The Times might have wanted them, but Pride in Canterbury got them and some are already saying how much we deserved them!
Below we are proud to publish an abridged extract from "The Penny Farthing Diaries", originally published in the St Adonis Parish Magazine, reproduced here by kind permission of Father Julian, the Parachial Church Council and Mrs Elspith Binns of the Sub Post Office & Hardware Stores.
"It is indeed a small world. It was, I think, Ronnie Corbett who coined the well-known phrase, but whoever was responsible never said a truer word. For after forty years or more, it was in the unusual setting of a Gay Ball in Margate last year that I was unexpectedly reunited with my very best pal from my schooldays, dear old MM.
The clock had already chimed 2a.m. and, in a somewhat tiddly condition brought about by the consumption of a large glass of Ribena with a shot of dry sherry, I'd joined the back of a conga line as it wound its way around the dance floor in the atmospheric surroundings of the Edwardian Wintry Gardens. Despite my my rather blurred vision and steamed-up spectacles, the sequin strewn posterior in front of me seemed vaguely familiar, but I could'nt quite put my finger on it. As the swarming mass of homeopaths, Lebanese ladies and transistors swayed to the left, the owner of the sparkling rear stepped backwards, treading directly on my bunion with a sturdy size 9 court shoe. As I let out a yelp of discomfort, she turned around - and there I was, face to face with my erstwhile pal, Madame Melody!
The truth is I'd doubted that I'd ever clap eyes on her again. All my searches, via Friends Reunited and Interpol had proved fruitless, and yet here she was, larger than life (well to be fair to her, I'd also put on a pound or two in the intervening years). Her departure from Roedean had been all-too-abrupt, and I can still recall it as if it were yesterday. As she flung her belongings, and some of mine, into her suitcase, I tearfully tried to ascertain just why she'd be expelled with immdediate effect. As she attempted to wedge her hockey stick between the Book of Common Prayer and Lady Chatterley's Lover, she muttered under her breath that it was something to do with improper conduct with a blackboard rubber, and with that she rushed out of the dormitory, dragging suitcase, kitbag and shrimp net behind her. The door slammed shut briefly, before opening again to free a trapped pigtail, and then it closed again, this time for good. And that was that until our paths crossed again on that fateful early morning last September.
We'd become firm friends after an unfortunate incident which occured during an excursion with the school rowing club. Although Madame Melody had her moments, admittedly neither of us were particularly athletic, and we did have ulterior motives in joining, Melody having a "thing" about the cox, and me with my penchant for seamen. Melody, seated in front of me ( hence my recognition of her backside), stood up and bent down to adjust a plimsoll. it was then that I spied what I took to be a deadly creepy-crawly on the back of her white tennis skirt. Later in the day I discovered, much to my classmates' amusement, that it was actually a stray false eyelash, but at that moment in time, my thoughts were entirely with my friend's safety, and I gave the suspected millipede a resounding swipe with my paddle. As she emerged Neptune-like from the Royal Military Canal, her face coated with duckweed, wearing a waterlily leaf at a rather jaunty angle across her bedraggled hair, she spluttered, " You stupid oar!". It was typical of her generosity to blame the implement and not the culprit."
(To be continued.)
And indeed, in spite of injunctions, solicitors letters and abusive telephone calls we are determined to make our contribution to literature and to history by printing episode two of the diaries. We are unable at the moment to confirm rumours that plans are afoot to turn the diaries into a film starring Dame Helen as Penny Farthing and Dame Judi as Madame Melody.
The diaries continue:
"Overlooking an incident when she ignited my hair while attempting to give me a homeperm using a Bunsen burner, our friedship blossomed as did our academic prowess. Eschewing the rowing club for the rugby field, Madame Melody was a hooker of some renown, and in a much-treasured official school photograph I always keep in my handbag, there she is, seated to the left of our Headmistress, Miss Prod, sporting a shiny black eye, grazed knees, and a smile resembling a piano keyboard. The annual Festival of the Arts enabled me to air a well-hidden bent for the dramatic, and my Sixth Form production of "The Merchant of Venice" involving two paddling pools and Madame Melody in the title role has become something of a school legend, with the odd critic suggesting that I ought to be orchestrated!
The last event in the school diary that Madame and I attended together prior to her surprise expulsion, was the "coming out "ball. Since an early age, I'd loved dancing, and Melody too, was fond of balls, so it was with eager anticipation that we planned our outfits. I was determined to take folks' breath away, when they glimpsed my frock, and Melody spent many sleepless nights in the dorm, tatting away beneath the bedclothes, with barely a wink, so much so, that I feared for her eyesight. With the benefit of maturity and hindsight, I do now regret the little prank I played on her. As she burst into the school hall, clad in a rather capacious apple costume, believing it to be the Garden of Eden theme "coming out" ball, she most certainly caught the eye of the assembled distinguished guests, parents, staff and pupils gathered there for Speech Day. When the day dawned of the actual ball, well, I can only describe madame Melody's costume as stunning. Her parents must have been so proud seeing her photograph in Sussex Life, clad in stilettos, a zirconium tiara with matching earrings and three strategically placed fig leaves. Such a shame that she experienced leaf-drop during the hokey cokey. She thought my dress was crape, but I informed her that it was genuine artificial silk.
Readers may be curious as to how Melody gained her prefix of Madame, a term usually associated with an opera singer, a ballet dancer or a diva. I can but conjecture. It may stem from the night at Roedean when I was in the corridor affixing a missive on the house notice board. I heard a bath running, and saw that the foam-filled tub was overflowing. As I turned off the tap, some of the drawing pins in my hand fell into the bubbles, but the water was too hot for me to fish them out. Half way through prep, the scholl echoed with an agonising howl so shrill that it shattered the stained glass window in the chapel, and was heard as far away as Ditchling. It could be down to her somewhat regal manner, indeed the boys from the local grammar school always referred to her as the |"Headgirl" even though she was merely a prefect, as was I. Maybe its origins lie in her musical soirees to be seen on Sunday lunchtimes in the public bar of "The Cock and Pullet" public house in Orpington High Street, or perhaps it's due to her pole dancing and laptop dancing demonstrations at the Swanley Over 609's Club.
And so it was that fortyyears slipped past before we were reunited by fate and my corn plaster. But just how did we both end up at the very same Gay Ball in Margate?"
And now the long awaited conclusion to this gripping saga:
" My next door neighbour, Dorothy Smallpice, has a homo sapien nephew, and unfortunately he injured his ankle , going down on something slippery on the day of the ball. Since the mishap back at Roedean, he's the only person I allow to do my hair. He touches me up once a month and puts it up for me twice a week. Dorothy would have happily gone in his place (she was a most flexible understudy at the Church Hall pantomime, taking the Vicar's part at very short notice, however, it coincided with the award ceremony at Buckingham Palace, at which she was to receive the British Umpire Medal (for licking the Bowls Club into shape), and so, being a true friend of Dorothy's, I grasped the opportunity with both hands to broaden my horizon, indeed I very nearly choked on my spotted dick when she popped the ticket into my box. Madame Melody, meanwhile, and unbeknown to me, had been invited by a friend to attend in her official capacity of Diversity Officer of her local Bus Pass committee, a rare nocturnal outing as she's always liked to get her head down early, "In bed by ten, and home by mindnight" being her motto.
Having much to catch up on, we stayed the night at the Sea View Guest House (opposite the Gas Works). Regrettably, my visit to the land of nod was cut short by the untimely arrival at my bedside of a bizarre apparition. Cloaked in ankle-length winceyette, its face smothered in mudpack and its Medusa-like hair tied up in rags, it tugged at my nightie, mumbling a plea for assistance in retrieving its top set of dentures fron the lavatory bowl.
So there we are, almost up to date, and despite our reclining years, we're both still full of zest and spunk. At the invitation of Dorothy, her nephew, and Maisie Trollop, we are both attending Brighton Pride this summer, although coming from different directions. The theme is musicals, and I did consider going as the lamp post from "Me and My Girl", but rejected the idea as I didn't want to invite unwanted attention from dogs or Seeboard engineers. I've opted to go as the castle from "Camelot", my only misgiving being the possible crushing of my bastions in the ticket barrier at Brighton Station. Madame Melody is proposing to go as Norma Desmond from"Sunset Boulevard", complete with an attached grand staircase. Come the 4th of August, you can see her swinging her bannisters in the Club Revenge Dance Tent, and you may catch sight of me in the queue for the Portaloos, trying to raise my portcullis. I hope Melody doesn't encounter any travelling problems on the National Express coach, what with her dress, stair rods, newel posts, suitcases, clutch bag and mosqito net (in case of an unexpected prick and subsequent swelling).
Ours is a friendship built to last, rather like my girdle, and although we have long exchanged our boaters and ankle socks for hairnets and surgical stockings, we still stick up for each other. When I heard that she was confined to bed with a bad chill, I immediately rang Social Services demanding that they put her in a nursing home, the best the DSS could provide. Sectioned I think they call it nowadays. And she in turn, was so concerned for my well-being that she arranged for my bungalow to be thoroughly searched at 4am by the drugs squad as she suspected a packet of aspirins in my medicine cabinet may have been a fortnight out of date. That is definitely what chums are for, as Bette Davis once screamed at Joan Crawford! Whatever the future holds for us, should one of us be in a precarious predicament, the reader can rest assured that the other won't be far away.
MADAME MELODY will be donning her gumshield, her finest NHS wig, and her evening dress and sandals, kindly supplied bythe Beckenham Army Surplus Stores, to present "The Anne Widdicombe Songbook" at the Darenth Oddfellows Hall on Saturday, 17th November at 7.30, after the bingo, and will subsequently be starring in "Gay's the Word" at Dartford's Jobcentre Plus from 22nd May 2008.
PENNY FARTHING is performing twice nightly in"Oh, Calcutta!", playing at the Age Concern Centre, Sittingbourne until Saturday, 17th March as part of a national tour of Kent, sponsored by the British Museum. She will also be directing a Church Restoration Amateur Players production of "The Romans in Britain", a traditional pantomime for all the family by Mary Whitehouse, to be staged at the Memorial Bandstand, Walmer on Saturday, 22nd December at 3pm.
Both ladies appear courtesy of the National Trust
We trust that if her busy showbusiness schedule allows, Penny will be contributing to our pages again very soon.
Here she is!
February 2008
It was at 10.45 GMT last Wednesday when the telephone rang. As was my custom, I'd just taken a sip of coffee and was preparing to dunk a biscuit, when the abrupt ringing of the instrument in my near proximity resulted in the custard cream going for a swim rather than its intended paddle.
Accepting the shattered tranquillity of my elevenses, I picked up the receiver in one hand, the other hand frantically attempting to retrieve with a teaspoon the increasingly soggy remnants of the biscuit from the steaming Gold Blend.
The voice at the other end of the line rasped a brief greeting and then proceeded to embark on a potentially harrowing tale of woe involving a spin-drier, a traffic warden and a ballet shoe, not necessarily in that order.
I sighed and quietly placed the handset on the occasional table. The voice, unaware of its change of location, continued its drone, only now addressing the woodworm. I rose and sauntered into the kitchen, tipped the sodden contents of the cup into the sink and poured myself a fresh cup of coffee. It was still too warm to savour fully so, armed with a pair of secateurs, I made my way into the garden and returned a few minutes later with some early daffodils, which filled to perfection a slim crystal vase I'd recently acquired at an advantageuous price from the Sue Ryder shop. Returning to the drawing room, I lifted the receiver to my ear. As predicted, the voice remained in full flow. As it all to-too-briefly paused for breath, I interjected, "I know you're rather keen on doing it yourself, Melody dear, but this time I really think you should get a Man in". I wasn't entirely sure of the relevance of these words in our somewhat one-sided conversation but I thought it only polite to acknowledge Madam's presence in my home. Relevant or not, this sentence seemed to induce a catalytic effect, the caller becoming noticeably excited as the speech rose from a constant flow to a positive torrent, bursting forth in the manner of a burst water main in Whitstable High Street.
Gingerly, I removed the telephone from my assailed ear and took it, caller intact, into the dining room and deposited it on the sandpaper floor of Wordsworth's cage. After a quick inspection to identify the visitor to his domain, the budgerigar understandably returned his attention to his millet.
I sought refuge in the once more peaceful drawing room and my eye fell upon a small rectangular cardboard box, which had arrived with the morning's post. I gained entry to its contents with the aid of a paper knife, and to my utmost delight, discovered it was the new double dvd set featuring those two Dear Ladies, Dr Evadne Hinge and the late Dame Hilda Bracket. They had been filmed in no less than seven gala concerts; all restored to pristine clarity, that had been broadcast by the BBC Television between 1977 and1981. Within seconds of inserting the first disc into the apporpriate slot in my device, I was reliving the joy of seeing this unique and talented duo in their glorious heyday, performing in the sumptuous surroundings of the Royal Hall, Harrowgate, and the Buxton Opera House.
Becoming entirely mesmerised by Dame Hilda's vocal dexterity and Dr. Hinge's finger work on her upright, not forgetting the accompanying choir and orchestra, an hour or more slipped away before my thoughts turned to another mature female, and I hurried back to the dining room to attend to the 'phone call. I have no way of knowing what words were exchanged in my absence, but Wordsworth had left a note of disapproval on the earpice. Tentatively retrieving the receiver from the birdcage, I discovered to my abject disappointment that Melody had hung up. People are so rude and discourteuous nowadays.
"Hinge and Bracket: Gala Evenings", courtesy of Acorn Media Uk, is now available from all reputable purveyors of dvds.
Madam melody is available for concerts, plays, musicals, private functions of all descriptions, and carwashing on Saturday mornings.
Penny Farthing is just available.
