So, anyone who was not part of the legend that was Stoneham 90-93 but who has read the first entries in this blog knows all about the who, but what about the where? Thus, for anyone who never experienced it, and for all of us that speak of it in hushed tones as a dearly departed, but unruly, love, I wanted to talk about the epicness that was Stoneham Bar (la la la).
South Stoneham House is a 16 story tower block, conceived in the twisted minds of 50s and 60s architects as ideal digs for Studentry. Through the front doors (someone should replace that smashed panel of safety glass in the left hand door, no idea who could have broken it), a right turn past the gents and hang a left towards the payphones. Round the corner where the ladies had a shorter trek for tinkling and avoiding the descent to your right into the hell wherein grey cheese was found inside burgers, one faced the doors to paradise.
A mere doorpush and there it was, in all it's glory; the Junior Common Room, graced at the far end by silver shutters masking glory - Stoneham Bar. At precisely 8pm the shutters would be up and the serious business of being a student would begin. Oh the nights we had in that bar! I am sure, as the orange blog expands, some of them may be told in full, but each one had its own charms. A typical night might involve an hour and a half of beer abuse, followed by the horrific realisation that I was not nearly pissed enough. Therefore, on a personal note, I would like at this stage to give a little heads up to the drink I invented to solve this problem. Liking the unique combination of Southern Comfort and Archers, 4 shots of each in a pint glass topped off by lemonade was the tipple of choice. This pleasant concoction was known as Dave's F*cker. The DF was only really suitable for those times reality needed obliterating, mostly a smaller quantity of the constituent ingredients would suffice. I am also pleased to report that I drink neither of these spirits any more and certainly not in the same glass!
That being said, back to paradise. From the bottle of Galliano that never got drunk to the disease riddled glass cleaner which succeeded in adding bacteria to used glasses, everything about the place screamed quality. For comfort, yellow plastic/mock leather covered corner group and wall sofas with the stuffing coming out of most of them and 20 years of dirty rat studentry embossed on the surface and the patches that littered the surface - magic darts! Your older self never got mandrillised like Stoneham got you mandrillised (for those that were not there, think squiffy, drunk, incapable, etc)
As with all good things though, we took her existence for granted. And so it was, 2 days into summer term in 1992, the axeman cometh (or rather the taxman) and insolvency laid our beauty low. It was good whilst it lasted though. Actually, it was great while it lasted. And now, with the tower block crumbling and (I understand) soon to come down and the memories slipping further back into the recesses of the mind, the last Bar Manager of (the original and best) Stoneham Bar bids the beloved old girl a final farewell and offers her hearty thanks for the ridiculous and glorious fun she gave.
Thursday 18 November 2010
Friday 12 November 2010
How it all began (just the facts ma'am, just the facts)
Of course, I should tell you all about that first day, so you get both sides of the story. Not that I am besmirching the word of Leonard Caine you understand, I'd never do something so callous. This was back in the days when students had honour and integrity and didn't try to brain a Rozzer with a fire extinguisher.
The building in which I found myself was a classic of early 60s functional design - a 16 story monstrosity close to the flight path into Southampton International airport. To say it was nearing the end of it's useful life would be an understatement, the mould growing under the window in my first floor room indicated this would not be a place I would hanker for from a comfort perspective, but to be fair I missed it like crazy when I was away. Bob Marley once penned a moving Reggae classic about the first floor rooms - No plumbing, No cry... and, as it turned out, no discount on the rent for the below par accomodation.
Not being in possession of a new fangled Compact Disc player and with my parents having left me to my student life, I cranked up the record player and slipped on something from my limited but eclectic collection - possibly the Pogues, although it could easily have been Queen or Elton John such was the Liquorice Allsorts I used to (and still do) listen to.
A cup of coffee later and I decided that sitting around on my own was not the best use of the day, so I set off from room 1G in search of my floor mates.
I didn't have far to search, for next door I could hear the sounds of music. So it was that the first person I stumbled upon in my student life was the inestimably comfortable Jonny Medcalf - sat in his armchair listening to The Jam. We chatted for a bit after the introductions whereupon we were invaded by a host (far from heavenly it was as well) - the remaining first floorers, already gathered and touring round to collect up the rest of us. A swathe of faces and introductions which at the time was a blur and now is just a happening in the memory I cannot play a clear image of.
Of course, by the end of the night I knew all of them for we spent the rest of the day as a collective slowly accustoming ourselves to each others mannerisms and patterns of speech. It quickly became obvious (due to the haze hanging over us) that this was a smoking floor, which came as a relief to me, being a pack and a half a day chuffer then (but no longer). Ten first floor ratbags, whom Len has already introduced in his inimitable style. But it was not just the ten of us, Rolf Benham-Parker and Ivan also were there - to this day I have no earthly clue why two twelfth floor guys spent that first day with us, but there you have it, there was Rolf and Ivan, the very first of many paradoxes in the Stoneham Years.
What more to say today? Not much, that is how it began on the first day, and that evening we went to the bar. Three years later I sobered up again, but being of strong constitution I can recall some, or perhaps all, of the haze in between and the tales therein that lead a young Len and Dave to the horrors of the Orange Book can now be told. Friends come and friends go and time marches on apace, but there will never be another Caning team nor a three years like that. Even the shit was worth the candle.
The building in which I found myself was a classic of early 60s functional design - a 16 story monstrosity close to the flight path into Southampton International airport. To say it was nearing the end of it's useful life would be an understatement, the mould growing under the window in my first floor room indicated this would not be a place I would hanker for from a comfort perspective, but to be fair I missed it like crazy when I was away. Bob Marley once penned a moving Reggae classic about the first floor rooms - No plumbing, No cry... and, as it turned out, no discount on the rent for the below par accomodation.
Not being in possession of a new fangled Compact Disc player and with my parents having left me to my student life, I cranked up the record player and slipped on something from my limited but eclectic collection - possibly the Pogues, although it could easily have been Queen or Elton John such was the Liquorice Allsorts I used to (and still do) listen to.
A cup of coffee later and I decided that sitting around on my own was not the best use of the day, so I set off from room 1G in search of my floor mates.
I didn't have far to search, for next door I could hear the sounds of music. So it was that the first person I stumbled upon in my student life was the inestimably comfortable Jonny Medcalf - sat in his armchair listening to The Jam. We chatted for a bit after the introductions whereupon we were invaded by a host (far from heavenly it was as well) - the remaining first floorers, already gathered and touring round to collect up the rest of us. A swathe of faces and introductions which at the time was a blur and now is just a happening in the memory I cannot play a clear image of.
Of course, by the end of the night I knew all of them for we spent the rest of the day as a collective slowly accustoming ourselves to each others mannerisms and patterns of speech. It quickly became obvious (due to the haze hanging over us) that this was a smoking floor, which came as a relief to me, being a pack and a half a day chuffer then (but no longer). Ten first floor ratbags, whom Len has already introduced in his inimitable style. But it was not just the ten of us, Rolf Benham-Parker and Ivan also were there - to this day I have no earthly clue why two twelfth floor guys spent that first day with us, but there you have it, there was Rolf and Ivan, the very first of many paradoxes in the Stoneham Years.
What more to say today? Not much, that is how it began on the first day, and that evening we went to the bar. Three years later I sobered up again, but being of strong constitution I can recall some, or perhaps all, of the haze in between and the tales therein that lead a young Len and Dave to the horrors of the Orange Book can now be told. Friends come and friends go and time marches on apace, but there will never be another Caning team nor a three years like that. Even the shit was worth the candle.
Len's first piece - One Orange Book To Rule Them All
Len has penned this introduction, and will shortly be installed with full authorly powers.
One Orange Book to rule them all, one Orange Book to find them,
One Orange Book to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.
I was recently ensconced in my favourite armchair, surveying my colonial farmlet and slaking my thirst with eight litres of lager (as is my wont after a hard day of furze cutting and gathering firewood), when I felt a great disturbance in the force. It was as if millions of voices had cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I feared something terrible had happened.
Trepidatiously, I carried my remaining 18 cans of lager over to the computer desk, logged on and commenced my investigation. Within moments, my suspicions were confirmed, a cursory perusal of my usual haunts having identified the cause. The Orange Book had been found and reopened by Mudpuddlin Man Dave (an alias adopted approximately 18 years ago, for obvious security reasons pertaining to the contents of the aforementioned tome). My heart stopped, my throat tightened as my brain struggled to come to terms with the implications of this development, and as I drained another can (whilst simultaneously opening the next with my other hand) a series of flashbacks erupted within my mind causing me to slowly fall into unconsciousness, to be transported back to where it all began, so many years ago………
The building itself could be called, at best, utilitarian and the floor to which I was directed was (as we were later to discover) even more austere than the other fourteen, with no running water in the rooms and ablution facilities shared by The Ten. The Ten had arrived, each bearing the uniform of his chosen tribe; Ned the Indie Boy in his long sleeve “Carter” tee shirt; Flea the Casual in his perfectly ironed jeans and golden earrings; Frank Satanus the Goth in his over sized black baggy jumper; Johnny Foods the contemplative academic and gifted actor in his Morrissey cardigan with oversized buttons; Shadrack the excitable engineer, chain smoking Silk Cuts; Leviticus the bawdy sportsman and medic; Dirty Sanchez, a Liverpudlian scallywag and former military man; and Scunner Curwen, a box of dog shit.
Amongst The Ten was one who did not readily fit, having apparently taken on both the appearance and persona of a gardening programme presenter – marble wash jeans, unbranded white trainers and a semi-casual shirt buttoned all the way were in contrast to his confident voice and good humoured disposition. This was my first meeting with Dave.
Several of The Ten would ultimately falter, fail to rise to the challenge and be replaced by altogether more robust (and in this story, critical) individuals such as Doc Rudenski and The Troll. Secondary characters such as Pregnant Welsh Mong, The Drummer, and The Mandrill would also have a part to play. More of that later.
Time pressures prevent me from elaborating further at this stage but, suffice to say, if the Tale of the Orange Book is to be told proper, further episodes will be required to give the necessary background. Nonetheless, this is where it all began, with The Ten. At this early stage, my adolescent pitch was somewhere between indie and academic; a floppy centre parting trading off against the biker jacket, with a healthy dose of pseudo working class anti-snobbery thrown in for good measure.
This, however, would all change rapidly within a matter of weeks as I was drawn inevitably into a downward spiral of depravity, accompanied by Dave; a maelstrom that would, and could, only end in one place…The Orange Book.
I hope that Dave and I can finally gain some sense of closure through the telling of this story, for there is plenty to come. For now, I sign off. For those of you who don’t know me….
My name is Leonard Caine.
One Orange Book to rule them all, one Orange Book to find them,
One Orange Book to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.
I was recently ensconced in my favourite armchair, surveying my colonial farmlet and slaking my thirst with eight litres of lager (as is my wont after a hard day of furze cutting and gathering firewood), when I felt a great disturbance in the force. It was as if millions of voices had cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I feared something terrible had happened.
Trepidatiously, I carried my remaining 18 cans of lager over to the computer desk, logged on and commenced my investigation. Within moments, my suspicions were confirmed, a cursory perusal of my usual haunts having identified the cause. The Orange Book had been found and reopened by Mudpuddlin Man Dave (an alias adopted approximately 18 years ago, for obvious security reasons pertaining to the contents of the aforementioned tome). My heart stopped, my throat tightened as my brain struggled to come to terms with the implications of this development, and as I drained another can (whilst simultaneously opening the next with my other hand) a series of flashbacks erupted within my mind causing me to slowly fall into unconsciousness, to be transported back to where it all began, so many years ago………
The building itself could be called, at best, utilitarian and the floor to which I was directed was (as we were later to discover) even more austere than the other fourteen, with no running water in the rooms and ablution facilities shared by The Ten. The Ten had arrived, each bearing the uniform of his chosen tribe; Ned the Indie Boy in his long sleeve “Carter” tee shirt; Flea the Casual in his perfectly ironed jeans and golden earrings; Frank Satanus the Goth in his over sized black baggy jumper; Johnny Foods the contemplative academic and gifted actor in his Morrissey cardigan with oversized buttons; Shadrack the excitable engineer, chain smoking Silk Cuts; Leviticus the bawdy sportsman and medic; Dirty Sanchez, a Liverpudlian scallywag and former military man; and Scunner Curwen, a box of dog shit.
Amongst The Ten was one who did not readily fit, having apparently taken on both the appearance and persona of a gardening programme presenter – marble wash jeans, unbranded white trainers and a semi-casual shirt buttoned all the way were in contrast to his confident voice and good humoured disposition. This was my first meeting with Dave.
Several of The Ten would ultimately falter, fail to rise to the challenge and be replaced by altogether more robust (and in this story, critical) individuals such as Doc Rudenski and The Troll. Secondary characters such as Pregnant Welsh Mong, The Drummer, and The Mandrill would also have a part to play. More of that later.
Time pressures prevent me from elaborating further at this stage but, suffice to say, if the Tale of the Orange Book is to be told proper, further episodes will be required to give the necessary background. Nonetheless, this is where it all began, with The Ten. At this early stage, my adolescent pitch was somewhere between indie and academic; a floppy centre parting trading off against the biker jacket, with a healthy dose of pseudo working class anti-snobbery thrown in for good measure.
This, however, would all change rapidly within a matter of weeks as I was drawn inevitably into a downward spiral of depravity, accompanied by Dave; a maelstrom that would, and could, only end in one place…The Orange Book.
I hope that Dave and I can finally gain some sense of closure through the telling of this story, for there is plenty to come. For now, I sign off. For those of you who don’t know me….
My name is Leonard Caine.
The intro - back in the dim mists of time
Once upon a time, in a land far, far from here (actually Southampton so not THAT far) I was a wee strip of a lad embarking upon a great missive of learning. I was a student of philosophy, studying for my B.A. I say studying, I mean drinking, playing pool and sharking - the triumvirate of joy that kept me going for three years.
There are many fine tales that I could tell you of those times. I could reveal the secret behind cartoning, the blight of many a Stonehamite, I could get into a deep discussion about the health benefits of a diet of kit kats and ready salted crisps. I might even, with a somewhat winsome grin, talk about my behaviour, or lack of it, towards the fairer sex on occasion.
However, today is not the time for such tales, as appealing as the telling might be. Perhaps future blog spots might offer an opportunity to give you some insight into the specifics, but in general think about me, with hair and 2 stone lighter, permanently drunk and getting away with moider and you're getting warmer.
No, it is a particular memory that has stirred me to post today, and indeed to plan an expansion of Mudpuddlin to another outlet. For you see, back in those days, Student Dave had a friend, Student Len. Dave and Len were more foresighted than anyone at the time knew, and committed to the ages their thoughts and general flimflam to a book, an orange book. The Orange Book is, contrary to the legends, extant, and provides a fascinating and terrifying testimony to the raw power of alcohol. Portions of the original Orange Book may indeed find their way into open web publication, but in the meantime be aware that the Orange Book will return! Following extensive negotiations, and an attractive offer of co-authorship (that I am sure alcohol had nothing to do with), look out very soon for the Orange Blog, and be swept away by it's majesty.
It is, as they say, on, and quite seriously out of order.
There are many fine tales that I could tell you of those times. I could reveal the secret behind cartoning, the blight of many a Stonehamite, I could get into a deep discussion about the health benefits of a diet of kit kats and ready salted crisps. I might even, with a somewhat winsome grin, talk about my behaviour, or lack of it, towards the fairer sex on occasion.
However, today is not the time for such tales, as appealing as the telling might be. Perhaps future blog spots might offer an opportunity to give you some insight into the specifics, but in general think about me, with hair and 2 stone lighter, permanently drunk and getting away with moider and you're getting warmer.
No, it is a particular memory that has stirred me to post today, and indeed to plan an expansion of Mudpuddlin to another outlet. For you see, back in those days, Student Dave had a friend, Student Len. Dave and Len were more foresighted than anyone at the time knew, and committed to the ages their thoughts and general flimflam to a book, an orange book. The Orange Book is, contrary to the legends, extant, and provides a fascinating and terrifying testimony to the raw power of alcohol. Portions of the original Orange Book may indeed find their way into open web publication, but in the meantime be aware that the Orange Book will return! Following extensive negotiations, and an attractive offer of co-authorship (that I am sure alcohol had nothing to do with), look out very soon for the Orange Blog, and be swept away by it's majesty.
It is, as they say, on, and quite seriously out of order.
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