Quite a while ago, the Derby Telegraph changed the format of its Bygones section. The daily article was replaced with a photo and short summary and the bulk of the written nostalgia was now to be contained in a two-page or so supplement published on Mondays. The upshot of this was that my regular monthly column, whichI had been cheerfully dumping on the good citizens of Derbyshire for over ten years, fell by the wayside. However, I was encouraged to submit something for the new supplement and, ever the optimist, I did. When this failed to emerge, as one month faded into another, I supposed that it had gone to the Great Wastepaper Bin in the Sky and I pretty much forgot all about it.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when a friend told me that he had seen an article of mine in the Derby Telegraph. Sure enough, the article I submitted in May of 2018 had finally surfaced in April, 2019! At this rate, by the turn of the next century, I could have enough for another book. Admittedly, I would be 146 at the time, which might be a bit of stretch, but still...Today, Derbyshire, Tomorrow...Uttoxeter?
This is the article, if you're interested:
This is the time of year when any
self-respecting village, society or association’s thoughts turn to holding a
fete. I’m not sure why, that’s just the
way it is.
Actually, like picnics, this is a
classic example of the British habit of hope triumphing over experience
because, with our climate, the odds of the whole thing being a wash-out are
pretty high. Yet, we all have this
soft-focus image of sun-drenched fields bedecked by bunting and filled with
rosy-cheeked children gambolling from stall to stall, instead of sullen and
evil-tempered families glaring at the persistent rain from under the steadily
sagging awning of the beer tent.
I rather suspect that the beer
tent had a great deal to do with the apparent popularity of fetes and suchlike
gatherings, particularly back in the days when the pubs shut at 14.00 on a
Sunday and didn't reopen until 19.00.
The beer tent was often the only way to get an alcoholic drink on a warm
summer's afternoon, even though it usually consisted of a glass of flat, warm
bitter with some insect practicing the breast-stroke across the surface.
Certainly it seemed to me that Burton Regatta's popularity probably rested more
on the beer tent than a sudden interest, by the populace, in all things rowing,
but perhaps I'm being cynical?
My earliest recollection of a
village fete was also my first brush with fame.
Well, that’s probably over-egging the pudding. It wasn’t so much a brush with fame as a
passing nudge from its slipstream.
The scene was Holbrook Village
Fete at some point in the early 1960s. The
guest of honour was the Rt. Hon. George Brown (latterly Baron George-Brown), MP
for Belper and a leading light in the Parliamentary Labour Party (he became
Foreign Secretary in 1966). He was a
frequent feature on the television news, although not always in a complimentary
light. He therefore managed to combine
fame with infamy and was something of a celebrity and quite a catch for a
village fete.
I joined the small crowd to
listen to his words of wisdom, which I think largely consisted of "I
therefore declare this fete, open!" but I was quite young so I may have
missed some of the cut and thrust of witty repartee. I was then caught up by the crowd and
propelled to the first stall where the great man was showing willing by
bouncing ping-pong balls at goldfish bowls, or something similar. In the press of bodies, I suddenly realised
that I was right next to the Right Honourable and was, in fact, brushing
against the tails of his jacket. Thus
for years afterwards, I was able to say that I had touched George Brown's
jacket, which may not have impressed many but was a claim to fame, of
sorts. I gave it up, altogether, when
people started saying "George who?"
The second fete that lives in my
memory, just in case you found the first example too exciting, was an occasion
when I was with my wife and daughter, when my daughter would have been about 10
or 11 years old. I can't recall where
the fete was or what it was in aid of. I
just remember that it was a beautiful summer's afternoon and that the fete had
one or two stalls that were being operated professionally by fairground
people. One of these stalls was the
ubiquitous hoop-la stall. My daughter
was all for my having a go but I wasn't so taken by the idea. I was keenly aware of my limitations and had
always made a practice of avoiding anything that required skilled hand-eye
coordination. Nevertheless, I didn't
want to lose face so I laid the ground for humiliating failure by pointing out
the near impossibility of meeting the requirements of the stall for winning a
prize. Not only did the ring have to be
thrown over the object in question, which I was pretty sure would be beyond me,
but also it had to fall flat, not just over the object but also over the plinth
and the wooden base on which it stood.
The odds, I pointed out, were not greatly in favour of the
customer. None of this dampened my
daughter's enthusiasm, so five rings were purchased and I prepared for the
worst.
I positioned myself at the stall,
grasped a ring and sent a silent prayer to whoever looks after 'fathers who
aren't much cop at anything'. I launched
the ring and was amazed to see that, instead of clattering sideways into the
objects which was the normal outcome, it was floating horizontally above
them. The ring then fell in a
beautifully controlled manner, over the object, over the plinth on which the
object stood and, most importantly, over the wooden base, so that it lay flat
on the stall. To my absolute amazement,
and that of the stall-holder, I had done it!
My daughter was chuffed to bits and my wife and I were astounded.
We were presented with a small
stuffed toy animal as the prize for this heroic feat. It was a dog (allegedly) in a sort of striped
romper suit with a pom-pom hat, somewhat reminiscent of a canine Andy Pandy, if
your memory stretches that far back. He
was christened Isaiah, because his manufacture had clearly left a lot to be
desired and, as a consequence, one of his eyes was higher than the other.
For many years after, whenever I
was embarking on some endeavour where I really felt that I needed luck on my
side, Isaiah came with me. It seemed to
work. Well, more than George Brown’s
coat-tails anyway!
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