Nick Ewart RIP

It was not on the cards that I would outlive my oldest friend with my dicky ticker. At the age of 17 Nick lived on peanut butter sarnies laced with marmalade, and when he could afford it, Tetley's mild ale. He smoked Woodbines but craved Sobrani No. 6. He lived with his Mother a, sales person at Scofields in Leeds, at the top of North Lane in Roundhay., in a private 2 bedroomed flat, just a ten minute walk from my council house. Of an evening he would turn up to raid the sack of potatoes that stood in our porch, having spent the money his mother had given him for the purchase of the same, for cigs. In those days he was as thin as a lat and perfected the Pink Panther walk that all tall boys assumed before filling out. His wit was infectious and pulled the birds. Included in his conquest were Marilyn George, a stunning long legged blond, my sister Denise, Fiona Tidswell, and Teresa Tyrell, probably all at the same time. Nick myself Denise and Fiona made up a foursome for evenings of laughter and no sex. I don't want to delve into his finances, as he still owes me money from those days, yet he managed to buy a Vespa scooter, and then a Morris Minor convertible. I don't know what he had in his trousers but he still creates rage at the mention of his name, from two of his ex girlfriends partners.
Nick was 6 ft something and I was 5'4", 5'6" in cowboy boots. Because we were art students and dressed differently and had longish hair, we were always the intended victims of the local student bashers. but we had a plan. I would climb onto Nicks shoulders and he would run us out of the  room with me bashing anyone in our way from a great height. I think the surprise element rather than my flailing limbs got us home safe with only minor injuries. One of the venues in which this tactic was used was The Kirkstall Arms,  the venue of Martin Bollands jazz band. To get there we had to drive down Kirstall Hill in my Austin 7 Ruby, which was painted bright yellow. As most of the cars in those days came in black only, it stood out like a pork sausage in a bakery. The wags in the back Nick, Brian Herbert and Jammy Douglas, found out that they could steer it by leaning to the left or to the right, because their weight lifted the front wheels off the road. Rick Brown in the passenger seat would be leaning too, but in his perverse way, in the other direction. So the journey to Kirkstall was a fight in itself. I meanwhile was praying that the lights at the bottom would be green, because it was impossible to stop with the weight of 5 bodies in the car and only cable brakes. As we careered across Kirkstall Road I would be frantically shouting left, then right to avoid a collision, with smoke coming from the brake pads and the smell of burning oil,  we somehow survived.
Alas Nick and Brian are dead, and Jammy who became dancing Dave, might be still with us. As for Rick, he's probably morphed into Darth Varder

Nick Ewart and the sport of gas pipe clay shooting

I first met Nick Ewart, when he turned up at my house to courte my sister. I was still in the 6th form at school, but worked for my father as a driver as well. This of course affected my school work, and I was desperate to change tack from the daily grind of maths physics and chemistry. I had opted out from games and used to sit on the school flat roof, above Leeds, drawing. Nick was already at Leeds College of Art, and said why didn't I just come to the college and join in. They could only throw me out. I became Steve Crow, The real Steve Crow spent all his time in the snooker club behind Leeds City Varieties, and was at the point of being thrown out of college. So I became him. I amassed a great volume of work, Leeds College of Art "black drawings," pottery, lettering. I could use the lathe which I had mastered at school, so I was really happy there.
 Obviously my school attendance was light. I couldn't opt out of anything else. Assembly was off as I already didn't go, I said I was Jewish, and refused to sing hymns. Eventually I was called into the headmasters office, and given a lecture on how I was only fit to be a fitter in an Engine works, and I should get my hair cut. My mother never made me get my hair cut and accompanied me to the interview. At the end of his advice my  mother, all 5 foot of her, stood over him and said, "Headmaster my son is made for better things than a fitter, and as for the hair you are as bald as a coot, why not let him enjoy his whilst he has it?' So I applied for Art College under my own name. Term time had already started but they granted me an interview, as they were short on numbers. During the interview, it was stated that I looked familiar, I said yes you will have seen me as I go the the school next door and have friends at the college, so I am sometimes in the building. I applied to be a product designer, and with my Science O Levels was accepted to do that. Once in, I was free to choose any course. I chose graphics but with hind site I would probably have made a better product designer.
I'm sure the Principal realised who I was, or in fact wasn't, He had suspended me from the College, a month before, for participating in blowing clay* from a first floor windows at the Architectural students, using half inch gas pipes. Me Nick and Trevor Varley were the culprits, but as I wasn't a student, I took the blame, they couldn't suspend me as I shouldn't have been there anyway, but I was barred from the building. Fortunately for the interview I had grown my hair and started a moustache, but I'm sure he knew. The reason could be, as I found out later, that every one in the College disliked the Architects, as they were all from monied backgrounds and had flash cars, as opposed to most in the C.of A who lived on crusts and a penny worth of jam from the canteen in order to afford a pint.
Nick was 2 years above me, and had joined at 16 straight from school. However he was 2 years younger than me, so it seemed to work and we became best mates. He left, with no qualifications, for London, and became a top packaging designer. Talent will out, proving that if you are good enough you don't need any letters behind your name.
* For those who wish to take up the sport, this is how it is done.
Take 3ft of 1/2inch metal gas piping. Run water through it to make the inside slippery.
Put a wad of very wet modelling clay in to the mouth end of the pipe. lean out of the window and blow, like using a blow pipe. It is remarkable how far it goes, and it ends with a very satisfying splot.