Introduction
Song: "Shrimp boats are a-coming" (A Cogan)
Archdruid: Mornin', mornin'
All: Jameson 'ere.
Valediction
Archdruid: We remember the passing of Derek Jameson. The "Sid Yobbo" of that Private Eye, which is very droll but inclined to think working-class people are a bit funny just because they're working class and didn't go to Eton.
All: Or even unto Harrow.
Archdruid: And so we remember a man who overcame a difficult childhood to become a household name, much-loved and an inspiration to all those who, from humble beginnings, aspire to present a Radio 2 Breakfast Show or edit a newspaper. But not that newspaper. Not this week.
Song "I remember you-oo" (Frank Ifield)
Archdruid: You return man to dust
and say, “Return, O children of man!” For a thousand years in your sight
are but as yesterday when it is past,
or as a watch in the night. You sweep them away as with a flood; they are like a dream,
like grass that is renewed in the morning: in the morning it flourishes and is renewed;
in the evening it fades and withers. (Ps 90)
Sid Yobbo: Do they mean me?
All: We surely do.
Recessional: "Butterfly" (Val Doonican)
Derek was a folk hero for us East End folk. He wasn't particularly handsome, he sounded like a cockney mixed with mancunian and his gravelly voice was like Barry White on steriods.
ReplyDeleteHe was the 'barrow boy' made good, albeit, with the misfortune to succumb to some Tory traits like working for the Daily Sexpress and even suing someone for Libel. But he came through, going bust and booming again.
He was a success, not in an Alan Sugarish way(another barrow boy - made good) but in the if you met him in the pub he'd still be up for a game of darts or going to the flicks to watch the latest french movies (East End pleasures). He basically stayed true to his dragging up, like most of us do.
He was the sort of geezer you'd meet on a Street Market in Columbia Row or Brick Lane in the fifties and sixties, now overcome by Southern Aisan colour and culture. A dying breed unless you go to Essex or Kent, where they've all migrated to. Now I can go to a market in Braintree or Maidstone and the Cockney barrow boys are alive and well, just suffering from withdrawal symptoms from jellied eels and cockles and whelks. And a pint of brown ale.