilde once stated that “Education is a process which makes one rogue cleverer than another”. And finally there was our beloved headmaster ‘Bert’ Carr, a man deserving of yet another quotable quote. “Headmasters have powers at their disposal with which Prime Ministers have never yet been invested”. So said the wise Sir Winston Churchill in his book, ‘My Early Life: A Roving Commission’.

Sadly, the school bike sheds have disappeared, and so too has the girls gym. This was where the forward thinking P.T. mistress, Miss Duckworth, used to allow pupils to jive on Wednesday lunchtimes to the latest records. The site is now home to a brand new carbon-friendly Sixth Form block, where the restaurant serves wholewheat pizza and organic juices. It’s all a far cry from mashed potatoes with black bits sticking out, and Jam Roly-Poly pudding and custard with the skin still on top. Samuel Johnson, the English lexicographer and learned writer, once proclaimed, “There is less flogging in our great schools than formerly, but then less is learned there. So what the boys get at one end, they lose at the other”. Like the visionary Mr. Quelch at Greyfriars and Miss Millicent Fritton at St. Trinians, ‘Bert’ Carr wasn’t averse to administering a spot of corporal punishment if the situation so required. But no one really had the caning thing down quite like Professor Jimmy Edwards at Chiselbury. Who could forget those immortal words he so frequently expounded at his seat of learning: “Bend over, Wendover!” Yes, these were the happiest days of our lives.

Regardless of the NYPD’s constitutional commitments, there was no reduction in the ranks of security men and uniformed cops on duty outside the Nederlander Theatre the night that Jerry Lee Lewis joined the cast of the “Million Dollar Quartet”. There was a very good reason for this, as a phalanx of patrolmen were out in force to clear the way for no less a personage than Bill Clinton. The ex-President with the rock & roll attitude was in the house to honour his hero, along with daughter Chelsea and his new son-in-law, Marc Mezvinsky. Acting as if he was a regular member of the audience, Bill and his gathering gave Jerry Lee a ‘last-man-standing’ ovation when he made his entrance. Taking over the piano stool from Levi Kreis (the Tony Award-winning actor who portrays the man when he was a rookie at Sun Records), Jerry Lee dispensed his calling-cards, ‘Great Balls of Fire’ and ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’, along with an impromptu version of ‘Rockin’ My Life Away’. The vibe was such that ‘Teflon Bill’ was given to confirm his true métier by mouthing all the words to the songs. For the fortunate few it was a night to remember, and demand for tickets was heavy enough for Jerry to sell the place out for weeks to come. The show has become so successful that a U.K. version is now on the cards, and rehearsals are already underway for a newly-formed stateside company to head out on tour. As a last word on the subject, Brad Pitt is set to portray Jerry Lee in a new Hollywood biography, with Natalie Portman being tipped to play Myra, and Terrence Malick getting named as the director.

Because of the many detours and diversions that had been put in place during the U.N. Assembly, it took forever and a day to drive the one-and three-quarter miles that separates Turtle Bay from the Columbus Citizen’s Foundation on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Under normal conditions we would have been happy to use Shank’s pony to get there, but Miss Ann had on her best cocktail dress and the kind of heels that don’t function too well on city sidewalks. The occasion was the launch of The Private Journey, a glossy new magazine that is being targeted at the high end of the travel market. Apart from its sharp editorial, which aims to capture ‘the conquest of the journey and the spirit of the luxury consumer’, the P. J. is different in that it appears in a lustrous broadsheet form. Along with features that cover every aspect of opulence, the first edition has an intriguing feature on the early days of Van Morrison and Them. Whilst Van the Man remains a force to be reckoned with, the group that he sang with during the early sixties has undeservedly become isolated on ‘rock’s back burner. The article manages to redress the balance by examining the musical roots and shoots that influenced the Belfast six-piece. Jim Kerwin, the man behind the mag, knows exactly what’s going down, as he has devoted nearly four decades to luxury advertising and destination marketing. But there’s just one thing. If you fancy soaking up the contents you will have to board a corporate jet in one of fifty private terminals throughout the United States, because that’s where the magazine is being exclusively distributed.

Whilst Miss Ann and myself were hoping for the traffic problems to ease, there was no let up the night we went to see “Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps”. Fortunately our nearest movie theatre, the AMC Loews at Kips Bay, is just a hop, skip and a jump along 2nd Avenue, so we decided to hoof it and cock a snook at the lingering envoys in one fell swoop. The heavily-hyped sequel (and a heavily-delayed one at that) to 1987’s “Wall Street”, had opened the day before to mixed reviews but that didn’t curtail our curiosity. In the lead up to the premiere, writer, producer and director Oliver Stone did the P.R. thing on behalf of Michael Douglas who is currently undergoing treatment for throat cancer. Although the title of the movie is pretty much self-evident, romance and domestic indifference both dominate the essence of the plot. Once you get past the ’sub-prime’ and ‘toxic debt’ speak, the action hits a decent level of intrigue. Yet, at the same time, there is a disturbing surfeit of flaws, improbables and far too much poetic license for the film’s own good. In the first instance we are made party to a Wall Street meeting, which takes place in an office overlooking the ‘Lipstick’ building that was once the real life domain of Bernard Madoff’s Investment Securities scheme. Now this was taking location liberties too far. The building is nowhere near Wall Street. It is six miles away at the junction of 53rd and Third. Any local would know that. However, the real insult to the integrity was to see the action shift across the Atlantic, where a long-shot of Tower Bridge was accompanied by a caption telling us that this was ‘London, England’.

Whether the geographically-challenged Oliver Stone intended it or not, the real stars to come out of the exercise weren’t Michael Douglas as the ex-con and ex-corporate trader Gordon Gekko, nor Shia LaBeouf as his upstart nemesis, Jack Moore. They were Eli Wallach and Frank Langella. When I say Eli Wallach, I mean that Eli Wallach; the guy who fifty years ago played the Mexican bandit chief Calvera in ‘The Magnificent Seven’. He is now 95 years old, and still playing the bad guy. Yet it was Frank Langella (who comes in at a mere 72) who delivered the film’s champagne performance as the senior investment founder, Louis Zabel. One surprise that brought a gasp from the audience, was the brief cameo of Charlie Sheen reprising his role as stockbroker Bud Fox. Not quite so well-received, but just as fleeting, was Susan Sarandon’s ditzy and largely forgettable performance as Shia’s mother. With its central thread of a global economy teetering on the brink of disaster, Stone’s tale of wide-awake wealth is about as topical as it gets: Greed, greed and more greed…in perpetuity. On the subject of wampum, the film cost around $70 million to make. After just a few days, “Wall Street the Second” looks as if it will recoup every nickel and dime of the investment. In Wall Street-parlance it’s all down to Securities. Which, of course, is where we came in.