Category Archives: Life’s great highlights

The little things you never forget

Rand Central

There is an intersection in the middle of Johannesburg that was important to me. It is where Jeppe (now Rahima Moosa) crosses Joubert Streets. On the one corner was International House, or Ansteys (it seemed to have two names), on the other, Manners Manners, and on the third corner (northeast) was Rand Central. You entered Rand Central through an arcade, at the bottom of which was Show Service on the right, and the Cheza coffee bar on the left. The corner table of Cheza on the arcade seemed to be the permanent home of an elderly man with a long brownish beard, and who smoked a Meerschaum pipe. In those days, you could smoke anything anywhere.

I don’t know who he was, or why he had this privileged position.

I saw him often as was the stage manager at the Alexander Theatre. Service. Show Service sold tickets until about 5 pm. After that, I had to drive into Show Services, collect the unsold tickets and take them back to the theatre. There I had to load them carefully into wooden racks, and check them against the seating plan, so that the cashier at the Box Office could show patrons what seats were available on the plan, and then reach behind carefully, and take the right ones out of their slots.

No computers, no Comiputickets, just manual. Just Hollerith cards. Now there’s a word you don’t see often

Scary people worked at Show Service: Percy Tucker, Aubrey Louw, and Pat Bray. I’m not saying they were voodoo monsters. It was just that I was barely 21, and I held in total awe these people who knew everything. I was young and knew nothing. I would cheerfully have crawled on the floor and licked their shoes. I was scared of them. That’s why “scary”.

Manners Mansions

There were two important people in Manners Mansions. The building had a corner island shop, Smokers Corner. I never went in there. That was a connoisseur shop, and I’m sure they never sold Peter Stuyvesant or Westminster 85. They sold exotic tobaccos, briar pipes, pipe stands, and those Swiss army type implements that pipe smokers used to scrape the filthy gunge from their pipes, and then band the pipe on the heel of their shoes, usually over the Persian carpet.

They also sold unusual cigarettes like Idlewild menthol. Sobranie, and McGillavry’s Export cigarettes. And Consulate in tins. I remember McGillavry’s because the radio advertisement used “The Scottish Soldier” in the background.

In numbers 31/32 of Manner Mansions was the Benedicta Bonacorsi Drama Studio, which was to play such an important place in my life. Somewhere on the 4th or 5th floor was the flat where Muriel Alexnader lived.

Only yesterday is the past

Some day, little movies that play in the cinema deep within my mind will close.  The movies, plays, shows, musicals and dramas will be gone.
The cinema is now open. It may be a closing down sale, maybe it’s just a preview. Perhaps it’s a season of re-runs, or premieres.
Showtime, folks

Whatever happened to Phyllis?

Phyllis Peake pic
“I wonder what happened to Phyllis Peake?” I’m the only one who’s asked that question, and then I asked it to myself. I don’t think anyone today remembers her or even cares. But she played a larger part in making Johannesburg what it is today than George Harrison. In case you don’t know, he discovered the gold that caused Johannesburg.

Everyone knew about Phyllis Peake in the 1960s. The sleaze reporters of the Sunday newspapers (Lionel Attwell for the Sunday Times and Gordon Winter for the Sunday Express) could never have survived without her.

She frequently appeared in the Magistrate’s Court, usually dressed somewhat unconventionally, and once, I believe, with her hair dyed green. Every time there was the usual charge against her: procuring, soliciting, running a brothel, prostitution, racketeering, whadda, whadda.

It was titillating reading on a Sunday – there was no TV those days, avoiding going to go to church, and no fishing in the Orange Free State on a Sunday. Yawn. What’s in the papers? Phyllis Peake – again.

The truth was, in fact, she rarely appeared in court. Her premises were often raided, but when the cops found themselves in the company of Judge X; Mr. Y.MP; Professor Z, they just dropped the charges.

I only knew her briefly. It was for a short time in 1982, but I often wonder whatever happened to her? Apart from the front pages of the Sunday Times now yellowing in some discarded archive, not much is known about her. And I can’t help. All I can do is to piece together clues from what I heard, read, and what she herself may very well have lied to my face. It’s not expected for a brothel Madame, to tell the truth.

Everyone knew that Phyllis Peake ran brothels. But by the time I was working in the theatre in the late sixties, I knew a bit more.

I was resident stage manager at the Alexander theatre. The general manager was Roy Cooke, and he liked to take taxis. He liked drinking, brandy, and he disapproved of people who drank and drove. So he drank and didn’t drive. A man of principle.

He and I often had to go travel from the Alexander Theatre in Braamfontein to go to the Empire Theatre in the middle of town. There were often variety (1960s version of vaudeville) shows, and Roy always did the scenery and stage dressing. He did because he loved it. He had been the greatest set designer for African Theatres in its heydays, and he yearned for the big time, which the little repertory Alexander Theatre was certainly not. But that’s all another story.

Roy always used Roses Taxis, and always insisted on being driven by Bennie Blumberg. If Bennie was the driver, Roy and he would mutter together with him about business, things ain’t wot they used to be, and “how’s things”. Sort of men’s talk. If Bennie wasn’t available, Roy would ask the driver, “Where’s Bennie?”

“Down in Durban,” was the usual reply.

“Things got hot?” Roy would ask.

“Yup,” the driver replied. “He’s doing Point Road to a few months.”

“Often happens, eh?” sympathised Roy.

“Yup. Life’s like that.”

One day, Roy told me the real story. Phyllis Peake was the town’s best-known brothel keeper. She once served time, like about 18 months. While inside she studied economics, or thought about it, and came up with the economic theory of decentralisation. She figured that she’d been fingered by the cops because she was in one place, like her brothel was “immovable property”. They could watch her, case the joint, follow her tracks, and then wait for the night when she wasn’t hosting judges and MPs, and then pounce.

That’s how she’s been raided, and caught, with not a professor or judge in sight.

It wasn’t going to happen again, so she implemented her new-found economic principle of decentralisation by running a delivery service to the client’s houses. Phyllis would take a booking by phone, then call up her employee, who would in turn order Bennie Blumberg from Roses Taxis to take her to the client’s house, and fetch her again.

Phyllis Peake no longer ran a brothel. Every house in Bryanston was her brothel. Impossible to trace or case.

If the girl didn’t come out of the house within a reasonable time of that expected, or came out a little “shop-soiled” then Bennie could call up a friend or two, and either see to the girl’s safety, or collect reparation any “damages incurred”.

A lot of her girls worked as usherettes in the cinemas during the day, so it was double income business for them. They could also practice some services in the dark in the cinemas and do some marketing at the same time.

That’s all the stuff that I learned from Roy. Roy liked interesting people. Roy had a profound effect on my life as he made me almost addicted to interesting people.

It was about the same time that I was teaching English literature, poetry and stage scripting for Benni Bonaccorsi, the best drama teacher in town.

Benni had her studio in number 31/32 Manners Mansions in Jeppe Street, entrance behind Smokers Corner. Benni’s husband “Bonni” Bonaccorsi was an Italian count. There are more Italian Counts than there are Italian peasants, but that’s another story.

Bonni had emphysema and did very little work, apart from always being impeccably dressed (as befitted a Count), and huffing and puffing his way through the streets of Johannesburg looking for interesting people. As a matter of course, he’d sit through trials from the visitors’ gallery of the courts, where he’d hear all about interesting people.

One day, a mother brought her teenage son for an audition to learn drama with Benni. I’m not aware of anyone who failed an audition with Benni, unless of course they obviously couldn’t pay. But that was the same with all drama teachers in town. They were the 1960’s equivalent of today’s “Casting Agents”.

Anyway, just as this lady and her son were leaving, Bonni was coming home from one of his journeys to Rissik Street.

He stormed into the studio, and shouted, quite emotionally, to Benni, “Whatsa thata woman doing here?” – Italian accent from Venice.

Benni peered at him across her glasses, and asked calmly, “What ‘thatta woman’? She’s Mrs Mitchell, and she brought her son for an audition.”

Bonni was still apoplectic with rage. “Mrsa Mitchella, my fuckinga arse. Thatsa Phyllis Peake!”

Well, Mitchell junior was enrolled as a student, and learned drama until Benni found him trying to recruit the girl students to become waitresses in his mother’s night club.

Between Benni and Bonni, we pieced together what we knew about Phyllis Peake, from Bonni’s court records, and from hearsay, and from some of the things that Mitchell junior had indiscreetly let out.

Phyllis Peake came from school and onto the labour market some time in the fifties. She wanted to be a photographer – this in a time when the only work that women were allowed to do was secretarial, typing, switchboard and receptionist.

But Phyllis Peake was Phyllis Peake, and no “Man’s World” was going to stop her. She was the last of the downhill racing feminists.

On Saturdays, she got up before dawn, hot foot it down to the West Street Magistrates Courts and examine the roll of marriages to be conducted them that day. She’d phone the people up, and get herself booked as the wedding photographer.

No one seemed to mind a woman photographer, and her business expanded to the midweek marriages as well.

Phyllis Peake got rich, well, richer than the poverty into which she’s been born. Soon she found that her biggest cost component was photographic processing. She figured she’s save big bucks if she had her own laboratory, did her own processing and printing.

She took rooms in Downing Mansions, on the corner of Bree and Eloff (opposite what became the President Hotel). In one room she had backgrounds, chairs and lights, and the other room became a darkroom that she fitted out with the best laboratory equipment. She could afford to.

Life went rushing on in a routine, and business got better and better. One day a man called and asked her how much she would charge for the whole studio. She gave him a price. He checked, “That’s for the darkroom as well?”

She’d never been asked that before, so she tripled the price, and the deal was done. Except that there was another clause to the deal – she was not to be there, she had to disappear, and only come back when he was finished.

What the hell. Suited her. She earned three times more than normal, and could go to the movies.

One evening, she noticed that he hadn’t assiduously emptied the rubbish bin as he usually did, and she went through it.

So that’s what he was using the studio for, she nodded silently as she stared at the crumpled remains of a photo that any judge would classify as “serious pornography”. Phyllis wasn’t shocked. Not at all. It got her thinking. Photography was a dead-end job. She was getting bored, and this nice guy had given her an idea.

From that time on, for, possibly a decade, her Pilgrim’s Progress is reasonably well documented on the front pages of the Sunday Times and the Sunday Express.

During that time, she was fingered, convicted, served time, and then became the fore-runner of Mr Delivery.

It seems that about the time I was at the Alexander Theatre, and teaching for Benni, that Phyllis moved into premises down the road from Downing Mansions to the building next door to the Savoy Cinema. She took a whole floor, which she converted into a club that fronted for a glamorous and very high class brothel. It had a lounge and bar, and the curtained-off passage, onto which opened many doors.

Phyllis Peake left my life then until the mid-seventies when I used to see advertisements in the newspaper smalls for “The Prisoner’s Friend”. They read: “Do you need Bail? Phone The Helping Hand”. If you asked who this was, everyone knew it was Phyllis Peake, the butterfly once again transformed into yet another caterpillar.

It beggared belief just how a business worked. If you were arrested, say for house-breaking, then you could phone the “Prisoners Friend” and they would bail you out. Why would The Helping Hand do so? They’d only get their money back if you were found innocent, which in those days wasn’t very often. It didn’t make sense.

Then one Saturday night – I was working at the SABC at the time, I was spending a quiet social time with some journalists at the Devonshire Hotel in Jorissen Street, in Braamfontein. Well, that was “quiet” as defined by the “Dev”. It was in fact very noisy. Bars stools were thrown through the windows (which were closed at the time), some people were getting physical exercise planting their fists against other’s noses, and one or two were being nicely asked to leave by their belts.

I asked one of the sleazier of the journos, “What’s this business of Phyllis Peake’s, The Helping Hand?”

He knew. He would. He was that type. He explained. When you were arrested, you’d phone her, and she’d get all your details. What you did, what you intended to do, why, how, and in short, how good you were at what you did.

She got all your details. She actually didn’t even care if she got her bail back or not. The point was, she had all your details, knew everything about you, who your friends were, and your enemies. She had you by the balls. But she was, as usual, a pioneer. She had a database of people with unique skills. This was long before the word “database” was invented.

If you ever needed a skill which she may have on her database, you could contact The Helping Hand, and through Phyllis, hire the right person for the right job.

For instance, say your wife had cleaned you out in the divorce, and you’d do anything to get back the diamond necklace worth millions, why not phone Phyllis? She’d arrange a “spatial intrusion engineer” to “perform a retrieval”. You paid a handsome fee, but you got your millions worth of diamonds back.

It was brilliant.

A little later, she opened “The Maids Friend”, a personnel agency where you could get a trained maid, and place where a maltreated maid could go for mediation.

When you think hard about it, the two – The Helping Hand” and “The Maids Friend” both fitted together like hand in glove. After all, the maids could find out just where certain things were kept, and made the life of the spatial intrusion engineers a lot easier.

At last, the time came when I was to meet Phyllis Peake, face to face, and got to really like her.

After the SABC suggested that I was too good for them and that I should further my career elsewhere (that’s another story), I opened a film production, corporate communications and PR business. That description meant then, what it still means today. “I’ll do anything for money.”

I got a job (freelance) doing publicity for a really nice guy called Tony Factor. This was one rough little Jewish boy. He came from nothing, was chronically dyslectic, and couldn’t even read. Unless it was a complex contract where he could suddenly read every letter of the fine print.

He got known as the discount king when he hit the headlines discounting petrol, which had a price fixed by the government. I don’t think he ever actually sold any discounted petrol but her did later discount new cars, which had the bosses of GM, Ford, VW and company all wanting to kill him.

When I came across Tony, he was discounting coffins. He bought these SKDs (semi knocked down) which was like one of those model kits. The came from a factory owned by a kindly gentleman called “Pa” Venter, who had this carpentry factory down in Robertson in the Cape.

The coffins came flat – Just a pile of pre-cut and pre-drilled pieces of wood, with a little packets that contained all the screws and lugs.

You could assemble it yourself – you just followed the easy-to-read instructions.

Tony agreed the instructions were easy to read. “They look gud enuf,” he said. “Can’t read them myself, I’m dyspeptic.”

But, as Tony used to say, “You just keep the kit under your bed, and when you feel the time coming, you can just put it together and get into it yourself.”

Brilliant marketing. They flew off the shelves faster than snake oil.

One day his, equally rough secretary, somewhat decoratively tattooed on her breasts, told Tony that someone called Phyllis Peake was on the phone, and wanted to talk to him.

“Ah don’ wanna talk to dat hooker,” he spat, and turned to me. “You take the call.”

Phyllis Peake had a sweet voice, if somewhat other side of the tracks accent. She said she was closing her undertaking business, and had a lot of body fridges in her back garden, and she wanted to know if Tony wanted to buy them.

“I really don’t know, Phyllis,” I responded. “But as his representative, I must say it could be interesting. Can I come and see you?”

“Anytime sweetie. 65 Honey Street Berea.”

“Tomorrow, afternoon tea?” I asked, rather anxious to meet her, but not sounding too keen. Like a little ‘hard to get’.

It was 1982.

I knocked on the door of this modest but neat little house off Harrow Road in Berea. She answered the door. Short. Grey hair down to shoulders, dead straight but scraggly. Her dumpy figure put her at mid-sixties.

Inside, her lounge was the antithesis of her. Deep scarlet velvet drapes, trimmed with gold braid, lush imitation gilt Louis VI chairs, and her teapot was pure Spode.

I got her off the body fridge subject, as I didn’t want to have to see them for myself (I draw the line somewhere, even when it comes to interesting people.)

“Why did you get out of the sex business, Phyllis?”

“Darling, it was when those massage parlours opened up. They sprang up like rats and mice, and took all the class out of the trade.” She should her head sadly, as if relating how her cat had been run over.

“You know they were amateurs, darling. Amateurs. When my places were raided, my girls always had a box of tissues to wipe up the sperm and flush it down the loo the moment there were the sounds of a raid. These massage parlours had no skills, no training, no …. CLASS. They got raided and closed, and then they’d pop up somewhere else. They were also very grubby. My place was spotless. Spotless, darling. And not one of my girls ever had a bruise.”

We talked and talked. She was lovely. Just like the granny I had always wanted to have. Interesting, resourceful, and who’s spent her life having adventures. I wanted to write her biography. She agreed.

We started work, but half of it I couldn’t write. Many of her clients were still alive: Judges, MPs, magistrates, priests, owners of companies, and worst of all, the Chief of Police.

We agreed to put it on hold, and wait for at least some of them to die.

I never got her full story. Shortly after that I headed for my first divorce, and the post-divorce period where your soul gets sand-blasted.

Phyllis went off my mind.

One day I drove past 65 Honey Street Berea, and the place obviously changed hands.

I wonder whatever happened to Phyllis Peake?

And next:

Since then, I have heard from Colin Browne who was married at the magistrates’ courts on 6 January 1954. His marriage was witnessed by the photographer: Phyllis Peake

Moments that are sheer Diamond

LPNeil Diamond Moods

I’m sitting in the Mugg and Bean, in a shopping mall. Doesn’t matter which one, they’re all the same. Mind you, all the Mugg and Beans are all the same. But the people change.

Maybe that’s why I come here; it’s good to have a little bit of “all the same” now and then. A change from the same to the same. I suppose we get like that when we often start feeling that you’ve “Been there, done it … etc.”

The majority of those in the place fall into unique categories. There are the senior citizen Afrikaners – you can spot them; the ladies wear cardigans – that nice word for shapeless wool button ups. The men wear those funny baggy mid-calf shorts that make small men look smaller, and fat men look fatter. They’re all in couples, and never say a word to each other. Probably the last time they ever said a civil word to each other was when they said “I do”.

Then there are the racing drivers. That’s what I call them. Recent mothers, they come in with their formula-1 prams, 4-wheel drive, air-conditioned monsters with a boot space for an entire maternity ward. They show off their plump, smelly wads of dough to each other, and destroy the aisle space.

Then there are also the solicitors, not legal ones, but females, aged 20 to 35, come here to announce their state of availability. No race distinction here, the blacks and the whites are all the same, with one exception. Whites giggle a lot. They do this to hide their teeth, because unlike the young Black 20-somethings, they haven’t had orthodontic braces. The Black somethings talk English loudly so that you can hear that Daddy is some BBBEEE millionaire. They give away their education: Model C or semi-private school. They got empowered, which is the 21st century replacement for education.

They seem to come in pairs, a 35 year old him with a twenty year old her. The 35 year old is actually over the hill, but impresses the 20 year old about how worldly she is. They say things like, “I just love the beach in Paris”, and “Put a man on 5th Avenue and he’s hot.” Direct plagiarism of “True Love” magazine, cheap imported TV shows, and “O – Oprah”, which to them is high culture. Their Theodore Adorno is Snoop Doggie.

Then there are the white Afrikaner youth, ambitionless, usually looking as if they are the results of centuries of inbreeding. Shouting at each other about last week’s customer service training course. They speak Afrikaans that sounds like they are choking on Broccoli. Afrikaans sounds as beautiful as Nederlands when it is spoken in the Western Cape. But not in Johannesburg. The one next to me has just laughed about a rabbit going down a hole. She can’t have read “Alice in Wonderland”, must have been the TV cartoon. South Africans don’t read. If you want to hide money from a South African, put it inside a book.

I get better company from the waiters. Mugg and Bean calls them “Waitrons”, as if they are other-worldly robots with superior intelligence. Actually they’re all quiet little Zimbabweans who are grateful for a job of any kind, and just hope that they won’t get killed in a xenophobia riot on the way home. They also get the work easily because “waitoring” is below the dignity of South Africa’s unemployed.
I tease them. I tell them I’m a Russian spy who’s gathering intelligence on women’s retail stores so that my oligarch father can open up a Van Cleef and Arpels franchise in the Red Square. I don’t care if they believe me or not, or if they even know what I’m talking about.

It’s not whether they believe me or not – sometimes their English is so limited that a “Tomato omelette” is sometimes beyond their capacity.

I tell them I was Professor of Gynaecology at the Sorbonne, and I left there because I got too deep in the subject and people were jealous of my brilliance.

I tell them I was Professor Law at Oxford, but I gave legal advice to Al Qaeda, and the Pope lobbied for me to be removed from my chair.
I tell them …

When you get to my age, people believe anything you say. Funny, as your body and brains rot, you gain respectability.

Against the wall is a row of benches with a plug point next to every second seat. They encourage people who want to work on their laptops to come in, buy just one cheap bottomless and let Mugg and Bean pay for the electricity. Some of them are genuinely working, you can see them – they are the reps, checking orders and call sheets. In between them are the wankers, the ones I call the “BBB Brigade”. They pretend that they are serious management science MBA types. In fact they googling “Big Black Boobs”.

They also try and pick up girls. I told one of them once that I would never pick up anyone in a Mugg and Bean. I prefer Exclusive Books – at least I have some assurance that they may be literate. Load of crap, actually, I’ve never picked up anyone before, not even in a book shop.
I sit there trying to think up a new idea for something, another column due yesterday, a training course that has to be finished by tomorrow. Or just have some fun, like when I told a cute little waitron that I have opened a business in Soweto doing penis enlargements: a dab of Super Glue and a Vuvuzela.

I open the latest Paris Match. Hard to find, but they get passed down to me from a French woman who swaps them with hand-me-down copies of my The New Yorker. Francoise Hardy is 67. She looks better than the 30 year old secretary I have to flatter at M-Net.

But then Francoise Hardy is immortal. Like Neil Diamond who came to South Africa a few years back for the first time next year. I had to get a ticket.

I’m was 63, and I was sitting in the gutter outside Computicket at 6 am on a Saturday morning to try and be at the front of the queue when it opened at 9 am.

I wasn’t at the front of the queue. I’m at least 20th. There are lots of people still alive who started buying his records in 1967. I could only get the second priced seats, someone got onto the Internet on the stroke of 9 am, or else those crooks, the promoters, have presold block bookings to the cellphone companies and the breweries. Shit happens. Usually when big business is involved.

But I got 10 tickets. I thought I may go alone. Sell the rest nearer the time. South Africans have a last minute culture. They cannot plan, have no idea what it means, especially if they are fully armed with a ’45 calibre Blackberry.

I didn’t go alone. I took very close friends that I wanted to embarrass with behaviour that was a reasonable impersonation of Woodstock 1969. I had retro bellbottoms and a psychedelic shirt made by the tailors at the Oriental Plaza. And a cheese-cutter straw hat.

My behaviour was appalling.

It was two hours that compressed in them all the things that have happened since 1954. Like that mythical moment before you breathe your last, and the whole of your life goes flashing by in front of your eyes.
I don’t care if I breathe my last, as I have a nano-second to remember the show.

Back to Paris Match. I turn to the society pages. There is absolutely no one I recognise or know of at all.

I don’t stifle the yawn. I’m tired.