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In July 1969, while the Rolling Stones played a free concert in Hyde Park, Alan Johnson and his young family left West London to start a new life. The Britwell Estate in Slough, apparently notorious among the locals, in fact came as a blessed relief after the tensions of Notting Hill, and the local community welcomed them with open arms.
Alan had become a postman the previous year, and in order to support his growing family took on every bit of overtime he could, often working twelve-hour shifts six days a week. It was hard work, but not without its compensations – the crafty fag snatched in a country lane, the farmer’s wife offering a hearty breakfast and even the mysterious lady on Glebe Road who appeared daily, topless, at her window as the postman passed by…
Please, Mister Postman paints a vivid picture of England in the 1970s, where no celebration was complete without a Party Seven of Watney’s Red Barrel, smoking was the norm rather than the exception, and Sunday lunchtime was about beer, bingo and cribbage. But as Alan’s life appears to be settling down and his career in the Union of Postal Workers begins to take off, his close-knit family is struck once again by tragedy…
Moving, hilarious and unforgettable, Please, Mister Postman is another astonishing book from the award-winning author of This Boy.
295 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 17, 2014
"Ernie was the only person I've ever known who spoke cockney rhyming slang completely naturally. I may have been a Londoner through and through but I was in west London, not east, and the cockney lingo could be confusing, not least because it generally uses two words to represent one, and it is the second word, the one that is often not spoken, that rhymes. So those dazzling teeth were Hampsteads (Hampstead Heath), a piece of fish would be a Lillian (Lillian Gish) and chips Staffords (Stafford Cripps). The newpaper, or linen (linen draper), was paid for with coins from Ernie's sky (sky rocket - pocket). Sometimes rhyme begat rhyme so that a trail had to be followed to get to the source. Thus your backside could be either your Aris or your bottle, because the rhyming slang for arse was bottle and glass, and for bottle it was Aristotle, or Aris for short."
And when he was working as a postman in the countryside....
"On the odd occasion we'd give a customer a lift into Burnham, seating him or her precariously in the back of the van with the parcels... It's said that when the writer and bon vivant Jeffrey Bernard exiled himself to the Devon countryside for a few years, he'd send a letter to himself every day, so that when the postman called to deliver it he could hitch a life to the pub. Rural transport for the price of a stamp."