Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley, Lancelot and Guinevere, Xena Warrior Princess and Gabrielle…
Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley, Lancelot and Guinevere, Xena Warrior Princess and Gabrielle…
315, Wakefield Road, Lepton, Huddersfield, HD8 0LX
315 is housed in a former pub made out of stolid West Yorkshire stone, and where there was once a pool table, Space Invader machine and one arm bandit, it now boasts – these gastro places are all about boasting; boasting about the chef, boasting about the manner of cooking a signature dish, boasting about the Michelin star and the positive Tripadvisor rating, and, for the clientele, boasting that you’ve been there, I came, I dined, I posted on Facebook – a spa and hotel, as well as the restaurant which had brought me out on a drizzly evening in mid-March.
The decor is comfortingly expensive, if on the bland side. I got the impression of lots of stripes in lavish colours; as if George IV had done the makeover using tins of paint from his Dad’s shed. It reminded me of an affluent older person’s home whose ideas are slightly out of step with the times, so that even when they buy something new it seems dated. 315 offers a reproduction of the 1990s aiming for a country house style, done on a generous budget (Heal’s rather than SCS). A bit of imagination seems due.
There is a nod to the 21st Century in some heavily patterned wallpaper that I’m sure the older Managing Directors and their wives, who I felt constituted a major proportion of the clientele (I’m stereotyping and jumping to huge assumptions here, but so what), would refer to as ‘funky’ and, feeling flush with the Château Clerc Milon, consider trying themselves, perhaps tentatively as an accent wall in the orangery. It’s presence was a bit like when a divorced man gets a new (and younger) girlfriend who’s moved in and put a bit of her stamp on the place, the rest of the furnishings looking on, polite but hostile, sensing it’s got a fight on its hands.
Overall, 315 leans more towards corporate re-assurance than boutique bravura. Which is a shame, considering the quality of the grub they serve.
The menu felt slightly limited (the evening menu provided six choices). Included was a signature menu that came with (at £50 per head – or per mouth) specified drinks designed to complement the dishes served, or without the booze for £35. It’s a good idea, but restricted to only one series of choices, makes me wonder how many people it will suit (I’m not sure how often it changes). At a nearby table a couple who had obviously seen some merit in the notion (financial? Gastronomic?) had abandoned their Homemade Irish Cream & Chocolate Truffle Terrines, untouched. Perhaps they were more Golden Syrup sponge pudding and custard people. The dictatorial menu doesn’t allow for this. Like the politics of the Soviet Union in the 1940s, it’s Fillet of Beef Topped with a Pate Herb Crust, Brown Cap Mushrooms Cherry Tomato Confit & Hand Cut Chips Served with Merlot Wine Sauce with a The Crusher Pinot Noir, or on your bike, comrade.
And they don’t offer ‘any kind of stout’, the pregnant maître d’hôtel and potential secret police informer for Egon Ronay, informed me after I’d asked for a Guinness, the comment delivered as if I’d just requested the Ketchup. Stout is perhaps the gastronomic equivalent of wiping your arse on Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book in this culinary dictatorship.
The food – Pork Tender loin, Parma Ham & Slowly Braised Shoulder, Served on Creamed Leeks & Roasted Parsnips with Apple – was delicious and surprisingly generous (this was a definite meal as opposed to a strictly academic dining experience, for which 315 should be commended). There is a slight premium on the bill (two mains, one glass of white wine, one large bottle of mineral water and two pints of Ossett Yorkshire Blonde (£3.95 per pint!) set us back £54.25), but both quality and quantity compensate for this relatively minor hit to the wallet.
You can tell by the fastened top buttons on polo shirts and the un-seasonal outing of décolletage that this is a ‘night out’ kind of place. Somewhere to come for a significant event – Valentine’s Day booked, Mother’s Day, a Christmas party, that sort of thing. But for me, as much as I enjoyed my meal, 315 doesn’t quite deliver on ambience. Don’t get me wrong, the food was excellent and I’d be happy to return, but I came and went without feeling – other than the generous bowel movement I enjoyed the following morning – that I had interacted with the place.
Occasion – Fine dining
Food – 8/10
Choice – 5/10
Decor – 6/10
Prices – 7/10
Ambience – 6/10
Total – 32/50
Visited Saturday 18th March 2017
Sheffield is a city of cars,
Concrete, and the industrial past,
Where buildings are ribbed with Chinese steel
And nothing new seems made to last.
‘Martha, My Dear’ is a Paul McCartney song from The Beatles’ White Album (1968). Martha was – and indeed, in a way, still is – Macca’s Old English Sheep Dog. This is because Paul calls every Old English Sheep Dog that he has Martha. This ensures immortality for his furry best friend. For Paul, that is.
At least two Marthas have been boys.
A disappointing (existential?) plot, with brilliant writing. The main hooks from the story come from its unpredictability. The plot arc follows the lead taken by its characters – it is dysfunctional. The protagonist is a widow who becomes a hit-woman, she kills her latest target having fallen in love with him (possibly), then bumps off all her clients in revenge for the killing she’s done… As you do. Imagine Cornell Woolrich’s The Bride Wore Black but the bride had poisoned the wedding cake that killed the groom, and then went on to slaughter the caterers because they made the original cake. Sort of. The detail and panache of the writing carries you forward. The slender size gave me the sense I was reading something artistic and cerebral – pretentious twat that I am. The final, bloody confrontation had the vengeful excitement of a Spaghetti Western, which was then concluded with Manchette’s characteristic (arty?) obtuseness.
David Peace’s introduction adds bugger all.
I love the cover of my copy from Serpent’s Tail.
Baulking the trend of preserving and promoting existing glories and unique original features, the interior of the Victorian-built Elephant & Castle pub on Westgate in Wakefield has been destroyed. They’ve done to it what Meg Ryan did to her face – fucked it up with an unnecessary makeover. My own disorientation, then disappointment and finally anger were about the only genuine things to be found in there since my last visit. The gas mantles, the smoked glass and the old bespoke tables have been dragged out and skipped. All the walls have been knocked down to impose one large unwelcoming space, and the bar – with its brass elephants and the name plaque to a dead regular – has been ripped out and shoddily re-fitted. It is now a nowhere place with wanky attempts at trendy/boutique décor done on the cheap using the Argos catalogue as an ideas base. Homogeneous, anonymous, empty. When I visited its hollowed out space was frequented by aggressive-looking men in their mid to late forties, with their shirts hanging out of shapeless jeans, their bodies packed out with anabolic steroids, online Viagra and full of domestic fury (displaying what’s known as the ‘fuck or fight’ response to modern life), and women of a similar age baiting their relationship hooks with fake tans and ostentatious décolletage. And the beer was shit as well.
The Victorian tiles on the exterior have been retained. For the time being. Who knows what they’ll do next? A neon cock and balls above the door, perhaps. They might as well. A sad and slightly horrifying place. Like Meg Ryan’s ridiculously vandalized face. Once again our cultural heritage has fallen foul of thick bastards.
Visited the evening of Saturday 5th March 2016
It is twelve-thirty on a cold and rainy Tuesday afternoon. Myself and renowned, though far from famous, former-Shakespearean actor, Gideon Ford, are sat in the Salisbury pub in St Martin’s Lane in Covent Garden. Ford is appearing at the nearby Piccadilly Theatre as a singing racecourse bookmaker in the musical Jersey Boys – a far cry from his critically acclaimed Hamlet at the National Theatre in 1987. But perhaps even further removed from his Sunday night TV appearances in front of millions in the 1990s and the first decade and half of the new Millennium. Because despite the lack of fame associated with his name, and despite the change in hair style and the absence of some trademark headgear, look closer and Ford’s is a face familiar to the nation, albeit in an unexpected context. Because for twenty years Ford played the character of West Country Field Archaeologist Phil Harding in Channel 4’s Time Team.
‘It was one of the most closely guarded secrets in showbiz,’ the sixty-five year old actor reveals with a smile, his words enunciated in a voice as rich as Christmas pudding smothered in brandy butter. ‘Like Philip Schofield’s wig and Terry Wogan’s third nipple. Even now, a lot of people still don’t realize that Time Team was what the TV bods call ‘scripted reality’.’
Ford takes a slug of his gin and tonic as I ask him to clarify what he means.
‘Well, darling, in some ways, it was a sort TOWIE of its day – but for intelligent people. It was constructed from part fact, part fiction,’ Ford says, leaning back expansively in the booth. ‘Though a damn sight better than TOWIE or Geordie Whores shite – what a set of smug, unaware, vacuous twats, they are. But, despite all the smoke and mirrors, at the heart of Time Team was a genuine dig,’ Ford stresses, holding up an index finger. ‘They just had the idea of a few of us Thesps being chucked in to add some colour.’
Starting in 1994, Time Team ran for twenty series, before – much to the dismay of its millions of fans and Ford’s agent – the show was abruptly cancelled in 2013. Each week the programme would visit a different archaeological site and attempt to excavate it in just three days, with main anchor, Tony Robinson, providing an everyman’s overview of how matters were progressing. But most viewers never suspected that the programme was – at least in part – a fabrication.
‘We had to sign a whole raft of confidentiality clauses,’ Ford reveals. ‘It felt like I’d been recruited by MI5. I remember Carenza Lewis – who was really a magician’s assistant – mentioned something to TV Quick magazine about the time she got sawn in half by Paul Daniels during a summer season at the Great Yarmouth pier – and they dropped her quicker than you could say “Byzantine stirrup cup”.’
According to Ford the part attracted the attention of some big names.
‘After the first round of auditions it was either going to be me or McKellan. And I know Taffy Perkins had gone up for it. I thought I’d got one over the old queen when I bagged the job until he got the role of Gandalf and a knighthood. And me? I got Tony Robinson and chilblains from a weekend in the pissing down rain in Lincolnshire,’ the actor grumbled with a shrug. ‘But, hey, that’s show business.’
The actor explained how the programme was put together: ‘Tony had a basic script which he worked from, which was obviously quite fluid depending on what was coming out of the ground, and the rest of us fed off that. But most of it was ad-libbed, real improv, Jacques Copeau, Whose line is it, anyway? stuff. Unfortunately, due watershed restrictions, some of the best lines ended up on the cutting room floor.’
Ford recounts an exchange between him and Robinson which the Channel 4 censors deemed unfit to go out. ‘It was in the late 90s,’ Ford elucidates, ‘and they were a bit twitchy after Shaun Ryder from the Happy Mondays dropped a couple of ‘C’ bombs on live TV. They watched this exchange between myself and Tony where we were riffing about “getting dirty in a wet trench” and had a fit.’
With another gin and tonic delivered to the table, Ford continues his revelations.
‘All of the digging was done by genuine archaeologists – clever people who really knew what they were doing – most of whom never appeared on screen. And then I’d shuffle out of the trailer into the rain and jump into the trench just before the cameras got rolling to give the viewer something a bit more interesting to look at and listen to.’
The face is obviously the same, but the closely shorn grey hair with hints of black jars with what I expect to see. ‘I used to wear a syrup,’ Ford confirms, giving his shaved noggin a rub. ‘Salisbury sunset, I called it,’ he remarks with a fruity chuckle.
Ford describes his Phil Harding creation to be a cross between Long John Silver, Indiana Jones and Pam Ayres. ‘The part was a gift to play,’ the actor enthuses.
But unused to the kind of academic scrutiny that the programme attracted, it was a steep learning curve for the London-born actor. ‘I knew bugger all about archaeology before I got the job,’ he confesses. ‘Consequently I took a lot of flak from the archaeological community about the fact I was a right-hander using a left-handed trowel in the first series,’ he reveals. ‘School boy error. When Channel 4 gave us the thumbs up for a second series, the producer (Tim Taylor) sent me on a one-dayer to Lambeth Tech. They gave me a grounding in the basics. I even got a certificate.’
I ask what the hardest part of playing Harding was. ‘Apart from the British weather and Guy de la Bédoyère’s constant demands for re-takes?’ Ford shakes his head. ‘Any fucker who takes ninety-five goes to say “Neolithic hill fort” deserves their equity card taking off them,’ the actor reminisces bitterly. ‘Apart from those two irritants, the worst thing about Time Team was probably the beer,’ he says, screwing up his face. ‘I’m not a fan of the stuff. But it fitted the character of Phil. I couldn’t see him slaking his thirst after a day hacking through clayey alluvium on a glass of G and T, a Pinto Grigio or a nice Chablis, any one of which would have been my own choice. I tried to go with cider – which is a West Country as combine harvesters and racism – but I took one sip when we were digging a villa site and chucked my guts into a finds tray. All over some pieces of Roman mosaic and a Medieval poesy ring. I can’t stand the bloody stuff. So we compromised with best bitter.’
And what did Ford think was the secret of the show’s success and its longevity?
‘It made for good company. It was a character-based show, pitched at the post-Sunday lunch audience. People sprawled on their sofas after a big roast dinner who wanted something interesting to veg out in front of. We were a convivial bunch and took you to some interesting places. But I don’t think that any of us thought it had the legs that it proved to have. However, Tony had the foresight and pragmatism to keep the show successful. He was a realist and knew we needed bums on seats if we were going to keep getting recommissioned by the suits. He came up with some marvellous ideas to keep the viewer’s interest.’
Hence the troop of female archaeologists who would appear down the years, known to the rest of the crew as ‘Tony’s Angels’.
Ford winks. ‘He got a load of t-shirts printed up with the Time Team logo on them – all the women’s ones that got handed out were a couple of sizes too small.’ Ford shakes his head with a wry smile on his face. ‘Now that’s what I call a cunning plan,’ he remarks, referencing Robinson’s role as Baldrick in the sit-com Blackadder.
And that wasn’t the end of Robinson’s ingenuity. ‘Tony would have a few artefacts up his sleeve. If we were flagging by the third day, Tone would lob the odd Anglo Saxon bracelet or Civil War tunic button into one of the trenches and then kick some muck over it. The next day, we put Bridge or Raksha in a tight top with the neck line plunging down to her belly button, and… hey presto!’
I ask about the rest of the ‘cast’.
‘Francis Pryor was a bloody trooper,’ Ford says, grinning. ‘But he’s been doing the stand-up circuit around Northern Clubs under his stage name – Terry Drumgoon – for years. He was a dream to work with.’ Ford dips his fingers into a packet of scampi Nik-Naks. ‘As a Thesp I really admire comedians,’ he informs me, expanding his admiration of Pryor/Drumgoon. ‘Their conversational rhythm is amazing. People like Chubby Brown and Francis could turn their hand to any acting role. I saw Bernhard Manning once – timing like a Swiss watch; timing that Sir Larry or dear old Johnny G would have slit his throat to acquire. That infectious laugh of Francis’s always had me in creases. We once had to do fifty-four takes of me trying to winkle out the rib bone of a 7th Century monk because Francis kept making me corpse. And you wouldn’t believe how funny he could make the phrase ‘banjo enclosure’ sound.’ A wide smile lights up Ford’s face. ‘It was Francis who got me to say “that’s a lovely mott” to Tony when we were excavating a castle site somewhere or other.’ Ford shakes his head with a wry smile. ‘He’s a cheeky bugger.’
Pryor/Drumgoon’s on-set jollity drive many of the inside gags many Time Team fans have spotted with a sense of disbelief down the years.
‘Francis reckoned that my West Country diction would mask my words if I chucked a few cheeky substitutions in here and there,’ Ford reveals. ‘I’d lobbed in the odd risqué comment before that – it was almost a catchphrase when on day one of the excavations, before the digger striped the turf, I’d say to Katie Hirst or Jenni Butterworth, ‘come on, let’s have that top off!’ But when Francis joined the team the in-jokes went up a gear. Imagine me pointing down to a trench where Brid is bouncing around and exclaiming: “I think we might have nailed ourselves an Anglo-Saxon whore, Toe-Knee,”’ Ford burrs and suddenly Harding is before us.
I ask about Mick Aston. Surely Mick was a genuine archaeologist?
Ford raises an eyebrow and smiles. ‘Did you ever wonder what happened to Benny from Crossroads…?’ he says cryptically. ‘Mick was the show’s anchor. I liken him to Bet Lynch in the Rovers Return. Those hooped jumpers and woolly hats were a touch of genius.’
When the last show was filmed in the summer of 2013 Ford was allowed to keep one of Phil’s ex-Army surplus pullovers. The feathered hat was Ford’s own. ‘We tried a few alternatives – Salisbury City FC baseball cap, a flat cap, and I even went bare-headed for the pilot – before I spotted ‘Trevor’ (Ford’s affectionate name for the sweaty headgear) on the Portobello Road market one Sunday morning.’
But success comes at a cost. ‘As much as I love, Phil, he’s a bugger to leave behind. Before I got the gig I was a serious actor going places,’ Ford says slightly defensively, ‘My name was often mentioned in the same breath as Kenneth Brannagh, Daniel Day-Lewis and Nicholas Lyndhurst. But it’s the Harold Steptoe syndrome – once you get associated with a strong part, it’s difficult for people to see you as anyone else. All I get these days – particularly in terms of telly work – are offers of cider commercial voiceovers. My agent wanted me to MC for a Wurzels show in Andover last summer. The cheeky fucker. And I spent most of last spring as the arse end of a donkey in a low budget production of War Horse touring secondary schools in North Wales.’
So does Ford have any regrets?
‘Not really,’ he says after a couple of moments thought and another Nik-Nak. ‘The show was good to me. And, to be honest, I do miss the rambunctious, beer-swilling, cantankerous old bugger,’ he confesses.
And what of the internet campaign being ran through social media by Time Team die-hards to bring the programme back? Ford is up for it. ‘Anything to get me out of panto,’ he states glumly. ‘They’ve got me down for six weeks as the Widow Twanky in Barnsley,’ he informs with a shiver.
But if Time Team does make a welcome return to our screens, Ford wants the show to expand its ambitions. ‘Can you imagine Phil digging up the pyramids?’ the actor grins. ‘Or some Aztec temple? Tony could order the girls some skimpy tropical gear. Now that I’d like to see.’ He raises his glass. ‘Ooh-arr!’
Wednesday 3rd February 2016