Serendipity. I was remembering Michael Mannion fondly and decided to Google his name where I found this site.
I knew Michael in the 1980s when I lived in Notting Hill in London. He was an habitué of the pubs in Campden Hill, which is the part of Kensington sandwiched between Notting Hill Gate and Kensington High Street.
He was fond of whisk(e)y, especially Jameson, but never had to pay for it – he had a charming manner, was a wonderful and erudite conversationalist, and people knew he had no money. When I first got to know him I used to buy him single measures, but I soon realised that to gain his attention and get him to sit down for ten minutes it had to be doubles. It was always money well spent, and I regret my stinginess in not investing far more.
I remember once using the f***k word in his presence. He was shocked beyond measure, not expecting words like that from me, and delivered the most severe dressing-down I had received since my schooldays in the 1950s. Inter alia, he said: "You are well educated, come from a good Irish family, and should not need to use words like that. You should be setting an example to these ignorant people." i.e. the English.
This was in the Windsor Castle at the top of Campden Hill Road, in the old Sherry Bar, which has since, sadly, been knocked through to create a more open environment. This was his favourite haunt – I wonder what he would think of the new layout. He would normally be seen in the corner wearing a plum coloured velvet jacket, obtained from another old friend, Bill Kellough, during the course of a drunken evening.
Other favoured watering holes in Campden Hill were the old Johnson Arms in Hillgate Street (renamed The Hillgate) and the Elephant and Castle in Holland Street. Other spots probably included The Uxbridge Arms (Uxbridge Street) and The Churchill Arms (Kensington Church Street), although I never saw him in either of these. Gerry, who runs the Churchill, is probably a good source of information – I think he has a long memory.
I know very little of his earlier life. I know he studied to become a Jesuit priest. My memory of our conversation is that he went nearly all the way before deciding it was not for him – which could mean anything up to 14 years. Memory might play me false. I think he spent a lot of time in the Far East, probably south-east Asia, but I am unsure of my facts.
Poetry – again, memory might be false. I never read any of it, but I think he wrote poetry mainly for children. If he did, he probably wrote more serious stuff as well, but I have no knowledge of it.
He suffered from a serious blood disorder (don't know what it was). I went to see him in hospital, where he looked very ill indeed – very pale and fragile. I asked him if there was anything I could get for him. In a tiny voice he said "yes", then a long pause. I had to bend close to hear him say "Italian fruit bread (he told me where to buy it)" – long pause – "and Frank Cooper's Thick Cut marmalade." A great actor.
I delivered the goods, and a week later he was back in the Sherry Bar, right as rain. Two months later he was dead.
I will check with some of the older Kensington denizens to see if they can fill in some of the gaps.