Congratulations to Hugh Whittow on becoming the new editor of the Daily Express - and proving that getting sacked by The Sun for not bringing home Blackie the Donkey did not hinder his progress.
Younger readers, look up the tale of Blackie to see Fleet Street tabloids at their best/worst (delete where you think applicable).
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There's something a little sad about the fact that for most white kids living outside Britain's cities, their only exposure to reggae is a BBC children's character called Rastamouse who has the catchphrase Irie.
Growing up in the mean streets of the East End - or the middle class commuter suburbs of Essex, depending on who you are having an argument with - meant you were exposed to a variety of different cultures. Did you know the rowing boat routine to Oops Upside Your Head originated in Room at the Top in Ilford, and the world's first disco (ie where kids danced to records rather than live bands) was created by Jimmy Savile at the Ilford Palais across the road decades earlier?
We got to hear reggae a lot more in those days, it strikes me. There was mainstream stuff, of course. The odd chart hit for someone like Bob Marley (how did he like doughnuts? Wi Jammin' of course), Steel Pulse and Sugar Minott or people like General Saint and Clint Eastwood appearing on the bill at a Save the GLC or CND or Rock Against Racism concert.
Then there were the real fans who tuned in every week to hear David Rodigan on Capital Radio, who could name every King Tubby hit or the more hardcore dub which some of my friends were into and occasionally I would be dragged to a party in a housing estate in Tottenham to drink Red Stripe, smoke dope and then be sick outside where, hopefully, none of my new ethnic friends would see me.
But even my half hearted interest in reggae seems a lot more than a generation raised in an R&B, X Factor dominated era. I know it's a grumpy old man thing to say but there just doesn't seem to be the same variety any more.
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It's funny but the miniature porn baron David Sullivan has figured on the Solly radar a number of times dating back to my teens.
Baron von Muffhausen (that's enough porn nobility puns...Ed) first came to my notice when I was doing a college course in journalism at Harlow (morning sessions - shorthand, typing, phone hacking, three hour boozy lunch followed by a tutorial on how to fiddle expenses).
We all trooped along for a day trip to Snaresbrook Crown Court to see the legal system at work and lo and behold we witnessed the jailing of Sullivan for some kind of immoral earnings charge. It was great fun. Back then he was not so much a porn magnate as a fridge magnet.
By the time he came out of prison and returned to his Chigwell home (Stradbroke Grove, same road as Bobby Moore as I recall) I was a junior reporter on the Ilford Recorder and was sent to his house to interview him. A Swedish woman let me in to the hall - black carpet, dark walls and I could see in the living room a glitter ball and long stainless steel bar. At the top of the stairs was a large china Leopard on sentry duty. She went up to get the famous Little Lord Fondleroy (no more, please...Ed) when I heard a lot of shouting, a squeaky voice piped up 'Get him out' and what sounded like burly men's voices and the stomp of Dr Marten's approaching. The Scandinavian lady came rushing down the stairs shouting 'you go, now, quick quick, please' with a look of panic in her eyes. That transferred to me and I scarpered.
Then a few years later the diminutive sex thimble (one more and that's it...Ed), by now living just down the road to me in Theydon Bois and dressing like a second rate 1970s quiz master, both hired and fired me in the space of three months. While shifting at The Sun, I took a contract at The Sunday Sport where, amongst other things, I wrote the letters page. Then three months later they fired me. I have been disciplined or had official warning letters everywhere I have ever worked but this was the first place to fire me.
And now, all these years later, he is writing in the Standard (admittedly better than most Standard sports hacks) about how I (and other Spurs supporters) shouldn't be allowed to move to Stratford as if this was his life's dream. And he is accompanied by that hatchet faced assistant who we're not allowed to insult any more. Also, his brother drinks in The Mutant Arms, my old local, so it seems I can't escape The Sultan of Schlong (you're fired...Ed)
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The things I do for a living. Today we wrote a story about how fleas jump. Strikes me everyone knows only two facts about fleas. If humans had the same properties we'd be able to leap over St Paul's Cathedral and have a 10 foot penis. I wonder if David Sullivan knows this.
Cheerio...Solly
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