Some random thoughts and notes from the notebooks.

You cannot put horse-chestnut leaves back into the sticky buds once they have sprouted (almost tosh, but true). Dorothy Parker wrote about some hapless novel she was reviewing: ‘This is not the book to be lightly put aside. It should be thrown with great force.’ Gene Hunt in Ashes to Ashes was castigated: “You’re an over-weight, over-the-hill, nicotine-stained, border-line alcoholic homophobe with a superiority complex and an unhealthy obsession with male bonding …” To which he replied: “You say that like it was a bad thing …” Bill Cosby, the American comedian, was asked if he was a “glass half full or a glass half empty sort of person?” He replied: “It depends whether I’m drinking or pouring.”

My writing mate Bowen kindly phoned to ask how I was when I was going through a difficult patch. He said that whenever he felt a bit down he liked to recall Keats: “If winter comes, surely spring is not far behind.” Henry James said that writers should be “someone on whom nothing is lost.” Frank Keating, the excellent sport’s writer, used this turn of phrase to describe a knock out: ‘He went down like a drunk trying to tie his shoe laces.’ When Watership Down was made into a film a butcher’s in Haywards Heath put a notice in his shop window: ‘You’ve read the book, seen the film, now eat the cast.’

Writers should read other writers to find those that they admire and try and emulate. Patrick Michael Leigh Fermor was a travel writer of English and Irish descent. When he was expelled from King’s School, Canterbury he set out in 1933 on a leisurely walk from Rotterdam to Constantinople. A Time of Gifts (1977), despite the more than 40 years’ gestation, recounted the journey as far as Hungary; Between the Woods and the Water (1986) took his journey onwards to the Bosporous. They are extraordinary books which capture the mood of pre-war Europe, as by the way, did another favourite of mine Laurie Lee’s As I Walked Out One Midsummer’s Morn. Fermor’s war was full of adventure in Albania, Greece and Crete, where disguised as a shepherd, he lived for two years organising the Resistance and the capture and evacuation of the German Commander, with the wonderful name of General Kriepe. A friend of Fermor’s once wished the writer could be made available in pill form ‘so you can take one whenever you feel low.’ His writing has been described as ‘infectious enthusiasm driven by an insatiable curiosity and an omnivorous mind – all inspired by a passion for words and languages that makes him one of the greatest prose writers of his generation.’

Going to formal dinners with a guest speaker is a good place to pick up anecdotes and jokes. But be discreet … some public speakers, especially if they are celebrities and that is what they do for a living, don’t like to see you taking notes. I have quite a good short-term memory and make out to have a weak bladder … which allows me to remember key words and scribble them down as soon as I can in a cubicle in the Gents. Don’t do it over the wash basins as the chances are the speaker will come in when you are there.

Be mindful of your audience and their sensibilities and of course jokes don’t have to be near the mark. What’s the difference between a buffalo and a bison? You can’t wash your hands in a buffalo. Virtue is … lack of opportunity. Bob Hope used to say: “When I wake up in the morning, I don’t feel 83. In fact I don’t feel anything until noon; then it’s time for my nap.” Writing is re-writing and good anecdotes can be adapted to your circumstances, your readers, your audience.

And sometimes you get good lines when you least expect them. When Matthew and Emi were young they came up with some marvellous questions and observations. “Daddy, do giraffes hibernate? Can dogs swim … underwater? I want to get married in a swimming pool – so my kids can swim.” Recently my accountant Phillip got so exasperated with a group of us blokes failing to agree a date for a liquid lunch that he emailed ‘Getting you lot organised is like trying to herd cats.’ Very good, very original – I must use it myself later. Gloria Steinman, the feminist, when asked why she had never got married, replied: “Because I can’t mate in captivity.”

For signed copies of Chris McCooeys’ new book Freelance, send a cheque made out to him to Office Annex, Wood Cottage, Modest Corner, Southborough TN4 0LX for £10 which includes post and packing. Freelance can now be downloaded via Amazon and Kindle

When I read a good description or hear a good phrase, or a word that looks interesting like ‘absquatulate’, I write it down because if you don’t make things up as a writer, you actually re-write a hell of a lot, either your own stuff or other peoples’. Of course, if you actually lift whole chunks from somebody else’s writing that is plagiarism. If in doubt about somebody else’s words then acknowledge that you got the idea from somebody else. For my books I always tell people what I’m working on at the time and ask if they’ve got anything that might fit the title. I always start with a good title and fill the book accordingly. For example when I was researching my book Tales, Titbits and Trivia of Kent and Sussex,  I told the group I was giving a talk to (Goudhurst Historical Society) that if they had anything suitable please let me use it … with an acknowledgement, of course.

Bob Brown of Goudhurst came up to me afterwards and said he’d send me something which is how I got the Tale of the Goudhurst Tit.

‘In the early 1900s there was much talk in the village for Goudhurst to have its own parish hall. A public meeting was held in the National School on 1 February 1902 where the plans by Mr Lucas, the architect, and a model by Mr A Barry were on display. Another meeting was called in September when it was announced that the sale of the original site had fallen through. However Major-General Alfred FitzHugh had generously offered an alternative site beside the village pond for free. This offer was taken up and local builders Davis & Leaney built the hall which was completed and opened the following year, 1903.

‘It has been said that nobody noticed the design fault in the windows until the lights were first turned on inside the hall. Then illuminated for all the world and his wife to see was the word TIT. Whilst on the outside the windows still remain today as originally designed, much to the amusement of local little boys, on the inside the top bars of the Ts were soon boarded and plastered over so when lit up they now read III.’ Now you don’t get better titbits than that …

By the way ‘absquatulate’ means ‘to depart suddenly’ and is invaluable to use as a code word with a partner when you want to leave a tiresome party. “I think it’s time to absquatulate?” “Yes, of course, darling. Just let me finish this bucket of G&T” Talking of unusual words, I admired the writer Terry Pratchett describing his Alzheimer’s Disease as an ‘embuggerance’, when he was interviewed for a magazine and went on to say that he “has more supplements than the Sunday papers.” He was brutally honest. “I consult the [inter] net, university researchers and witches, as it’s a good idea to cover all the angles. Science is never an exact science; I’d eat the arse out of dead mole if it offered a fighting chance [of a cure].”

As well as words I like there are words that I absolutely dislike. Like ‘absolutely’. I sometimes shout at the people interviewed on the Today programme who use that bloody word to answer in the affirmative, or even in the negative. It’s so absolutely pretentious. Let’s hear “Yes” or “No”.

Freelance writers should get into the habit of nosing in churches. Even buildings (Victorian-gothic-redbrick comes to mind) that don’t look particularly interesting from the outside can reveal something surprising when you enter and nose.

Take the parish church of St Mark the Evangelist at Hadlow Down on the A272 just south of Crowborough …

In 1835, the Earl and Countess de la Warr made a gift of land for a church, vicarage and school in Hadlow Down, and Lord Liverpool, the then Prime Minister, who lived in nearby Buxted Park, contributed a sum of £100. The church was consecrated in 1836. Just before the First World War, another local dignitary, with money, decided to put his mark on St Mark’s. Charles Lang Huggins, married to Maud Agnes, who lived in Hadlow Grange, funded not a refurbishment, a virtual re-build. Much was pulled down, except the tower and walls of the nave of the original building. Added to these were a new chancel and a chapel and the building re-roofed. Although the leaflet describes this new building as a ‘handsome structure’ I would describe it ‘as a solid, unexciting indulgence, not particularly attractive on the eye’ of a man who made sure that everybody knew that it was funded by Charles Lang Huggins Esq. of Hadlow Grange.

But inside there are two gems – some wonderful stained glass and a family memorial of heart-breaking sadness. Both are in the Lady Chapel on the south side of the nave.

The windows in the chapel depict the Christian year in wild flowers and were given to the memory of Charles and Maud by their nine children. The details and colours are exquisite: lily, sunflower, crowfoot, scarlet Lychnis, daffodil, lady’s smock, bluebell, snowdrop, crocus and primrose.

Perhaps one of the nine children inherited Hadlow Grange because the memorial plaque commemorates the lives of three sons of Basil and Rhona Huggins. Thomas Plummer Huggins was 19 and a Captain in The Buffs when he was killed in action at Dunkirk 28 April 1940. Roderick Huggins was a pilot officer in the RAF and was killed in action in Malta on 13 January 1942; he was 23 years old. The final tragedy was for their third son to be killed in action in Dieppe on 8 August 1942; Derek Anthony Lang Huggins was 26 and a petty officer in the Royal Navy Patrol Service.

Three services; three brothers; three famous actions of the Second World War; three lives given for King and Country, so that we may live in freedom …

And always read the Parish magazine of these local churches. I was giving a talk   in Cheriton one afternoon and was driving along the B road that follows the Saxon Shore Way overlooking Romney Marsh. I’d been into Lyminge church several times but wanted another nose around. I sat and looked through their magazine and got this story. ‘The Sunday School children had gone into the adjacent hall for their instruction and drink and biscuit. On the table was a box of windfall apples with the command TAKE ONLY ONE – GOD IS WATCHING. Further along the table was a plate of home-made biscuits with the notice in a childish hand TAKE AS MANY AS YOU LIKE – GOD IS WATCHING THE APPLES.

For signed copies of Chris McCooeys’ new book Freelance, send a cheque made out to him to Office Annex, Wood Cottage, Modest Corner, Southborough TN4 0LX for £10 which includes post and packing.

GENERAL MUSINGS

It’s quite a good idea to give another answer to the question OCCUPATION? other than freelance writer, especially when filling in official forms or getting insurance quotes. When I bought my motor home one company refused point blank to give a quote. I asked the unfortunate jobs-worth the reason why someone who researches and writes books about real people, places and things be refused motor insurance. He couldn’t, except weasel that the “underwriters don’t insure writers”. What a load of tosh is that? Anyway there was no use arguing, so the next company I phoned I said I was a “retired university associate professor … of netsuke and knitting” … well, alright I just told them the first four words and, yes, you’ve got it, I was offered a quote without problem or caveat.

Once you become known as a writer especially of local matters the chances are you will be interviewed and asked the usual anodyne questions by cubbish reporters from local publications. When I’m asked LIKES and feel waspish I answer: “Women’s ears and labradors’ breasts … or I may have got that round the wrong way …” It’s not being irreverent, it’s just that I like to test the boundaries … and leave it up to the editor to make the decision to include or otherwise. The same with a risqué joke when public speaking. I often say at the beginning of a talk that before I left home I had Googled the village, or the society or the club whom I’m addressing and found some very good info: “It’s amazing and got to be true because it was on the internet. It said that 83 percent of all adults living in [wherever] or members of [whatever] have had … sex in the shower … and it get’s better [hopefully after the laughter has died down] … the other 17 percent … have not been to prison.” As a rule the Women’s Institutes love this joke but the stuffed shirt brigades, especially when the Men are there with their Ladies (their one  treat a year) are sharply divided – the wives, mistresses and girl friends laugh and the stuffed ones smirk and think I cannot possibly laugh at that smut … and the interesting thing is I don’t care. I do not set out to offend. I just want people to have a good time and, hopefully, be entertained and informed in equal measure.

If you are a writer there should be the wherewithal – pen and paper – within reach, quite literally, at all times. I get random ideas in random places at random times, but I know that there are notebooks and pens and pencils all over the place – in the car, beside the bed, in my day rucksack, in the coat pocket of my Barbour (when I’m shooting), in the inside pocket of my sports jacket. And of course there is a notebook beside the open fire place as there can be no better place to write ‘insights’ … or complete crap, depending on how much I have had to drink.

‘The fire murmurs and crinkles gently, flames blue at the base, dancing gold at the top, with the base of the ash log orange-red and the wispy blue-grey smoke puffing and curling and hurrying up the chimney and away.’

I always used to write in a notebook, that I started in Japan in 1978, when I had a ‘fireside’ thought. I’ve used it over the years and it has a hard-back red cover with originally 300 blank unlined pages. It’s a tad smaller than A4 size and heavy so an ideal place to write as and when sedentary; it would be too heavy to pop in a day rucksack on a jaunt. I still write in it but only when I’m sober. Beside the fire is my ‘jottings’ book a slim, lined paper notebook. The next day I check it to see if there are indeed insights worth being recorded from the night before; sometimes, as mentioned, I’ve scrawled incoherent ramblings which are total bollocks. These then are torn out and used to start the next evening’s fire.

As Robert Harris writing in The Observer 29 November 1987 observed: ‘Journalism is literature’s equivalent of the one night stand. It may be excellent at the time, but it’s usually a source of embarrassment by the next morning.’

For signed copies of Chris McCooeys’ new book Freelance, send a cheque made out to him to Office Annex, Wood Cottage, Modest Corner, Southborough TN4 0LX for £10 which includes post and packing.

At 27, in 1914, Frank was at the peak of his playing ability. He married in the same year, Sybil Fordham, daughter of an Ashford veterinary surgeon. This was a most happy marriage, which lasted nearly 50 years and produced a son and two daughters. But of course normal life came to an end with the declaration of war.

Woolley was astonished to be rejected when he first presented himself to join up – faulty eyesight and teeth. The latter are not generally regarded as essential to being a good cricketer, but the former certainly are. Hitting a ball travelling in your direction at more than 90 miles per hour and catching one, in the split second it takes to travel from bat to first slip, certainly requires good eyesight. Frank declared the examiner ‘barmy’ and tried again – the second time he was successful and found himself in the Royal Navy in the motor boat section of the Air Service, stationed first at Felixstowe and then in Scotland. His experience working in his father’s engineering shop no doubt accounted for this secondment.

He may have had some practical knowledge of engines but he lacked sea going experience and understanding of tides. When his launch arrived in the Firth of Forth, he secured it with mooring ropes in the approved seamanlike manner. Next morning a crowd had gathered to inspect the vessel suspended ten feet above the water.

A happy outcome of the war, unusual in large families, was that Frank and his three brothers all survived. But not unscathed; Charlie had been badly wounded in Gallipoli and Claude was blown up in France by a shell that killed his friend, the Kent slow bowler Colin Blythe, who had first spotted Frank’s talents. Claude was an invalid for the rest of his life.

After the cessation of hostilities, professional cricket returned and Frank resumed duty for Kent and England. Needless to say he was a bit rusty. His worst ever bowling spell came in one of the first matches, played in 1919. At the Oval Surrey needed 95 to win in 44 minutes, with a slight drizzle and the light extremely bad. Kent were bowling their 13^th over by the time Hobbs hit the winning runs with 15 minutes to spare. Woolley was hit for 54 in six overs. But he was soon back to his old form and he took his one and only hat trick against Surrey in that same summer.

In 1923 he hit his highest score for Kent – 270 runs in 260 minutes against Middlesex at Canterbury. Woolley, in common with other fine hitters of the ball, especially enjoyed playing Somerset at Taunton where the river beside the ground was a tempting target. In 1924, John Daniel, the Somerset captain complained about ‘that blasted Woolley’ who had despatched no less than nine Somerset balls out of the ground to be lost in the drink.

Post-war the Test matches against the Australians brought a reversal of fortunes for England. Ironically in the losing 1921 series, Woolley probably played his finest Test. At Lords in the second Test, against the visitors’ fastest bowlers, Gregory and McDonald, Woolley hit 95 in the first innings and 93 in the second. The rivalry between the two teams was as keen as ever. One incident concerned an umpire’s decision. The Australian bowler Warwick Armstrong was angry: “Nobody but a bloody Pom would have stood there.” Implying that the batsman should have walked. Woolley with considerable hauteur replied: “Nobody but an Australian would have appealed in the first place.”

In the autumn of his playing career, 1934, when he was 47, Woolley had a memorable season. When most cricketers were reaching for their slippers, he scored ten centuries for Kent, at an average time of around 107 minutes for each. His fastest was in fact 63 minutes against Nottinghamshire at Dover, which earned him a trophy and £100 in cash, for the fastest century of the season.

When he retired in 1938 (the season that for the first time during his long career he opened the batting for Kent), the eulogies were heart felt. Writers remarked how much he had been a joy to watch, playing an eminently straight bat, employing his long reach to full advantage, his timing of the ball approaching perfection. Another described him as the most graceful batsman of his day and that when you bowled to him there weren’t enough fielders. For his services to cricket he was made an honorary member of the MCC and his old county Kent Cricket Club.

The great left-hander settled with his wife in Hildenborough and spent his time coaching at King’s College, Canterbury. With the coming of the Second World War he moved to Cliftonville and served in Dad’s Army, the Home Guard, initially armed with a broom handle, which had an outsized nail for offensive action.

Their only son, Richard, was lost at sea in the Beaverford, part of an ill-fated convoy protected only by HMS Jervis Bay which so gallantly sacrificed herself to the German U-boats to gain time for many of the ships to escape, but not, sadly, the ship in which Frank and Sybil’s son was serving. Whilst on holiday recovering from this sad news, their Cliftonville home was destroyed by a stray bomb from a lone raider.

After the war the Woolleys lived in a flat in Tunbridge Wells but after his wife Sybil died in 1962, Frank went to live with his youngest daughter at Longwick in Buckinghamshire where she had a riding stables. On his 80^th birthday there was a celebratory dinner at the Great Danes Hotel at Hollingbourne where the main speakers were Edward Heath and Colin Cowdrey, the Kent and England captain.

His final years were spent in Chester, Nova Scotia, where he married Martha Wilson Morse, the widow of a major of the Royal Tank Corps. His life’s innings came to an end in Canada on October 18th 1978 at the age of 91.