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  Fortunately, the following year I went into long trousers, plus I needed a bigger jacket. I must have kicked up enough of a fuss that a standard uniform was purchased. Come to think of it, I may well have paid for it myself from the proceeds of one of my enterprises.

  *

  The necessity of supplementing my pocket money was of prime importance to me. Looking back, I now realise that none of the other kids I knew, at school or in the flats, had the sort of motivation I did. Some of the Moores’ kids would have a paper round or milk round, but nothing beyond that. Naturally, I did those things too – for two shillings a day. And on Saturdays I had jobs at the baker’s and greengrocer’s – for half a crown a day. All of these were, to use a good old-fashioned East End expression, ‘two bob jobs’, but considering I was eleven or twelve years old, one couldn’t complain.

  It was at the greengrocer’s, Charlton’s in Clapton, where my famous beetroot-boiling story originated. On Saturday mornings I would get up early and turn up at Charlton’s for a seven o’clock start and part of my job was to help set out the display of veg at the front.

  Beetroot was rarely purchased in its raw form; customers wanted it ready-boiled and we would provide this service. My first duty on arrival on Saturday morning was to get a small metal bath and place it on the gas ring, half fill the bath with water and chuck in a sack of raw beetroot. I would then light the gas and get on with my next task which was humping sacks of potatoes from the basement up the stairs. I’d cut the sacks open and put the potatoes out on display. Next I’d display the lettuces which were supplied in small wooden cases that first had to be broken open.

  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t solely responsible for the whole display – others were there, busily preparing for the day’s trade. Once the potatoes and lettuces were put out, my next duty was to carefully fold the sacks (displaying the grower’s name on the outside) so that when the van went back to market the following week, Mr Charlton would be able to get his deposit back. Throughout the course of the day, I’d be constantly humping more potatoes up from the basement to replenish those being sold.

  Back to the beetroots. After an hour or so, I had to call two sturdy men to lift the boiling bath of beetroot off the burner, walk it out to the yard, chuck out the water and then take the piping hot beetroots and put them out on display at the front of the shop. For some reason, the press, when covering my business career, have latched on to the beetroot story and repeat it endlessly and inaccurately. ‘He used to sell beetroot from the back of his minivan’ or ‘He sold beetroot on a market stall’ are a couple of variations. Well, you’ve just read the official beetroot story. Never let it be distorted again!

  Ginger beer manufacture was another of my ventures, after talking to a lady in our flats who said she had a ginger beer plant, although to me it looked like a load of sand or sediment in some water. She told me how she used it to make ginger beer and explained that every week she would have to separate off half of the sediment and throw it away, as it grew too much. She offered to give me some of it and told me that if I continued to feed it with two teaspoons of sugar a day, plus some ginger and this and that, it would continue to grow. More importantly, the pint of liquid it resided in would turn into concentrated ginger beer which, by adding more water, some lemon juice and sugar, could produce ten pints of ginger beer to drink. My entrepreneurial mind sprung into action again – after all, a large bottle of Tizer or R. Whites lemonade used to cost about 1s 3d in the shops.

  In those days, there was no such thing as the disposable plastic bottle. Drinks bottles were made of glass and were quite valuable – they had a return value of a penny each. In one of my earlier ventures, I would scour the streets around our flats looking for empty bottles and I even asked some of the people living in the flats if they had any. I’d take any empties I collected round to the sweet shop and redeem them for cash to buy sweets. Now I had a dilemma: instead of returning the bottles for cash, I needed to use them for my own ginger beer production.

  I used the fold-down table that went over the bath as my production bench, a plastic bucket to make the mass production quantity of mix and my mum’s small funnel to pour it into the empty bottles. Then I started knocking on the neighbours’ doors trying to flog them stuff again. They may have been thinking, ‘Oh no, not him again,’ but I’d have to say that there was always a smile on their faces.

  I even tried to sell some ginger beer to the sweet shop downstairs. The owner agreed to take a few bottles on a sale-or-return basis and he did quite a good job trying to sell some, but with limited success. He explained to me that the presentation wasn’t very professional, as the bottles didn’t have labels.

  Not one of my better ventures then. My mother, to say the least, was not happy with me using two teaspoons of sugar a day, not to mention the half a teaspoon of ginger. But, mothers being mothers, she never complained or charged me.

  On reflection, I don’t know how I fitted all this stuff in. On top of my more unusual activities, I always had time for the annual late-October tradition of making a Guy Fawkes out of my old clothes padded out with a load of newspapers. Armed with my Guy, I stood outside the flats on the main Upper Clapton Road asking passers-by for a ‘penny for the Guy’. I’d use my takings to buy some fireworks for the various bonfire night parties on 5 November, mostly held on an old bombsite within the council estate.

  There was no point asking my mum and dad for money to buy fireworks. To the old man it would have been like holding up a red rag to a bull – spending money on things that go up in flames. I recall comments like, ‘Why do you want to waste your money on them? Why don’t you just go and watch the other people letting off their fireworks?’ I guess it was a good point, but you can’t tell kids. Besides, there was a special excitement in lighting your own fireworks. In fact, if I remember rightly, my dad came down and took charge of letting off some of my rockets, launching them from an empty milk bottle.

  *

  Even with my money-making schemes, I couldn’t afford to buy the kind of bicycle I wanted – a Pat Hanlon Special or a Condor Special. So when I was about thirteen I decided I would make one instead! It was amazing how people would throw away old frames, wheels, handlebars and so on, which I’d collect. My pals in the flats would teach me things like how to straighten spokes on wheels, how to assemble a chain and put the gears on – basically how to build bikes.

  That knowledge hasn’t left me, even today. I was in my local bike shop in Chigwell a while ago, having taken in my brand-new Italian Pinarello bike (sold to me by some American smoothie for the grand sum of $9,000). The bike was attracting a lot of attention from everyone in the shop. One of the customers, who must have been about my age, looked a bit sheepish as he recognised me as the bloke on the telly. He started speaking to me and I could see that he thought I was just one of those rich people who, now that biking was fashionable, had jumped on the bandwagon and bought the best bike available. Then I spotted an antique Pat Hanlon and mentioned that I used to go to her shop in Tottenham, near where I lived. I told him how I virtually used to sit on the doorstep there, driving her mad talking to her about bikes and I reminisced about Condor, when it was situated in Balls Pond Road. Well, I’ve never seen an attitude change so quickly. You would have thought he’d met a long-lost friend from fifty years ago – we were using old-fashioned terminology like ‘tubs’ (tyres that you used to glue onto the rims) which are called something else these days.

  I still retain my bike-building skills, to the surprise of some of my friends, my wife and even my children. One of them would ask, ‘Who fixed that puncture?’

  ‘I did,’ I’d say.

  They’d look at me quizzically. ‘How do you know how to fix punctures?’

  ‘It’s easy,’ I’d shrug.

  Not being aware of my childhood exploits, they’d be amazed that I was an expert at puncture repairs. In my youth, I used the back of a fork as a tyre lever, plus a bit of orange glue and some sandpaper.<
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  *

  In Weald Square, the flats opposite ours, lived Manny Phillips, one of my brother Derek’s pals. Manny’s family was more well-to-do; they had quite a good business selling things in the markets. During the summer holidays I’d go with Manny to Oxford market and Chelmsford market, as well as Ridley Road, Dalston. Manny sold foam rubber bits and pieces which people would buy to make cushions. I’d help him load up the stall with the stuff, wrap it up for the customers and generally run back and forth to the café for him during the day. It was at Chelmsford where I first experienced the amazing salesmanship of some of these stall holders. The man on the stall next to Manny’s sold towels and bedding and he attracted a crowd of people by piling his items one on top of another, creating a perception of value-for-money He’d start his patter by letting the crowd know the high prices of these items in the shops.

  I was fascinated by his spiel. ‘There you are, two big bath towels, three hand towels, four flannels, five pillow cases, three sets of sheets. I’ll throw in two pillows and, wait for it, a wonderful full-size blanket. Now, the lady over there – put your hand down, love – I don’t want twenty-five pounds, forget twenty pounds, forget fifteen, don’t even think about ten. The lady over there – put your money away, dear. Now, I want five – hands up – five pounds the lot.’

  One day he was making his pitch, he had the audience all teed up, and just as he reached the crescendo and was about to announce the final punchline – I don’t know what possessed me – suddenly I blurted it out.

  If looks could kill, I’d have been stone dead there and then.

  When the crowd dispersed he got hold of Manny and started shouting at him. ‘What is this kid doing? Is he mad? Is he crazy? Tell him to shut up.’

  I really got it in the neck from the guy and Manny. Mind you, Manny should have known I couldn’t be relied on to keep quiet. When my brother and sisters came over on Friday nights for dinner, they’d inevitably end up playing cards and Manny would sometimes be in the card school. They’d play for pennies or shillings, but took it very seriously. I used to sit there watching studiously and sometimes I’d say something that disclosed one of the player’s tactics. I’d quickly be told to keep my mouth shut.

  Around Christmas time I worked with Manny and his father in Ridley Road market. At that time of year they changed their wares. They put their foam rubber into storage and decked out the stall with toys: dolls, Meccano sets, children’s cars and prams, and so on.

  Mr Phillips, Manny’s father, was quite a tough person. I recall one day watching him sell a very large doll which came in a presentation box. I don’t remember the exact price, but let’s say it was £3. Shortly after he sold it, a lady came up to the stall and asked me how much the same doll was.

  ‘Three pounds,’ I said immediately.

  Sharp as a needle, Mr Phillips jumped in. ‘What are you talking about, you idiot – it’s much more than three pounds.’

  He then turned to the lady. ‘I’m sorry, dear, he’s made a terrible mistake – it’s not three pounds, it’s much more than that. I’m sorry, love.’

  I was dumbfounded. Had I made a giant error? I didn’t think so.

  Mr Phillips continued: ‘Okay, dear – look, we’re honest traders down here. This stupid boy offered it to you for three pounds – what can I do? I’m gonna have to stick to it. Okay, love, you can have it for three quid if you want.’

  The lady obviously felt she had a bargain. Meanwhile, I was still standing there gobsmacked.

  When the lady had parted with her money and taken the doll, I said to Mr Phillips, ‘I’m sorry I made a mistake.’

  You would have thought he’d say, ‘Don’t worry, kid, I didn’t mean it – I know you didn’t make a mistake. I was just using a bit of salesmanship.’

  But instead, he said, ‘Well, you’re not getting paid today – forget it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I complained. ‘I saw you sell that doll for three pounds no more than an hour ago. I thought I was doing the right thing.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. No, you didn’t.’ And he smiled and walked away.

  Being only twelve, I genuinely believed I wasn’t going to get paid that day. On the way home in the van, Manny and his father continued the charade and I was nearly in tears.

  When we arrived back at the flats, they said, ‘Here’s your money – we were only joking.’ Bastards.

  This was one of life’s lessons. The joke was cruel, of course, but at the same time I understood how astute Mr Phillips had been, making that customer feel she’d got a bargain.

  Back to the man in Chelmsford market. Let me tell you, he is no different from the suited and booted executive with a fancy PowerPoint presentation, trying to sell Rolls-Royce engines to Boeing. The commodity may be different, the environment may be different, but the presentation and selling skills are exactly the same – and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Just as the suited and booted chap is fully conversant with the technicalities of his engines, the stallholder in Chelmsford market knows all about the cotton content of his towels and sheets. And at the end of the day, both people present their specifications and prices to the end customer.

  During my schooldays, in spite of my sidelines and ventures, I still had time for recreation. This mainly centred around the local youth clubs, predominantly the Jewish ones. There was a club in Lea Bridge Road where I’d go with some of my friends from Northwold Road School and get up to all the usual shenanigans you’d expect at these places. The youth club also encouraged us to get involved in charitable work.

  There is often talk of ‘the school of hard knocks’ – a way of toughening you up. In those days, people said that sending young men into the army to give them some backbone was a way of making the man. I don’t want to undermine the tremendous devotion and bravery shown by our soldiers, both male and female, in all the campaigns they have served in for this country, but I will say, with the greatest respect, that the army doesn’t hold the monopoly on toughening people up.

  Some childhood incidents, which I can now laugh about, have stuck in my mind. I volunteered to do some work for Meals on Wheels, a charity service providing food to old people. I would assist the adult who drove the van, running up and down stairs to deliver the food.

  In one particular case, I had to deliver to an old lady who lived on the sixth floor of a block of flats. The flats had a lift, but it smelt like Battersea Dogs’ Home, so I used the stairs. Having climbed the six floors, I knocked on the door and this eighty-year-old Jewish lady opened it. She had grey hair, some whiskers growing from her chin and bloomers hanging down around her knees. Frightened enough by this sight, I handed over the meal. She ripped the top off and shouted at me, ‘You call this meatballs?!’

  When I think of this now, bloody hell, I could have been scarred for life – never mind being up to your neck in muck and bullets in the trenches. You don’t want to know what she did with the milk-free ice-cream dessert.

  My involvement with the Lea Bridge Road youth club had another, less amusing outcome after my Bar Mitzvah. In order to be Bar Mitzvah’d, at the age of thirteen, one has to learn all the Jewish laws and rules. To me, this was absolute torture. From about the age of eleven I had to go to Hebrew classes directly after school on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, plus Sunday mornings. It was a nightmare, but it was a way Jewish families conformed and was a strict discipline that my mother and father insisted upon.

  From this, you might get the impression that my parents were fanatically religious Jews. In fact, the complete opposite is true. My mum had some very funny ways. When she was a teenager, she ran a strictly kosher home in accordance with her father’s wishes, but when it came to her own family, despite knowing the full monty about kashrus (Jewish dietary laws), she would buy all her meat from the kosher butcher’s, but then serve it up followed by a dessert containing milk – a forbidden combination, as one of the rules of kashrus states that meat and milk may not be se
rved in the same meal.

  In my opinion, these crazy dietary laws were crafted by hypocrites. Anyway, because of Mum’s odd ways, we didn’t conform, although my mum would delight in shutting down the kitchen on Yom Kippur – no one was allowed to eat, so she had a day off. Other than that, we enjoyed the best of the Jewish food we liked and avoided the food we didn’t like. We ate more or less what we fancied, with no regard to rules or tradition. When it came to observing the Jewish holidays, my dad would take me to the synagogue but we certainly weren’t regular visitors. The only tradition Mum and Dad kept was to invite all our immediate family round every Friday night for dinner.

  After my Bar Mitzvah, the many friends I had at the Lea Bridge Road youth club became distant for some reason. I can remember being rejected by one particular individual, a boy called Harvey, who made it plain I was no longer his friend. Before that, Harvey and I had been close pals, seeing each other as much as we could. He would come to my flat and I would go to his house. He came from a better background than mine. His mother once said to me, ‘You don’t speak very nicely.’ I guess that was due to the people I mixed with in my flats or at school. I was a Cockney.

  Certain people in the Jewish community wanted to elevate themselves. They sent their children to schools which had special elocution classes. This segregation created Jews who didn’t want to be associated with normal Jews, which I think is strange. On reflection, I suppose that Harvey’s mum leant on him and told him not to hang around with me any more. I often wondered what I might have done wrong, but, in all honesty, the only explanation I can find for Harvey’s behaviour was that his family became aware I was from a much poorer background than theirs.

  He wasn’t the only friend I lost. Traditionally, Bar Mitzvah boys are thrown a lavish party to which all family and friends are invited. This was not the case with me, as my mother and father could not afford such an affair. Instead we had a small get-together at home. The boys at the youth club, however, thought that they’d not been invited to some glamorous Bar Mitzvah party. One prick by the name of Elkham Miller and his sidekick Michael Marsham actually spelled this out to me shortly afterwards. They said the reason they didn’t talk to me any more was that they weren’t invited to my Bar Mitzvah party. When I told them I hadn’t had a party, they simply didn’t believe it. It’s strange how thirteen-year-olds can be damaged by the reactions of those who they thought were their friends.