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.)

So Hitchens, Havel and Kim are standing at the Pearly Gates ...

This weekend's haul by the Grim Reaper has been an impressive one. First Christopher Hitchens, then Vaclav Havel, now ding dong, Kim Jong Il is dead. Is there no God!!!? Hitchens will know by now but he ain't telling.

The only time I saw Hitch was at Bookmarks where he took on the titans (or were they just tits?) of the SWP on the subject of NATO and former Yugoslavia. I disagreed with him but was shock 'n' awed by his bravura performance, standing on a tiny makeshift stage, drink in one hand, fag in the other, tying up the Greatest Minds of the Left like Danny Kaye in The Court Jester. Shame about Iraq and loving up to Bush, though.

He was a great wit, a beautiful youth and had massive style but, in the end, he was more an entertainer and a token radical for the Bush Right than a serious political analyst.

There were early signs that Hitchens was changing sides, or at least hedging his bets, such as in his support for the Falklands War and admiration for Thatcher. His tectonic rationalisation for siding with the new power in the world got under way once the forces of progress were in retreat after 9/11, famously cheerleading the massacre at Fallujah and laying into the Dixie Chicks for their rather mild statement of dissent days before the 2003 invasion of Iraq.

The spirit of Hitchens's hero Voltaire was in absentia, as was his great rhetorical style, when during the peak of their monstering — death threats, McCarthyite attacks in the right-wing media, blacklisting and careers almost demolished — he joined in the public baying for their blood by referring to them in Viz-talk as "fat sluts", later correcting this to the "Fat Slags" of comic-book fame. So much for his gallant defence of the laydeez from the evil woman-hating Taliban.

Country music veteran Merle Haggard said of the episode:

I don't even know the Dixie Chicks, but I find it an insult for all the men and women who fought and died in past wars when almost the majority of America jumped down their throats for voicing an opinion. It was like a verbal witch-hunt and lynching.

We have burqas in the West — they're just invisible.

“Water boarding” is a potentially dangerous activity in which the participant can receive serious and permanent (physical, emotional and psychological) injuries and even death, including injuries and death due to the respiratory and neurological systems of the body. (A clause in the indemnification contract signed by Hitch)

Hitchens is often praised for his moral clarity despite some gobsmackingly blatant murkiness. What, for me, summed up the disjuncture between his sharp mind and his inability to empathise was his failure to grasp that waterboarding hurts, can cause brain damage and kills. He lacked the imagination to understand the terror and pain until it was actually done to him under controlled conditions by friendly practitioners in the US army. "You feel that you are drowning because you are drowning ..." Good for him that he recanted his earlier position on this score in Vanity Fair but most of us don't need first-hand experience of being half drowned to understand that this horror is torture.

The tragedy of Christopher Hitchens was that he absconded just as we needed him. The joy was that he was great entertainment as a live act — just don't take him too seriously.

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Peter Hitchens on his brother

Wicker Man star Edward Woodward dies

Sergeant Howie Rest In Peace. The man with the legendary name said to resemble a fart in the bath will cut capers no more. Edward Woodward, star of The Wicker Man and The Equalizer, has died in Cornwall aged 79.

Woodward did English neurosis better than most even though his best-known film role was the sexually repressed Scottish policeman, Sergeant Howie, in The Wicker Man (1973), starring opposite Christopher Lee and lusting guiltily after Britt Ekland.

You always felt there was a lot going on under the surface barely concealed by his trained tenor voice that was perfect for expressing strangulated non-expression. A RADA actor who carved out a respectable stage career, his stardom began with the 1960s TV detective series Callan. Among a string of film roles, he gave an acclaimed performance in the Australian movie Breaker Morant (1980), and in 2007 fan Simon Pegg cast him in Hot Fuzz.

He was a British actor who will be sorely missed.

All together now, "The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want ... Sweet Jesus, it's getting hot in here ..."

Read an original analysis of The Wicker Man at Madam Miaow Says by guest poster Babeuf.

Wicker Man star Edward Woodward dies

Sergeant Howie Rest In Peace. The man with the legendary name said to resemble a fart in the bath will cut capers no more. Edward Woodward, star of The Wicker Man and The Equalizer, has died in Cornwall aged 79.

Woodward did English neurosis better than most even though his best-known film role was the sexually repressed Scottish policeman, Sergeant Howie, in The Wicker Man (1973), starring opposite Christopher Lee and lusting guiltily after Britt Ekland.

You always felt there was a lot going on under the surface barely concealed by his trained tenor voice that was perfect for expressing strangulated non-expression. A RADA actor who carved out a respectable stage career, his stardom began with the 1960s TV detective series Callan. Among a string of film roles, he gave an acclaimed performance in the Australian movie Breaker Morant (1980), and in 2007 fan Simon Pegg cast him in Hot Fuzz.

He was a British actor who will be sorely missed.

All together now, "The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want ... Sweet Jesus, it's getting hot in here ..."

Read an original analysis of The Wicker Man at Madam Miaow Says by guest poster Babeuf.

Andy "Lorne" Hallett dies at 33

Angel's favourite demon has died. Andy Hallett wowed Buffyverse fans when he debuted in Angel Season Two as Lorne, the epically camp karaoke-bar-owning demon with the Broadway-musical voice.

We just loved what he did with his character, dahlings. Like James Marsters, who played Spike, Andy brought so much to a minor part that his role as The Host eventually expanded until he established himself as one of Team Angel in more than 70 episodes between 2000 and 2004, eventually winning the supreme accolade of being included in the opening titles and starring in his own story-lines.

Blessed with an amazing soulful voice himself, Lorne (Green, geddit?) was gifted with the ability to read your soul through your singing, leading to some exquisitely comic moments, such as when David Boreanaz as Angel sings what is probably the worst version of "Mandy" you evah heard. (Outtakes here.)

"You don't have to sing. A break for you, a break for me, and a break for Manilow."

"Almost anything that can manifest, in order to move in this dimension, can be killed. Kinda the down side to bein' here. That, and the so-called musicals of Andrew Lloyd Webber."

"You know what I'm talking about. In this city, you better learn to get along 'cause L.A.'s got it all, the glamour and the grit, the big breaks and the heartaches, the sweet young lovers and the nasty ugly hairy fiends that suck out your brain through your face. It's all part of the big wacky variety show we call Los Angeles. You never know what's coming next. And let's admit it, folks, isn't that why we love it?"

Watching Lorne cringe while he sipped on his SeaBreeze as his sensitive lugholes were assaulted by an assortment of demons behind the Caritas Club mic on their evening off was a regular delight.

He died in Los Angeles on March 29, aged only 33, of congestive heart failure following a five-year battle with a heart condition. I don’t know how you got your jollies in real life, Andy, but I hope you had fun while it lasted. One of the sweetest and funniest demons ever to grace the World of Whedon. Rest in Peace, sugarbuns.

Andy "Lorne" Hallett dies at 33

Angel's favourite demon has died. Andy Hallett wowed Buffyverse fans when he debuted in Angel Season Two as Lorne, the epically camp karaoke-bar-owning demon with the Broadway-musical voice.

We just loved what he did with his character, dahlings. Like James Marsters, who played Spike, Andy brought so much to a minor part that his role as The Host eventually expanded until he established himself as one of Team Angel in more than 70 episodes between 2000 and 2004, eventually winning the supreme accolade of being included in the opening titles and starring in his own story-lines.

Blessed with an amazing soulful voice himself, Lorne (Green, geddit?) was gifted with the ability to read your soul through your singing, leading to some exquisitely comic moments, such as when David Boreanaz as Angel sings what is probably the worst version of "Mandy" you evah heard. (Outtakes here.)

"You don't have to sing. A break for you, a break for me, and a break for Manilow."

"Almost anything that can manifest, in order to move in this dimension, can be killed. Kinda the down side to bein' here. That, and the so-called musicals of Andrew Lloyd Webber."

"You know what I'm talking about. In this city, you better learn to get along 'cause L.A.'s got it all, the glamour and the grit, the big breaks and the heartaches, the sweet young lovers and the nasty ugly hairy fiends that suck out your brain through your face. It's all part of the big wacky variety show we call Los Angeles. You never know what's coming next. And let's admit it, folks, isn't that why we love it?"

Watching Lorne cringe while he sipped on his SeaBreeze as his sensitive lugholes were assaulted by an assortment of demons behind the Caritas Club mic on their evening off was a regular delight.

He died in Los Angeles on March 29, aged only 33, of congestive heart failure following a five-year battle with a heart condition. I don’t know how you got your jollies in real life, Andy, but I hope you had fun while it lasted. One of the sweetest and funniest demons ever to grace the World of Whedon. Rest in Peace, sugarbuns.

Harold Pinter's dead. So is Eartha Kitt

Harold Pinter’s dead.

And so is Eartha Kitt. Two heroes in one day.

This is a shout out to my home boy, Harold Pinter, playwright, screenwriter, actor and political activist, who died on Christmas Eve aged 78.

We were very proud of Harold Pinter in Hackney. Everyone knew that Harold and an actor, once called Maurice Micklewhite but now renamed Michael Caine, had gone to Grocers School at Hackney Downs, the “Eton & Harrow for clever working-class boys” in east and north London. From my bedroom I could see it nestled in the cleavage of the Liverpool Street line where it splits to go to Chingford or Enfield. Before it was "failed" by the Tories and then turned over to some millionaire entrepreneur friend of Labour for his plaything, that school was once a hotbed of cultural talent, with another smart Jewish lad, Steven Berkoff, also going on to great things in theatre (although never an “A” lister like Harold and Michael).

The 1950s and 60s being the era when a bright working-class male could soar up the society food-chain on his own wits with none of the old-school-tie networks sitting heavy around your throat like a hangman’s knot because privilege was a right turn-off, a time when every Baronet’s daughter wanted to sleep with the barrow boy, Harold made good.

His most famous breakthrough plays were The Caretaker, The Dumb Waiter and The Birthday Party, all guaranteed to épater le bourgeoisie. But my current favourite which cracks me up is No Man’s Land. (I yam Spooner.)

While tailors and hairdressers were determining the look of the 1960s, Harold shaped the very language, adding “Pinteresque” to the dictionary. He changed our perceptions and preoccupations, writing about power balances and the hypocrisy wielded by those in power. He wrote about the microcosmic power abuses at the personal level between individuals, which helped us understand what we were looking at when they were writ large in the world by our warmongering leaders. (The same lefties who squawk about bourgeois individualism, comically unaware of their own contraditions, also like Pinter.)

He never abdicated his responsibility as a member of the human race. Never a mere observer, he was brilliant on the war and never lost his sense of outrage and horror, unlike the cool and the hip and the plain bloody callous who mocked him for having a conscience. And using it.

Fucking Pinter’s fucking dead. Now for a fucking long Pinteresque pause …



Eartha Kitt, she of the amazing voice like melted 85 per cent chocolate, has also passed on this Christmas. Eartha made one of the best Catwomen ever and had Orson Welles on his knees, calling her, “the most exciting woman in the world”. Listen to her sing the double-entendre “Let’s Do It” in her trademark single-entendre style. Her “Just An Old Fashioned Girl” was my hymn in childhood. “ ... I want an old fash-i-oned mill-yona-a-a-aire” ... where did I go wrong? (Oh, yeah! New Labour got them all.)

Harold and Eartha — RIP

Also badly missed, poet Adrian Mitchell.






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Harold Pinter's dead. So is Eartha Kitt

Harold Pinter’s dead.

And so is Eartha Kitt. Two heroes in one day.

This is a shout out to my home boy, Harold Pinter, playwright, screenwriter, actor and political activist, who died on Christmas Eve aged 78.

We were very proud of Harold Pinter in Hackney. Everyone knew that Harold and an actor, once called Maurice Micklewhite but now renamed Michael Caine, had gone to Grocers School at Hackney Downs, the “Eton & Harrow for clever working-class boys” in east and north London. From my bedroom I could see it nestled in the cleavage of the Liverpool Street line where it splits to go to Chingford or Enfield. Before it was "failed" by the Tories and then turned over to some millionaire entrepreneur friend of Labour for his plaything, that school was once a hotbed of cultural talent, with another smart Jewish lad, Steven Berkoff, also going on to great things in theatre (although never an “A” lister like Harold and Michael).

The 1950s and 60s being the era when a bright working-class male could soar up the society food-chain on his own wits with none of the old-school-tie networks sitting heavy around your throat like a hangman’s knot because privilege was a right turn-off, a time when every Baronet’s daughter wanted to sleep with the barrow boy, Harold made good.

His most famous breakthrough plays were The Caretaker, The Dumb Waiter and The Birthday Party, all guaranteed to épater le bourgeoisie. But my current favourite which cracks me up is No Man’s Land. (I yam Spooner.)

While tailors and hairdressers were determining the look of the 1960s, Harold shaped the very language, adding “Pinteresque” to the dictionary. He changed our perceptions and preoccupations, writing about power balances and the hypocrisy wielded by those in power. He wrote about the microcosmic power abuses at the personal level between individuals, which helped us understand what we were looking at when they were writ large in the world by our warmongering leaders. (The same lefties who squawk about bourgeois individualism, comically unaware of their own contraditions, also like Pinter.)

He never abdicated his responsibility as a member of the human race. Never a mere observer, he was brilliant on the war and never lost his sense of outrage and horror, unlike the cool and the hip and the plain bloody callous who mocked him for having a conscience. And using it.

Fucking Pinter’s fucking dead. Now for a fucking long Pinteresque pause …



Eartha Kitt, she of the amazing voice like melted 85 per cent chocolate, has also passed on this Christmas. Eartha made one of the best Catwomen ever and had Orson Welles on his knees, calling her, “the most exciting woman in the world”. Listen to her sing the double-entendre “Let’s Do It” in her trademark single-entendre style. Her “Just An Old Fashioned Girl” was my hymn in childhood. “ ... I want an old fash-i-oned mill-yona-a-a-aire” ... where did I go wrong? (Oh, yeah! New Labour got them all.)

Harold and Eartha — RIP

Also badly missed, poet Adrian Mitchell.






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culture