RINGING THE CHANGES
We didn't have a phone at home until the 1960s, and despite many journalistic hours spent using one - most often one of those clunky black monsters replete with A and B buttons and clickety-click dials - the system has never been part of my DNA. I found them useful rather than things of beauty. But some years ago I did come across a book (see below) published in 1980 to mark the first move of the phone industry into Norwich, and found it fascinating.
It was in August, 1880, that the United Telephone Company first sent their representatives to Norwich to test the potential appetite of the city's population, their interest having been wetted by a lecture about telephones and a public demonstration by a certain Professor Barrett, held in 1877 at the Victoria Hall. Then, they tried to communicate with Cromer, but it evidently snowed that day, lines were brought down, and the demonstration largely failed. The audience was hooked, though.
Earlier pre-phone communications networks used in the county included a shutter system (1806-1814) which, it was claimed, enabled a message to be sent from the Admiralty in London to the Port Admiral in Great Yarmouth in 17 minutes. This involved 17 shutter way stations (including East Harling, Wreningham, Thorpe and Strumpshaw) and three men at each station.
Then in 1851 the first reliable submarine telegraph cable was laid between Dover and Calais, heralding the arrival of the telegraph system. Norfolk and Suffolk were busy places in this respect, and the book lists, among others, the following cable routes: Weybourne to Emden and Heligoland; Lowestoft to Nordeney and Borkum; Benacre to Zandvoort; Mundesley to Nordeney; and Bacton to Borkum and Zandvoort. These undersea cable connections seem to have been made between the years 1853 and 1913.
The first telephone exchange (again, the United Telephone Company) in Norwich opened in Exchange Street in March, 1883. Weekday hours of operation were 8.30am to 6pm, and two people took turns to work a switchboard with 32 subscribers. On one occasion the exchange was kept open late for a chess match! This apparently took place in June, 1884, between contestants at Pine Banks Tower, Thorpe (Norwich) and the old city Literary Institute, and the operator was ordered to monitor the line constantly to make sure everything was working.
A first list of subscribers on the Norwich Exchange is also a fascinating read. The numbers ran from 1 to 33, with No.18 vacant. The Eastern Daily Press had two numbers, 6 and 7 - the second being the print works - as did Fletcher the printer, the M&GN railway, Jarrolds, Jewsons and Pickfords. The single numbers included Barclay's Bank, Bullards brewery, Carrow Works, Boulton & Paul, Clabburn the solicitors, Thorpe and Victoria railway stations, Hellesdon asylum, the police station, and Bagshaw the game dealer.
By 1891 it was apparent that the Exchange Street premises were too small, and the service moved into the Haymarket above the Great Eastern railway parcel offices. By the time it opened in 1894 it also had a trunk line to Yarmouth, which had 23 customers, and Lowestoft, with 26.
During the Second World War the network suffered badly from damage to phone lines and exchanges by drifting barrage balloons which had broken free from their moorings. So much damage, in fact, that in 1940 the balloons caused more damage than enemy action.
(The First 100 Years of Telephones, Viewed from Norwich, by Eric G Clayton, British Telecom/Post Office centenary celebration, published 1980).
Sunday 27 April 2014
Thursday 24 April 2014
ALL ROUNDERS
It seems odd, now that we are evidently at ease with a sporting world in which football and cricket (and tennis, I suppose) seem to be played non-stop for twelve months a year, to recall that there were times when a chap could play two games (most usually football/cricket) to the highest professional level. In the 1950s the soccer and cricket seasons did not usually seriously converge, though there must have been many occasions when the last dying embers of the cricket season overlapped the early season football training. And vice-versa. Yet there were men who achieved it.
One of the most glamorous in a sporting sense was Denis Compton, of Arsenal and Middlesex. He appeared in a dozen England friendly soccer matches during the War, as well as turning out for the Gunners, and playing cricket. Arthur Milton (Arsenal/Gloucestershire) was another, while Kent County Cricket Club had on their books at least four Charlton footballers - Ufton, Leary, O'Linn and Lucas - while a fifth, Stewart, was at Surrey along with Chelsea's Ron Tindall.
Willie Watson (wing-half/batsman) and Brian Close (Arsenal/Yorkshire) were other such stalwarts, but in general this was a dual ability which, by and large, died a lingering death in the 1970s. Ian Botham, I recall, had a go at football late in his career. Inevitably, though, the all-rounder philosophy died when training began to be stepped up, football and even cricket became much more athletic and thus more demanding, and fixtures and playing seasons began to inflate out and beyond their historical boundaries.
One all-rounder (in a dual-sports sense) I do remember seeing play was Chris Balderstone, the Leicestershire cricketer, who once scored a not out half-century for his county, played in a Football League match in the evening, and then completed his century the following morning. I saw him play soccer when Norwich City had an away match at Carlisle.
It was a bitterly cold and blustery day, and temperature levels were not helped by the fact that, in those days, at least, you could sit in the Carlisle grandstand and watch sheep grazing on the distant, misty hillsides.
The strength of the wind turned the game into a bit of a lottery, but in the second half it all went against the Canaries when Balderstone took over. Playing for Carlisle on the left-wing he soon found that, when deep in the Norwich half and particularly when Carlisle won a corner, he could clip the ball high into the wind and then watch it swerve and turn to the consternation of the Norwich defenders who could not find the right position to deal with it. There was a lot of Norwich embarrassment, and I think the Canaries lost.
'He played it like a spin bowler,' one of the City players said to me later. He had, too. And in an odd sort of a way it seemed to bring the entire dual-sports thing full circle.
POSTSCRIPT: Delighted to see that Flanagan & Allen played for Liverpool recently. It reminded me that Norwich once had two defenders, Allcock and Brown, whose names regularly sent visiting Fleet Street journalists into paradoxisms of delight and spawned countless aviation jokes. Best of all, though, was the one-time Charlton back line which included Fish, Costa, Fortune. Can anyone beat that?
It seems odd, now that we are evidently at ease with a sporting world in which football and cricket (and tennis, I suppose) seem to be played non-stop for twelve months a year, to recall that there were times when a chap could play two games (most usually football/cricket) to the highest professional level. In the 1950s the soccer and cricket seasons did not usually seriously converge, though there must have been many occasions when the last dying embers of the cricket season overlapped the early season football training. And vice-versa. Yet there were men who achieved it.
One of the most glamorous in a sporting sense was Denis Compton, of Arsenal and Middlesex. He appeared in a dozen England friendly soccer matches during the War, as well as turning out for the Gunners, and playing cricket. Arthur Milton (Arsenal/Gloucestershire) was another, while Kent County Cricket Club had on their books at least four Charlton footballers - Ufton, Leary, O'Linn and Lucas - while a fifth, Stewart, was at Surrey along with Chelsea's Ron Tindall.
Willie Watson (wing-half/batsman) and Brian Close (Arsenal/Yorkshire) were other such stalwarts, but in general this was a dual ability which, by and large, died a lingering death in the 1970s. Ian Botham, I recall, had a go at football late in his career. Inevitably, though, the all-rounder philosophy died when training began to be stepped up, football and even cricket became much more athletic and thus more demanding, and fixtures and playing seasons began to inflate out and beyond their historical boundaries.
One all-rounder (in a dual-sports sense) I do remember seeing play was Chris Balderstone, the Leicestershire cricketer, who once scored a not out half-century for his county, played in a Football League match in the evening, and then completed his century the following morning. I saw him play soccer when Norwich City had an away match at Carlisle.
It was a bitterly cold and blustery day, and temperature levels were not helped by the fact that, in those days, at least, you could sit in the Carlisle grandstand and watch sheep grazing on the distant, misty hillsides.
The strength of the wind turned the game into a bit of a lottery, but in the second half it all went against the Canaries when Balderstone took over. Playing for Carlisle on the left-wing he soon found that, when deep in the Norwich half and particularly when Carlisle won a corner, he could clip the ball high into the wind and then watch it swerve and turn to the consternation of the Norwich defenders who could not find the right position to deal with it. There was a lot of Norwich embarrassment, and I think the Canaries lost.
'He played it like a spin bowler,' one of the City players said to me later. He had, too. And in an odd sort of a way it seemed to bring the entire dual-sports thing full circle.
POSTSCRIPT: Delighted to see that Flanagan & Allen played for Liverpool recently. It reminded me that Norwich once had two defenders, Allcock and Brown, whose names regularly sent visiting Fleet Street journalists into paradoxisms of delight and spawned countless aviation jokes. Best of all, though, was the one-time Charlton back line which included Fish, Costa, Fortune. Can anyone beat that?
Sunday 20 April 2014
OLD SEA ROADS
One of the characteristics of my part of the north Norfolk coast - and of other coastlines, too, no doubt - is the distinctive framework of a coast road with, often at right angles, lesser roads or tracks leading directly to the beach. Sometimes they are merely sandy tracks which eventually cut through the dunes, and which sometimes have developed into something more important, such as a main route to a small town or village which may or may not have had its origins in fishing.
Whatever the original motivation, many of these routes did come into existence simply because the seaward end was a good place to launch or haul boats, because pack trains, carts or wagons could get to the beach, or because goods could be landed and carted away. Or vice-versa, because most of these paths were also export routes.
Norfolk's coastline has not cornered the market in this kind of road. In south Lincolnshire, my home town has a number of similar routes which in this particular case led not to the open sea but to the banks of the former Nene estuary which in its heyday stretched from Long Sutton (Lincs) to Cross Keys (in Norfolk), and inland as far as Wisbech (Cambs).
In this part of marshland, though, the roads are called gat or gate. And some of them still exist, as in Danielsgate, Garnsgate and Seagate. In Norfolk, it is more likely that the name Gap - particularly Cart Gap - is used. Cart Gap's use and importance is, of course, self-explanatory.
There is also one road in Sheringham which seems to carry some of the hallmarks of having had its origins in yet another coastal cut-off track, leading through the foothills and, probably, originally, down to the beach. This is Holway Road, a name which may or may not be derived from 'hollow way.'
Hints that this name may actually be comparatively modern can be gleaned from a number of sources from the 18th and 19th centuries, none of which actually mention Holway Road. Faden's map (1797) describes part of the present route with a dotted line, suggesting it might have been a sandy track at this time. Bryant's map (1826) suggests surface improvements, but tends only to mention neighbouring names like White Gap and Noman's Friend. Again, an Ordnance Survey map from the 1880s merely labels Hook Hill and Morley Hill.
But if you need confirmation that Holway Road has changed over the years, then proceed up the hill, turn west into Cranfield Road, and then immediately walk right, this time into the trees, and there you will see - in rough alignment with the present main road into town - what seems to be a section of the old hollow way discarded during some improvement scheme or other, camouflaged by trees and greenery, and nowadays largely forgotten.
Nothing, it should be remembered, ever stays the same.
One of the characteristics of my part of the north Norfolk coast - and of other coastlines, too, no doubt - is the distinctive framework of a coast road with, often at right angles, lesser roads or tracks leading directly to the beach. Sometimes they are merely sandy tracks which eventually cut through the dunes, and which sometimes have developed into something more important, such as a main route to a small town or village which may or may not have had its origins in fishing.
Whatever the original motivation, many of these routes did come into existence simply because the seaward end was a good place to launch or haul boats, because pack trains, carts or wagons could get to the beach, or because goods could be landed and carted away. Or vice-versa, because most of these paths were also export routes.
Norfolk's coastline has not cornered the market in this kind of road. In south Lincolnshire, my home town has a number of similar routes which in this particular case led not to the open sea but to the banks of the former Nene estuary which in its heyday stretched from Long Sutton (Lincs) to Cross Keys (in Norfolk), and inland as far as Wisbech (Cambs).
In this part of marshland, though, the roads are called gat or gate. And some of them still exist, as in Danielsgate, Garnsgate and Seagate. In Norfolk, it is more likely that the name Gap - particularly Cart Gap - is used. Cart Gap's use and importance is, of course, self-explanatory.
There is also one road in Sheringham which seems to carry some of the hallmarks of having had its origins in yet another coastal cut-off track, leading through the foothills and, probably, originally, down to the beach. This is Holway Road, a name which may or may not be derived from 'hollow way.'
Hints that this name may actually be comparatively modern can be gleaned from a number of sources from the 18th and 19th centuries, none of which actually mention Holway Road. Faden's map (1797) describes part of the present route with a dotted line, suggesting it might have been a sandy track at this time. Bryant's map (1826) suggests surface improvements, but tends only to mention neighbouring names like White Gap and Noman's Friend. Again, an Ordnance Survey map from the 1880s merely labels Hook Hill and Morley Hill.
But if you need confirmation that Holway Road has changed over the years, then proceed up the hill, turn west into Cranfield Road, and then immediately walk right, this time into the trees, and there you will see - in rough alignment with the present main road into town - what seems to be a section of the old hollow way discarded during some improvement scheme or other, camouflaged by trees and greenery, and nowadays largely forgotten.
Nothing, it should be remembered, ever stays the same.
Wednesday 16 April 2014
FACE OF THE FANS
Watching a group of Norwich City fans waiting at Sheringham railway station for the Bittern Line train to Norwich, and the match, I was struck by how much things have changed for football enthusiasts since the 1940s and 1950s. Nowadays, in-vogue fashions demand close-cut hair, a surprising amount of bare skin - even in cold weather - a coy glimpse of the corner of a yellow and green scarf, hoodies or thin shirts, possibly an iPod or something of a similar ilk with bits in each ear, and most certainly a mobile phone.
In my youth it would have been a rosette, wooden rattle, raincoat or greatcoat, a coloured scarf and quite often a 'pirate' or unofficial programme.
However, the changes are actually much wider and deeper than this. Today, fans tend to get to the match by train, car or coach, whereas once it was bus, bike, or a lot of walking. And there is also much more commercialisation, while amateurism (remember, in the 1950s the FA Amateur Cup Final could lure a 100,000 crowd to Wembley) is confined to a much smaller fringe. There are thick, glossy magazines to buy, too, instead of a few flimsy pages of match programme; a place to sit and a roof over your head instead of a standing space on an open terrace; and pounds in the pocket rather than shillings and pence.
The money is important, of course. Take the cost of admission to Carrow Road. Even as late as the 1960s, when the club still had only two revenue streams - season ticket sales and cash taken at the turnstiles - the price of an average standing terrace ticket (complete with Entertainments Tax postage stamp) stayed more or less in line with the cost of admission to the Odeon. It was a warm seat versus standing on a cold square of concrete. And it was a dilemma for many. Nowadays, however, the price of a seat at Carrow Road might cost as much as the best part of a row of seats at the cinema.
Financially, therefore, something somewhere seems to have got out of kilter. Mind you, football is not a team game any more, but a squad game, so I suppose someone has to pay for all the extra players sitting on the bench!
There are many other differences, of course. In the 1940s/50s fans were more stoical, relaxed and good humoured and in possession of considerably more patience and realistically lower ambitions than today. Then, a manager did not always get the sack just because his club was relegated.
If I have judged things correctly, today's fans seem to be much quicker to criticise (as opposed to just moaning) and they are certainly more edgy and confrontational. All brought about, no doubt, by higher expectations, shorter tempers, and a know-all veneer created by ceaseless TV-inspired tactical and managerial chat.
By and large, though, levels of enthusiasm, and levels of grumbling, seem about the same as they ever were. Nowt's changed in that respect.
Watching a group of Norwich City fans waiting at Sheringham railway station for the Bittern Line train to Norwich, and the match, I was struck by how much things have changed for football enthusiasts since the 1940s and 1950s. Nowadays, in-vogue fashions demand close-cut hair, a surprising amount of bare skin - even in cold weather - a coy glimpse of the corner of a yellow and green scarf, hoodies or thin shirts, possibly an iPod or something of a similar ilk with bits in each ear, and most certainly a mobile phone.
In my youth it would have been a rosette, wooden rattle, raincoat or greatcoat, a coloured scarf and quite often a 'pirate' or unofficial programme.
However, the changes are actually much wider and deeper than this. Today, fans tend to get to the match by train, car or coach, whereas once it was bus, bike, or a lot of walking. And there is also much more commercialisation, while amateurism (remember, in the 1950s the FA Amateur Cup Final could lure a 100,000 crowd to Wembley) is confined to a much smaller fringe. There are thick, glossy magazines to buy, too, instead of a few flimsy pages of match programme; a place to sit and a roof over your head instead of a standing space on an open terrace; and pounds in the pocket rather than shillings and pence.
The money is important, of course. Take the cost of admission to Carrow Road. Even as late as the 1960s, when the club still had only two revenue streams - season ticket sales and cash taken at the turnstiles - the price of an average standing terrace ticket (complete with Entertainments Tax postage stamp) stayed more or less in line with the cost of admission to the Odeon. It was a warm seat versus standing on a cold square of concrete. And it was a dilemma for many. Nowadays, however, the price of a seat at Carrow Road might cost as much as the best part of a row of seats at the cinema.
Financially, therefore, something somewhere seems to have got out of kilter. Mind you, football is not a team game any more, but a squad game, so I suppose someone has to pay for all the extra players sitting on the bench!
There are many other differences, of course. In the 1940s/50s fans were more stoical, relaxed and good humoured and in possession of considerably more patience and realistically lower ambitions than today. Then, a manager did not always get the sack just because his club was relegated.
If I have judged things correctly, today's fans seem to be much quicker to criticise (as opposed to just moaning) and they are certainly more edgy and confrontational. All brought about, no doubt, by higher expectations, shorter tempers, and a know-all veneer created by ceaseless TV-inspired tactical and managerial chat.
By and large, though, levels of enthusiasm, and levels of grumbling, seem about the same as they ever were. Nowt's changed in that respect.
Monday 14 April 2014
CHAPTER & VERSE
In the months before retirement I finally decided what I wanted to do for the next few years. I wanted to write books (local - meaning Norfolk - mainly history, with an occasional novel thrown in), design them, and publish them myself. Thus the embryo idea of Elmstead Publications was born. In anticipation of the great event I bought a new PC with PageMaker software, and even went on a short course to learn how to use it. When actual retirement finally came around, in 1993, I was thus more or less prepared.
Initially, it went well. I found a book distributor, completed a new title (Norfolk Fragments), struggled with the software but completed the task in the end, and then searched for a printer. And it was at this moment that a problem arose. It was in 1994, remember, before Print on Demand was readily available, before small-run digital printing had expanded, before Amazon's influence had begun to make its mark in our corner of the woods, and before web sites were easily available.
The first printer I approached who would accept my book (illustrations, full pagination) entirely on disk, said his minimum print run was 15,000. For economic reasons, he could not do anything smaller. I doubted if my modest title would attract that amount of interest. Then a second printer, citing similar reasons, plucked a minimum run of 5,000 out of the air. It was still not ideal, and I managed to talk him down to a run of 3,000 copies.
During the next seven years I produced seven titles. Sales turned out to be disappointingly small, and I made not the slightest profit on any of them. But I enjoyed it - getting several long-planned books out of my system - even though the admin and the paperwork was a serious distraction. Then I realised this vanity thing - if it was actually vanity - was costing me more and more time and money, and in the end I called a halt and sold off the remainder of the stock.
But time and money were not the main reasons I stopped.The fact was I no longer knew how to market or price titles. By this time, of course, we were into the 21st century and life in the literary world was changing fast. And is still changing. It all got above my head.
Take sales. You produced a new title, most often in the summer, and placed it in the shops at the full (unit cost plus a tiny profit) price. By late August, however, shopkeepers were looking for reduced price stock for Christmas, followed by greatly-reduced price stock for the January sales (which seemed to go on into May). In effect, this meant that I could charge the full price only in a 'window' lasting a few weeks in June and July. After that, cheapies and loss-makers ruled the roost. And the second year? Well, my title was now 'old stock,' and needed to be reduced even further.
But that was not the end of it, because some shops became increasingly unhelpful. One chain, for example, announced it was shortening the shelf life of its local books and that any unsold copies (which had already been bought and paid for by the chain) had to be returned to the publisher (dog-eared by now, of course) and the original shop purchase price refunded. I declined, of course, and lost that outlet. Another blow was that the local library service, which had previously bought 50 copies of almost any new title for its library branches, now switched tactics. Instead of a book in each branch, they bought only two copies, and moved the titles around the branches.
So with inroads into the book market eating away at the economics, I found (a) that I didn't have enough of a market left, and (b) didn't know how to price titles in order to at least try to cover costs. I suppose I'm just one more unsatisfied author with a cupboard full of unpublished manuscripts.
In the months before retirement I finally decided what I wanted to do for the next few years. I wanted to write books (local - meaning Norfolk - mainly history, with an occasional novel thrown in), design them, and publish them myself. Thus the embryo idea of Elmstead Publications was born. In anticipation of the great event I bought a new PC with PageMaker software, and even went on a short course to learn how to use it. When actual retirement finally came around, in 1993, I was thus more or less prepared.
Initially, it went well. I found a book distributor, completed a new title (Norfolk Fragments), struggled with the software but completed the task in the end, and then searched for a printer. And it was at this moment that a problem arose. It was in 1994, remember, before Print on Demand was readily available, before small-run digital printing had expanded, before Amazon's influence had begun to make its mark in our corner of the woods, and before web sites were easily available.
The first printer I approached who would accept my book (illustrations, full pagination) entirely on disk, said his minimum print run was 15,000. For economic reasons, he could not do anything smaller. I doubted if my modest title would attract that amount of interest. Then a second printer, citing similar reasons, plucked a minimum run of 5,000 out of the air. It was still not ideal, and I managed to talk him down to a run of 3,000 copies.
During the next seven years I produced seven titles. Sales turned out to be disappointingly small, and I made not the slightest profit on any of them. But I enjoyed it - getting several long-planned books out of my system - even though the admin and the paperwork was a serious distraction. Then I realised this vanity thing - if it was actually vanity - was costing me more and more time and money, and in the end I called a halt and sold off the remainder of the stock.
But time and money were not the main reasons I stopped.The fact was I no longer knew how to market or price titles. By this time, of course, we were into the 21st century and life in the literary world was changing fast. And is still changing. It all got above my head.
Take sales. You produced a new title, most often in the summer, and placed it in the shops at the full (unit cost plus a tiny profit) price. By late August, however, shopkeepers were looking for reduced price stock for Christmas, followed by greatly-reduced price stock for the January sales (which seemed to go on into May). In effect, this meant that I could charge the full price only in a 'window' lasting a few weeks in June and July. After that, cheapies and loss-makers ruled the roost. And the second year? Well, my title was now 'old stock,' and needed to be reduced even further.
But that was not the end of it, because some shops became increasingly unhelpful. One chain, for example, announced it was shortening the shelf life of its local books and that any unsold copies (which had already been bought and paid for by the chain) had to be returned to the publisher (dog-eared by now, of course) and the original shop purchase price refunded. I declined, of course, and lost that outlet. Another blow was that the local library service, which had previously bought 50 copies of almost any new title for its library branches, now switched tactics. Instead of a book in each branch, they bought only two copies, and moved the titles around the branches.
So with inroads into the book market eating away at the economics, I found (a) that I didn't have enough of a market left, and (b) didn't know how to price titles in order to at least try to cover costs. I suppose I'm just one more unsatisfied author with a cupboard full of unpublished manuscripts.
Friday 11 April 2014
CONE OF DELIGHT
I read in my newspaper recently that the ice cream cone has fallen out of fashion. Apparently it has been overtaken in public popularity by the ugly and bottomless tub, which implies that some people are eating much more ice cream - in one session - than they ever used to in years past. A triumph, as one writer put it, 'of gluttony over style.'
The evidence does seem persuasive. According to research by a grocery trade magazine, the sales of big tubs rose last year by nearly seven per cent, while those of cones fell by over five per cent. However, does this reflect a genuine countrywide pattern, or is this lamentable behaviour restricted to a London-centric clientele? This latter is a catchment area, remember, which a good many publications and media outlets elevate to the status of being the only barometer necessary in order to test consumer patterns of the entire UK.
Some of us in non-London habitats have our doubts, and my own recent non-scientific research merely underlines this hesitation. Here in our nice little seaside town, and thanks to an early seasonal improvement in the weather, several of the ice cream shops opened, placing hope above business logic. But open they did.
Thus a recent brief check of a favourite outdoor public eating place on the gull-haunted promenade overlooking the sea, and despite a rivetingly cold northerly wind, established that all four people huddled there were not only eating ice creams, but all of them were cones. Indeed, and now that the weather has improved even further and even more visitors are coming, a majority still seem to prefer cones.
A thought has just occurred to me. Perhaps this is actually why the visitors come. Perhaps they represent a countrywide movement whereby refugees flee the tubbist areas in order to seek the homelands of the cone. Or perhaps there is some sort of mystical relationship between the ice cream cone and the seaside.
There is, of course, a scarcely remembered victim in all this, and it used to be called the block. When I were a lad the rather gentile transport cafe opposite our home used to advertise Eldorado ice cream. You could get a cone (though we called it a cornet back then), when a tiny circular piece of ice cream was unwrapped and screwed into the top; or you could actually get a tub, a squitty little thing with a peel-back lid adorned by a wooden spoon.
True experts, however, actually preferred the wafer, or the block, simply because it was larger. You were handed an oblong block of ice cream wrapped in paper, and two ice cream-size wafers. The difficult bit was holding a single wafer in one hand while opening the wrapping with the other. Then you had to plonk the ice cream block on to the bottom wafer and slap on the top wafer while still holding the paper. And even before you could sink your teeth into this blissful Eldorado confection, you still had to find a waste bin in which to deposit the wrapper.
The block, therefore, was educational, teaching hand/eye co-ordination and, with a waste bin to hand, public responsibility. With the cone, of course, you eat everything because there is no wrapper. So it is much more environmentally friendly.
Even so, the block and the tiny tub seem to have largely disappeared, supplanted by the big tub, some of them (as with coffee) as big as buckets. Only the cone (or the cornet) stands aloof as a monument to civilised living. I don't think it is quite finished yet.
I read in my newspaper recently that the ice cream cone has fallen out of fashion. Apparently it has been overtaken in public popularity by the ugly and bottomless tub, which implies that some people are eating much more ice cream - in one session - than they ever used to in years past. A triumph, as one writer put it, 'of gluttony over style.'
The evidence does seem persuasive. According to research by a grocery trade magazine, the sales of big tubs rose last year by nearly seven per cent, while those of cones fell by over five per cent. However, does this reflect a genuine countrywide pattern, or is this lamentable behaviour restricted to a London-centric clientele? This latter is a catchment area, remember, which a good many publications and media outlets elevate to the status of being the only barometer necessary in order to test consumer patterns of the entire UK.
Some of us in non-London habitats have our doubts, and my own recent non-scientific research merely underlines this hesitation. Here in our nice little seaside town, and thanks to an early seasonal improvement in the weather, several of the ice cream shops opened, placing hope above business logic. But open they did.
Thus a recent brief check of a favourite outdoor public eating place on the gull-haunted promenade overlooking the sea, and despite a rivetingly cold northerly wind, established that all four people huddled there were not only eating ice creams, but all of them were cones. Indeed, and now that the weather has improved even further and even more visitors are coming, a majority still seem to prefer cones.
A thought has just occurred to me. Perhaps this is actually why the visitors come. Perhaps they represent a countrywide movement whereby refugees flee the tubbist areas in order to seek the homelands of the cone. Or perhaps there is some sort of mystical relationship between the ice cream cone and the seaside.
There is, of course, a scarcely remembered victim in all this, and it used to be called the block. When I were a lad the rather gentile transport cafe opposite our home used to advertise Eldorado ice cream. You could get a cone (though we called it a cornet back then), when a tiny circular piece of ice cream was unwrapped and screwed into the top; or you could actually get a tub, a squitty little thing with a peel-back lid adorned by a wooden spoon.
True experts, however, actually preferred the wafer, or the block, simply because it was larger. You were handed an oblong block of ice cream wrapped in paper, and two ice cream-size wafers. The difficult bit was holding a single wafer in one hand while opening the wrapping with the other. Then you had to plonk the ice cream block on to the bottom wafer and slap on the top wafer while still holding the paper. And even before you could sink your teeth into this blissful Eldorado confection, you still had to find a waste bin in which to deposit the wrapper.
The block, therefore, was educational, teaching hand/eye co-ordination and, with a waste bin to hand, public responsibility. With the cone, of course, you eat everything because there is no wrapper. So it is much more environmentally friendly.
Even so, the block and the tiny tub seem to have largely disappeared, supplanted by the big tub, some of them (as with coffee) as big as buckets. Only the cone (or the cornet) stands aloof as a monument to civilised living. I don't think it is quite finished yet.
Tuesday 8 April 2014
THE SUPREMES?
Being more interested in Benny Goodman and Beethoven than current pop music, I am hardly the right person to pass comment on the genre, but I have noticed that mention of a particular experience of mine in Singapore in the mid-1980s does sometimes cause a youngster's eyebrows to twitch with a modicum of interest.
I was in Singapore with a party of former Far East prisoners of war and some of their family members and relatives, and we were staying a few days prior to moving on to Thailand. We had visited Kranji war cemetery and Changi prison and other sites and places the veterans remembered, and I have to say that some of those who had been there 40 years' earlier found it all understandably difficult to deal with.
At the hotel one evening two or three younger members of the group, myself included, came up with the idea of walking to Raffles Hotel to enjoy a Singapore Sling. So we sauntered through the still-busy streets, enjoying the cool after an exceptionally humid day, found Raffles without too much trouble, and went in.
Initially, we were unimpressed with the famous old place, because the bar looked a little careworn, the gin-sling was so-so, and the prices high. Nevertheless, we managed to peep into the glorious Tiffin Room and saw the indoor garden area with the bedrooms - many of them named after famous people - arrayed around the verandah. But what interested us even more was the hustle and bustle in one of the central areas where tables were being laid, pot plants arranged, and a small stage organised.
'What's happening?' we asked the staff. 'Private do later tonight,' they said. 'They've got The Supremes coming.' Or was it the Three Degrees?
There and then we decided to go back later, and that was when we discovered that the 'do' was a big gathering of car dealers, and that the group had been booked as the entertainment. My companions convinced me this was an opportunity of a lifetime, so we waited until the show had begun and then, with everyone distracted, gained access to a spot where we could look down on the proceedings.
To my way of thinking the entertainment was pulsatingly and uncomfortably loud and seemed to last a very long time, but no-one saw us and no-one moved us, so in one sense it was mission accomplished. My companions, in any event, were starry eyed with rapture, and strolled back through the Singapore night feeling everything was OK with the world.
We eventually reached our hotel and went in - and there, drinking coffee and sprawled over the chairs in the foyer, were the three singers. Emboldened, we went across and said 'hello,' and told them we had sneaked into the concert. They seemed amused. Then a waiter brought another round of coffee, so we stayed and chatted.
They really were very nice, and very American. 'Where you boys from?' one of the girls asked at some point. From Norwich, UK., we said. 'Naarridge,' one of them replied. 'We've been there.' They talked among themselves and finally agreed that, yes, they had been to Naarridge, but it was only to change planes. Then after about 20 minutes of chatting they said 'bye' and floated away.
Subsequently, I have been puzzled by this experience because I gleaned later that The Supremes actually disbanded in about 1977. And this incident was a good eight years' later. Perhaps it was not The Supremes, but another group, Mary Wilson and The Supremes. Or the Three Degrees.
I wish I had paid more attention at the time.
Being more interested in Benny Goodman and Beethoven than current pop music, I am hardly the right person to pass comment on the genre, but I have noticed that mention of a particular experience of mine in Singapore in the mid-1980s does sometimes cause a youngster's eyebrows to twitch with a modicum of interest.
I was in Singapore with a party of former Far East prisoners of war and some of their family members and relatives, and we were staying a few days prior to moving on to Thailand. We had visited Kranji war cemetery and Changi prison and other sites and places the veterans remembered, and I have to say that some of those who had been there 40 years' earlier found it all understandably difficult to deal with.
At the hotel one evening two or three younger members of the group, myself included, came up with the idea of walking to Raffles Hotel to enjoy a Singapore Sling. So we sauntered through the still-busy streets, enjoying the cool after an exceptionally humid day, found Raffles without too much trouble, and went in.
Initially, we were unimpressed with the famous old place, because the bar looked a little careworn, the gin-sling was so-so, and the prices high. Nevertheless, we managed to peep into the glorious Tiffin Room and saw the indoor garden area with the bedrooms - many of them named after famous people - arrayed around the verandah. But what interested us even more was the hustle and bustle in one of the central areas where tables were being laid, pot plants arranged, and a small stage organised.
'What's happening?' we asked the staff. 'Private do later tonight,' they said. 'They've got The Supremes coming.' Or was it the Three Degrees?
There and then we decided to go back later, and that was when we discovered that the 'do' was a big gathering of car dealers, and that the group had been booked as the entertainment. My companions convinced me this was an opportunity of a lifetime, so we waited until the show had begun and then, with everyone distracted, gained access to a spot where we could look down on the proceedings.
To my way of thinking the entertainment was pulsatingly and uncomfortably loud and seemed to last a very long time, but no-one saw us and no-one moved us, so in one sense it was mission accomplished. My companions, in any event, were starry eyed with rapture, and strolled back through the Singapore night feeling everything was OK with the world.
We eventually reached our hotel and went in - and there, drinking coffee and sprawled over the chairs in the foyer, were the three singers. Emboldened, we went across and said 'hello,' and told them we had sneaked into the concert. They seemed amused. Then a waiter brought another round of coffee, so we stayed and chatted.
They really were very nice, and very American. 'Where you boys from?' one of the girls asked at some point. From Norwich, UK., we said. 'Naarridge,' one of them replied. 'We've been there.' They talked among themselves and finally agreed that, yes, they had been to Naarridge, but it was only to change planes. Then after about 20 minutes of chatting they said 'bye' and floated away.
Subsequently, I have been puzzled by this experience because I gleaned later that The Supremes actually disbanded in about 1977. And this incident was a good eight years' later. Perhaps it was not The Supremes, but another group, Mary Wilson and The Supremes. Or the Three Degrees.
I wish I had paid more attention at the time.
Sunday 6 April 2014
THE REFUGEES
It is a plain fact that many wars over the last century have been fought with bombs, bayonets and bullets, and no doubt many more conflicts will follow suit; but increasingly, the constantly redefined art of propaganda has also entered the equation. Anything you can do to show your enemy in a poor light is generally thought to be good for the cause. I have no doubt the theory works, too.
By 1942 the military authorities had been infiltrating Norfolk's Breckland area for 25 years or so, appropriating more and more acres for training and equipment testing, creating at the same time increasing levels of local resentment. By the summer of that year, however, the War Department had already decided it needed an even greater area for 'realistic' training using live ammunition, and at least one of the inhabitants of one of the affected farms firmly believed they would take all of the land south of the Tottington-Stanford road towards Thetford. She was subsequently proved right, but in fact the real situation was worse than even she supposed.
In 1947, two years' after the Second World War, Norfolk County Council produced a Review of the Facts, and here, for the first time, the full effects of the War Department's requisition of what became known as the Battle Area was fully revealed. It probably caught the general public by surprise, for much of this War-time activity had been cloaked in secrecy, and in consequence had hardly been publicised at all.
According to the NCC report, the villages of West Tofts, Stanford and Tottington were taken in their entirety, while Sturston and Thompson were sorely affected. The Army was thus in control of 5,600 acres of arable land, 7,800 acres of heathland, and over 4,500 acres of grasslands, private woodlands and Forestry Commission holdings. They had also appropriated over a hundred acres of land under water. All roads in the designated area were closed (which effectively cut off Watton from Thetford and Brandon), while the B1108 and the B1110 were closed in part, along with four rights of way.
And the inhabitants of the farms and villages? Well, over 1,000 people were said to have been evacuated from 160 houses and 16 farms. This little locality would never be the same again.
Five years' earlier, in July, 1942, at an open meeting for the affected communities, the Army actually gave quite different figures. The GOC-in-C, Eastern Command, said the overall requisition involved 18,000 acres, 30 farms, 150 houses and cottages, three schools, two pubs, 34 miles of roadway, and affected some 800 people. There were promises of compensation and alternative housing, and so, with little actual alternative, the people began to leave their homes in dribs and drabs.
Farmstock and implements were auctioned off, final crops harvested, the animals - particularly farm horses - sold, and many pets destroyed. So folk straggled away, some in groups and some in convoys of vehicles and wagons, their possessions piled high, accompanied by troops and the police. Alas, there were more hardships to come, and much distress, not helped by the knowledge that the evictions were not even debated in the House of Commons until August of that year.
But to get back to the subject of propaganda. Not many photographs were taken of these refugees as they straggled away from their homes and farms and villages. At least, I have not seen any. And if any were taken, how much would they have been worth to the enemy? 'British troops forcing British people away from their homes.' You can even sense the Nazi captions. To the enemy, the pictures would have been invaluable, I think.
It is a plain fact that many wars over the last century have been fought with bombs, bayonets and bullets, and no doubt many more conflicts will follow suit; but increasingly, the constantly redefined art of propaganda has also entered the equation. Anything you can do to show your enemy in a poor light is generally thought to be good for the cause. I have no doubt the theory works, too.
By 1942 the military authorities had been infiltrating Norfolk's Breckland area for 25 years or so, appropriating more and more acres for training and equipment testing, creating at the same time increasing levels of local resentment. By the summer of that year, however, the War Department had already decided it needed an even greater area for 'realistic' training using live ammunition, and at least one of the inhabitants of one of the affected farms firmly believed they would take all of the land south of the Tottington-Stanford road towards Thetford. She was subsequently proved right, but in fact the real situation was worse than even she supposed.
In 1947, two years' after the Second World War, Norfolk County Council produced a Review of the Facts, and here, for the first time, the full effects of the War Department's requisition of what became known as the Battle Area was fully revealed. It probably caught the general public by surprise, for much of this War-time activity had been cloaked in secrecy, and in consequence had hardly been publicised at all.
According to the NCC report, the villages of West Tofts, Stanford and Tottington were taken in their entirety, while Sturston and Thompson were sorely affected. The Army was thus in control of 5,600 acres of arable land, 7,800 acres of heathland, and over 4,500 acres of grasslands, private woodlands and Forestry Commission holdings. They had also appropriated over a hundred acres of land under water. All roads in the designated area were closed (which effectively cut off Watton from Thetford and Brandon), while the B1108 and the B1110 were closed in part, along with four rights of way.
And the inhabitants of the farms and villages? Well, over 1,000 people were said to have been evacuated from 160 houses and 16 farms. This little locality would never be the same again.
Five years' earlier, in July, 1942, at an open meeting for the affected communities, the Army actually gave quite different figures. The GOC-in-C, Eastern Command, said the overall requisition involved 18,000 acres, 30 farms, 150 houses and cottages, three schools, two pubs, 34 miles of roadway, and affected some 800 people. There were promises of compensation and alternative housing, and so, with little actual alternative, the people began to leave their homes in dribs and drabs.
Farmstock and implements were auctioned off, final crops harvested, the animals - particularly farm horses - sold, and many pets destroyed. So folk straggled away, some in groups and some in convoys of vehicles and wagons, their possessions piled high, accompanied by troops and the police. Alas, there were more hardships to come, and much distress, not helped by the knowledge that the evictions were not even debated in the House of Commons until August of that year.
But to get back to the subject of propaganda. Not many photographs were taken of these refugees as they straggled away from their homes and farms and villages. At least, I have not seen any. And if any were taken, how much would they have been worth to the enemy? 'British troops forcing British people away from their homes.' You can even sense the Nazi captions. To the enemy, the pictures would have been invaluable, I think.
Thursday 3 April 2014
GEDNEY DROVE END
There always was an edge-of-the-world emptiness about the place. Even the siren call of the wind and the great spaces of sky seemed to be trying to lure you into the unknown. Some of the local names had a Dickensian spookiness about them, too: Black Barn, Crabs' Hole, Boat Mere, Leamlands, and Bleak House. And in the days immediately after the War, when our gang of bikers was happy to lean into the pedals for the full and breezy ten miles (to get there and back) there was the added macabre attraction of the then deserted Ship Inn, which sat by a sea bank frowning and somehow menacing. In those days, then, Gedney Drove End was a place-name to be spoken about only with a lowered voice, in case parents heard where we had been, and worried about it.
Present day residents of GDE, who could well love the place, might find this description grossly unfair, and it may be that it is. Indeed, and not having been there for thirty years, for all I know the village has become a trendy retreat for a monied elite. But I doubt it. GDE was more about farms and grittiness, and about fields, cropped and harvested within sight and sound of the sea and the pounding waves of the Wash; the calls of gulls, and acres of creeks and saltmarshes and linear grassy banks.
This was the main attraction for us. The military had gone, and the signal and control towers, skeletons by this time, had been stripped of equipment and left. Derelict concrete pillboxes, now empty and stinking, sulked away the hours on the sea banks, their observation slots still watching the saltmarshes for an enemy which would never come. So we pushed our bikes along this particular sea bank, leaned them against a pillbox, and drank our bottles of lemonade. Then, emboldened, we took off our shoes and slopped into the nearest jigsaw of creeks and fished around looking for bullets and souvenirs.
There were plenty of them. During their hurried departure at the end of the War the military didn't bother to take a lot of the stuff away. Instead, they dumped it, in the creeks. Valves, bits of wireless equipment, cables and bullets. Rifle bullets, and sometimes short belts or clips of automatic weapon bullets. We would fish them out, wash them in seawater puddles, and the bravest of the brave would then put a few of them in their saddlebags. They made good swaps, I seem to recall.
Otherwise, GDE was all breezy wholesomeness, full of the smell of the sea. The creeks and saltmarshes stretched towards the Wash, the wind blew in from faraway places, and the menace of the racing tides was kept at arm's length because we kept close to the banks. Sometimes, though, we collected samphire or sea shells, or went as far as to explore larger bits of debris the military had left behind. And we loved it.
Later, of course, RAF Holbeach bombing range - just a mile or two north-east of GDE - came into its own, and jets screamed overhead. And still do, for that matter. Then construction workers moved in to build a circular offshore trial bank (to test sea defence methods, some said; to check the viability of an offshore nuclear power station, claimed others). The trial bank is still there - from the air it looks just like a handbasin plug, thus earning for itself the affectionate moniker The Plughole - and I hope Gedney Drove End is still there, too.
We need edgy places like this, places where sea and sky meet in breezy confusion.
There always was an edge-of-the-world emptiness about the place. Even the siren call of the wind and the great spaces of sky seemed to be trying to lure you into the unknown. Some of the local names had a Dickensian spookiness about them, too: Black Barn, Crabs' Hole, Boat Mere, Leamlands, and Bleak House. And in the days immediately after the War, when our gang of bikers was happy to lean into the pedals for the full and breezy ten miles (to get there and back) there was the added macabre attraction of the then deserted Ship Inn, which sat by a sea bank frowning and somehow menacing. In those days, then, Gedney Drove End was a place-name to be spoken about only with a lowered voice, in case parents heard where we had been, and worried about it.
Present day residents of GDE, who could well love the place, might find this description grossly unfair, and it may be that it is. Indeed, and not having been there for thirty years, for all I know the village has become a trendy retreat for a monied elite. But I doubt it. GDE was more about farms and grittiness, and about fields, cropped and harvested within sight and sound of the sea and the pounding waves of the Wash; the calls of gulls, and acres of creeks and saltmarshes and linear grassy banks.
This was the main attraction for us. The military had gone, and the signal and control towers, skeletons by this time, had been stripped of equipment and left. Derelict concrete pillboxes, now empty and stinking, sulked away the hours on the sea banks, their observation slots still watching the saltmarshes for an enemy which would never come. So we pushed our bikes along this particular sea bank, leaned them against a pillbox, and drank our bottles of lemonade. Then, emboldened, we took off our shoes and slopped into the nearest jigsaw of creeks and fished around looking for bullets and souvenirs.
There were plenty of them. During their hurried departure at the end of the War the military didn't bother to take a lot of the stuff away. Instead, they dumped it, in the creeks. Valves, bits of wireless equipment, cables and bullets. Rifle bullets, and sometimes short belts or clips of automatic weapon bullets. We would fish them out, wash them in seawater puddles, and the bravest of the brave would then put a few of them in their saddlebags. They made good swaps, I seem to recall.
Otherwise, GDE was all breezy wholesomeness, full of the smell of the sea. The creeks and saltmarshes stretched towards the Wash, the wind blew in from faraway places, and the menace of the racing tides was kept at arm's length because we kept close to the banks. Sometimes, though, we collected samphire or sea shells, or went as far as to explore larger bits of debris the military had left behind. And we loved it.
Later, of course, RAF Holbeach bombing range - just a mile or two north-east of GDE - came into its own, and jets screamed overhead. And still do, for that matter. Then construction workers moved in to build a circular offshore trial bank (to test sea defence methods, some said; to check the viability of an offshore nuclear power station, claimed others). The trial bank is still there - from the air it looks just like a handbasin plug, thus earning for itself the affectionate moniker The Plughole - and I hope Gedney Drove End is still there, too.
We need edgy places like this, places where sea and sky meet in breezy confusion.
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