New Writing by our Group

A Watford Writers in-person meeting of 2023

IS THIS THE REAL TRUTH BEHIND THE STORY?

Dedicated to: Helen, Ian, Lou, Dave, Brian and Geoff

By Chris McDermott

Some, but by no means all of us, know the truth behind a Watford Writers meeting in 2023. The meeting was arranged to feature a guest speaker, a crime and thriller writer. She attended the meeting, giving a very engaging presentation, which was much appreciated by her audience. They were spellbound by her ideas, becoming fully engaged with the psychology which motivates any evil killer. But what is the real inspiration behind her plots?

On the surface, the meeting was going smoothly. However, behind the scenes, Helen, and others ‘in the know’, had discovered that the real purpose of the presentation was to give ‘The Credit Card Killer’ access to ‘Watford Writers’.

But who is ‘The Credit Card Killer’? Like many killers he has an obsession, and, in his case, it is with his ‘alliteraphobia’, a fear of alliteration. In an attempt to conquer this, the killer, the author’s husband, takes pride in his own title, ‘The Credit Card Killer’, which is known only to himself and his spouse. As we all know, alliteration is the occurrence of the same letter or sound at the beginning of adjacent or closely connected words. By being the embodiment of an alliteration himself, ‘The Credit Card Killer’, is able to ‘fight his phobia’, yet another example of the case in point.

On the evening, Helen’s fears were realised, when it was announced that the author’s husband would attend at the end of the meeting. This had not been clear to her before. Realising that it would take a brave soul to meet ‘The Credit Card Killer’ outside, Helen looked around the audience for volunteers. Chris, who had claimed to be ‘Courageous Chris’, showed his true colours as ‘Cowardly Chris’ by doing his impression of a Premier League footballer, complaining that he had ‘an upset tummy’, while holding his head – more practice needed there, perhaps.

Helen had to call on someone in her hour of need. Who better than ‘Daring Dave’, the firefighter, whose bravery, on behalf of the public, had been witnessed over many years? So Dave was chosen. Stepping outside the room, possibly for the last time, he went out on to the street to greet the potential assassin, while the meeting continued.

But why should ‘Watford Writers’ be chosen by ‘The Credit Card Killer’, you may ask? The answer, of course, is in the question. ‘Watford Writers’, with its alliterative title, presented a threat which, despite his attempts to resist his obsessive ‘alliteraphobia’, the killer could not ignore. Having chosen to live in ‘Hemel Hempstead’ as a way of combatting his fears, he could not tolerate having outsiders from a nearby town, threatening his well-being.

Helen was relieved when Dave returned, together with the potential assassin. But she noted that, despite it being a warm summer’s evening, the intruder was dressed in a coat, perhaps to conceal his weapon of choice, his credit card machine. At that moment, Helen knew that one of the writers was doomed, but being ‘Honourable Helen’, was too polite to say anything.

But how was the assassination to take place? The method was simple, but highly effective. The credit card reader had been constructed so that a mere ‘tap and go’ would produce an electric shock, ending the life of ‘the tapper’. ‘Tap and go’ would send them to a far darker place, than even the most unfriendly of local banks.

Then came the moment of truth. The author started selling her books, with most people presenting her with cash. Some were considering the credit card option, but, for some mysterious reason, the card machine would not work. The killer himself thought this was down to a problem with the internet connection, but this was far from the truth. ‘Lovely Lou’ Welland, having been apprised of the potential danger by her husband, the techno-savvy ‘Intelligent Ian’, had contacted him about the situation and Ian had taken action. Intervening from a distance, he had prevented the card reader from working, thus saving many lives (or, at least, one).

Ian Welland, yet another ‘Watford Writers’ hero.

But would the killer make another attempt? As those of you who have studied such cases know, psychopaths can never be tamed through charm, only responding to intimidation. Someone had to show this man that Watford Writers themselves could produce alliteration which could only be imagined by the greatest of creatives.

At this moment, another hero of Watford Writers stood up to save the day. ‘I am Brother Brown,’ came the voice. It was Geoff Brown, of course. Turning to his left he signalled to his friend to speak. ‘I am ‘Birthday Boy, Brian Bold’, said Brian.

Vanquished by the ‘alliterative abilities’ of the ‘Watford Writers’, our potential assassin had no choice but to retreat back to ‘Hemel Hempstead’. But will he, one day, achieve his aim of becoming the most ‘alliterated anti-humanitarian’ of all time, the ‘Convicted Credit Card Killer’?

The Wind Blew In From The West by Susan Bennett

The wind blew from the west gaining strength with every gust. We struggled against its

apparent desire to dash our fragile craft against the jagged rocks growing ever closer. Every

sinew stretched to its utmost attempting to pull against the relentless incoming tide and

push of the wind but we were fighting a losing battle.

That afternoon had been so different. We enjoyed our meal on deck as our boat was rocked

by the gentle waves. We were wafted along in the warm zephyr breeze but then the skies

started to darken as this sweet wind collided with its cold easterly neighbour. Our earlier

pleasure was replaced with fear as we fought to beat our boat against the wind but to no

avail. We raced along driven by the developing storm so we lowered our sails and lashed

them to the masts to try and slow our passage through the waves that grew in tempo with

the rising wind. We lost all control. As the wind gained strength it brought with it rain

which lashed our bodies and soaked our clothes. Fingers became numb with cold and could

hardly grasp the ropes. Only the cresting waves with their white heads crashing against the

rocks relieved the greyness that surrounded us, grey sea joining grey sky seamlessly.

Did we imagine the speck of yellow to our left. No there it was again, a regular flicker of

colour against this monochrome world. The lighthouse. We only had to hold on a little

longer, work a little harder and we would clear the rocks and reach safe harbour. Lifted

spirits lent strength to our aching limbs as we pulled and pushed to turn our craft. We were

so near now, we were saved. We all let out a cheer and at that moment there was a

sickening tearing of wooden timbers. We were run aground on the very rocks we had tried

so hard to escape. How could this be? Then we saw another flickering yellow light a mile or

so down the coast. That was the true lighthouse. We had been tricked by a lantern on the

summit of the rocky nearby cliff. The wreckers were at work that night. Our poor little

boat didn’t stand a chance. Each wave pushed it harder against the unrelenting rock. Water

poured in, cargo poured out. It was every man for himself. Those that hadn’t already been

washed overboard tried to jump onto the rocks themselves, but even though they crossed

the gap they had little chance as the waves overpowered them and dragged them back into

the depths. A few of us waited for the highest waves. We jumped, slipping and sliding on

the greasy rocks we found hand and footholds and held on for dear life. As the waves slid

down we climbed up until eventually our shredded hands grabbed tufts of grass instead of

shards of stone. Exhausted we pulled ourselves up and over onto the top of the cliff. It

took some time to regain strength and breath but when we were able to eventually sit up

and view the scene all we saw was devastation. Splintered timbers bedecked the rocks, only

our figurehead gave any indication that a ship had passed this way.

WILD FLOWERS by Jan Rees

Celandines were the bright yellow stars that shone from crevasses in old stone walls, or peeped from gaps in the hedgerows of my Cornish childhood. They were just too tempting and a small bunch would often be picked to take home – a present for Mum. Finding a container small enough to hold them with their short stems, was a challenge but she had one tiny glass vase which was just right and they would take pride of place on her dressing table.

Small cushions of primroses grew here and there all over fields and in hedges. Their flowers were so delicate, as were their colours, usually the palest creamy lemon but sometimes a soft rose. The pink ones seemed like strangers at a party where everyone else knew each other. Every Spring bunches of primroses were packed in damp cotton wool and boxes of them were sent off to a church in Lambeth, which had some connection with our church, so that the congregation could enjoy something of a Cornish Spring. Little did I know that one day I would be working in a school in that part of London, where the children were having a very different experience of childhood from the one that I had known.

Violets – clumps of the smallest flower heads that grow shyly in woodland or in other sheltered places. Not for them the vivid purple of an emperor’s cloak, but the gentle amethyst of a fading summer sunset. The father of a friend of mine was the butler at the big house. The lady who lived there was called Lady Violet. I remember a rather frail, elderly lady, but her name – like her - seemed to me unbelievably exotic and grand, having little to do with the small sweet flowers I found sometimes while out playing with my friends.

Bluebells grew in great numbers running like a blue river through the woods at the ancient abbey which was not far from the little Devonshire town where my grandparents lived. They filled the space beneath the great beech trees that towered above them, waving and nodding in the breeze. I always wanted to gather armfuls of them but when I did was disappointed by the short life they had indoors. “Better to enjoy them where they grow” said Mum wisely. As a florist she knew a lot about flowers, wild or cultivated.

Dandelions – perhaps the most vivid yellow in the flower maker’s paint box. They had a rather unfortunate reputation as weeds, growing just where a gardener didn’t want them to. But to me they were beautiful, spikey and upright like some kind of floral rebel. When I started to learn French at school and discovered a possible origin for their name, I loved them even more. “Dent de lion” or lion’s tooth, apparently refers to the jagged edges of the dandelion’s leaves.

Tall stems of cow parsley grew abundantly along grass verges like an excited crowd, holding white lace parasols as they wait for a procession to come into view. Their fine filigree heads were constantly moving in the breeze and although we didn’t ever pick them I was enchanted by their elegance.

And honeysuckle – clambering through densely packed hedges that lined the narrow country lanes where we would be walking on our way to and from the beach. Honeysuckle flowers are such an unusual shape, like the spokes of an umbrella. They are not such a visual spectacle perhaps, but oh their scent! There is a sweetness that fills the air around their pink and yellow petals. It is worth burying your head for a moment in the tangle around them to enjoy it. It is the scent of summer.

Jan Rees,

April 2021

PHIL THE GREEK by John Ward

He’s a Diamond Geezer

Phil The Greek

Always keen to please her

Phil The Greek

The noblest, kindest Prince

That you will ever meet

People will be out

To cheer the Queen

“We’ll all have a party”

“Cheer The Queen!”

While he’ll just walk behind

Barely seen.

Yet he has been beside her

All these years.

Saying what he thinks

All these years

And he deserves some praise

In the twilight of his days

For all those years

So let us raise a glass

To Phil The Greek

Let no one treat him ill

Or show him pique

Because the Queen and we

Both know that he’s unique.

(God bless her….and him)

CLUB ALABAM by Ian Welland

CLUB ALABAM, LOS ANGELES, MAY 1940

A pianist sat down in front of his piano and tossed a cigarette from the crumpled Lucky Stripe packet resting uneasy on the piano top. The evening was still young and very few punters were taking any notice of the trio nestled on that dimly lit stage. A whistle from the microphone as it was placed to the pianist’s right suggested the hubbub interlude was over and the time had arrived for music.

‘Ok Oscar, what’ll it be?’

‘Sweet Lorraine?’

This song was the trio’s most famous recording to date, first laid down in a session the year before. Several takes had been unsuccessful, but finally as Europe ricocheted into a second conflict that was sure to draw us all in at some point, so the Trio achieved a master take and subsequently had a hit record on its hands.

Club Alabam had history. Adjoining to the prestigious Dunbar Hotel on Central Avenue, Alabam’s reputation had grown steadily from a seedy alternative venue playing dixie blues in the 1920s to legendary status by the end of the 1930s. As leading jazz musicians frequented its stage so an emerging scene became labelled: West Coast Jazz.

Depending on disposable income, as a punter you either took a small table close to the stage or a private alcove away from the throng where you could entertain and be entertained with conversation and laughter more often drowning out the musicians.

For the Trio and indeed other musicians, the pay was lousy. Free drinks from the bar were now plentiful after years of prohibition; however, drinks were not the real issue. What concerned musicians was how could one Trio shine above another who played a similar set to yours?

‘Tough crowd in tonight Oscar,’ said Johnny the base player.

‘Yeah, I’ve changed my mind. How about we do Too Marvellous For Words and sock it to them?’

‘You think they’re ready for this?’ said Nat.

‘You’re the boss, Nat. You choose.’

Nat took another draw on his burning cigarette. Shuffling his scores, he found the Whiting and Mercer standard. He then led his trio slowly but rhythmically through the opening eight bars. This was the first time the Trio had tried out the song publicly as Nat had been troubled by the phrasing in the studio. He would complain it was easy to stumble over the lyrics which would not keep pace with the music. Oscar, poised to take on the middle solo section on his new electric guitar kept time with his right foot visible to his fellow band members.

Two and half minutes later, the ecstatic clientele rose to their feet. Applause filled the smoky room. Alcoves dispensed with their conversations.

‘You hearing that Nat?’ said a jubilant Oscar. ‘We’ve done it. We’ve cracked the Alabam. We’re in the big time.

Word got out to the Dunbar that there was a new Trio next door setting the Alabam a flame.

‘Cancel Chicago boys,’ said a smiling Nat. ‘Next stop, Capitol Records on Vine Street.’

The Nat King Cole Trio (1939 – 1947)

Pianist, Vocal, Arranger: Nat King Cole

Lead Guitar: Oscar Moore

Bass Player: Johnny Miller

(Taken from A Jazz Correspondent by Ian Welland)

TORCH by Ian Welland

I can date precisely when, for me, the so-called ‘New Romantic’ period ended. May 1982. Soft Cell’s Torch had been released and finally reached number two on the UK Charts on 13 June. It was as though the death throes of the movement were sounded by John Gatchell with his trumpet as Torch comes to a fitting finale.

The New Romantic period for me stretched from 1979 until 1982. I first became aware of the scene when I heard Ultravox! fronted by John Foxx. I also remember seeing David Sylvian on the front cover of Smash Hits but this magazine edition may well have been 1980. I was intrigued by the Ultravox! album entitled ‘Systems of Romance’ and the singles Slow Motion and Quiet Man. At the time, I was attending a very hard-edged school in High Wycombe that was definitively aligned to SKA and Reggae and somewhere in between. I myself, was caught within Bowie’s Berlin trilogy and my brother’s post-punk of Blondie’s Eat To The Beat. Daringly and quietly, I stepped away to Tubeway Army and found Down In The Park as a perfect dressing for the commercial Are Friends Electric which I initially loved but became bored with. In the Autumn of 1979 came Cars and finally at Christmas, Complex. So, going into 1980, I had five singles – three by Gary Numan and two by Ultravox! (I think the exclamation mark in the group’s title had been dropped by then).

There was a lot of initial adversity in what was happening in Britain. Troubled times. Unemployment and social discord were just around the corner as the country wearily dragged itself out of the seventies. I realised that the violence of SKA was not for me and I was becoming, shall we say, cultured.

I should have been aware of a different dimension at the dawning of the new decade by virtue of Kraftwerk. They had been known to me since 1974 and Autobahn which I adored. Similarly, I was becoming an authority on the work of Vangelis and had at least three of his albums in my collection. There was a turning of my head in 1978 when Bowie released 'Heroes’ and of course, other heads started to turn when I purchased Kraftwerk’s The Man Machine album probably around 1979/80. But neither Vangelis, Bowie nor Kraftwerk led me to the emerging scene, which upon reflection is rather odd when thought about now.

I continued with Gary Numan into 1980 and revelled in his three singles, We Are Glass, I Die:You Die and This Wreckage. His subsequent albums The Pleasure Principle and Telekon were works of genius. And then the real explosion happened – Ultravox emerged again, this time with Midge Ure and the Vienna album hit my turntable. There was no going back now. Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark filled my ears with Electricity and Messages and although Toyah was around and sounding like a fireball heading straight for a chasm, I was completely taken by the electronic scene. Yes, I bought Hazel O’Connor’s singles and Toyah constantly made her appearance in my record collection simply for keeping my feet on the ground, but Ultravox had arrived and soon, Visage, into the fray and all was sealed.

Going into 1981, I was tipped off about a London club called Blitz near to Covent Garden. I knew nothing of its predecessor Billy’s in Soho; but what was clear to me was the need to check out this place called Blitz. I was underaged at just 14; however, with a bit of fashioning I could look much older. I was 6 foot tall and hair was flamboyantly wavy that could be brushed in all sorts of directions. One rainy February evening, I headed out of my family’s home armed with £25, boarded a train to London and made my way to Blitz. My difficulty upon arrival was that I was on my own. I wore a brown cravat (scarf) given to me by my Grandfather – it smelt of his pipe; a white but yellowing shirt without my school tie, dark brown trousers that had seen better days and white pumps borrowed from a school friend. Although I was completely out of my depth, I got talking to a crowd that I can only say resembled peacocks with tiaras. My mission was merely to get inside and then listen to the music for as long as I could before being thrown out.

I don’t recall Steve Strange (of Visage fame) at the door, but someone let me in as part of the peacocks’ group – I was literally chatting nonsense to one of the peacocks in order to deflect the attention elsewhere and not be identified as under-aged.

As I made my way downstairs, one of the peacocks whispered ‘I know you shouldn’t be here, but we will see you are alright. Just don’t go to the bar!’ I heeded the warning though as the night went on the music became even more intoxicating. In due course as the dancefloor filled up. I became detached from the peacocks and found I had been transferred to another less accommodating bunch. My instinct told me my time at Blitz was drawing to a close. The social interactions taking place were far beyond my station and not aligned to my own straight sexuality. Having spent nearly three hours at Blitz and with my coca-cola turning transparent with the ice having melted, I feared my cover would be blown.

I don’t remember anyone famous at Blitz. I was hopeful of seeing David Sylvian and the band Japan. I’m not sure they were present at all. The music was astounding though and this chap called Rusty Egan was the DJ. All the tracks played could only be described as an eclectic mix of Bowie, Kraftwerk and another German band called Neu! That said, there were the first extended mixes of stable UK electronic singles – and there was Being Boiled by The Human League (which I had heard before but taken little notice of) and The Freeze by Spandau Ballet, whose first single To Cut A Long Story Short had been on my playlist only a few months before. Through the haze and decadence of Blitz, came these astounding tracks – the likes I had never known or thought possible. They were and remain anthems of the period. When I hear them now, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and Blitz comes right back at me.

I left Blitz around midnight and rushed to Marylebone to board the last train homeward bound for High Wycombe. Next day at school, I mentioned my Blitz trip to only two friends. One nodded with a sense of belief, the other dismissed my venture as pure fantasy.

I did go to Camden Palace in the summer of 1982 where the Blitz crowd had allegedly decamped but I found the scene very fragmented. The original faces of Blitz had gone - some on to Top Of The Pops; others to artistic careers of fashion, or domesticity. The excitement of the Blitz scene was over. I was drifting full-on into Jazz, Funk and Soul by this time thanks to my neighbour Tim Hawes and old school friend Lyndon McCallmun.

It’s been 40 years since my one and only venture to Blitz – the music lives on, just, but as the years go by so the memories fade into sepia.