Christine McVie has recently rejoined Fleetwood Mac, and here’s a little post about her. The story of that band is like the quintessential story of a rock band, it’s got everything – early different band line up, fortuitous meetings, relationships, break-ups, drugs, fall outs, huge success and longevity against the odds. Plus, some damn good songs.
This is from the Pelham Pop Annual of 1970 (and the only year it was published as far as I can tell). Before Christine McVie married John McVie, she was Christine Perfect (her real name), a blues musician and member of the band Chicken Shack.
This is a lovely late 60s cool girl photo of her in a cafe, along with pics of other singers Marsha Hunt, Clodagh Rogers and Pat Arnold.
Inspired by my mum handing me an envelope recently which contained a lock of hair from my very first haircut in about 1975 (a family hairloom, I suppose you could call it), I’ve been thinking about the little bits of history that surround me day to day. I didn’t know this lock of hair existed until a few weeks ago so to suddenly be presented with my hair (pale, gingery brown and wavy, entirely unlike my hair now) from 40 years ago was a slightly strange experience. Especially as I now have a one-year-old daughter myself and her hair is redder but much the same.
Baby hair from my first haircut
I can never quite understand those Cash in the Attic type programmes that zoom round someone’s house, gathering up armfuls of family heirlooms to sell at auction so they can put £400 towards going on a holiday that they were probably going on anyway. Firstly, the surprise that people emit from being presented with their own possessions, as if they knew nothing about them beforehand. I can only imagine most of these things were inherited by a largely disinterested family who shoved the house-clearanced bits in a cupboard and feel utterly unattached to them. Because, secondly, they are pretty happy to just get rid of this stuff for £10 a pop at an auction house.
Me, if I owned those antiquey odds and ends, I would know about it and I certainly wouldn’t flog them for buttons just so I could stand next to Angela Rippon (delightful as I’m sure she is) and get on daytime telly.
The programme of that ilk that I still think about, and which continues to annoy me, concerned some parents who wanted to sell their heirlooms in order to buy a new heirloom for their children. Which is a pretty strange thing to do in the first place, but hey ho. What was incomprehensible though, was that the heirlooms they sold were a large set of family silver cutlery pieces, with an incredible history. They came from some Jewish ancestors who had escaped Fascist Italy during World War Two with only these bits of silver, stashed all over their body. They were lovely old pieces, and I especially loved some long spoons used for ice cream floats, with a straw incorporated in the handle. Now, the family had three children, and you’d think this would be an ideal heirloom to share around fairly, what with there being lots of separate pieces. But no, they sold them to buy one (ONE) modern art painting that the parents obviously just wanted to buy anyway. I’m not a mega fan of a lot of modern art (unless it makes me laugh) so disregard my opinion…….but it was complete rubbish. Good luck kids, sharing that.
I also have what is probably the most common 100-year-old-thing generally owned now – a brass Princess Mary tin given to the troops as a Christmas present in 1914. My Grandad carried it in World War Two to keep his tobacco and spare uniform patches in, so he probably got it from his step-dad, who’d been in the First World War. Household tip – some brown sauce polishes old brass up a treat.
Princess Mary’s brass tin
Some various wartime ephemera – a handkerchief sent to my Grandma, uniform patches and badges:
While I am in France, my heart is with you
Patches and badges
This made me realise that there must have been a brand new industry in wartime France – manufacturing souvenirs and tokens for the soldiers stationed there to send home. Although possibly only for a short time during the phony war period, I presume.
Oh, and what appears to be a live bullet Grandad brought back with him at the end of the war. Not too sure what to do with that. Or if I’m even allowed to own it.
What’s great is finding things in your house, though. Not in a Cash in the Attic way, I mean things actually as part of your house. Like when we found a newspaper from 1986 lining the shower base when we redid the bathroom. Or the general oddness of discovering a still-unexplained small bone in the plaster of the bedroom wall. And best of all, taking off some wallpaper to discover the previous, previous owners the Doyle family had written their family tree on the wall, and scribbled “The Doyles are the best!” in big letters before covering it up like a living room time capsule. This was especially great as I was captivated by a similar thing in Hancock’s Half Hour when I first saw it as a kid, when he “finds” poems by Lord Byron on his walls in East Cheam:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=eAhd1Xs0kb0
What’s fascinating is that there’s so much stuff hidden away, things that may be of great importance, just unknown, in people’s houses. What do you have passed from the past?
The late, great Russell Harty. I love him as an interviewer – he’s funny yet gently probing. This 1974 book, Russell Harty Plus, is a transcript of a number of his interviews. I can’t quite imagine transcripts of chat shows being published now. But then, celebrities wouldn’t always be plugging things in those days, it really could be all about the chat.
Here’s Barbara Cartland, talking about her love of glamour, vitamin pills and eating powdered brain (what?). She got her Damehood in the end.
The 1970s are strangely tainted at the minute, as you don’t need me to tell you. “The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there,” said L. P. Hartley in The Go-Between (note, this is not J. R. Hartley of Fly Fishing fame). This seems fairly self evident of a century ago, but quite odd to think of the decade of my birth as belonging to such a different social landscape to now.
Oh, that’s wonderful!
Not that today’s book is the greatest example of such a gulf in attitudes, but still, things would be done differently today.
The Art of Drinksmanship is a book from 1975 that I refuse to believe is not in the personal library of Steph and Dom, the posh ones from Gogglebox. If you want to party 1970s style (er…) then this is the manual for you. I feel well disposed to this book largely because it sounds like an off-shoot of Stephen Potter’s Gamesmanship. The 1940s and 50s Gamesmanship, Oneupmanship, Lifemanship and Supermanship books are a must for the comedy lover, some of the funniest books I have read. In them, there are many forms of getting one over on someone else – gambits on how doctors can maintain superiority over their patients, how babies can employ “Babymanship” by wobbling their head alarmingly and worrying their parents, and how you can stay one up on your friends and colleagues in general. The proponent of these gambits is called the “Lifeman” and, therefore the reader of this book could be called the “Drinksman”. I do know one or two people who could genuinely hold that title – Simon Lawson, I’m looking at you.
The Art of Drinksmanship, 1975
There’s lots of colourful pictures of the many boozes of the world. What immediately struck me, though, was the answer to a perennial problem of mine – how to serve a lovely old bottle of Burgundy? I mean, now I see it, it’s obvious. A nice cut glass decanter and glasses, some rather indulgent pate….and a dead duck, artfully draped. It’s touching the decanter! It’s eyes are still weeping! Who came up with that idea?
1970s barmaid. There was a good reason for this picture, it was illustrating a very salient point that I seem to have forgotten.
The 1970s, there
Instructions on how to have a party, 1975-style. Can’t help thinking that jumpers-on-shoulders guy is feeling slightly awkward at this party. He’s come smart casual, everyone else is at a Moroccan orgy.
Party, 1975-style
Hangover cures. Basically – if you can hold of an oxygen canister, you’re laughing. I agree with it though, speaking as someone who is completely rubbish at drinking – loads of water is the key. When the party’s over
Words, words, glorious words;
Nothing quite like them for polishing turds….
I’ve always loved words, I even used to collect them when I was younger. Interesting words I found I would write down in a little book, ready to spring into use when I inevitably wrote my Gilbert and Sullivan-style operetta. Just the usual kid stuff.
My first favourite words were Sweet Lemons. Nice and simple and lots of E’s, which I felt a special affinity with, being the first letter of “Estelle”. Plus, it’s a nice oxymoron.
The name Estelle itself was interesting as well. I didn’t know anyone else called it, and I was quite taken with the idea that I was named after a character in a book – Estella from Great Expectations. Mum loved the book, and as soon as I read it (although that wasn’t until I was an adult for some reason – I rather felt like it was waiting for the right time) it became my favourite book straightaway. It’s perfect – no one writes people like Dickens, the scenes are vivid sketches in their own right, and it’s still funny (Pip’s real name being Philip Pirrip made me laugh on page one and I knew then that we would get on). And for a lover of words, the names of Dickens’ characters are an untrammelled delight. Jaggers, Magwitch, Wemmick and his Aged P….
The fact that my husband’s middle name is Phillip is a good sign, I think. And thanks Mum, I can’t think of a better name for me – a name meaning star for someone who loves Dickens, anything Victorian and space.
As a teenager I loved Jewel and Jeepster, especially as both were dead cool T. Rex songs as well as being pleasing to my eye. And I had a “thing” about the letter J for a while.
Now my favourite words would have to be Nebula, Ephemera and Interstellar. Although the first two are gloriously woody, I’m troubled slightly by the fact that Interstellar is a bit tinny. But it’s a bit like my name, so I like it nonetheless. This Monty Python sketch had a big effect on me.
Tell me yours!
(The strange featured image for this post is the Engraved Hourglass Nebula, if you were wondering.)
I’ve had a lot of fun since I started this blog. I’ve had the excuse to read more and also add to my old book collection. I’ve discovered the joys of the Ebay ephemera section and now have old letters, receipts from 1913, bits of Liverpool history, old pages from children’s books that I’ve framed for the baby’s room and strange old Happy Family cards. And the ephemera led me to discovering about Victorian stereoscopes and stereographic photographs, the collecting of which could very likely become a new hobby of mine. I’ve had two excellent guest blog posts (and I’m keen for more, if anyone’s got any interesting old stuff they want to write about out there).
But surely the greatest thing that’s happened so far is finding out about The Jon Pertwee Recipe Book. Not that I found it, it’s more that it found me. A blog post about a celebrity cookbook from 1986, that crucially contained some Worzel Gummidge recipes, alerted the Pertosphere to my presence – here. The Pertosphere also being known as this forum dedicated to the study of this (definitely canon) book.
And so I obviously needed my own copy. When it comes to locating specific out of print books, I’ve never been more grateful for the existence of the internet. I mean, imagine, in those mid 1990s days before I had even sent an email, I was busy doing…..er, well, all those things I used to do before the internet. Playing the card game Pit, watching Steve Coogan’s Live ‘n’ Lewd video on repeat, going out and playing pool while drinking terrible and terribly cheap drinks, all that kind of thing. Just imagine trying to locate a copy of an old book from 1973 when you aren’t really sure what it’s called anyway, just by going to charity shops and hoping.
Because that’s one of the best things about The Jon Pertwee Recipe Book. It’s not called The Jon Pertwee Recipe Book. And it doesn’t mention Jon Pertwee once within its pages, either. What it does have is this picture on the back cover, of BBC TV’s Doctor Who:
And it’s actually called Baking your Cake and Eating it, a budget cookbook from the Co-op, with recipes sent in by members of the public.
The most striking recipe is this, Banana Doolittle. Which has been attempted, impressively, by a member of the aforementioned forum, with interesting results. And this isn’t even the only 1970s recipe I have that crosses the pork/banana nexus. It was a strange decade. I like to think it’s something even too outré for Heston Blumenthal.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
But there’s also such delights as the Pensioner’s Casserole (I think I can smell the cabbage all the way from 1973):
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
Mock Roast (basically meatloaf):
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
And Cheese Whispers, an impressive cocktail savoury made with instant mash. Well, it says it’s impressive. I haven’t made it.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
I’ve still got all the coupons in the middle too – I could have saved 2p if they hadn’t expired in 1974.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
I’ve made one of the rather more seasonal recipes. Last weekend it was Stir-Up Sunday, time to get the Christmas Pudding on the go. Here’s another, rather quicker, variation – Christmas Bunloaves by Mrs Margaret Edwards of Everton, Liverpool. Her family have been making it for at least 80 years, so that’s back to the 1890s, and it means it also fulfils my remit of making vintage recipes. I’d made a big pot of scouse for dinner, so surely this local delicacy will be perfect to follow.
Christmas Bunloaves (From Mrs Margaret Edwards, Everton, Liverpool who says the recipe has been handed down in her family for over eighty years)
-—-——————————————————————————————-
2 lb plain flour
1 lb soft brown sugar
1/2 lb white sugar
2 tsp baking powder
4 tsp mixed spice
2 tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp ground ginger
1/2 lb lard
1/2 lb margarine
1/2 lb raisins (stoned and chopped)
1/2 lb sultanas
1 lb currants
2 oz chopped glacé cherries
2 oz candied peel
1/2 pint milk (or slightly more)
5 eggs
1/2 tsp almond essence
Lemon juice
1. Mix dry ingredients together, rub in fat, add fruit and candied peel.
2. Beat up eggs in milk, add essence and a few drops lemon juice.
3. Mix all together until moist but not too stiff.
4. Line two large loaf tins, pour mixture in and cover well with greaseproof paper. To give a shiny top, pat a little milk gently over the top before covering.
5. Bake at Mark 3 (325 degrees F, 160 degrees C) for 3 hours. Will make two 3 1/2 lb loaves.
——————————————————————————————–
I only made half portions – I think Mrs Edwards might have been cooking for a big old Liverpool Catholic family at Christmas and I don’t have a mixing bowl up to the job.
For 1970s authenticity, I used Stork.
Stork and lard. Look at all those lumps of fat.
Add the spices. OK, I’ve misread the instructions and added the spices too late. It’s fine, though.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
And into the Kitchen Machine it goes. Hawkwind’s Silver Machine is usually the tune in my head when I use this – not only does it scan, but….it’s also silver! BBC TV’s Doctor Who is helping out here. The spices being rubbed into the fat and flour start to smell pretty amazing now.
Being a Christmas recipe, a ton of dried fruit is in order. Currants, sultanas AND raisins are called for, of which currants are deemed most important.
The fruit, with candied peel and a meagre amount of glacé cherries.
Stir up the milk, eggs, almond essence and lemon juice, mix it in and dollop in your loaf tin. I don’t think this part is very budget-y, I had to buy a bottle of almond essence for just 1/4 teaspoons-worth. Still.
Then clumsily brush some milk on top for a shiny top, and decorate with the aforementioned currant, raisin and sultana, if you’re being fancy. Make sure to cover with the greaseproof paper because this baby is going in the oven for three whole hours and you don’t want a burnt top. This is the heaviest thing I’ve ever baked.
And here it is, a lovely shiny-topped fruity loaf.
Serving suggestion – get every Pertwee-related item in your house and arrange it around the Bunloaf. It turns out that about half my possessions are Pertwee-based.
Worzel serving suggestion – a cup o’ tea and a slice o’ cake.
Verdict – this is definitely a vintage recipe, it tastes very much like it’s from 1890. Like tea round your nan’s house. Slightly dry – better with a little slick of butter, and even better toasted first. The budget nature of the cookbook has possibly scrimped on glacé cherries, I’d add about 4 times as many next time. And a bit of booze wouldn’t go amiss. But – good! Very Christmassy and traditional.
Oh, the crazy things we ate in the 1990s! Actually, although this is obviously from The Fast Show Book, I did make some cheesy peas while the programme was on and they were pretty good. Not that I’ve made them since, mind.
I didn’t have this book at the time, which was rather an oversight to my comedy book collection, and so I was overjoyed to see it in a charity shop last week. My 1996 status meant I had no spare money for such things – I was a student, and then a shop assistant in Liverpool’s finest hippy shop, Quiggins, at £2.50 an hour with no sick pay and 12 days holiday a year (some of which you had to keep back so you still got paid if you were ill). Thank the monkey for employment laws changing considerably since then.
The Fast Show Book, 1996
Unlucky Alf. Oh, I could hardly watch this it made me feel so stricken. One of Paul Whitehouse’s finest hours.
These are the last bits here that I’m going to post from Radio Luxembourg’s official magazine annual, Fab 208, from 1976.
Incidentally, this was a present in about 1996 from my friend Neil, as you can see below, at one of our crazy student Christmas meals. Due to timey-wimey things, the book is nearly exactly twice as old as it was when I first got it. It seemed so funny and ancient at the time, and the fact that nearly as much time again has passed just seems impossible. Horrible thought – do current teenagers see the 1990s as funny and ancient right now? I suppose they must.
Here they ask Freddie Mercury about what type of girlfriends he likes. He’s obviously totally messing with them with his answer of Liza Minnelli and “…I enjoy a challenge as well!” Here, though, I’m mainly looking at lovely Richard O’Sullivan’s lovely face.
Fab 208, 1976
I like the incredulous, “what does he look like?” tone about this 1972 picture of Eric (my fave) from the Bay City Rollers, when he looks perfectly fine. It reminds me of 1970s Bob in Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads taking the mickey out of what appears to us as Terry’s much more sensible haircut.
Fab208 Annual, 1976
Plus, aw, Alvin Stardust. RIP, glove-meister. And thanks for this:
I’m happy to hold, read and buy any old Victorian book, really. I’m quite a visual, tangible person in general – I can’t concentrate very well on audio books and need to see the words on the page to really get into a story. I never much liked Jackanory as a child because of that (apart from Rik Mayall’s one obviously). And I’m the same with history. I’ve read so many history books (well, I do have a history degree) but seeing an old building, reading an old book, holding a piece of ephemera that has survived against the odds – they’re what brings the past to life to me.
So, when I found this 1889 book, Charles Stuart Calverley’s Fly Leaves, in a charity shop, I was interested at first purely because of its age. But I bought it mainly because, flicking through, I found that a torn page of a Liverpool Echo from 1951 had been used as a bookmark. And I really wanted to read that page. Any newspaper given time is fascinating. The most commonplace of things, the events, the layout, the adverts (especially the adverts) suddenly represents a time in a way you don’t realise while it’s your present.
Fly Leaves itself wasn’t especially interesting to me. Or at least it wasn’t until years later, when I found an appendix at the end with a spoof Charles Dickens exam on The Pickwick Papers which really made me laugh. With questions such as naming all the component parts of a dog’s nose and deducing Mr Pickwick’s maximum speed:
Fly Leaves, 1899
But the Echo was fascinating. It’s the front page, folded up for 60 years.
Liverpool Echo, 1951
Along with a strangely high number of adverts for Private Detective agencies, here are some highlights from the so-very-closely printed page.
“What colour did you say you wanted your crease-resisting chiffon velvet gown, Mrs Clarkson?”
Liverpool Echo, 1951
An advert to remove hair, moles and veins by Myra Howell’s diathermy techniques. She was a long standing presence in Bold Street – I’ve also seen adverts of hers from 1919. (An interesting side note – medical diathermy machines were used in the UK in the Second World War to jam German radio beams used for nighttime bombing raids in what was called “The Battle of the Beams”)
Liverpool Echo, 1951
An advert for E Rex Makin’s Solicitors, that must surely have been newly set up in 1951, seeing as he’s still going, and I saw him in town not too long ago. A slightly legendary figure in Liverpool life, he is. Not only has his firm been going a very long time, but he was Brian Epstein’s solicitor and involved in setting up the Beatles contract with him. Plus, he’s supposed to have invented the word “Beatlemania”.
Liverpool Echo, 1951
“Wednesday night is Landing Craft Night”
Liverpool Echo, 1951
I love this advert – a wallpaper company gegging in on an upcoming General Election.
