Chapter 2 High Noone

The BLAIRS are Funny Folk

By Peter Noone

Nanny Blair is what we called her. We were very posh and we had a nanny. Or so we were told. She was from Ireland and was a Hardy, which to her was a big thing, as in Great Britain at the time, every town and city had a branch of Freeman, Hardy, and Willis and they sold shoes. There’s no business like shoe business. She was the heiress. To say she was eccentric would be an understatement of massive proportions, if such a thing is possible.

She had left her supposedly well off family long ago, and run off to England and married Joe Blair the steelworker from Glasgow (Grandad Blair), and had been cut off from the family fortune.

She was given the boot as they say.

She had a lot of children with Joe, and I can vividly remember them all. Auntie Dot, Auntie Olive, Auntie Josie, Auntie Marjorie, Auntie Norma and my Mum were the girls I remember, and Peter and Bernard were the two boys. They lived in a big old house in Stretford, which became the place where everyone in the whole family, the in-laws, the nephews, the cousins, the lot, all congregated for the holy days of which there were lots. 177 Barton Road. Stretford Manchester.

Nanny Blair liked to feed my sister Denise and I. Orange Juice followed by milk and PREM which was English SPAM, and which always caused me to vomit. Perhaps it was the mixture. I was never able to stop her from giving me the same things that always sent me out to vomit, on my Grandad’s vegetable garden behind the outdoor Water Closet, unseen by her of course. I still cannot drink milk and orange juice together without puking.

Nanny Blair used to wear silver lame dresses and stiletto heeled shoes to go shopping, and had a collection of hats, which would make the Queen Mother envious. She wore them to go shopping. Always. As I grew up and became more sophisticated and more unpleasant to match, I grew more and more nervous of being seen by my friends in her company, and studiously avoided any of the places where she might be, whenever I was with any of my friends. Whenever she saw me, first she would scream, and run over to me and say in the loudest shrillest Irish accent “It’s our Bernard, I mean Joe, I mean Alex, I mean hello everybody this is my favourite daughter Olive’s little boy Anthony, look how tall he is like his father and just look how broad his shoulders are and he’s onlyÉ how old are you?”

I tried to tell her I was Peter, but she had a son with the same name, and I was duty bound not to get him even more confused.

“Stop trying to trick me you little monkey” she would say, as if she had often been tricked by a little monkey. Once in St.Bede’s College during a retreat I took it upon myself, to confess to one of the priests that I was avoiding my grandmother when I went into Stretford with my friends, and had hidden in a garden with a girl, telling her that the madwoman coming down the street was after me for some dastardly deed which I had of course not committed. He asked me why I was avoiding my own beloved Grandmother, and I explained that she “wore stiletto heeled shoes and a silver lame dress and sang Tooralooraloora incessantly”, and he said, “Is that Peter Noone?” proving that I was not alone in thinking she was a bit eccentric. 5 Hail Mary’s were dispensed and my guilt was gone for a day.

Grandad Blair Joe, was the calmest person on the planet in direct contrast to his wife. He hardly ever spoke. He just had this really deep chested wheezing laugh, which bubbled up whenever he was happy. He always seemed happy to see me, and when I was much older, one of his sons told me that they were always envious of the relationship that I had with their Father, as he basically ignored them all their lives. This caused them to hate me, because Joe was incredibly warm and friendly towards me, and treated his children very coldly. He never showed any sign of affection to them, and I realize that for these hard Scotsmen of his generation, that any sign of affection to his sons was a sign of weakness. He was always too busy for them when they wanted him, and by the time he was retired and had time to give away, they were damaged and gone from his world. There was I, the happy little grandson, who puked on his veggies, and would never ever go in the outside water closet. He took me to Saturday afternoon football matches at Old Trafford, the home of the greatest football team of all time, and at a time when it was a very important part of the British Working mans day off. I have a vivid memory of leaving the big old house, and walking the mile to Old Trafford. As we got closer and closer, we were joined by more and more fanatics of the Red Devils, until we were a red wave of supporters and my greatest moment would be when the “Reds” would score a goal and my cold hearted Scottish Grandfather would hoist me in the air as if I were a trophy, and after the final thrilling whistle, would carry me home on his shoulders, stopping at a local pub on the way to drink two pints of bitter and a “wee drammy”, (a very large Scotch whiskey).

The day of my 16th birthday I took him there for a drink , and never saw him again. He retired and faded fast, as often happens to those hard working Brits. Nanny Blair felt guilty, as she said she made him work harder when he retired , as he began to mope, and he apparently died after washing all the upstairs windows.

What wonderful specimens of England they were. An Irish heiress and a Scottish shipbuilder, living in the heart of the Industrial revolution which drew them to Manchester in the same way that people were drawn to America. Perhaps that’s why I feel so good in both places. The people are very alike. From all different places and different working class backgrounds, all with the same ideal.

To make the world a great place for their children and grandchildren.

If only they had known that by starting it all in Manchester, they would not only be guaranteeing their children a chance at a decent education, but also put them in the very part of the planet where the next big revolution began. It was in the Northwest of England that the 60’s musical revolution had it’s roots. These people knew the blues. They had no fear of hard work, and had certainly seen enough War in their lives to have plenty of sad songs (which they do), but through all this misery, they will always be remembered by me, and anyone else they ever knew, as two great parents, who despite their 8 children, which really cramped their finances, they raised a happy hilarious, benevolent, and bewildering array of priests, doctors, plumbers, secretaries, Mothers, sisters, nephews and the happiest place on Earth was often 177 Barton Road, and whenever I see these people in my thoughts, they are always alive and laughing.

There are now thousands of us from the Blair side of the family, and we are all strangely alike in our happy ways. I see my brother Damon has their spirit, which was thrilling for me to see, when I finally got to hang out with him earlier this year on tour in Great Britain.

We both have that strange Blair disorder not unique to the Irish and the Scots, of being able to laugh until we cry real tears, and they are not of joy, but of some strange thing that is ours, and of which we know. Until a few years ago I thought it had to do with abusing alcohol, as I had only seen it being done by drinking people, but as neither Damon and I drink, we were both astonished to laugh and cry in sobriety, proving that it is in fact a part of who we are. You see if Joe Blair, the toughest and biggest bloke in the whole world, could laugh until he cried, then it must be good. We are always laughing at ourselves we Blairs, and there is much to laugh about. Not only who we are, but our good fortune to have all been around at the same time as each other is surely the work of some higher power.

Chapter 2 High Noone

The BLAIRS are Funny Folk

—Peter Noone

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