Pieces of a jigsaw: fun fur, frosted lipstick, strong arm stunts and a structured society beginning to crack up. Such a kaleidoscope of images whirled around as I travelled by plane from Knock to London after a long absence.
My trip had something of John Glenn revisiting space about it. Foggy and boggy was how the east coast commentators described Knock airport, brought forth in optimism by the late Monsignor Horan long before Objective One status was a concept.
The plane was full of west of Ireland people with return tickets. Another unique concept. My London had been the emigrant's experience of the 60s. Dance halls, boxers, hairdressers, royalty and criminals all rubbing shoulders.
London had been in transition from "kith and kin" speeches to huge West Indian, Cypriot and Irish immigration and the resulting vitality, food, music and culture: Notting Hill carnival, Trevor McDonald still a small boy, Mikos Theodorakis exiled from Greece, Margaret Barry and Michael Gorman's unique sound and the softly, softly music of Ruby Murray and Bridie Gallagher filling the big dance arenas.
Absence of vegans
On arrival at Stansted airport, the light chrome and tile gave way to the darker Liverpool Street, its former friendly West Indian ticket collectors replaced by automated gates. Paddington, once the hub of Empire (Irish) was now full of small, clean, busy, Asian shops. The magic word "steak" jumped out from the surrounding Baltis, Tandooris and Pastas, a clue to the lingering occupancy of the original first wave of immigrants with race memory of the Tain Bo Cuailnge. No vegans in this sector. As Ireland moved easily in a generation from snipe grass to lemongrass, a movement of London Irish had left the old strongholds of Paddington, Camden and Kilburn for reoccupation by new immigrant groups. The Irish had followed the building of roads into Hertfordshire, particularly Luton. The Camden of my memory, its small restaurants, shops, bakery, doctor's surgery and hardware shops had all been replaced by at least 8 estate agents and 2 solicitors' offices.
The old Van Zuyt centre near the Belgian church was now a gym and leisure centre. The presbytery door was covered by a security grill and the music shop that played Ruby Murray and Val Doonican was long gone.
The pubs had new names, new decor, and a smarter clientele. I stopped outside The Halfway House, that great gathering place for Connemara people. Was it in this beflowered temple that sweat-soaked men sang Anach Cuan to hold for a poignant moment a sense of place and home?
The pub was surrounded by hanging baskets of petunias that created parameters of containment, holding all that was safe, orderly, picturesque and of the moment. No blood, no vomit, no spilt Guinness, no saliva, no Jimmy the Jew placing bets, no raucous song or passion or abandonment. All flowers and prettiness. Thus was Empire lost.
In the marketplace a Chinese man was reading palms for £8 a time. The only people who looked Irish were frequenting the Oxford Arms pub that seemed unchanged.
Inverness Market still sold potatoes, mangoes and exotica. I passed the Elephant's Head pub, whose proprietor had been the famous Butty Sugrue. What glamour, what stunts!
Diana Dors wearing a fur coat, big hair, high heels and frosted lipstick were all just part of the publicity in 1968 as Tipperary barman Mick Meeney stayed underground alive for 68 days. Afterwards, there was a triumphal tour by lorry through Kilburn and its surrounds.
Butty organised feats of strength and was often accompanied by glamorous people like Movita and Marlon Brando. It was said Movita took a fancy to him, much to Brando's chagrin.
Walking towards Kensington I saw the splendidly restored monument to Prince Albert. Later I attempted to enter Brompton Oratory, but there was a society wedding taking place and a better class of bouncer, wearing a Kingfisher jacket and shades, politely refused me entry.
I was excluded from that oratory where as a young girl I had often attended Mass in Polish and had seen older Poles in exile with tears streaming, singing their Polish anthem.
Brompton Road's Harp Shop had disappeared, also Mrs De Paris's antique shop and the Peppermill delicatessen. A large Arab-owned pharmacy was there instead and a few of the great houses in Queensway had become an elegant and welcoming Jury's Hotel.
The river that carried Henry VIII and Thomas Moore, and others, on journeys both joyful and fateful took me to Greenwich and past County Hall which is now to be converted into an hotel by a group of Japanese businessmen.
The old Dickensian brick warehouses which had lined the waterfront and had seen their share of tea, ivory, cocoa and cheap tin trays, are now replaced by luxury apartments. Dock after dock emerged of newly built and beautiful buildings. There wasn't a trace of the great Bill Sykes or Nancy, or the stoic Bullseye.
Seeing the beauty of Shakespeare's Globe Theatre from the river took my breath away. The juxtapositioning of the theatre, modern apartments, palaces, obelisks and a glimpse of St Paul's through the narrow gap between buildings is a marvel of London.
All gone
Such changes! The London of the 60s which had seen Graham Sutherland paint a portrait of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor looking like two sad bloodhounds and that of Winston Churchill like a petulant baby, which had witnessed Lucky Gordon and the big political scandals, Twiggy, and Vidal Sassoon's famous haircut, Shane McGowan's going to school and John Osborne's kitchen sink dramas, where belligerent women raised their heads from ironing boards to give lip to men and articulate the unnameable. All gone!
The elements of Meditteranean, Carib, Asian and Irish absorbed over the years was later to contribute to the great emotional outpouring at Princess Diana's funeral: candles, flowers, bells and tears - so unlike the past and former first family's iron discipline.
In communications, finance, food, language and entertainment, those with Irish, West Indian and Asian grandparents, as well as the "hounded" Moors of the Crusades and their descendants, now were the opinionmakers, money-makers and the owners of illustrious emporia.
Saladin Sally and Saile Og are now making a new London against the usual backdrop of great Thames, bridges, towers, domes, theatres and temples.