“Look, all they do is go round and round and I promise you
we won’t go up high!”
Even to my young and innocent ears, this doesn’t sound
particularly convincing. More like No. 3
in the ‘Great Lies of Our Time’, just after “The cheque’s in the post” and
“It’s just what I’ve always wanted”.
We are at Burton Statute Fair, popularly known as ‘The
Statchits’, always held on the first Monday and Tuesday in October. It is the mid-1960s and my Mum, Dad and
myself are standing by ‘The Rockets’. We
are going through our annual ritual of Dad trying to persuade me to go on with
him. ‘The Rockets’ were one of the main rides that appeared every year. Shaped like a child’s drawing of a rocket,
each car was attached to a central column by a spoke and the riders could make
the car rise or fall, with an ear-splitting escape of compressed air. Every
year he tried to talk me into this and every year, I refused point blank. This was always a huge disappointment to my
Dad and he did what any father would do under the circumstances, he
sulked. My wife tells me that I could
sulk for England ,
well this is where I learned my trade.
This would actually be my second of four trips to ‘The
Statchits’. The first would be on Sunday
night as we walked up Branstone
Road , under the Leicester
Line Bridge ,
to see the lorries, vans and caravans all lined up at the Burton boundary, waiting for permission to
enter the town. In those days, the Fair
was not allowed to begin setting up until the evening service at St. Modwen’s Parish Church
My Dad had a child-like fascination with Fairs, Circuses and
such things, and loved to see the Fair setting up. My Nanna Whiteland was quite keen too and
used to take me for my second visit on the Monday afternoon. As we walked up Branstone Road, the strains
of music and the shouts of the stallholders grew louder and soon we were on the
fringes of the Fair in Lichfield Street, where, in the shadow of the Big Wheel,
by The Leopard pub, there were donkeys and ponies, and men offering to take
your picture with some exotic animal or other.
The only year I managed to persuade my Nanna to allow me to have my
photograph taken, there was a queue for the cute monkey, so I got the parrot. I’m not sure who was the most disappointed
about this turn of events, me or the parrot.
I used to enjoy the stall where a ‘real’ Red Indian (usually from Bolton ) promised to guess your age to within one year, or
give you a prize. I always used to come
away as the proud owner of some ill-defined ‘silver’ trinket. We used to have a go on a few stalls, tour
the offerings in the Market Place and High Street, up to the junction with Station Street , and
then finally walk back down New
Street , until the Fair finally petered out around
the General Post Office.
Philip and friend at The Statchits, October 1961
Monday night was, and is, the main night of ‘The Statchits’
and that was when we went as a family.
The Fair always had a more exciting, even dangerous, atmosphere in the
chill Autumn night and the lights, crowds and music brought a touch of exotica
to downtown Burton .
Tuesday evening, I often went to the Fair by myself. It always rains on Tuesday Statchits
night. This is a given. I don’t know why, it just is. I once spent ages on a ‘Roll the Ball’ stall
because; I was the only customer, the rain was coming down sideways, and the
stallholder was waiting to be told that she could pack up, so she kept giving
me free tries. I still didn’t win
anything, and I didn’t go on ‘The Rockets’ either!
This story is taken from Crutches for Ducks, part of the 'nostalgedy collection' which includes Steady Past Your Granny's and the latest collection, A Kick at the Pantry Door
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