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GangMei Steel Storage Cabinet with 2 Door and 2 Adjustable Shelv


GangMei Steel Storage Cabinet with 2 Door and 2 Adjustable Shelv


Product Description

middle height cabinet Mixed color cabinet Black storage cabinet Cabinet with wheels
Half Height Black Storage Cabinet Mix-Color Storage Cabinet Black Storage Cabinet Black Storage Cabinet with Wheels
Size 36'' L × 18‘'W× 41.6 '' H 31.5"L x 15.7"W x 70.9"H 36"L x 18"W x 72"H 32.3"L x 16"W x 72"H
Adjustable shelf quantity 2 4 4 4
Net Weight 58.3 lbs 77 lbs 90 lbs 108 lbs
Lockable ✓ ✓ ✓ ✓
Assemble required ✓ ✓ ✓ ✓

GangMei Steel Storage Cabinet with 2 Door and 2 Adjustable Shelv

Distant Laughter

The Goons in 1956: L-R: Peter Sellers, Spike Milligan, Harry Secombe. From a cuttings scrapbook in the Secombe family archive.

Anyone who does a job of work and at the end of the day has nothing tangible to show for it, apart from his salary, has every reason to feel insecure. All the average comic is left with at the end of his career are some yellowing newspaper cuttings, perhaps an LP or two, and a couple of lines in The Stage obituary column.’ Harry Secombe; Preface to The Hancock Companion, Roger Wilmut, 1979.

David Secombe writes:

Comedy is a fragile thing. It is dependent on context. Watching flickering footage of ʻturnsʼ from the nineteen-thirties, forties or even fifties can be a baffling experience. It is usually like watching Arthur AtkinsonThe Fast Showʼs brilliant parody of period stand-up, wherein Paul Whitehouseʼs Askey- like comic performs a routine of senseless catchphrases and arbitrary physical tics to rapturous houses. Anything from the past that still retains the power to make modern audiences laugh is rare indeed.

My father was Harry Secombe, who is remembered for three things: The Goons, his Dickensian turn as Mr. Bumble in the film of Oliver!, and singing hymns on Sunday night TV. (The latter is not comedy, except inadvertently.) He left a considerable archive of personal and show-business memorabilia, a voluminous assemblage which I have been trying to manage for about forty years. The material comprises letters, notebooks, posters and promotional materials, press cuttings, cartoons, paintings, scripts, 16mm home movies and broadcast material, audio and video tapes, and an avalanche of photographs, of him and by him. There used to be a whole room devoted to this stuff at the top of my parentsʼ house. Looking at the material now is a slightly disorientating experience: leaving aside the weirdness of seeing a close relative treated as public property decades before you were born, it is like seeing history through the prism of one manʼs career. He was really big in the fifties and sixties; he seemed to be everywhere. How did he fit it all in? Very often the press photos (there are thousands) show anonymous faces, beaming crowds, my father grinning manically if not desperately, or doing totally incomprehensible things in indecipherable situations. He poses for ill-conceived LP covers. He stands next to armies of unidentifiable people in unidentifiable locations; or with unlikely celebrities in unexpected contexts. (For instance, a celebrity canvas of The Last Supper alongside the likes of Stanley Baker, Bernard Bresslaw, Alfred Marks, Lionel Bart, John Gregson, etc., with Richard Harris as Judas Iscariot and ʻrugby starʼ Clem Thomas as Jesus Christ. The artist was Andrew Vicari, and I invite readers to look him up because his is such a strange story.)

Study photo for Andrew Vicari’s 1960 version of The Last Supper. Richard Harris is well into character as Judas Iscariot, while Bernard Bresslaw’s Simon the Canaanite is ripe forCarry On Calvary‘.

The photos and cuttings and home movies are mute souvenirs of occasions my father turned into anecdote. I grew up in a large house in suburban Cheam, a landmark property (it was on a main road opposite a bus stop) decked out with the trappings youʼd associate with late 1950s showbiz success. Notable features included a white baby grand piano, a panelled, Danish-style study with a built-in hi-fi and screen for showing movies (a room I still aspire to recreate), and a bar for entertaining. The bar was equipped with an implausibly extensive array of booze (including undrinkable display-only beverages like Bols Gold Liqueur) arrayed on glass shelves behind a counter dressed with miniature Doric columns. My fatherʼs favourite drink was Pernod: a perfect match for the décor. He was a fabulous raconteur and the bar was a little theatre for him to trot out his party pieces: Mike Bentine farting in polite company was a favourite story, as were the ones about his chaotic stint as a junior clerk in a colliery office when he was fifteen (touchingly, he kept a post-war letter from the same office, offering him his pre-war job back), as well as countless soldierʼs tales. When I was young my father hosted an annual charity cricket match on the sports ground opposite the house, and the bar was the focus for the evening’s socialising, with all manner of personalities barnacled around its embossed leatherette finish. The sheer glamour and excitement of those times is so remote now; that was the mid-late seventies, but it was a throwback to early sixties style. Who has a bar in their house now?

My fatherʼs career was sparked by the fact that at the warʼs end he couldnʼt believe he was still alive; and the archive reflects the intoxicating excitement as his career gathers pace and begins to shape the post-war moment. The Goon Show catered to an audience that had survived the war only to find themselves stuck in the drab fifties. ʻYouʼve no idea how grey the fifties was‘ my father said, and the decade had been conspicuously good to him. The fifties seems impossibly remote now, an impoverished era when opportunities for fun seemed to be on ration along with just about everything else. The fact that the Goons made it onto the BBC at all is a kind of miracle, and itʼs no wonder that contemporary audiences were either deliriously thrilled or utterly baffled. But young people loved it. The Beatles were awestruck when George Martin told them, during Abbey Road sessions for their first LP, that heʼd produced records for The Goons. (Jane Milligan has a nice family photo, taken in the 1970s or 80s, of George Harrison kneeling in homage at Spikeʼs feet.)

But all things fade. The house in Cheam was pulled down in the early eighties, shortly after my father sold it, and somehow an era went with it. I am always happy to hear The Goons repeated on Radio 4 Extra, and today the BBC broadcast The Last Goon Show Of All, a 1972 reunion special which, perhaps, has a slightly rueful quality, given that the seventies werenʼt working out as well for the participants as the extravagant success of the fifties and sixties seemed to predict. Ten years later, Peter Sellers was dead and my father started doing those Sunday night religious TV shows which killed off any chance of a return to comedy. (He was teetotal by then too.) That the Goons remain funny is largely a testament to Milligan’s genius; but Spike knew he was supremely lucky to have Peter and Harry on hand to people his enchanted world. But there is something unnerving about hearing joyous studio laughter coming from beyond the veil: a kind of memento mori I suppose. Thereʼs my dad laughing on the radio: younger then than I am now. Anyway, to mark my fatherʼs centenary, the archive is being shipped to The National Library of Wales, and I am sure that they will take very good care of it. I leave you with a portfolio of unexplained images, snapshots from another era, another world, and if you have any idea what is going on in any of them, please let me know.

David Secombe is a writer and photographer.

Late Summer Drinking

Late-night summer party at an English country house in north Norfolk. (All photos: David Secombe.)

Summer 2021 had a slightly end-of-hostilities feel to it, a sort of weary ‘is it all over yet?‘ aspect. Your correspondent was ‘pinged’ by the NHS app and had to self-isolate for a week, cutting out a quarter of August right there. This left me feeling even more bored and bilious than usual, surveying London from my 6th floor eyrie at Drinker’s Towers like J.J. Hunsecker surveying New York in Sweet Smell Of Success. Fortunately, August had a chance to redeem itself by way of an invite to a country house part in north Norfolk, an annual gathering that skipped 2020 due to Covid. This bash has been a calendar date for some of us for almost twenty years, an opportunity to gather to celebrate the birthday of our cult’s high priest, the one they call ‘Big Chris’. (The slightly ritualistic tone of the proceedings may be discerned from the photos on this page: Peter’s Friends it is not).

North Norfolk isn’t that far from London, it’s hardly like going to Cornwall or Scotland, yet there is a sensation of arriving in a different time zone, a different era even, when you alight from your car. Joseph Losey’s 1971 film of L.P. Hartley’s The Go-Between was filmed hereabouts, and the sense of suspended time central to that project is still palpable in a landscape little changed since 1900 – except for the odd supermarket or car dealership, and the procession of holiday 4x4s en route to the coast. And it seems that L.P.Hartley’s own model for the house in The Go-Between was Bradenham Hall, some twenty miles south of our party retreat. And Chris’s party always takes place in the same venue: a majestic Victorian pile with Tudor underpinnings (not to mention a ATEC Pro Pitcher Practice Screen) laid out with formal precision in rich farmland. It is grand yet welcoming, imposing but intimate, an ideal setting for human comedy in all forms.

Meeting many of the participants for the first time in two years was joyous but sobering: was it me or were there a few more grey hairs this year? There were late nights, certainly, but I missed my usual quota, passing out after dinner with alarming frequency. And Chris, a party animal fashioned from titanium, actually went to bed early one night, a development that shocked some of us to the core. And the children have all vanished, replaced by young adults capable of intelligent conversation who made considerate enquiries about one’s welfare (‘How’s the foot?’) and discussed the subjects they were about to study at university. Considering that some of them have been attending the party since they were toddlers, this was hugely significant in itself. This obliges me to quote The Go-Between‘s famous opening line: ‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.‘ Poignantly true, although it is hard to take this sentiment too much to heart when one is spending an afternoon in the company of a man dressed as Captain Beefheart’s Trout Mask Replica. But the most telling moment was on the last afternoon, bank holiday Monday, when Chris and a quartet of grizzled gentlemen sampled a bottle of Mersault that the birthday boy had received from the owner of the house. Amidst the tide of cider and lager and catering Prosecco, this was a moment of reflective drinking that – perhaps – marked the dawning of late-onset maturity for all present. On the other hand, maybe we were just humbled in the presence of a fifty quid bottle of wine.

So apart from the geographical connection to The Go-Between, similarities end there. Hartley’s book is, after all, a study in repression and Victorian class strictures, and one is bound to wonder what he would have made of a country house party in 2021, with a group of non-aristocrats taking over a country pile, dressing up as their favourite album covers, and then getting pissed under the stars. (I fear old L.P. would have been appalled: he didn’t really do groovy or louche.) There may have been signs of advancing age, but there wasn’t much repression on show. And there wasn’t any bitterness either, the sort of corrosive waspishness that you read about in accounts of the ‘Bright Young People‘ and their parties of the 1920s; this lot were just happy to be there, grateful to be able to do something as simple as spend time with old friends or friends you’ve just made. That is always a joy, no matter what the state of your liver might be. And now it’s back to London, back to school, just as we get an Indian summer that has no business showing up now … but there is a bit of Norfolk that is forever Walthamstow. As L.P. Hartley said so memorably: A squid eating dough in a polyethylene bag is fast and bulbous. Got me?’