UKHamlet's Blog

…And that nothing much would have been me…

Llandaff is one of those sleepy suburbs you can find in any city of any size. Pebble dashed nineteen-thirty something detached houses, owned by middle class executives, lawyers and senior bank personnel line the avenues and cul de sacs, testifying simultaneously to both the conservatism and wealth of the residents.

Sunday in Llandaff is church, lunch, wash the car and mow the lawn, while housewives busy themselves with being beautiful and peripheral. Monday is suit, briefcase, peck on the cheek and off to do some hard-nosed business. Tuesday is the day after Monday, but it’s just the same. There’s something eternal about places like Llandaff, nothing changes and nothing ruffles the cushioned surface of life in suburbia… nothing much anyway. And that nothing much would have been me.

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Down Shep!

It’s 1977 and me, Jack Dromey and Harriet Harman are on the picket line at Grunwicks. Harriet is the legal advisor to the strikers’ committee and Jack… well Jack is Jack. He is a bluff, charming man with a quick mind, a loud voice and strong, well argued opinions. I am this skinny, long-haired teenager with acne, a smelly Afghan coat, and for most of my time on the picket line, a large lump on my forehead – testimony to the firmness of SPG standard issue truncheons in those days. It’s no wonder Harriet noticed the loquacious Jack rather than me.

Wind forward five years and Jack marries Harriet and they now have two children, both boys, both bearing the surname “Harman”.  Given a choice of that or Dromey, they’ve probably both regretted not picking a partner called Smith or Booth or whatever…

To tell the truth, she wasn’t a raving beauty or anything, in fact she looked like a Blue Peter presenter without the sex, but that’s not what turned my head in those days. Instead, I favoured cerebral, left-leaning older women, with strong opinions and attitude. I still do, but I can do without the attitude and the older bit. Anyway, Harriet was something of a fantasy girl for the young UKHamlet in the seventies – I’m sure she’ll be delighted to hear it – but it wasn’t in a prurient way. Well, not often anyway.

No, I put Ms Harman on a mental pedestal. This is because I worked hard at not regarding women as sex objects in those days, and it would have been a betrayal of my principles to actually fancy getting jiggy with Harriet.

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A man walks out to the street and catches a taxi just going by. He gets into the taxi, and the cabbie says, “Perfect timing. You’re just like Frank.”
Passenger: ‘Who?’
Cabbie: “Frank Feldman. He’s a guy who did everything right all the time. Like my coming along when you needed a cab, things happened like that to Frank Feldman every single time.”
Passenger: “There are always a few clouds over everybody.”
Cabbie: “Not Frank Feldman He was a terrific athlete. He could have won the Grand-Slam at tennis. He could golf with the pros. He sang like an opera baritone and danced like a Broadway star and you should have heard him play the piano. He was an amazing guy.”
Passenger: “Sounds like he was something really special.”
Cabbie: “There’s more… He had a memory like a computer. He remembered everybody’s birthday. He knew all about wine, which foods to order and which fork to eat them with. He could fix anything. Not like me. I change a fuse, and the whole street blacks out. But Frank Feldman, he could do everything right.”
Passenger: “Wow, some guy then.”
Cabbie: “He always knew the quickest way to go in traffic and avoid traffic jams.. Not like me, I always seem to get stuck in them. But Frank, he never made a mistake, and he really knew how to treat a woman and make her feel good. He would never answer her back even if she was in the wrong; and his clothing was always immaculate, shoes highly polished too. He was the perfect man! He never made a mistake. No one could ever measure up to Frank Feldman.”
Passenger: “An amazing fellow. How did you meet him?”
Cabbie: “Well, I never actually met Frank. He died. I’m married to his fucking widow!”