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| Cover Designed & Created By Mandy Hills |
Every
blade of grass that cushioned my purposeful steps on the winding descent from
the Devil's Dyke in Brighton to the welcoming bosom of the South Downs village of Fulking
Its magic
carpet qualities separated the urban bustle of the city from the tranquil
timelessness of the all encompassing landscape dominance of the Downs .
The village's high-street ticked to a different time to the one I'd been programmed with since birth. People passed the time of day with either idle gossip or talk of coming local events.
The village's high-street ticked to a different time to the one I'd been programmed with since birth. People passed the time of day with either idle gossip or talk of coming local events.
Carry On
scriptwriter Talbot ‘Tolly’ Rothwell was often to be found of a weekend attending
the Preston Nomads village cricket club, a place where good humour was generous
and the winning was a poor second to the good hospitality.
The wives and girlfriends would prepare afternoon tea and
post match refreshment, while the men toiled both on the pitch and in their
deckchairs. Children ran free and unsupervised. An idyllic memory remembered
with fondness.
It was a place where Tolly seemed most at home. Cream teas, cricket and time-ticking slowly. At such places Tolly’s occupation never came up in conversation. No-one’s did. The moment was celebrated, and the toil and trouble that had gotten them there was, for long afternoons, forgotten.
It was a place where Tolly seemed most at home. Cream teas, cricket and time-ticking slowly. At such places Tolly’s occupation never came up in conversation. No-one’s did. The moment was celebrated, and the toil and trouble that had gotten them there was, for long afternoons, forgotten.
----
I was staying in Fulking as my parents had once again been
commandeered to house sit while Tolly and his wife Scotty took to the
Mediterranean beaches for a week.
But that very morning Tolly was at home with a deadline looming and a plane due to depart Gatwick mid-afternoon. This was a man in work mode; no small talk and none of his usual poetic musings on nature and life. As dawn broke he slipped into his study and soon his typewriter hit a rhythm that didn't let up till way past the due flight time.
But that very morning Tolly was at home with a deadline looming and a plane due to depart Gatwick mid-afternoon. This was a man in work mode; no small talk and none of his usual poetic musings on nature and life. As dawn broke he slipped into his study and soon his typewriter hit a rhythm that didn't let up till way past the due flight time.
I’d never seen such creative intensity in action. I
tiptoed around the house and took breakfast in a surreal hush. How could stilted
silence breed such an outpouring of universally loved slapstick humour?
I’d always imagined that the Carry On humour was bred from
improvisation. I had visions of Tolly pacing his house, loudly reciting lines
and bringing himself to his knees as the double entendres kicked home and he
celebrated his own genius. But I didn’t expect this.
Then again, where the Carry Ons were concerned, what you
saw on the screen was very different from what was going on behind the
scenes!
Contact the author at editor@brighton.co.uk
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