Paris: Ealing Comedies (Monday 23/10/2017).
As a boy my Dad lived in Ealing, London and our slightly far fetched family stories record his credits in more than one of the classic Ealing comedies.
A Sunday afternoon family favourite was his brief screen time shared with Terry Thomas in Those Magnificent Men and Their Flying Machines. This was a gap toothed tale of aviation chicanery during a winner takes all air race from London (RAF Booker) to Paris (The Eiffel Tower). This was the golden age of flying tomfoolery, leather goggles and the handlebar-moustache.
Ever since, Paris has held an enduring appeal for me.
I have been there so many times, always intending to climb to its highest point for a view of the city but never managing to do more than get a stiff neck.
Standing between the legs of the Eiffel Tower and gazing up her skirts, I often wondered whether the vista from the top was a view to a kill or just one to die for.
Only with the encouragement of my four year old boy Alex, did I finally summon the resolve to brave the queues, climb the rusty pile of rivets and demonstrate that with the right motivation, almost anything is possible, even for a forty six year old.
In aviation terms, the children usually have an operational cruising range of about a mile before they need to stop to refuel, defuel or just start a sentence, usually with the words: "Daddy, I have something to tell you....". This is always the cue for me to stand still and be targeted by a rambling monologue of non sequiturs.
Amazingly, the magnetic draw of the tower defied their limited range and pulled them irresistibly on a 6 mile round trip without a whimper, a whine or a single episode of lying face down in spread eagled defiance.
As we approached, Alex's twin Sophie observed that while the statistics might once have been impressive, they have become banal through repetition by every guide book and online source. She reeled them off; tallest this; oldest that. Even the 60 tonnes of paint needed to spruce up the old girl was beginning to sound a bit needy. I couldn't decide whether the tower was trying too hard or not hard enough.
Fourteen years before Those Magnificent Men my Dad debuted opposite a young Alec Guinness, in The Lavender Hill Mob. He gave his career defining performance as second child to the right in the tale of stolen gold bullion, melted down into Eiffel Tower paper weights.
Last week the children joined a Friday afternoon drama club in the local church hall. Barring stage-fright, they are slated to debut as Gertie the Goldfish and Shadwell the Shark after a surprisingly short opportunity to rehearse their lines.
I am comforted by the thought that Ealing Studios gave my dad some sort of immortality and that maybe, when Alex and Sophie are old, they too will have slightly far fetched stories with which to entertain my great grandchildren.
If the Eiffel Tower features in any of them, so much the better.
A Sunday afternoon family favourite was his brief screen time shared with Terry Thomas in Those Magnificent Men and Their Flying Machines. This was a gap toothed tale of aviation chicanery during a winner takes all air race from London (RAF Booker) to Paris (The Eiffel Tower). This was the golden age of flying tomfoolery, leather goggles and the handlebar-moustache.
 |
| What a Cad! |
I have been there so many times, always intending to climb to its highest point for a view of the city but never managing to do more than get a stiff neck.
Standing between the legs of the Eiffel Tower and gazing up her skirts, I often wondered whether the vista from the top was a view to a kill or just one to die for.
 |
| It's smaller than it looks. |
Only with the encouragement of my four year old boy Alex, did I finally summon the resolve to brave the queues, climb the rusty pile of rivets and demonstrate that with the right motivation, almost anything is possible, even for a forty six year old.
In aviation terms, the children usually have an operational cruising range of about a mile before they need to stop to refuel, defuel or just start a sentence, usually with the words: "Daddy, I have something to tell you....". This is always the cue for me to stand still and be targeted by a rambling monologue of non sequiturs.
Amazingly, the magnetic draw of the tower defied their limited range and pulled them irresistibly on a 6 mile round trip without a whimper, a whine or a single episode of lying face down in spread eagled defiance.
As we approached, Alex's twin Sophie observed that while the statistics might once have been impressive, they have become banal through repetition by every guide book and online source. She reeled them off; tallest this; oldest that. Even the 60 tonnes of paint needed to spruce up the old girl was beginning to sound a bit needy. I couldn't decide whether the tower was trying too hard or not hard enough.
Fourteen years before Those Magnificent Men my Dad debuted opposite a young Alec Guinness, in The Lavender Hill Mob. He gave his career defining performance as second child to the right in the tale of stolen gold bullion, melted down into Eiffel Tower paper weights.
 |
| Golden Paper weights. |
Last week the children joined a Friday afternoon drama club in the local church hall. Barring stage-fright, they are slated to debut as Gertie the Goldfish and Shadwell the Shark after a surprisingly short opportunity to rehearse their lines.
I am comforted by the thought that Ealing Studios gave my dad some sort of immortality and that maybe, when Alex and Sophie are old, they too will have slightly far fetched stories with which to entertain my great grandchildren.
If the Eiffel Tower features in any of them, so much the better.
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