Neil Clark remembers.
My mother and I moved into 5 Moreland House, Lancaster Road, just in time for the Coronation in 1953. For about 6 months I attended the Infants School of St Clements. In the Autumn I moved to Oxford Gardens Primary School for boys where I learned to play cricket, indeed became a bowler, under the guidance of Mr Lusby. In 1958 I joined Isaac Newton Comprehensive School in its inaugural year and left in 1965, aged eighteen. Although I enjoyed and benefited from attending both schools there was no choice available to me. Having failed the 11-plus, pupils, and parents followed the dictates of the London County Council.
However, at the age of eleven I made the wisest decision of my young life; I joined the Harrow Boys Club. This was one of many such institutions set up by public schools in the late-Victorian era to help the poor, most established in areas of poverty, like Notting Hill. In fact, I had another choice available: the Rugby Club. Not only was it closer to my home but it had just re-opened in a new building with excellent facilities. But there was no contest. In my judgment the more civilized boys attended the Harrow Boys Club, and the main reason for that was the man who was in charge. A man who was to have an incalculable influence on my life.
The Harrow Club
The Club building still stands, but now functions as a community centre offering a range of valuable services to a still-impoverished community. The centre has received large sums from charitable bodies that have provided it with a range of extensive facilities and refurbishing. Back in the 1950’s the entrances were on the other side of the building, that which now faces the elevated motorway that stretches from Shepherds Bush to the Marylebone Road. The construction of this fly-over in the 1960’s was to have a devastating effect on the immediate community. It was to sever the link between the Club members of my generation.
The main entrance to the Club led up a short flight of stairs from the street level. The door opened onto a hallway at the end of which was the manager’s office. The desk inside was lost under a sea of papers. The office belonged to Lewis Ashman or ‘Lew’ as he was commonly called. On the left-hand side of the hallway was a door into the main hall. This housed a full-size snooker table, and then three table tennis tables of variable quality. The best was always at the far-end of the hall and was therefore the property of the better players. Just beyond this table, at the end farthest from the door, was a stage on which stood a small snooker table and two dartboards. On a busy night movement on the stage could become extremely complicated for everyone, unless carefully choreographed.
At the front edge of the stage was one of the key features of Club life: the Dansette record player. This was in use most nights, and my memory insists that it was the same small collection of LPs that were always played during those eight years. This was Lew’s music, and shaped the taste for good or ill, of my generation at the club. The collection included Oklahoma! and Oliver, but the overwhelming favourite was the stage version of West Side Story. Night after night, year after year, I absorbed the same melodies. It shaped the repertoire of songs sung in the Club van on our ways to matches or holidays. Even now, when I hear the opening notes of the Prologue, I am immediately pitched back to the age of 14; table tennis bat in hand, dancing around the floor developing my backhand drive, “ a Jet all the way from my first cigarette to my last dying day”.
There was a small mezzanine floor above the hall and Lew’s office. The room situated here was only ever used for the construction of kayak canoes. Canoeing was a strong feature of Club life, and some of the keener members would pay for, and build, their own canoes. Although I started to canoe in my later years at the Club, I only visited this room about three times. I had no desire to master the skills required to build a canoe. Largely, because my attendance at both wood and metal work classes at school had demonstrated that these skills were as elusive as my patience.
The second entrance from the street led down to the basement. The external door led straight into our ‘sports hall’, in which we practised 5-a-side football. The hall was tiny and made worse by having a low ceiling and a set of wall-bars down one of the long walls. The skills required to simply run and turn without dashing your brains against the fixtures and fittings was demanding enough. To have to also practise passing, shooting and tackling, required acute survival skills. When we had to practise heading skills a ball was suspended from one of the metal girders of the roof, and the height was varied by the trainer, Albert Whelan, tugging on the rope, every time we jumped. As this took place no more than 4 feet away from the back wall it was a miracle that we all managed to avoid being embedded in the masonry.
The very sight of this facility would have bought a Health and Safety inspector out in a cold sweat, and the club would have been condemned on the spot. But for us, the room had the allure of Wembley.
Just off the hall was a small room with three showers. My memories of this room are anchored by a discarded jock strap. I would swear that it remained on a wall hook, unclaimed, for the whole eight years of my membership. In some way it symbolised, for me at least, a memorial to the Unknown Sportsman.
On the other side of the hall was a coffee bar, which housed the television. This was only ever used for watching mid-week football matches, or, events of great importance, like the General Election of 1964 or the assassination of President Kennedy. Generally, the club was for doing things rather than watching others do them.
This room connected with the table tennis room above by a long dark staircase, which had the effect of muffling sound. Lew would occupy this room later in the evening. When the Club opened on a Friday his place would be by the large snooker table on the first floor. He would stand next to the ‘Forthcoming Events’ board, welcoming each member as they arrived, collecting weekly subscriptions, and seeking to enrol members into some representative activity for the Club. “Ah, Dear Boy”, he would say, “We are trying to get up a cross-country team for Saturday. Can I put your name down?” He always called me “Sunshine”. I was probably the least sunny adolescent in West London, but I would always smile in response. If Lew was being ironic, I chose to miss it completely.
The building was merely a shell: for Lew was the Harrow Boys Club. He was the force of nature that gave it life, shape and value. He devoted most of his waking hours to the Club and the boys, and we knew what it cost him. His commitment to us was never discussed or acknowledged publicly, but we returned it with a respect that was no less binding. When he asked you if you were free this weekend for a canoe race, you said “Yes”, and thought about it after. It was only usually on the Saturday that I started to question what I had let myself in for. We volunteered because Lew asked us, and because we were members of the ’Arrer.
Taking part in a canoe race from Hampton Court to Tower Bridge on a freezing wet Sunday in December requires commitment. Trying to light and smoke a Players Weight cigarette while paddling the canoe in a snow demands a level of personal creativity that only the desperate can manage. When I was eventually hauled out of the canoe by the river police suffering what felt like hypothermia, I saw this as my failing. None of the other boys or Lew had to be rescued. I just felt sorry that I had let the team down. It was simply another example that would have sent a Safety Officer into a state of apoplexy.
When I first met Lew he was about 35 years old. He was around 5ft 10 inches tall, well built, with dark curly hair that was always immaculately groomed. He had a well-muscled body which he enjoyed showing off. Periodically he would grow a full-set beard, reduce it then to a moustache, or return to being clean-shaven. These changes were as frequent as his attempts to give up smoking. Lew was a heavy smoker who despised the habit. He therefore gave himself the worst of both worlds. He also gave us hell about our smoking, particularly when he was smoking himself. He would use his own addiction as a moral example of why we should not smoke. He would stop us smoking until we reached the magic age of fifteen. But he never stopped nagging us about the habit whatever our age. This was the only kind of explicit censure that he offered. Apart from when he officiated as a referee or umpire when his “Oh, Dear Boy” would greet a bad pass or a stroke. Such remarks would penetrate me like sling shot.
He was very handsome in a square-jawed English hero fashion. In certain lights he looked like Ronald Coleman, other times like Errol Flynn. What really distinguished him in our company was his accent and language. He sounded and spoke like David Niven. He would address me as “Dear Boy”, as a variant of “Sunshine”.
I, like the other boys, simply accepted this old-world charm because it was Lew. Other adults would not have dreamed of speaking in this way to us. Nor would we have accepted such liberties. But we accepted Lew for who he was. It was the least we could do. Such acceptance was a rare experience. Like most adolescents we lacked tolerance for others who happened to be different. Our ability to tolerate such a well-spoken and well-mannered person was remarkable. The amazing thing about Lew was how accepting he was of each of us, and through this, helped me, and I suspect others, to value people for who they were and what they did rather than for their colour, sexual orientation, or religion. His toleration was remarkable. Without spelling out his expectations we respected and honoured his standards of good behaviour. In all my time at the Club I knew of only one fist fight between members. Whereas, both schools I attended, with many of the same boys attending, fighting was a daily occurrence.
Lew did have his moments, however. When disappointed by others he could sulk. And if he felt ‘abused’, he would seek revenge. For example, once at the annual camp on the Isle of Wight, six or seven of us pinned him to the ground and splashed some cold water in his face as a joke. He avoided the perpetrators for the rest of the day. The next morning, he awoke each of us in turn with a wet sponge in the face. Having evened the score, he could then return to normal.
It was hard to let him down. One Saturday afternoon we played a cup match in North London. It must have rained one whole week before the match because the ground was like the Somme. Although we had an excellent team that year and the opposition was obviously inferior we were unable to score. No matter how hard we kicked the ball it hardly moved. At half-time Lew explained that a replay would cause havoc with our schedule and that we must win today. The half-time talk made matters worse. Our performance was risible. At the end an infuriated Lew insisted that we did not have time for a shower because he needed to get back to the Club. We collected our clothes from the dressing-room, and we returned in silence. He allowed us to shower at the Club but that was also undertaken in silence.
Similarly, one year on a holiday in Sitges I, and another boy, managed to lose the teapot while we were doing the washing up. The loss was not discovered until next evening at a campsite some miles away. On this occasion he treated the pair of us like criminals for two days, taking every opportunity to complain about his loss. Given Lew’s need for tea this was a serious privation. We should have been more careful to a man who drive the van from North Kensington to Sitges.
Near the end of his life I asked him where his commitment to the Club came from. He said that his values derived from his experiences in the Air Force, and that his aim was to help each boy achieve his full potential whether it was physical, mental, or spiritual. Generally, he was reticent about talking about himself and his history. I knew that he had a sister in Wales, and I would eventually meet his nephew and niece when they joined us on the second trip I attended in Spain in 1966.
It is now impossible for me to think about Lou without also thinking about music. Not only did he love song, but he had a beautiful voice and took great delight in sharing his gift with us.
His voice had the pitch and timbre of Gordon McRae or Howard Keel. He would sing all the time. But for me, best of all, were journeys in the van. Then we would hear his repertoire: The Surrey with the Fringe on Top, Maria, Tonight, and, The Foggy, Foggy Dew among others. Every time he would start to sing the boys would ritually groan “Oh, turn it in, Lew!” But, within minutes the protests would stop and some of the braver – more musical – boys, like Alan Eames, would join in with the song. As I got older and more confident, I would ask him to sing two of my favourites, Oh What a Beautiful Morning, or, The Soliloquy from ‘Carousel’. To listen to those tunes being sung by a man was to receive a precious gift. The gift was not just the song but also his delight.
He is the only person I have ever met who could take such obvious delight in all around him. The object may have been a song, or sunlight on the river, but when he felt it, he wanted you to share the experience. Not only did his face shine with joy, but he would invite you in with his characteristic, “My stars and garters, look at that!”
One of his declared aims was to bring the worlds of Harrow School and Harrow Boys Club together. Each year members from the School would attend summer camp on the Isle of Wight. At the two camps I attended there was no problem with the integration. Within a couple of days new social groupings quickly formed which crossed the boundaries of School and Club. It was clear that both sides enjoyed and learned from this experience.
In return a selected few would attend various activities at the School or use their facilities. During the summer, small groups of us would go up in the evening and use their swimming pool, ‘The Ducker’. This had a curved kidney-shape that had the deep-end in the middle. It also had changing rooms like bike sheds, open to all the elements. The tradition was to swim nude in the pool.
I was also fortunate enough to play a cricket match at the School. My memory of the match was over-awed by the Pavilion in which we took tea. Even the watercress in the sandwiches seemed doused in history. I look on this afternoon as my Rupert Brooke period.
I was also invited, with Lew, to attend a performance of ‘The Tempest’ by the Old Harrovians in their Elizabethan-style theatre. I even visited the tomb on which Byron supposedly lay when composing his poems.
During my last two years at school Lew proved to be my lifeline to some degree of normality. During this time the boys I had grown up with had left school or moved away from the area. My immediate family were either indifferent or actively hostile to the fact that I stayed on at school. Lew was the only person who spoke to me about my new interests – classical music, literature, history, philosophy and religion. We shared records and books. Without that relationship I would have been lost in the empty space between two worlds.
It would be 30 years before I saw Lou again. A local historian was commissioned to put together an exhibition to re-launch the Club after a major development programme was funded by the Prince’s Trust. She contacted me and I offered pictures as well as stories about Lew and the Club. Near the end of our meeting she said that she was visiting Lew the following week to collect his memories. Astonished, I petitioned her to ask Lew whether he would be happy to see me. The reason for this formality is that I knew that Lew was extraordinarily private. However, my concern proved ill-judged, and we agreed to meet at his flat in Windsor. I was delighted beyond belief. For years I had bored my wife, Sylvia, and the children with my stories of Lew, and now I was going to meet him again. On the journey over from Horsham, where we then lived, my delight was beginning to fracture into fear. Would it/he/me be OK? Can you pick up after all that time?
Within 15 minutes of meeting all the years dropped away and we could have been bridging a gap of two weeks. Lew was now living in a one-bedroom flat and at the age of 76 was suffering major health problems. Having lived always such an active life being housebound was a great trial. Amazingly, he still had a kayak canoe in his bedroom which he had used on the Thames before his problems started.
I was now able to return a fraction of the favours that I had received. I would drive him out to his favourite places along the Thames, and he could recount stories of outings with Club boys. Over the next three years we took him out to Bourne End, a Community Centre he became Warden of after his time at the Harrow Club. We also took him on visits to Brighton sea front, West Wittering, and Henley, among other places. We also visited some great restaurants. He came to our house for dinner and met the family. And I am especially grateful that he spent the last three Christmas days of his life with my family. Sylvia and the children fell under his spell and he became fascinated by their lives and interests. I took a photo of him in our garden and with his white hair and beard he actually looks like a benevolent Father Christmas.
Apart from recalling joint memories of times and the boys we had known, Lew mentioned some of the things that had happened to him since leaving the Club. Not only was he very happy as a Warden at Bourne End, but he had also been able to develop his interest in singing. Having written to John Hanson, the popular West End star, he was encouraged enough by the reply to join amateur groups who put on operettas. Later he became part of a trio who performed recitals of songs and poems.
He also spoke briefly of his war experiences as a bomber in Bomber Command. He spoke of his deep regret about his part in the war. However, he spoke with great affection about being trained in Oklahoma by the USAF. Many years later he attended a reunion at the air base and chose to serenade them with, what else, but “Oklahoma!”.
Unfortunately, his health continued to decline. He was already suffering from deep vein thrombosis, he believed a legacy of his flight to Oklahoma, and then suffered a heart attack. He survived until major intestine problems led to his bowel being removed. This was just too much. When I visited him after surgery he simply said, “Now, I want to die”. All I could say was, “I understand”. He accomplished his mission within three weeks. The last time I saw him was at the hospital in Reading
Lew died on 18th June 2002 having been born on 9th November 1923. The funeral took place At Holy Trinity Parish and Garrison Church, Windsor. His executors asked me to speak for no more than 3 minutes as there would also be other speakers covering different parts of his life. An impossible task: not least because I felt that I should represent all the Club boys. This was the best that I could do:
“I want to tell you about a gifted man called Lew Ashman. I met him at the Harrow Boys Club in 1958 when I was 11. 44 years later I am still a member of that Club. Lew was very handsome, with dark curly hair and beard. Recently I told Lew that he used to look like Errol Flynn and speak like David Niven. He dismissed the comparison, but then told me that it used to be said by others that he looked like Laurence Olivier. Only Lew could combine modesty and vanity in the same sentence. Lew made absolutely no concession to the difference in class and background between himself and most of us. He had the gift of treating with respect a group of teenagers who believed that they were out to change the world. Of course, he changed our worlds. In addition to the vast range of sporting activities, Lew made possible so many new experiences. In my case, this included many first visits:
to a West End theatre
to the Proms
Covent Garden opera
abroad
Perhaps Lew’s greatest gift was that of sharing his delight and wonder in all around him. He found delight in everything. Sunlight on the river. A glass of wine. Tiramasu or ginger ice cream.
He would stop suddenly, his face alight, a smile of pleasure on his lips, and then invite you with, “My stars and garters, did you ever see, taste, hear…?” And you stopped what you were doing to enjoy not just the experience but Lew’s delight in the experience.
He disappeared from my life for 30 years…1969-1999. Then through a third party we met once more, and he took me to his favourite Pizza restaurant in Windsor, and, it was the Lew of old. He met my family and they all fell under his charm.
For, as we know, music has charm. When driving the Club van to events Lew used to sing. And I particularly enjoyed, “O, what a beautiful morning”. And it always was a beautiful morning, even when it was raining, even when it was afternoon, because we were with Lew. And we used to sing a Club song back to him. I would like you to imagine a van full of boys, in muddy football kit, returning from a match, and singing,
We are the ‘Arrer boys
We know our manners
We fight with spanners
We are respected
Wherever we go.
Doors and winders open wide.
Ever seen a monkey eat brown bread
Ever seen Lew-Lew’s curly head
We are the ‘Arrer Boys
We sang it with love and respect. Thank you, Lew from us all. There were a couple of other boys from the Club at the event. Afterwards they told me that they would have said the same. I felt so privileged.On Saturday 9th November I attended a Memorial Evensong for Lew at St George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle, in recognition of his service as a Voluntary Steward of the Chapel. To sum up what Lew still means for me, and I suspect hundreds of other boys, I can only offer the following. When I die, and if I am lucky enough to get to heaven, the gate may well be opened by St Peter or some other dignitary. For me that is not important. What I do know, however, is that Lew will be standing just on the inside of the gate, next to a large notice board covered with details of forthcoming events.
Although my journey to heaven may have been taxing and I enter tired and weary he will smile and say, “Good evening, Sunshine! Let me draw your attention to some key events. There is a cross-country race this Saturday on Dartmoor; and I am also looking for a team, the following day, to take part in a canoe race down the Wye Valley. Can I put your name down for both events?”
And I will smile and say, “I’ll be delighted”. And I will be. Because I always was.”
Neil Clark 2020
North Kensington Histories 
I remember Lew Ashman and the club very well. The club was slightly different then, the snooker table was up in the mezzanine floor. When I first joined the club it was run by ‘Jonah’ Jones, Lew’s predecessor. My brother and I were both members of the club and I went on to join the Old Boys club. I wouldn’t be without my memories of the club and the old Harrovians that came to our camps. Eric, a lovely man and an old Harrovian, those really bridged the gap between those posh speaking men and us cockney speaking lads, Memories of Mrs Pithers, running the canteen down stairs, Very good memories of the club.
Neal,
Just read your memories and recollections of the Harrow
Club and Lew. I echo your sentiments entirely. I was speaking to Alan Bateman recently and he asked me if I remember you and I wasn’t sure. I think I remember playing cricket with you at the club grounds. I’m sure I remember you taking off Jack Douglas while we were having cricket practice at the club grounds. I’m sure it was you, I couldn’t stop laughing. My name is Colin Lynch. Bobby Underwood, Peter Schofield, John Baldry and I all played cricket for the London Federation of boys clubs at Lords in 1967. As you mentioned the club was a big part of loads of youngsters lives with football cricket etc. The things that kept us off the streets and in the safe hands of the club. I will never forget those days all the people that became friends and also the people I will never see again. You take care now and maybe you can get back to me.
Best wishes Colin
Hi Colin,
I remember Bobby Underwood – we used to open the bowling together for the Club, and I went on holiday to Sitges with Peter Schofield in 1966. I have just sent some old photos of Club days to Sue at North Kensington Histories and they should appear on my piece. They include pictures of me, Alan Eames, Terry Cavanagh, Barry Neame, and Mickie Morrison. There are some people whose faces I remember but can’t put a name to them. I was born in 1947 so I think that I may be a year older than you. The people whose names I do remember went to both the Club and were in the same year at Isaac Newton. Sorry I can’t remember your name.
I wish you the best of luck
Neil
Great man, great club, great friends,great times
Dear Neil
Your excellent post brought back so many happy memories of the Harrow Club and Lew Ashman not that they have ever been far away as I was connected with the club for over forty years.
I joined the club in 1958 following in the footsteps of my two older brothers Roy and Ray and like you can honestly say it was no doubt one of the best decisions of my life. At the time of joining, the legendary Lew Ashman was the leader and he was to have the most profound effect on me and many others in opening our eyes and taking us on a journey that we boys from the streets of Notting Hill might never have had (not that we appreciated it at the time).
You were very accurate in describing Lew’s characteristics which I am sure all the old boys will recognize and endorse. I along with many others will be eternally grateful to Lew Ashman, and the staff of the Harrow Club ,
for providing me and my peers so many fantastic opportunities.
Best wishes
Alan
Hi Alan,
I was inspired by your piece to write my own. Did you and I also take part in a General Knowledge Quiz for the Club as well as the Public Speaking competition? Yesterday, I sent off a load of pictures to Sue which she says will be added to my piece. You certainly appear in the IOW picture, and in the background of a football picture. (I have been having problems with my scanner which I resolved yesterday). I envy your continuing contact with the Club, but in the last 40 years I have lived all round the country. I lived in Horsham when I met up with Lew in 2000, so Windsor was no problem. Now I live in Broadstairs. I still feel so sad about the news of Alan’s death, we were very good friends from 1961-64. He took me to Burtons in Portobello Road to buy my first suit for the IOW camp in 1962. He was so friendly and amusing. He appointed himself as a guru on how to get girlfriends. I don’t know who was helpless, him or me.
Lew told me that his last year at the Club was very unhappy, and he only got his confidence back when he became warden at Bourne End. He was very reluctant to go to the exhibition at the Club in 2000-1 when they re-opened after the Prince’s Trust Grant. I am pleased to say that he was pleased that I forced him to go although he was very reluctant to read the panel that was so complimentary about him. Incidentally, I met Lawrence Verney at Lew’s memorial service at St George’s Chapel, Windsor.
Best wishes to you and Ray
Neil
Dear Neil
Yes,if my memory serves me correctly we got beat in the final of the London Federation
quiz, but felt hard done by as an answer given by the opposition was open to debate.
The photos on your post are fantastic and although I do have copies of the IOW camps
I do not have any of the football teams which my niece will download for me. I spoke to Carol sister of Alan Eames yesterday and informed her of your post and I am sure the family will look at it. Sadly Alan passed away almost twenty years ago which was a great loss as he was a lovely chap, very friendly, extremely humorous who kept us entertained with his jokes and singing.
The club was such an important part of all our lives and we all benefited from it so much !
Do keep well and if you have any further thoughts connected with the club please do let me know.
Both Ray and myself send you our profound best wishes!
Alan
Dear Alan
I have other photos that Sue has not included, one of which has you and your eldest brother in the background? I have also made copies of the DVD of Lew’s old 8mm films. The DVD lasts for 87 minutes, and includes tons of canoeing and slalom, it also has 1964,1964 (which you attended) and 1966 Sitges holidays. It also has an overseas football competition in which your brother Ray was captain, and a weekend at Amersham, as well as football and cricket events at our ground in Wembley. The quality is variable, and there are some breaks in the tape. If you email me your address at neil.277clark@btinternet.com I will send you one by post.
Alan passed twenty years ago!! What a tragedy. If you look at one of my IOW photos you will see Alan in the back row with his hand above his head like Stan Laurel. That sums up my memories of Alan – a lovable clown. I must share a memory of him with you. We were playing together in an intermediate football team against Rugby at Gunnersbury ground. (the team involved is in the first of my pictures). We were being slaughtered 8-0 or something, then Alan playing right back dispossessed one of their forwards and dribbled the length of the field, beating two or three of their players. When he got to the bye-line he sent across a beautiful pass to three of us in front of goal. Our inside right missed it; then our centre-forward: as it came to me on the left wing I started to giggle swung at the ball and missed. Alan collapsed in despair at our efforts. As he trudged back to his starting position one of our half backs shouted, “Great ball, Alan”. At which point he groaned and fell on his back in the mud. In the after years he mentioned it to the three of us a few times, in passing, as only Alan could.
Best wishes
Neil
Dear Neil
I would love to see the photograph of me with my elder brother Roy as well as the DVD and will send you my address separately.
I did see the photograph of Alan doing the Sam Laurel impression and that summed him up perfectly.
Losing to Rugby [The old enemy !] by such a wide margin must have been a bit disappointing mind
you they must have had a good team at that time because the club team looked a bit tasty to me.
Did Lew give you a lift home or did he make you walk ?
I did laugh at you story regarding Alan and his impression of the late great Jimmy Armfield.
All the very best
Alan
HI Neil. your post was lovely to read, all so many fond memories of Lew the club, and so many good people. i am sure that if Lew was on the gates with saint peter i know the first thing he would say to me, would be Mr Norrington you owe me subs. god bless him.
Hi Peter,
Many thanks. I feel honoured to have met Lew late in life, and, in some way represent all the boys to whom he gave so much. It’s amazing that after 60 years the feelings remain so strong. What a man!
Best wishes
Neil
Neil, just a thought. have you got my jock strap ?
Hi everyone who remembers me (Carol Eames nee-Hore). Thanks for reminding me of the great times we had at the Harrow club. I will alway remember – how could you forget such lovely people and the good times and the unforgettable Lew when girls started to attend. I knew quite a lot of the older boys through my older brother Alan. Alan and I was very close so it was great to see these old photos of him. I will be telling his wife Kay and daughter Lauren to go on line to see these photos. They will also be grateful for the kind words spoken about him as I am.
Thanks for phoning me, Alan Bateman. Love to you Ray and Evelyn
Hi Carol,
During the period 1960-64 I was great friends with Alan. He was one year older and I looked up to him as someone to model myself on. Unfortunately, I never managed his charm, sense of humour and singing ability. But before I went to IOW camp in 1962 Alan took me to Burtons in the Portobello market so we could buy suits – to take to camp!!! Following Alan’s example, my trousers were cut with a military step i.e. higher at the back than front. According to Alan that was then the height of fashion, to everyone else it was – “What’s the matter with your trousers?” I also learnt from Alan the need to polish the insteps of my shoes, a practice I kept up for years afterwards.
If Alan Bateman can manage to get the DVD working that I sent him, you will find that Alan appears in several of the sequences.
I still have great affection for Alan, and I am so sad that he died so young.
Best wishes
Neil
Hi Carol,
Not sure if you remember me think we are related. My name is Ann maiden name Bloomfiels. Think your mum was related to my Nan Emily Bloomfied we used to live in Testerton Street moved away in 1964
Regards Ann
Hi, I have just found your blog. I learnt to skateboard in the snake run out the back of the Harrow Club in the 1970s, but can find no photographs or record of it. I’m sure it existed! Does anybody have any recollections or photos? Thanks
Hello Neil,
Very much enjoyed reading your evocative memoir, which totally matches my own very fond memories of Lew and the Harrow Club.
I continue to regard my time at the Club under Lew`s influence and example as hugely formative.
I`d say that I was at the club roughly between 1956/7 and 1963.
At the time we live at 67 Bramley Road, nearly opposite Latimer Road tube station.
I do recall you Neil, though you were a year or two younger.
Kind regards
Tony Puxley
Hi Tony,
I remember you very well, despite being one year younger. You were great friends with Gary Taylor and Alan Simpson. We did play in some football teams together, and I do have lots of photos of my time at the Club.
Last September I had a memoir published, ‘A Lost Childhood’ which is on both Amazon and Kindle. I wanted to pay full tribute to Lew and my fond memories of the Club
Best wishes
Neil
Hello Neil,
Good to hear from you.
I live in Burnham, South Bucks, just a few miles from Windsor, and was very sad to learn only after his passing, that Lew had been living in the Windsor area. I would have loved to have re-established contact with him.
Yes, I`m still in touch with Gary Taylor, though I think you meant Melvyn Simpson, very tall lad (whose parents operated a pub right by Portobello Road).
I`ve always remembered one big thing about you – that you won a poetry award (?) and I feel pretty sure I can recollect being in your home sometime, reading poetry!?
All the best
Tony
Hi Tony,
Melvyn actually contacted me some time ago (12-18 months) through the blog. He now lives in Australia which he enjoys very much. I mixed him up with Alan Simpson, the Tony Hancock scriptwriter. Back in the day he asked me to join his jazz band, I played the trumpet in the school band. I declined because I was not good enough.
You are correct. I won the Writer of the Year in 1965 and 1966 for both the National Association of Boys Clubs and the London Federation of Boys Clubs. The awards gave Lew immense pleasure, and when I met up with him before he died he gave me a folder containing the magazine and press cuttings which he had kept for over 30 years. I felt that I had paid back some of the immense debt that I owed Lew and the Club.
I was a great admirer of you and Gary, I thought you were both terribly sophisticated. There is a picture of Gary on the front of my memoir. It was of a Club football team circa 1962. it also includes Ernie Whitcomb, Peter Saunders, John Nash.
I now live in Broadstairs, Kent, and have done so for the last 10 years. Unfortunately, last April I was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer and the prognosis was 15 months. I gave up the chemotherapy because it was making me very ill. But I take great pleasure in my memories of the Club.
Take care and my best wishes,
Neil
Hello Neil,
I am very saddened to read your personal news.
Of course we all know the way life will proceed as we grow older and, not only am I beginning to lose friends, but I find myself worrying more about people close to me. It`s a challenging passage of life.
Good to hear of Melvyn. Yes, I used to go to the Elgin pub on Ladbroke Grove and listen to his band practising in the back room (he played the trombone, remember). I would have loved to have had the ability to play an instrument myself (bought a piano and lessons all to no avail – I just didn`t have it). Though I have been involved in music for some years and had a jazz club in Shepherds Bush, of all places (but that`s all another story).
After your earlier message, I told Gary that he was on the front page of your book and I know he has now ordered two copies, for his children. I shall be buying a copy too.
Glad we are in touch Neil and wishing you the very best.
Tony
Neil,
Tony Puxley forwarded your contact details and I have read some of the comments which remind me of the magic, excitement, adventure and possibilities life had for those boys who attended the club rather than just walking the back streets.
We all then moved on to new opportunities, self reliant and ready to face an uncertain future.
The possibility of 7/24 MAD, nuclear war, major industrial strikes offset by the exuberance of Swinging London, the Beatles, Stones, a pending 1966 World Cup, living within walking distance of Holland Park/ historic culture while being influenced by enlightened ex Harrovians did not leave time to contemplate any sense of victimisation; the world was our oyster if we wanted.
If only today’s younger generation knew their history…
I could write more, but I wondered if you would like to meet in Broadstairs so that we can reminisce about a rediscovered childhood?
I read that you are unwell, so maybe a chat is not such a good idea.
However, I live in Midhurst, West Sussex so it is not far to drive if you’re interested.
Gary
Hi Gary,
I would be delighted to meet and speak with you. Despite the seriousness of my condition the only symptom I have at the moment is tiredness, so long driving is not a good idea.
My email address is neil.277clark@btinternet.com. If you contact me I will give you directions and telephone numbers that I would not like to share on an open blog.
I hope you like the picture on the front of my book?
Best wishes
Neil