1967

1967

Look at this! A photograph taken at my parents wedding reception. A snapshot from olden times.

My dad grimacing, all Vinolia brilliantine, bravado and winkle pickers. His legs spread in a Bethnal Green boxing stance. He was known for having knocked out a few geezers. He’s nothing more than cool and vicious. My mum is a shocking, tipsy blonde, the spit of Barbara Windsor. Her white dress is hitched to a gartered thigh. She’s nothing less than beautiful.

My mum and dad's wedding occurred on the first sunny afternoon of that year, a May scorcher. The whole congregation were smashed on cheap booze before they even got to the church. Mum admitted once that she might have had a small sherry with Nan whilst they waited for the horse-drawn carriage to take them to Poplar, just to stiffen her nerves. She fell out of the thing as it parked up at the church, laughing as she tried to right herself. It’s a miracle that her dress remained untouched, what with the manure. 

Inside the church, she skipped up the aisle to a cacophony of wolf whistles from all the old Toms, wide boy young Dicks and breast-fed baby-faced Harrys who packed the gaff. Wives and girlfriends gasped, half in jealousy, half in admiration. 

The heat of the day took everyone by surprise, especially the best man. His name was Tony Gilbert and he fainted as he approached the altar, just before the appearance of the rings. He was in such a mess that had to be resuscitated with some smelling salts and a brandy stiffener supplied by the verger. My dad made an obvious joke about Tony and a packet of wine gums, and everyone pissed themselves laughing, including the vicar, who in another photograph taken that day does not look at all saintly, smoking a big cigar with his dog collar stuffed into his pocket. 

The evening reception was a right old knees-up. The pub was The King’s Head on the Romford Road, a notorious boozer that never seemed to close, whatever the licensing laws. All sorts of characters were there: tinkers, tailors, real celebrity gangsters, and of course, the local constabulary. Dad booked a little band to play the hits of the day: The Freddie Cortino Three. He must have found them on the building site because they look like complete chancers. A trio of middle-aged men in crushed velvet ruining the songs of Johnny Ray and Frank Sinatra in high old style. My dad banned them from singing anything by Elvis.

Near dawn, there was a fistfight involving the landlord and my dad. A young boy grabbed the microphone, spluttered the first verse of ‘That’s Alright Mama’ and got a kick in bollocks for good luck. There were chair legs, shattered glass, sirens and blood all over the pavement. 

Come Monday morning in the pouring rain. My parents, Terry & Julie, left for the Badlands of Basildon. I was there too, but that’s Sunday night’s story.