Lauren Bacall dies at 89: Bogey and Slim reunited in the hereafter

Oh, this really, REALLY hurts. Yesterday Robin Williams passed away; today, I find out that one of my all-time favourites, LAUREN BACALL, one of Hollywood's great beauties, also died aged 89.

Bronx-born Betty Perske was the star of To Have and Have Not at 19, going on the weave her screen magic in The Big Sleep, Key Largo and How To Marry A Millionare when they grew proper screen goddesses in America.

Wooed by 44-year old WASP Humphrey Bogart, her co-star in To Have and Have Not, she was so horrified by the casual anti-Semitic banter among her movie industry friends that it took a while before she felt safe enough to admit to her lover that she was Jewish. Thankfully, it wasn't an issue.

They married, had two children, came out as leftists during the McCarthy political witch-hunt era and were then scared off, leaving them open to unfair charges of being rat-finks but they avoided the blacklist.

I saw her on stage in Tennessee Williams's Sweet Bird of Youth in London and was mesmerised.

"You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow."

RIP LAUREN BACALL, Mrs Humphrey Bogart (or was he Mr Lauren Bacall?).

My poem about Lauren ...

Ode To A Detox On Returning From St Ives

I'd hoped to grow old like Lauren Bacall
Elegant, willowy, tall
Tight arse, tons of class
An enigma on a pedestal.

Once slender and considered quite tasty
In a thin thong and pasties
The pasties are now Cornish pasties
And I can't thing the thame thong without crying.
My legendary six-pack is now a six-pack of cider
My inner Size Zero grows a whole lot wider
Finds the hacksaw hidden inside the cheesecake
And hacks her way free,
Pausing only for a swift one with pork scratchings on the side
Deep fried.
If only I ate apples instead of being shaped like one
I am a woman of many appetites but fruit salad ain't fun.
My overactive mandibles leave love handles the size of trees
I love my food but my food hates me
Treacherous, it deposits clues
In my jelly belly
it's a jelly belly, it's a jelly belly, it's a jelly belly, it's a jelly belly
I tried sleeping with the fishes
Even they didn't fancy me
They flashed their fins and went upscale
And threw me out of the sea.

A whale washed up
A chubby cherub after the Fall
I roll across the land, a shapeless fog
Devouring all in an epic trawl.
I wish the fog was a pea-souper
‘Cause I could scoff that an' all
Scarf the lot like a hog.
Nom, nom, nom.
No! This lardy bard must recall
Lauren Bacall was no butterball.

Fat threatens to settle in folds,
In rolls of old cholesterol.
The make-up thickens
Like clotting cream
Like several inches of plasticene
Like fossil strata from the palioscene.
My bags are now luggage
My breasts are baggage
In body angst overdrive
My reflection is savage.
I will rivet closed my gaping maws
My beak snaps shut
My greedy paws gathering greenery
My jaws chewing up the scenery
Filling the hole inside me,
‘Cause I recognise the metaphors.
Grimly I scan the vision before me
And understand why no-one adores me.
I do not enthrall like Lauren Bacall
Tons of flaws, open pores,
I'm growing old like Diana Dors.

Anna Chen, September 2010

When Robin Williams played West Hampstead

To add to the current wave of global misery, Robin Williams was found dead this morning, suspected of committing suicide after well-known bouts of depression. Deepest sympathy to his family and friends.

It must have been in the 1980s (maybe earlier) but the story I was told shortly after I moved into leafy West Hampstead was that Robin Williams occasionally visited da hood because he was mates with the owners of The Railway pub in West End Lane, back when it was a much respected, if somewhat down-at-heel, venue. The Railway sits a few yards from the tube station and next door to the English National Opera rehearsal studios in Broadhurst Gardens which previously housed the Decca recording studio where, famously, the Beatles failed their audition in 1962, and where the great John Mayall albums with Eric Clapton and Peter Green were recorded.

In those days, West Hampstead was mostly students in bedsits and artists who couldn't afford Islington or proper Hampstead. It wasn't called "East Kilburn" for nothing. Great parties, though.

Anyhow, apparently Robin was visiting his mates when he was overcome by the urge to do an impromptu set. Like a bird that has to sing, he got up and did loads, presumably secure with a relatively small no-pressure audience that loved him.

No pix, no video, just happy memories of a very lucky audience. We need a blue plaque.

Also in our manor, Bow Wow Wow singer and Malcolm McClaren protégé Annabella Lwin was discovered working in what was the Shamrock dry-cleaners at 210 West End Lane, next to Barclays. And Olivia Newton-John used to live in Dennington Park Road.

RIP Robin Williams — one of the funniest and saddest guys ever.

EDIT: Note Lisa Minot's eyewitness account in the comments below:

I was at that gig - he turned up at the end of the weekly Comedy Club that was held in the back room (and we were very loyal regulars, went every week) - he had asked to impro to a UK audience before a Princes' Trust concert. When the normal comedy acts finished, a guy came on and just said: 'Some American guy wants to try some new material, if you stay, we'll keep the bar open'

Easy choice and when Robin walked out on stage, our first thought was: 'Hey, that's the guy from Mork and Mindy'

He then proceeded to perform, non-stop, for nearly two hours, seemingly without any material, just improvising and interacting with the very small audience of mainly students. It was utterly brilliant and even now, nearly 28 years on, I can remember knowing that night was special.

A few months or year later, Good Morning Vietnam came out and the rest is history.

Read this and then watch video of Robin Williams saving Matt Frei's bacon. (Thanks to Peter.)

Sean Blanchard tribute: Charles Shaar Murray guest post

There have been two deaths in my life this year. Both Ken Campbell, my former boyfriend, and Sean Blanchard, who I met through Charles Shaar Murray, were found (separately, in Islington and Essex) on Sunday 31st August.

Sean was an avowed leftist of anarchist stripe, formidable in his block's tenants association, a rich assortment of working class anarchists, leftists, creatives and assorted misfits. Sean claimed to have devised the phrase, "Eat The Rich" as a T-shirt slogan in the 1980s. He gave me one of his dwindling stash of said precious items which I still have. And will wear. And will probably post a pic.

I hope Sean and Ken are sharing a pint wherever they are now in spirit. RIP, guys.

Madam Miaow

SEAN "LORD" BLANCHARD
Tribute by Charles Shaar Murray

Between the mid-1980s and the late 1990s, when I lived in Angel House on the last block of Pentonville Road, Sean Blanchard was one of my closest friends. Most days, we’d find ourselves alongside each other in a pub then called The Pint Pot, on the corner of Pentonville Road and Baron Street, whiling away our lunch hour over pints of adult beverages and copies of The Guardian. Sean had a serious fondness for both beer and conversation, and was a connoisseur of both. These encounters always began with Sean’s rital greeting – ‘How’s the day?’ – followed by, if my glass was anywhere near empty, ‘More beer?’

He was warm, witty, well-informed and well-read. He knew his history, his politics and his literature, as well as his pop culture. A veteran punk from the class of 1976 who’d been at school with Robert Smith and the rest of the guys from the original Cure,he also had a fine appreciation of jazz and blues, and he knew his Hendrix as well as he knew his George Orwell. As laid-back as he might seem at one of his lunchtime drinking sessions, he could also be a hard and conscientious worker when motivated by a cause, exemplified by his work for the Legalise Cannabis Campaign and the formidable energies he displayed as an activist for first squatters’, and later tenants’, rights at Charles Rowan House, where he was living when I first met him in the 80s and continued to live throughout his life. As a student of politics, his loathing of everything to do with the right wing combined with healthy scepticism of, verging on a fine contempt for, the far left, made him a natural anarchist. He claimed to have, many years ago, coined the phrase ‘Eat The Rich’ as a T-shirt slogan, and produced several very faded shirts, so adorned, as verification.

We saw less of each other after I moved away in 1998, but whenever I found myself back in the old neighbourhood I’d always call Sean to try and hook up. The last few times I saw him were at Filthy McNasty’s, when I was either playing a gig with my friend Gary Lammin or meeting up with my colleagues at The Word magazine, whose offices are just over the road. [MM's Note: Sean had booked Filthy's for his 50th birthday celebrations, tomorrow, 15th September. The same booking will now be used for his wake.]

Sean could always be relied upon for warmth, wit and wisdom. One day, many years ago, while more than usually depressed over the then-recent collapse of my second marriage, I told him, ‘It’s weird when you look like Joe Strummer but feel like Woody Allen.’ Sean raised an eyebrow, took a swig of ale and retorted, ‘You ought to try looking like Woody Allen when you feel like Joe Strummer.’

I shall miss the man I called Lord Blanchard very much indeed, and regret not having seen more of him over the last few years. The moral of this? Look after yourselves, and see your friends as often as you can. I still have Sean’s number on speed-dial on my mobile phone, and I intend to keep it there for a while.

Lord Blanchard – RIP. I hope there’s a good pub in heaven, with good conversation and a suspension of the anti-smoking regulations, otherwise Sean will start circulating a petition for a transfer.

Sean Blanchard tribute: Charles Shaar Murray guest post

There have been two deaths in my life this year. Both Ken Campbell, my former boyfriend, and Sean Blanchard, who I met through Charles Shaar Murray, were found (separately, in Islington and Essex) on Sunday 31st August.

Sean was an avowed leftist of anarchist stripe, formidable in his block's tenants association, a rich assortment of working class anarchists, leftists, creatives and assorted misfits. Sean claimed to have devised the phrase, "Eat The Rich" as a T-shirt slogan in the 1980s. He gave me one of his dwindling stash of said precious items which I still have. And will wear. And will probably post a pic.

I hope Sean and Ken are sharing a pint wherever they are now in spirit. RIP, guys.

Madam Miaow

SEAN "LORD" BLANCHARD
Tribute by Charles Shaar Murray

Between the mid-1980s and the late 1990s, when I lived in Angel House on the last block of Pentonville Road, Sean Blanchard was one of my closest friends. Most days, we’d find ourselves alongside each other in a pub then called The Pint Pot, on the corner of Pentonville Road and Baron Street, whiling away our lunch hour over pints of adult beverages and copies of The Guardian. Sean had a serious fondness for both beer and conversation, and was a connoisseur of both. These encounters always began with Sean’s rital greeting – ‘How’s the day?’ – followed by, if my glass was anywhere near empty, ‘More beer?’

He was warm, witty, well-informed and well-read. He knew his history, his politics and his literature, as well as his pop culture. A veteran punk from the class of 1976 who’d been at school with Robert Smith and the rest of the guys from the original Cure,he also had a fine appreciation of jazz and blues, and he knew his Hendrix as well as he knew his George Orwell. As laid-back as he might seem at one of his lunchtime drinking sessions, he could also be a hard and conscientious worker when motivated by a cause, exemplified by his work for the Legalise Cannabis Campaign and the formidable energies he displayed as an activist for first squatters’, and later tenants’, rights at Charles Rowan House, where he was living when I first met him in the 80s and continued to live throughout his life. As a student of politics, his loathing of everything to do with the right wing combined with healthy scepticism of, verging on a fine contempt for, the far left, made him a natural anarchist. He claimed to have, many years ago, coined the phrase ‘Eat The Rich’ as a T-shirt slogan, and produced several very faded shirts, so adorned, as verification.

We saw less of each other after I moved away in 1998, but whenever I found myself back in the old neighbourhood I’d always call Sean to try and hook up. The last few times I saw him were at Filthy McNasty’s, when I was either playing a gig with my friend Gary Lammin or meeting up with my colleagues at The Word magazine, whose offices are just over the road. [MM's Note: Sean had booked Filthy's for his 50th birthday celebrations, tomorrow, 15th September. The same booking will now be used for his wake.]

Sean could always be relied upon for warmth, wit and wisdom. One day, many years ago, while more than usually depressed over the then-recent collapse of my second marriage, I told him, ‘It’s weird when you look like Joe Strummer but feel like Woody Allen.’ Sean raised an eyebrow, took a swig of ale and retorted, ‘You ought to try looking like Woody Allen when you feel like Joe Strummer.’

I shall miss the man I called Lord Blanchard very much indeed, and regret not having seen more of him over the last few years. The moral of this? Look after yourselves, and see your friends as often as you can. I still have Sean’s number on speed-dial on my mobile phone, and I intend to keep it there for a while.

Lord Blanchard – RIP. I hope there’s a good pub in heaven, with good conversation and a suspension of the anti-smoking regulations, otherwise Sean will start circulating a petition for a transfer.