70 Fentiman Road is a modest but substantial property in SW8, South London. The building has been home to all sorts of people over the years. During the 80s art students from various London colleges rented rooms there.
In the 1970s it was owned by Cyril Dowler, OBE. Mr. Dowler was involved with theatre, pantomime and vaudeville. His stage act was known as ‘Dowler & White’. Cyril was familiar with show business glitterati. He knew Charlie Chaplin, Tommy Trinder et al; he kept one of Chaplin’s canes in his shed. Occasionally he was King Rat of the Grand Order of Water Rats, gaining an OBE for services to charity on behalf of the Sunshine Coaches – Variety Club.
Cyril’s wife, (stage name ‘Rhoda Rogers’) was leading lady at the Doll’s House Striptease Revue, which vied with the Paul Raymond Bar in Soho. Rhoda’s acts were very saucy, one allegedly involved a snake. The Doll’s House and related ventures were backed by a Sicilian called Pierre. Alan Dedman worked at the Doll’s House as a cashier and doorman.
Sadly, Rhoda fell victim to cancer. Catholic nurses from a nearby home (Little Sisters of the Poor?) looked after Rhoda; when she died she wanted the upper storeys of 70 Fentiman Road let out to nurses from the home.
Gabrielle, a catholic nurse who trained at the Radcliffe in Oxford, came to occupy the top flat at No.70. Gabrielle or Gaye as she was known, (pictured below) changed career, doing foundation studies at Chelsea moving on to St. Martins.
Gaye invited students from her cohort to live at 70, Fentiman Road. Several of us did so. It was all very jolly, but restless. Absolute bedlam at times. Flea bitten, tatty and downright dangerous, 70, Fentiman Road was home to a succession of art students from St. Martins, Goldsmiths, the Royal Academy Schools, Winchester and the Royal College of Art.
A young woman called Julia moved in and her dad spotted one glaring issue with top garret accommodation – no fire escape. So he kindly made us a rope ladder. There were no other fire precautions. The ‘vintage’ Belling cooker in our kitchenette was a safety officer’s worst scenario.
After a hard day swanning about the West End, it was usual practice to cycle home for a few pints at the Fentiman Arms. Then a quick dash upstairs to ‘put the dinner on’. This involved emptying some chicken in a mess tin, chucking plum tomatoes on top, spooning on curry powder, then flinging it in the oven.
THEN … back down the Fentiman Arms for a proper aperitif! Four pints later, a less spritely stagger upstairs lead to the (perfectly normal) chicken flambe. Somehow the Belling seemed to sprout jets of flame from either side of its less than secure door.
It was also usual practice to bat out the flames with a mucky tea-towel, then dine on singed remnants of our culinary expertise. THEN …. go back down the pub for a night-cap (or lock-in) with George and Sheila.
The kitchen was often like something from the opening rushes of ‘Withnail & I’. You could probably get better sleep at Bondway Hostel (down at Vauxhall Cross). It was never clear who was calling, staying or ‘lodging on a temporary basis’. For the sake of cheap accommodation, was it really worth putting up with some selfish liberal twazzock playing Simple Minds, all night?
The Dowlers were of Northern provenance. Cyril’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Cruikshank, was a dear old person – fresh out of a Lowry painting. Bowed with age, Mrs. Cruikshank would hobble round the block, clutching her stick, hands deformed with arthritis.
Mrs. Cruikshank did the cooking. The whole establishment smelled of cabbage, When we paid rent ( £10 per week), it involved going into the basement flat. Cyril and ‘Rhoda’ had a son called Ian. On one occasion ‘Dougie’ ran upstairs exclaiming: ‘I’ve just seen Ian Dowler eat an entire loaf of eggy bread!’
Cyril confirmed his son was ‘a big eater’ saying ‘he has catering packs of chicken drum-sticks for dinner’ !!!! Ian eventually weighed one stone per year of age. When he was 23, me and my girlfriend had to help him off the stairs after he fell over. Not easy.
An itinerant student from St. Martins would lodge outside in a camper-van. Sometimes we were invited ’round to dinner’, which always consisted of: Proto-Veg, amongst a selection of carpet off-cuts he was trying to sell. This zany chap changed his name by deed poll to ‘Prince Zenzandorf’ though he never quite cut it at art. He was always glad of ‘the facilities’ during his Pikey days.
It was difficult to study under such circumstances. Time drifted by. The Iranian Embassy siege, Falklands jingoism and Thatcher’s droll soliloquy were all part of daily life at 70 Fentiman Road. We watched ‘The Young Ones’ on TV wondering if they spied on us for inspiration. The place was so dilapidated, it was like something from Prague before Gorbachev.
Geoffrey Howe, MP, lived across from the pub. Stirling Moss resided at the Old South Lambeth Road end and Joanna Lumley is said to live on Fentiman Road, however a recent online article suggests she has a home in St. Ockwell.
There was ‘The Flying Dutchman’ interlude, when Gerard from Amsterdam got busted (along with his middle Eastern chums) for heroin use. Not nice. The bathroom sink was full of needles and used tampon inserters. After that the phone was tapped and my mail was often destroyed by police in Brixton. Free country? Nah. Pull the other one mate.
‘Dougie’ was an inheritance from Julia. He was at St. Martins, did all the right things. Had very catholic tastes in music, you could be blitzed by Heart, Dvorak, Motorhead and the Buzzcocks all in one sitting. After eating a dodgy take-away he once got Campylobacter . It was more than amusing to see him scuttle out of his room, clutching an enamel bedpan over his botty in an effort to reach the toilet before it reached him.
There was no central heating. During Winter, when temperatures were below freezing, ice would form inside the windows. The valley roof (where Gaye used to sunbathe) leaked. Cyril and Ian addressed the issue applying liberal amounts of mastic and tar. Cyril would tap-dance and sing whilst he was up there.
Tar and rainwater made its way into our rooms. Sitting with Dougie, watching TV, wrapped in great-coats and balaclavas, breathe hanging in clouds, we observed slow motion kinetic sculpture. Long gobs of dark gloop and cold water drooled into our accommodation. So we drank to make ourselves feel better!
To combat the cold, we built cribs around our beds. Three lengths of 2 x 1″ timber, roughly nailed to the wall, draped with moth eaten blankets made a big difference.
Art students from around London and elsewhere lodged or stayed at 70, Fentiman Road. After a sudden and abrupt departure from his East Anglian roots it became home to Alan Dedman . Jolly-japes and wizzard wheezes aside, living there was often comparable to squatting.
Today’s snowflakes would evaporate under such circumstances. Getting anything done artwise, was nearly impossible. To do that you had to unplug the phone, lock the door and pretend you weren’t home. The good thing was: you got to meet lots of people. The bad thing was: you couldn’t get rid of them. Fortunately, the Fentiman Arms was (and still is) sanctuary.
The British Satirical Society recently awarded Alan Dedman a blue plaque placed at 70, Fentiman Road but like Cyril’s OBE, thieves made off with it! (well it is South London) ….. Akin to Randall & Hopkirk (deceased), Dedman’s ghost still haunts the gaff.
Photos and artworks by Alan Dedman
Pic of Carlisle Street by Julian Wakeling