Welcome to the wonderful world of the spoken word!
Whilst the rest of this site concentrates on the international language of music, with a little English, this page celebrates the English language, albeit with more than a hint of accent, with a little music!
The Ghostly Smell of Rice Pudding, autobiography, written and narrated by Keith Blease-Bourne. Humour and pathos. Growing up during the 1950's in England. (Why “The Ghostly Smell of Rice Pudding”? Listen and find out)
It was a smoky old place, evident from the still blackened sandstone buildings that stand proud in its centre. Black because of the filth and grime that once filled the air, courtesy of our staple industry – ceramics. I must admit, I don’t recall the air being smoky, or indeed filthy at the time I was born. There again I can’t remember much at all of that chilly September morning in 1952, in fact until I started to research this, I didn’t even know it was chilly!
I’m a couple of years too young to be a child of the sixties, although they do say that if you remember the sixties – you weren’t there. Well, to be quite honest, I don’t remember them because I wasn’t there! The late sixties was a magical time for me. It is claimed that the seventies was the decade that fashion forgot but that was, obviously, said by someone that didn’t live in the late sixties. I seem to recall army great coats matched with Levi jeans and Doc Martens, although I preferred old army boots, as being the height of fashion.
During 1973 the three-day working week was introduced on January 2, due to power shortages caused by the miners strike. McDonald’s opened its first UK restaurant in London. And I got married.
It was like witnessing the fall of Sodom!
It was the mid seventies and fashion had gone mad - long strings of buttons on jacket cuffs, massive lapels and even bigger shirt collars. White trousers, white suits, even white platform shoes – yes I wore them - medallion man was alive and well and ready to kick ass.
I was about to enter that bastion of “Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll” in the form of the business known as show.
My dad had gone down with a mysterious illness late 1976. He had constant chest pains and put it down to an accident he had had at work. After a number of visits to his doctor, and the pain getting worse rather than better, he was sent off to hospital for some tests.
During the mid 90’s I was a freelance producer/presenter with the BBC. It was more of a hobby than a job. I had taken the advice of more or less everyone when they told me “don’t give up the day-time job”. It wasn’t that I was bad at it you understand; in fact I was quite good. I specialised in entertainment and religion and I always thought it strange that religion paid better!
I must admit that most of the religious pieces that I produced had an entertainment feel to them - like the time I had to attend a church service that was being conducted by a mime priest, really good radio that! Another time I interviewed a clown priest - same church, different service, strange vicar!
It would have been sometime during September or October 1995 that Chris asked me to go to Marbella. I’m a bright chappie, and I knew that it was going to take an awful lot of planning, routes etc. However, there were two major problems I could easily identify… number one was the fact that I didn’t have a passport, easily remedied; join the queue at Liverpool Passport office. Problem number two was that I didn’t speak Spanish or French (I was driving home through France!) Being English I decided to do what all true Englishmen do abroad… T A L K L O U D L Y & V E R Y S L O W L Y, not forgetting to put ‘O’ at the end of odd words.