Rigby Taylor

I'm in my 80th year and, according to the bloke who decides whether I'm fit to drive a car, will still be gardening and feeding the chooks in 20 years. As for your life; from the snippets I've garnered, it has been anything but pedestrian. No personal story is pedestrian per se, it depends on the way it's told. A good story-teller can make an ordinary trip to the supermarket read like an amusing adventure.

In the weeks over Christmas and New Year, the fruit and vegetable department of Selfridges, the second largest and classiest department store in London, benefited from my servitude. Wealthy hostesses and film stars would dreamily request “A little fruit for the table, darling,” then spend the equivalent of my week’s wages on a bowl of grapes, granadillas, and a few peaches. The variety and quality of fruit both exotic and local was staggering and I became the melon and grape specialist, assistin

Thank you, Canuk. What an interesting analogy. I'm pleased you're persisting in reading and commenting; I think you're the last man standing, and there are still 7 chapters to go. I originally published this in 2011 as an eBook, when there were loads of men my age still alive who'd lived during those years, who related to my experiences and commented through emails; not North Americans so much as Europeans and guys from the Middle East. I understand that GA is a niche site, brilliantly organised and deservedly successful in keeping both readers and writers happy, and I frequently read stories so am well aware that the style and content of all my stories, not just this thing, are outside the norm, so I'm not surprised, just grateful to have another platform, and especially pleased to have made your eAcquaintance. I hope the rest continues to amuse. R

Clackmannan is the smallest Scottish shire - a narrow strip ten miles by eleven, squeezed between the River Forth to the south and the escarpment of the Ochils to the north, along the base of which nestle grey stone villages, rugged glens, and the ruined Castle Campbell. The shire’s largest town, Alloa, boasted the largest whisky storage facility in the kingdom, several bonny kirks preaching John Knox’s brand of Calvinistic misery, a woollen garment factory, and all the usual amenities inclu

What a horrible experience at Los Angeles. I've read about such things and is one reason I've not been back to the USA since 1984. Yes, the Swiss are super efficient and polite -- usually. It's not because you're getting old, it's because it was less stressful in many ways, and also "nicer" a few decades ago... at least for people like us. I certainly would not like to be a school leaver today. I wonder if the aggressive masculinity of the bum-pinching, handsome young Italian men was a determined attempt to make sure no one thought they were gay?... Over compensation and all that.

The trip had been fun and much more useful than I'd expected. I was now familiar with every major city and country of Europe, had discovered that England was not the most civilized land on earth; London was not the most beautiful, interesting, or cultivated city; and the English were not as well educated, friendly, or attractive as most Europeans. In fact, I had felt more at home in Europe than the UK and was determined to move there immediately after my stint as a drama teacher. Eig

They were having their OE [Overseas Experience]. A rite of passage for New Zealanders in those days; a precursor to today's 'gap year'. As far as I could tell, it was only a social obligation and list ticking exercise. As for their open minds... not noticeable. They were intelligent young women, secular upbringing, no religious baggage, determined to enjoy themselves, see everything on their ‘to do’ list and have new/different experiences. ‘No sex,’ didn’t deny a natural desire to please and lust over an attractive man—especially as he was clearly no threat to their virginity. Away from imposed conformity my ‘innocent’ naturalness just added to the adventure. Crucially, because I was not embarrassed, they weren't. And the acceptance of my behaviour by defacto queen bee Marion, proved it was all comme il faut. Your Russians sound very pleasant, and, dare I say it, typical of non-British-Empire travellers, being proud of their country, but not having endured the relentless false propaganda from cradle to grave about the superiority and exceptionalism of all those descended from British stock.

“Have you noticed all those soldiers?” someone remarked as we were driving from Madrid to Valencia. Every hundred metres for about twenty kilometres, fully kitted soldiers had been standing at attention, rifles at the ready on both sides of the road. Suddenly, an ear-splitting siren heralded a police car roaring towards us, blue lights flashing, loudspeakers blaring “Estop! Estop! Estop!” on and on and on. We pulled over to the side of the road. After several minutes, four police cars, siren

Three months sharing food, tent and transport with five others was going to make concealment of my penchant for attractive young men somewhat difficult, so after much agonising I'd decided to come clean. If they reacted badly I’d ask for my money back. As I climbed into the van, Anthony peered across at Alwyn’s front door and sneered, “Who’s that poofter?” Edgar was waiting to wave goodbye. In the harsh light of morning he looked his age; face lined and pale, accentuating his obviously d

Thank you Okie. At last, somebody envies me! You've made my day. But I'd like to be a little more organised, like you clearly are. Planning is something I leave to the last minute and it's always a rush, leading to nightmares that I've a plane to catch but where are my passport and tickets? Thanks for reading and commenting, you are one of the few who've stayed the course so far. I realise my writing style is a bit too literary, and my experiences and attitudes too far removed from the norm to be popular on this site, which is why I stopped publishing Dancing Bare on GA last year. But last month I thought, ah, why not, even if only one or two people read, that's fine, and so it has turned out. Only 10 chapters to go, at 2 a day, that's five days. I hope you will one day take a small leap and find a bit of the freedom you desire for a while. It is, like most things, overrated. Cozy security is infinitely preferable, and you seem to have secured that.

Through the models’ grapevine I found work sitting for professional artists in a studio run by Martha, a robust woman who usually wore a technicolour tent decorated with tiny mirrors. There were armies of commercial artists in those days who, with great talent and skill, painted all the signs, decorated shop windows with gold leaf and beautiful drawings, turned concrete pillars into marble, wrote price tags with wondrous flourishes, created advertisements – all by hand. If they needed a drawing

Great minds...

Excellent idea -- a licence to travel. Actually there is a sort of discrimination in the distinction between tourists and travellers, that helps one to avoid unpleasantly populated places . I'm pleased to be jogging your memories, they are valuable assets, too facilely dismissed as living in the past. We can't live in the present because what happened one second ago is already irretrievable history - making the irretrievable incidents of 50 years ago of equal [if not greater] value. We are what we were, sort of thing. And there's nothing wrong with snobbishness in worthwhile activities -- discrimination is essential to enjoyment. Thanks for making me reflect.

“It must have been great living in the sixties,” students would sigh as the nineteen eighties ploughed into the mire of political correctness, hijackings, over-population, multitudes of localised wars, birth-pangs of globalisation, deregulation of currencies, Reagan-Thatcher inspired dismantling of publicly owned social services and unions, and the privatisation of everything. For nostalgia-merchants yearning for a return to a ‘golden age’, the sixties had become a symbol of freedom, social

The beach the following morning was a wide sandy expanse facing the Straits and Spain. The wind was cold, the water probably partly sewage, but the sun was hot – a perfect cure for depression. Men sunbathed behind wicker windbreaks. No women visible. As I lay on my towel and gazed at the view, a perfect specimen of well-endowed manhood in a tiny red bikini, headed purposefully towards me. Handsome Spaniards are fine and splendid. Handsome Arabs are coarse and splendid with large noses, jaws,

"The turning Circle of the queen Mary" very good! Thanks for noticing the elegance while wallowing in memories, I knew you were a superior being. Yes it is odd that some seem compelled to quit the nest for a bit of adventure, while others appear contented. Italy I would like to have known better, I should have been like you and less of a peripatetic grasshopper. Africa always sounded too daunting to visit. Like you in a previous post, I did something that caused my response to disappear into the ether -- twice! Very odd.

Alwyn hadn’t always been a travelling player; he’d owned the Horsham Repertory Company until its financial collapse a few years previously. Actors had fewer and fewer choices now TV had stolen audiences, and touring Shakespeare to schools was an embarrassing comedown for him. As if to compensate for his drop in theatrical status, Alwyn delved ever deeper into the Bard’s texts, arriving at obscure interpretations and cryptic intentions. In The Tempest, for example, he was adamant that each ch

Orgy. The word conjures up a mysterious room filled with bronzed bodies bathed in pools of amber light, writhing in serpentine ecstasy in an ambience warm and heady with exotic perfumes, while slaves offer grapes, and wine in silver goblets, and naked youths sway sensuously to languid harmonies from lute and flute. Hazel was a demanding employer. The naked butler was to be a ‘catalyst of liberation’ for the guests from the moment of entry into the mansion, giving them ‘permission’ to do as t

Your imagination, Canuk, is probably more interesting than my exploits. I have a strange mind that focuses solely on what I'm doing, leaving me both blind and deaf to everything not part of the action. I neither see nor hear acquaintances on the street if I'm going somewhere. While writing, nothing impinges on my consciousness until I've finished. While talking to people the rest of the room doesn't exist. I start a job and suddenly several hours have passed and the meal I put on intending to return in a few minutes, has burned to a vile smelling crisp requiring the house to be aired for days. While involved in my 'less than usual' activities I'd be blind and deaf to possible reactions or consequences, but afterwards I was sometimes shocked and embarrassed at my daring/stupidity [modelling the jewelry for example left me in hot sweats for days afterwards if I thought about it], worried that I'd offended someone's sensibilities and made a total arse of myself... all that stuff. If I was tired those thoughts would get me down... but internal monologues and self questioning do not make for a gripping tale, and after a few days my negative feelings faded, and have had no permanent effect on how I've lived. For that reason, as you suggest, they've been filtered out, leaving mainly the fun things I did, not the chest-beating soul-searching that so many young people indulge in with such pointless dedication. I am very pleased you are enjoying the story and not shocked. I hoped it would dredge up a few smiles and the occasional laugh from readers, as well as force a comparison with today's prissily constipated culture. Men my age usually get it, a few women think It's just a long-winded complaint, most readers don't share their opinions with me. And I do rave on, don't I?

Alwyn was in freefall; plummeting from the high board of mania into a puddle of depression while his nest was dismantled, carted off to Chiswick and reassembled. Edgar, a tight bundle of self-restraint, helped me to shift enough costumes to clothe a small city, a bookshop of scripts, and the pathetic collection of sticks that was their furniture. By the time we’d finished I'd climbed the equivalent of the Eiffel Tower and gained two inches on calves and thighs. Their new bedroom was half the

We were a strange mob. Alwyn in love with his Company and Edgar; Edgar in lust with me; Agnes at war with the world; Hal in lust with Margaret; Margaret in love with her rugby-playing psychologist fiancé back home in Guildford; and Terry in love/lust with himself. Digs were usually fine, apart from one unpleasant week in which I shared a double bed with Hal, who showered and brushed his teeth only occasionally, and placed a row of pillows between us - threatening murder if I crossed the line

The curtain rose on fiery gloom in which Edgar, Alwyn and Agnes in fluttering rags capered and cawed, “When shall we three meet again…?” As the stage lightened, Terry strode heroically on with me in his wake. After that, all I remember is I fluffed most of my lines. Shakespeare is difficult to learn and Macbeth the hardest – the harbinger of doom if quoted off stage. Terry was a hard, introspective Macbeth, and like the others an unflappable actor. After saying his lines, if I dried he’d tur

You are so right. Our current PM knows his audience very well -- which is a tad disconcerting -- while his opponent simply hoped his sincerity would somehow descend like the gentle rain from heaven on the populace below, infiltrating their heads with similar ideas. Everyone who wants to influence the public needs to be constantly conscious of their reactions and adjust their performance to suit. But those sorts of people, able to shift their position as the wind blows, seldom make good leaders. I'm surprised you employed speechwriters, Canuk, I thought that with your silver pen you'd be writing your own. I think you'd be very good. Thanks for the compliment; keeps me sane.

Thanks, Canuk. I guess if I'd been travelling with someone, I'd have had to tone things down to avoid criticism. But on my own I seem to lose the ability to use the behavioural brakes.

My early return was lucky because the Company had secured a contract to “Play in the Parks.” The London City Council arranged for a stage to be erected in a different park every morning and afternoon, on which we would present an hour’s entertainment for the local kids. Easy work and good money. Alwyn had written half a dozen action-packed plays, the first of which was a version of The Willow Pattern, to be presented at 11.00a.m. the following morning at Crystal Palace Park. I was to be the