The Way We Were

If I come back in the next life, I want a bottle of the elixir of life and a double ration of hindsight the wonderful thing. Not that I believe there is an after life of souls, else it would be rather top heavy with all those Cavemen, Gladiators, Vikings and the Bosch up there in Valhalla. Maybe we recycle though and I was a shot down Spitfire pilot and a Centurion on Hadrian's Wall in former lives as we knew it. Like a full moon they both have some kind of strange influential mind pull on me.

No I am not a werewolf, but full moons influence the tides so why not my body, mind you these days its a case of I believe in miracles, where're you from you sexy thing.

So this chapter is about the downfall of mankind, including me, yes I did not get where I am today without women. In fact the rise and fall of Allan Sharpe is due to Allan Sharpe, snakes and ladders, river deep mountain high, and the dice he threw. He always got on better with females than males. With men he could talk about football, sport and women, but lots of men were seemingly jealous. Never being one to prop up a bar, but rather spending an elegant decadent time with a glass of dry white wine. Pinot Grigio was always at an affordable price, though the pricier Sancere did not touch the sides. Not that he did not like pubs, he just did not like the riff raff in them, yes he could be an arrogant snob, but he could also engage in banter, in conversation with any one, any class, any sex. He also liked a pint of real ale, though at age 18, the 8 pints each of us 3 of 4 (Ken, Keith, Kevin with a Consul Mk I parked outside) consumed in a Harefield PH is a distant memory. Where did we put the equivalent of a gallon of Duckhams 20/50 in our bodies, though truly most of it was dispensed of on porcelain walls and trees on the way back to Willesden.

Did I tell you I got banned from 3 dance halls in 3 weeks age 19, reason girls girls girls and their, unbeknown to me, boys boys boys who thought their name tag was round the girls neck, or finger.

So I could always chat and chat up. I always admired beauty, style, poise and grace, that hit my eyes not only across a crowded room, but could be in my face or could even be a sculptured piece of architecture, not only the Aphrodite female form.

But there are scattered pictures of the smiles I left behind, smiles we gave to one another, for the way we were. I learned as a 12 year old that demolition was easy, construction and reconstruction took much longer. In my love life, after learning to kiss, then eventually learning to please as opposed to being pleased, nod's as good as a wink to a blind man, I discovered to my cost that it took two to tango, but one to detonate and pull the plug. My mum said "fuck em and leave em" I don't think she got that from the Relate Manuals. My biological father was worse than me, at least I tried before giving up. My brother in law thought it was better they loved you, taking the easy route 66 to get his kicks. I guess my sister Pat has held that marriage together since the early sixties and Mick sat back in the armchair and watched TV.

That's what I always wanted, like Ken, like JT they married their child hood sweethearts and journeyed to the plateau of stability. Me, I was white water rafting.
I remember, Bill Butterfield at Westminster, coming in one day to work and saying over a lunch time pint, that his wife came into the room last night, he was watching TV feet on the coffee table and a can of lager in his hand. She said ok I am off then. He glanced down and saw there was a suitcase on the carpet. Where, he exclaimed in amazement. She said, the kids have grown up, I am not needed here anymore, I am off to get a life of my own, and woosh she was gone ....... blimey!!! Listening to that story was Chris Rogers, who had decided to shit on his own doorstep and have an affair with a gorgeous artist from ....next door ......blimey!!!

When my mum was a single parent society did not accept that situation. Women would be house wives and child minders. Hardly any married women worked outside the home and got paid for it. Husbands would drown their brains down the pub and come back for sex and fall asleep on the job. Sweeping generalisations are sometimes true, especially for a lad growing up in Willesden London NW10. Not that I was privy to the bedroom scenes of course, but it was generally known, that's what happened in Willesden life of the 50's. In the 60's that all changed, the mini was built, Britain's best selling car and the mini skirt arrived. Hail the permissive society, well in truth it was just more public rather than staying private. So girls would build up all that passion in boys which converted like potential energy into kinetic lust energy, only to discover that the mini was accompanied by the other new invention - tights, the ultimate passion killer, so near yet so far. E = mc2.

Some girls showed their bum as they walked along, but mind you that other great invention, the thong or gstring had not been invented as yet. On a Lambretta TV 175 with all the mirrors, chrome panels and front and rear racks, pulling was easy, pulling up by the law was also an habitual experience.

Dana was in the 4th year I was a prefect, she was too young for me, she was petite & stunning though, a pelmet for a skirt, as she sat pillion, her thighs wrapped around me, oh those were the days my friends, we thought they would never end.

I suppose I was always captivated, I went weak in the presence of beauty. Hilary Scarr was my 1st love, as I said before, she had an hour glass figure, trouble is all the boys could see what I saw. But its better to love than never loved at all, its just what becomes of the broken hearted, who had loved and now they were parted. Sometimes there are winners and losers. I would like to find these ex's now through the internet, but it is not easy. Only for curiosity reason, You spend time 24/7 with them, then time takes them away for ever, it is weird. They are out there somewhere just like life on Mars.

Helen Parry was my love after divorce, I should not have got married, but if I had not, Ian & Graeme would not be here and I am really glad they are. But Helen in truth could not cope with the young boys, even though she was not a surrogate mother and had no desire to be. She resented my time with them and holidays she had to share me with them. Sad that we drifted apart, both changed careers, both spent time at work and left notes on the fridge for each other, Compounded by my abject misery on the Sunday night drive home from dropping the boys back with their Mum.

BBCTV casting couch stories are true too. Sex was rampant. Girls chatted up boys now. Hold on I thought it was the caveman's role to stand around the edge of the dance floor and for girls to wiggle & giggle around their handbags in the centre of the dance floor. No, that was history, keep up with the changing times Allan, else you will end up like the manikins in a Co-Op shop window.

Monique, wow what a name, and a name that befitted what my eyes took in. I am sitting in the BBC Bar after the show with a few of the production team. Monique wiggles her way, target destination 3" from my left side. "Hello. you are Allan Sharpe, you are the Deputy Editor of Watchdog aren't you, I am Monique, I want to go to bed with you".

Now, believe it or not, this kind of every male fantasy and script for a lager TV commercial, was word for word fact. And as you all by now want to know......... we did spend a weekend in my bed. Unfortunately she was married, lived in Hemel Hempstead, to make matters worse he was an Arsenal supporter, and she could not get no satisfaction, so she thought, career status was an aphrodisiac and she would have the Deputy Editor of Watchdog. Fabulous dancer we had one special song "a real gone kid" by Deacon Blue. Just like Jesus and Mary Convent the BBC was a never ending production line of girl friends. In truth I was wanting longevity, in truth they were wanting fun, sometimes the two combined in more ways than one, but it was a roller coaster ride, short, expensive and not really value for credit card. They were all stunning, they all, Hazel, Arlene etc made me feel 10 feet tall with them on my arm. Richmond lifestyle was one of decadence, wining, dining, dancing, even eating in in front of the log fire and holidays abroad. Those were the days my friend we thought they would never end. But they did. I was trying to build a nest, they were there for their timeshare self allocated weeks, months even years but nothing lasts for ever. I also wonder why no relationships can never be 50 - 50. Some of mine have been 90 - 10, or even if it is 51- 49 and that goes on 24/7/365 it is not good enough for me, and its time to get Steve McQueen's motor bike out for the Great Escape. Despite the cost in human tragedy, in human resources and wallets. I have started again and again and rebuilt. They are lots of houses in West London that are still decorated the way I left them. I said to Ian once in the car, if I was Hugh Grant at a wedding reception, I would need more than a table for my ex's I would need the whole hall.

Both Natalia and Hazel walked out behind my back and stabbed me through the heart in doing so. Not enough just to stab me in the back. Yes I am no angel, but I do believe in negotiation, even compromise as I see it - all relative. Hazel left to see her parents on Boxing Day, we kissed at the airport, only for her never to return..................blimey !!!
Natalia did her trick in recent years while I was at work.................... words fail me !!!

A room is a still a room, even when there's nothin' there but gloom
But a room is not a house and a house is not a home
When the two of us are far apart
And one of us has a broken heart


Both renounced the home, support and love I had given them, and that was the way they paid me back..............not in continued love but in deceit, treason and treachery. How can someone make love to another only to leave and never see again a few hours later, it is cruel, callous and cowardly.

Women do like successful men, it is an aphrodisiac. But when you are at the top or even near the top there is only one way...........staying there is not a route, it is maintenance of the status quo. The only route is down, and then the rats leave the sinking ship. However, this memoirs is testimony that the Titanic has been raised, so has HMS Hood, still guns blazing to the last, we will never surrender.

to be contd..................