What a Picture!

Over the years that I've been writing these articles, the constant refrain when submitting them to our local paper has been "Do you have any pictures to go with this?", to which the usual answer is either "No", or "Yes, but they're not up to much".  The reason for this being that taking a photograph in the 1950s and 1960s was a difficult and expensive task, not to be entered into lightly.  It seems hard to believe, when we now live in a time in which virtually everything you buy contains a camera of some sort. 

Delving back into the snaps that have survived over the years, it is apparent that the few pictures taken in the post-war period are the result of the ubiquitous Box Brownie.  I remember this camera, which still lurked in a wardrobe 'just in case' for years.  it was a black cube, about six inches or so square.  I seem to recall that the thing you looked through (note my command of the technical jargon) to see your intended subject, showed the image upside down.  The only other apparatus was a silver slider which, when depressed, exposed the film and took the picture.  The whole thing was encased in a tight fitting tan-brown canvas case.  As a child, I couldn't make head nor tail of it, and probably couldn't now, but it had clearly done sterling service in its day.

Our next technological leap forward came in the late 1950s when I won a fancy dress competition in All Saints Church Hall as Wee Willie Winkie.  I'm delighted to say that I have absolutely no recollection of this event.  I was probably too traumatised to remember.  My Auntie Vera was responsible for the costume, a white smock and an old fashioned nightcap with tassel, complete with a candle holder and candle.  You may recall that "Wee Willie Winkie ran through the town, upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown", with the express purpose of checking whether "all the children were in their beds as it was past eight-o-clock".  Nowadays he would probably be employed by Social Services, or facing criminal charges for indecent exposure.  Anyway, the costume won a prize (I doubt that it was down to my dramatic skills) and the prize was a Kodak camera.

This was another all black affair, but much smaller.  You could put this camera in your pocket without looking as if you had some hideous disfigurement.  It took rolls of film, and I was always terrified of inadvertently exposing the film by opening the back up.  You framed your subject in a little metal rectangle that folded up from the camera casing and pressed a silver shutter slider to take the picture.  Of course, in the absence of any flash apparatus or exposure settings, the only pictures you could take had to be in relatively bright conditions, out of doors.  Nevertheless, this camera served as the photographic recorder of all Whiteland family events for many years.

The limitations of the camera (and its operator) can probably be best illustrated via the picture above.   I had taken the camera with me on the first camping trip that our Anglesey class went on, to the Manifold Valley.  One of our expeditions took us up to Thor's Cave.  I had arrived at the cave entrance, exhausted and mildly terrified (I hate heights) but determined to have some photographic record of this event.  As we all settled in the cave for a talk on its history and formation, I edged my way to the mouth of the cave to try to get a picture that would capture the enormity of the height and the sweeping vistas. It was an image that you would really have needed a 3D, High Definition video camera to do it justice, but nevertheless I waited eagerly for the result to come back from the chemist when we returned home.  This was the outcome.  I remember my Mum laughing out loud when she saw it.  I guess I had probably raised her expectations a little too much.  Clearly Patrick Lichfield and Lord Snowdon had nothing to fear from me.

The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format for just £0.99 at Amazon UK and Amazon USA and now read the new bumper collection of stories, Crutches For Ducks  also at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com , at the special price of just £1.99.

The Black Tie Blues

Do you ever go through one of those phases when you seem to be dragging the black tie out of the wardrobe with monotonous regularity?  It seems to have been a bit of a theme lately for me.  At one time I used to issue a plea, to whoever's in charge, not to have to use the tie again, until it dawned on me the only way this would happen would be if they were drawing the curtain around me and playing the sombre music.  I'm not quite ready for that yet.

Not that I suspect anyone is really 'ready for it'.  In fact, if anyone ever dares say, as I'm watching the dying of the light, "well, he's had a good innings", I hereby promise to leap up and beat them to a pulp with my remaining strength.  After all, what is a 'good innings'?  70? 80? 100?  All I know is, whatever I end up with, it won't be enough.

There have been three notable departures in December.  Of these, the one that particularly surprised and saddened me was on New Year's Eve, when a good friend of mine left the building at the tender age of 58.  It was this that really made me stop and think.

Andy had a long and respected career with a local newspaper, rising to Acting Editor.  He was a well-known writer on local sport and music and was an enthusiast for both.  Others can talk about these areas of his life with considerably more authority than me, and have, elsewhere. 

I came to know Andy when we were part of the group that set up the Burton Poetry Society, which evolved into a thing called Valve, back in the early 1970s.  Quite how I came to meet up with Andy, and his best friend, Nick, I really can't remember.  Confusingly, they called each other Jim and Tom respectively, which foxed me for a while.  They were hippies, at a time when being a hippy was still very unusual in Burton.  I admired them hugely for daring to be different, but also for their enthusiasm and for their ability to see the silliness in everyday life.

Valve grew from a letter they penned to the local paper (the same one that Andy would eventually work for), in which they despaired of Burton as a cultural wasteland, and bemoaned the lack of anything for young people to do.  Unusually, they actually proposed to do something about it, and the result was a packed meeting in a back room of The Wyggeston Hotel.  It was a testament to Andy's ability to make things happen, that he managed to get the management of The Wyggy (and later, The Compasses in Wellington Street) to give up a room for the use of aspiring poets, musicians, hippies, failed hippies and students.  I belonged to the last two categories. Neither pub was exactly known for being at the cutting edge of culture, nor could they realistically have hoped to enjoy a huge increase in sales from a bunch that could easily make half a pint last all night…between them.  I would have just given up without trying, but Andy made it a reality.  If he believed in a thing, he failed to see why it shouldn't happen, and I admired that.

Valve grew and developed over time, and the audience waxed and waned, but Andy was always there at the centre of it, brimming with enthusiasm and good humour. We drifted apart, as the forces of earning a living and making your way in life acted upon us, but I always watched his career with interest, particularly as he had achieved his dream of writing for a living.  When my first book was published, Andy was, as always, hugely enthusiastic and his review in the paper was typically generous and encouraging.  When I met him, for what turned out to be the last time, late last year, he was clearly ill, but had lost none of his enthusiasm and interest.  I rather think we need more Andys in this world, not less.

In fond memory of Andy Parker, a good friend, enthusiast, talented writer and all round nice chap.

See also http://www.philwhiteland.co.uk/valve.htm

Andy Parker

In fond memory of a great guy and the good times we shared in our teenage years.  Andy died on New Year's Eve after a struggle with mesothelioma.  I will always be grateful for his encouragement, support and friendship.

Valve or The Burton Poetry Society

Andy Parker obituary

The Night Watch

This is very much a 'work in progress' at the moment - a companion piece to A Stable Upbringing

It was a clear night.  In fact it was a very clear night.  Bright points of light peppered the sky, but these paled in comparison with the gigantic 'star' currently appearing to hang over the small village in the valley.

In a field on the hillside, two shepherds sat on a rocky outcrop and regarded the 'star' glumly.  Eventually, one turned to the other and said, conversationally,

"I'm sore afraid"

There was a pause, during which his companion digested this news.

"Well, which?" he asked, eventually.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what I mean is, are you sore?  Or are you afraid? Can't be both, don't make any sense that."

"I mean what I say, and I say what I mean." the first shepherd said, glaring at his companion, "I'm sore from sitting on this ruddy rock and I'm afraid that damn great star up there is going to put us out of business."  Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. "Look," the shepherd continued, warming to his theme, "what's the point in us being here, watching our flocks by night, as it says in the job description…"

"As it says in the job description, agreed." His companion nodded.

"Well, what's the point if it's going to be like daylight all the time?  What creature is going to be daft enough to try something in broad daylight?"  He eased a weary buttock from the rock beneath and shuffled a little.

"Take your point, comrade, take your point."  The second shepherd chewed the idea, along with a length of straw he had been saving for just such an occasion.  "So, you are of the view that the aforesaid and alleged 'star' hanging above us, is, in point of fact and notwithstanding, a celestial conspiracy to deprive us of our rightful livelihood, to wit, being a shepherd watching his, or as it may indeed be, her, flock by night?"

The first shepherd squirmed on his rocky repository a little, thought this statement over, gave it due consideration  and said, "You what?"

"I said," the second shepherd sighed deeply, "that if this bright light goes on, we'll all be out on our ears.  Remember when it turned up?"

"How could I forget?" The first shepherd muttered glumly, "what with that coming out of nowhere and ruddy choral singing belting out in every direction…the effect it had on my sheep"

"Not good?"

"Not good!  You know what sheep are like.  Scared stiff is how they are when things are fine.  Add a blinding bright light, and all that singing, and you've got some seriously terrified sheep.  And you know what happens if you frighten a sheep?"

"Yeah." said his companion with feeling.

"It was like a skating rink round here.  Took me all my time to stand up without falling over.  And, of course, the last thing you wanted to do was fall over.  Bloody star!" He said with feeling, "we don't even know what it is."

"Ah now, I may be able to furnish you with a little inside knowledge there," the second shepherd looked around conspiratorially, "You see Earl over there?" he nodded toward the lone silhouette of a shepherd on the horizon.  The first shepherd nodded his agreement.  "Well, he's been giving it some thought, and he reckons it's a supernova." 

The second shepherd folded his arms and attempted to look wise, which unfortunately left him with the appearance of someone experiencing a severe bilious attack.

"A supernova?"  The first shepherd thought about this for a while, and eventually caved in, "what's one of them when it's at home?"

"I thought you might ask that, brother," said the second shepherd, looking somewhat smug, "you know those Brit slaves the Romans brought here?" The first shepherd nodded.  "Well, they've got this game, right, where they all stand round in a circle and one chucks a ball at the other, you know what I mean?"

"I've seen 'em at it," the first shepherd confirmed, "it's called Rickets." He said with some pride.

"Rickets?  Is it? Well, If you say so."  The second shepherd gave his companion a hard stare."Any road, at some point the one chucking the ball gets fed up with it and lets the other one have a go, and that," he said smugly" is called a Nova."

"Says who?"

"Says Earl."

"Oh, right.  Well, he would know," the first shepherd conceded, "Earl's a thinker.  So, a Nova is a point in the game where they change ends, right?"

"Yeah, that's it."  The second shepherd congratulated himself on working his way through a tricky conversation.

"Right." The first shepherd decided to quite while he was ahead.  "Here, there's a kid bawling his eyes out down there.  We're doing no good here.  Let's grab a lamb, go down, see if we can cadge a cup of tea.  Kids like lambs.  We might even get a few bob off the father if we can get him to shut up."

With a lamb under his arm, the second shepherd helped his friend up off the rock and they set off, cautiously, because the sheep were still somewhat anxious, in the direction of the village and the 'star'.

"What's a supernova then?" The first shepherd asked, and immediately regretted it, as they picked their way down the hillside.

"Well, it stands to reason dunnit"

"Does it?"

"Yeah, course it does.  If a Nova is the time where the game changes a bit, then a Supernova must be…must be…"

"Oh, I'm with you." The first shepherd stopped to catch his breath and looked up at the 'star'.  "It must be where the game changes completely!"

"That's it" said the second shepherd with some relief, "it's a game-changing event, that's what it is."

THE END

The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format for just £0.99 at Amazon UK and Amazon USA and now read the new bumper collection of stories, Crutches For Ducks  also at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.

Chuffed to Bits!

My reader in Australia has now expanded her review (see Crutches For Ducks - we've got you covered), and I'm absolutely over the moon.  Isn't it nice that someone takes the time and trouble to leave a thoughtful review like this?

"OK, I've finished the book. Phil delivers yet again with his quirky combination of memoirs of his misspent youth (with photographic evidence no less) and his modern day curmudgeonliousness (it's a word now). If you are familiar with British culture then this book gives you many "OMG, I remember that, I haven't thought of that in years" moments. One of the strengths of this book is that you feel like you're sitting around the pub talking chite with an old friend as Phil reminds you of how absurd much of your babyboomer childhood and adolescence was. However I admit that I laughed hardest at his later chapters. I believe that Phil has a great future ahead of him as a professional curmudgeon.


If you have to have advanced dental work then you'll need this book as well as Steady Past Your Granny's to keep your spirits up. "

You can find the whole review at Amazon.com


And from now until the end of January, you can buy this book at the specially reduced price of £3.99

Character Building

As all of the easy options had now been ruled out for the remainder of my summer holiday stint with Bovril/Marmite, I was now (reluctantly) part of the warehouse labouring gang.  This could be pretty arduous, but also had its moments of entertainment.

I particularly liked some of the characters that I met, people who had worked in industry for years and who knew the ropes backwards.  I found one little old bloke very amusing.  He had the knack of being able to vanish for ages and then suddenly appear when we were all tasked with doing something, so that his presence (or lack of it) wasn't noted.  When he did appear, he would work frenetically, but I suspect that there were long periods of 'resting' between these sessions.  What particularly amused me were the little stock phrases that he had obviously developed over many years of working in warehouses.  Most of them were unrepeatable, but the one that sticks in my mind was when we reached the last item on a pallet, or something that we were unloading, when he would always say "that's the one we've been looking for", as if that had been the sole purpose of the exercise.

Another character was a chap who couldn't have been much older than myself, or my fellow students, but who had clearly decided that a career in warehouse work was his goal in life.  He was blonde, sturdily built and, I would imagine, quite handsome.  I was therefore surprised that the girls in the packing department were not all over him.  The answer became apparent the first time I shared a lunch break with him.  He apparently had a weakness for onion sandwiches, every day, and nothing else, just onion.  The smell from his lunch box was sufficient to take everyone's breath away in a one mile radius and should probably have been banned under the U.N. Treaty on the use of Chemical Weapons.

Getting to and from Bovril/Marmite was a bit of a trial, as there wasn't a convenient bus service.  Walking from South Broadway Street to the end of Wellington Street Extension (as it was then) was perfectly possible but took some time.  Given my inability to get up in the morning, I often found myself running the distance in order to make my clocking-in time, leaving me exhausted before I had even started work.  There was, therefore, a compelling case for getting the moped back out and trying to make it do a decent job.  Unfortunately, as I've said before, I have no mechanical aptitude and neither had my dad.  Therefore, putting it back on the road really meant hoping against hope that something magical might have occurred during the months that it had lain under an old overcoat in the yard.  It had not.  If anything, it was worse.  This fact was brought home to me when I realised, as I puttered along, that there were people on the pavement who were walking faster than I was riding.  Pedal cyclists were hurtling past me and cursing me for holding them up.  I was a figure of fun and I wasn't even getting to work any faster than before.

In despair, I gave the moped to a bloke who worked in my dad's department for more or less scrap value.  In his lunch break, he, apparently decoked it and generally gave it the fundamental mechanical sorting-out that it should have had years before.  Pushing it back to his home, he got fed up with the effort and decided to see if he could ride it for the remainder of the journey.  He was on the Trent Bridge at the time.  Apparently, he climbed aboard, started it up, opened the throttle and the thing took off like a Harley-Davidson, dumping him unceremoniously on his backside on the Trent Bridge.  He was delighted with his purchase and I went back to my pedal cycle with the dawning realisation that I would never be a Hells Angel.

The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA and now read the new bumper collection of stories, Crutches For Ducks at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

On the Gravy Train

My last stint of casual labour, before being pitched into permanent work, was the summer holiday job at Bovril/Marmite that provided the funds for my first foreign holiday - a week in Arenal, Majorca, courtesy of Clarkson's. 

 I had been granted something of a non-job in my first holiday job at Bovril/Marmite, supplying the cap hoppers on the filling lines, which neatly avoided having to do too much in the way of offloading lorries or humping goods about the warehouse.  This was largely in deference to my emaciated appearance (see below), very young age (I was only 15 at the time) and the fact that my dad was a departmental manager there.  I did not expect to get such favourable treatment in my second visitation and, as I anticipated, I was assigned to the group of university students etc. destined to labour in the warehouse.  Thankfully, they clearly decided that I was "too light for heavy work" (as did I) and found me a job working on a new bit of plant that looked to be nearly as good a job as the cap filling from the previous year.

Bovril/Marmite were in the process of launching an exciting new product, a Bovril-based gravy powder.  I was to be assigned to a team of three who were packing this powder.  This involved rolling tubs of powder into the filling room, using a vacuum system to suck it out into a hopper from where it was funnelled into cartons, which were then sealed and stacked ready for despatch.  My bit was the rolling tubs and vacuuming bit.  This was great, as all I had to do was keep the hopper full, and the vacuuming bit was quite fun.  The rest of the time I could sit and listen to the radio.  All went well for the first few days and I was congratulating myself on my life choice of being a complete wimp in appearance and actuality, when, out of nowhere I suffered the worst nose bleed of my life.  I was carted off to the Nurse's Station and had to lie down for half an hour or so before it would stop.  Two days later, it happened again only more so.  Cue more time in the Nurse's Station.  The next day, I was horizontal with the Nurse again, but not in an exciting way.  In the absence of any underlying medical reason for these sudden nasal exsanguinations, she came to the conclusion that the salt in the gravy powder, which filled the room in which I worked, was attacking my nasal linings.  The cure for this?  Stop working in the powder room.

Consigned back to the warehouse, my nose might have been fine again but the rest of me was falling to bits.  The idea of weeks of stacking heavy boxes and shifting sacks was somewhat unappealing and I doubted that I would survive to see Majorca.  Fortunately, another less exacting role appeared just in time.

The gravy powder, that had been my undoing in the powder room, happened to be the subject of a massive national promotion in which a sample jar of powder, a coupon to purchase more of the product and a promotional leaflet were to be sent to every household in the country.  A gang of students, including me, were assigned to the job of assembling this lot, slipping them into a jiffy bag, stapling same and repeating the exercise ad infinitum.  Nice dry work with no heavy lifting involved.  Unfortunately, putting a bunch of teenagers together on a boring job is bound to lead to joking and timewasting and this was no exception.  We had great fun but the work rate was not quite what Bovril/Marmite had hoped for.  Before too long, we were replaced with a team of girls from the filling lines who could multi-task sufficiently to laugh, joke and pack jiffy bags and it was back to the loading bank for me.

See Part 3 - Character Building

The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA and now read the new bumper collection of stories, Crutches For Ducks at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com