“Dr Williams’ pink pills for pale people” – a gloriously named pharmaceutical that sounds to me equally likely to have come from the past or some kind of Philip K Dick-style future.
The Lancashire Daily Post, 16th November, 1917
The pink pills were, however, quite a big deal around the late 19th and early 20th century. George Taylor Fulford bought the rights to the pills in 1890 and launched a huge marketing campaign for them, covering 87 countries and spending a dazzling £200,000 a year on advertising in 1900 – in Britain alone.
As the “pale people” description indicates, these were iron supplements for anaemic people. And unlike the wild claims of various cure-alls, these were genuinely medically helpful to many people, as anaemia was a common condition of the time.
A strange little postscript to the story is that George Fulford died from a car accident in 1905 – he, his chauffeur and his business partner Willis Hanson were ejected from their car as it collided with a streetcar in New York. This was not a common cause of death at this point in time, and indeed Fulford is reported by Wikipedia to be the first Canadian on record to die by automobile accident.
Dr Denis of Brittany is reported in the 1863 Birmingham Journal as having been working on discovering “the secret of the component atoms of the human frame” for fourteen years and was on the brink of success – “Nothing is wanting but the breath of life to animate the statue“.
The breath of life was to be supplied by an electric battery and, once animated, the “homunculus” (love that word) was to be available to answer questions about itself, “whether concerning his health or the state of its poor feet.” I’d like to think Dr Denis had basically invented a Victorian Teddy Ruxpin. Except he evidently didn’t do too good a job on his feet.
Sceptical? Well, “Many wise men who deem that the sight of an example is necessary before denial or irony should be permitted, have been induced to visit the doctor in his retreat, in order to behold with their own eyes what they were called upon to combat with their tongues. All have returned fully convinced of the good faith under which the doctor has been acting; many with awe-stricken wonder at what has already been accomplished…”
Over studying had driven him to a “state of lunacy”, so he was the archetypal mad scientist. And I’m guessing he didn’t succeed as I can’t find any other reference to this Dr Denis anywhere else. Plus there’s the fact the animated homunculuses didn’t play much part in 19th century history. It’s crying out to be a Doctor Who episode though….
I was reading the “10 things we didn’t know last week” on the BBC website yesterday. I was intrigued by point two – the earliest mention of pizza in the New York Times was in 1944. It seemed quite late for something that took off so fast a short while later.
I thought I’d check The British Newspaper Archive to try and find the first mention of pizza in a British Newspaper. I’ve found this, which might be it, from 1860. A correspondent from Naples describes the frankly delicious-sounding pizza to be had in that city and how it was a classless food, enjoyed by every section of society. “The pizza cake is your only social leveller”. Apparently, the pizza was “only made and eaten between sunset and two or three in the morning…” 3am? Sounds like it was made to go with a bit of booze then, and I can’t argue there.
This bit is less appealing though – “the pizza shops are about the filthiest in Naples, and whoever knows Naples will admit that is saying a good deal.” I’ve gone off the idea now.
A 1941 advert from Kellogg’s Cornflakes today – literally demonstrating their blitz spirit.
It’s apologising for the shortage of Cornflakes in the shops, while giving themselves a hell of a (deserved) pat on the back for keeping the armed forces and blitzed areas supplied with breakfast.
Velveeta isn’t a product I associate with either the UK or the 1930s, so I was surprised to see an advert for it in The Yorkshire Post from 1937. I don’t think it was sold for long in the UK though, not post-war anyway. It’s not cheese, it’s “cheese food”.
“The phosphorus in Velveeta makes it an important brain-food”, it says.
The Yorkshire Post, 1937
I first came across Velveeta processed cheese while living in Kentucky during a so-called “exchange year” in the early 1990s – I was a vegetarian at the time and I ended up eating quite a lot of it. It does make an amazing easy cheese sauce in the microwave, even though I’m not entirely sure exactly what it is, apart from being described as “American cheese”. Apparently, the official description of it now is “Pasteurized Recipe Cheese Product”. Mmmm.
I didn’t know it was as old as all that though, I thought of it as one of the convenience foods that sprung up in the 1950s. It always reminded me of Willy Loman complaining about American cheese in Death of a Salesman – “How can they whip cheese?” – and it being an indication of the zeitgeist, moving away from the traditional ways of life after the end of the War.
As every foodstuff apparently was, it’s presented here as being not only nourishing and good for you, but also suitable for invalids – very well catered for, the invalid demographic was.
More of the old pharmaceuticals today. I find these old fashioned remedies fascinating, although it seems they were mostly snake oils to varying degrees. Anything described as a “tonic” is probably not up to much, and so it seems with this, “Phosferine Tonic”, seen here in an advert from 1940.
In line with standard “cure-all” advertising, Phosferine is claimed to help with a list of ailments as long as your arm – depression, headache, indigestion, brain fag, neuralgia, sleeplessness, influenza, rheumatism, sciatica, anaemia, debility and neurasthenia. Because all those things have the same treatment, of course. I thought “Brain fag” was one of those diagnoses that didn’t exist anymore, like hysteria and brain fever, but apparently it’s a thing in Nigeria now, suffered by overworked students.
Derby Evening Telegraph, February 28th, 1940
Here’s an advert especially interesting to me as it includes a testimonial from a man living in Hall Carr, Rawtenstall, which is the place where my mum grew up.
Gloucester Citizen, 25th January, 1927
The British Medical Journal was on the case of anything calling itself a “secret remedy”, and was looking at the composition of this and other tonics back in 1911. It analysed it and found it to be mainly water, alcohol, quinine and phosphoric acid. And a bit of sulphuric acid thrown in as well – I’m not a chemist, but that’s not good as an ingredient, is it?
The British Medical Journal, 1911
I also like the damning nature of the rather sensible 1917 issue of the Seventh Day Adventist publication Herald of Health – The Indian Health Magazine, which states that “the quantities are quite insufficient to be of any use as a tonic.”
Herald of Health, 1917Herald of Health, 1917
Herald of Health also has much to say on the subject of tobacco, even in 1917 – it’s the “greatest of all curses of modern times.” Herald of Health, 1917
The Grand National is coming up soon – living in Liverpool as I do, this is a big deal in the city, although I’ve never been myself.
I was reading up about the history of the event and the provenance of one of the most infamous jumps of the race – Becher’s Brook. It was named after Captain Martin Becher, who won the first Steeplechase at Aintree in 1836, on a horse called The Duke. However, this race and the following two are now disregarded as part of the history of the Grand National proper. The first “real” Grand National was officially in 1839, although it was then called The Grand Liverpool Steeplechase. Becher also entered the 1839 race, riding on Conrad, and fell at the first brook. He survived by lying in the brook until all the horses had passed and later remarked how the experience had made him realise that “water tastes disgusting without the benefits of whisky.”
Becher sounded like quite a character – his party trick consisted of leaping onto a mantelpiece from a standing jump. Now that I’d have liked to see. Maybe he would have done better on the Brook without the horse?
We all know the Grand National is held at Aintree, which is charmingly described below as “…in the winter season not fit for the dwelling-place of a snipe possessing a sense of what is due to snipe-hood.” London Daily News, 22nd March, 1872
But was it always at Aintree? This question throws up a surprising amount of confusion which I am going to try to unravel.
This little article from The Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser explains how the first three races didn’t count, although it doesn’t explain why. Here’s the first confused facts you’ll see in this post – the 1839 race was actually on 26th February, not 24th: The Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser, 17th April, 1908
The first Steeplechase was in 1836, and held annually every year after that, and apparently all of them were called The Grand Liverpool Steeplechase until 1847. At that point, the name was changed to The Grand National Handicap Steeplechase, which is still its official title today. According to those who know, the 1836, 1837 and 1838 races originally counted as official races, but their status as official Grand Nationals was revoked at some point between 1862 and 1873. The official Grand National site states that this is because the race was originally run at the Maghull racecourse and moved to Aintree in 1839 – hence being essentially the same race from that point on, run on the same ground. But where the races were actually run from 1836 to 1838 are the subject of some dispute – Wikipedia says:
“There is much debate regarding the first official Grand National; most leading published historians, including John Pinfold, now prefer the idea that the first running was in 1836 and was won by The Duke. This same horse won again in 1837, while Sir William was the winner in 1838. These races have long been disregarded because of the belief that they took place at Maghull and not Aintree. However, some historians have unearthed evidence in recent years that suggest those three races were run over the same course at Aintree and were regarded as having been Grand Nationals up until the mid-1860s. To date, though, calls for the Nationals of 1836–1838 to be restored to the record books have been unsuccessful.”
The “some historians” include Mike Mutlow, whose site is possibly the definitive one on the subject – here. It seems to be now agreed that the 1836 race was at Aintree, but Mike says that 1837 and 1838 must have also been there, as the Maghull course closed in 1835. Which ties in with this note I found in The Dublin Evening Packet and Correspondent from the start of 1835: The Dublin Evening Packet and Correspondent, 1st January, 1835
Mike writes:
“Why would so many mistakes creep into the records of the world’s greatest steeplechase? Basically because steeplechasing was not really recognised until the late 1860s, after the National Hunt Committee was formed in 1866. The records of the Grand National were then officially compiled, but from memory only, some thirty years after the event, which is when the mistakes first crept in. These errors were then duplicated….T.H.Bird’s book (One Hundred Grand Nationals) attempts to sidestep the issue by suggesting that the 1837 and 1838 races were run over a course that stretched from Aintree to Maghull, but this is geographically impossible.”
OK, my British Newspaper Archive finger is all atwitch. Let me add my findings to the debate. Looking at the newspapers, The Grand National was a sensation right from the start, and massively popular.
Firstly – it seems to be agreed now that it was in Aintree in 1836, and so it states in the Westmorland Gazette and Kendal Advertiser: Westmorland Gazette and Kendal Advertiser, 5th March, 1836
But it’s still written in various places, including in in the official annals, that the 1837 and 1838 races were at Maghull. Well, not according to the Leeds Intelligencer in 1837: Leeds Intelligencer, 4th March, 1837
Or the Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser, which also agrees it was at Aintree: Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser, 4th March, 1837
The Preston Chronicle says it was run on the Aintree course in 1838: Preston Chronicle, 10th March, 1838
The London Morning Post agrees and gives details about what the actual course was like, even stating “The line of country chosen was the same as that run over on former occasions of a similar nature at Aintree.” The London Morning Post, 8th March, 1838
The information I’ve read says that date and place confusion arose in the 1860s when histories of the event were written for the first time, from memory, and that the previously accepted races of 1836-38 were discounted at this point because of a belief that they had been run at Maghull racetrack. But discrepancies and disagreements arose earlier than that. Most of what I could see seems to class the 1839 race as the first one almost as soon as it had been run. But not because the previously ones had been run at Maghull – there is no mention of any of them being run anywhere but Aintree. It seems to me it was for a different reason.
Here’s Lloyd’s Weekly London Newspaper mentioning the 5th anniversary in 1843 – making the first one 1839, and ignoring the first three. Lloyd’s Weekly London Newspaper, 5th March, 1843
And so also says The Coventry Standard. Perhaps it was promoted as the 5th anniversary specifically by the organisers of the time as there were numerous newspapers describing it as such. Coventry Standard, 3rd March 1843
But just to confuse things further, here’s an article about the 17th anniversary in 1853, making the first one 1837: The Era, 6th March 1853
HOWEVER, in 1842 reporting was fairly widespread stating it was the 4th anniversary of the race since it gained the distinction of being called “national”, although the details in the different newspapers seem to come from the same report. So in 1839, the designation of “national” was bestowed for the first time, hence it being officially a “different race”: The Southern Reporter and Cork Commercial Courier, 8th March, 1842
And indeed, the name may have officially changed to “Grand National” in 1847, but it’s called “national” for the first time in 1839, at least in some newspapers: The Dublin Monitor, 1st January, 1839
Bell’s Life in London and Sporting Chronicle, 27th January, 1839Bell’s Life in London and Sporting Chronicle, 24th February, 1839
And in 1840, and beyond: The London Morning Chronicle, 7th March, 1840
So, if its title and designation changed in 1839, it is justifiable that the races before that were not part of the history of the “Grand National”. But there is no reference that I can see in contemporary accounts to the 1837 and 1838 races being run at Maghull at all, and indeed the racetrack seems to have closed in 1835. It wasn’t in the 1860s that the history of the event changed, as far as I can see – it was right from the start.
But why was Maghull raised as a possibility at all? Here’s a couple of clues. In 1937 The Grand National, rather controversially, designated that year the centenary. Obviously at some later point, it officially changed its mind about that date and reverted to 1839. Why 1837? Because the 1837 race was the first one written on an old raceboard hanging in the stands at Aintree (1836 somehow fell through the gaps). It also said the race was at Maghull, which is possibly where all the confusion first arose. I suspect this scoreboard wasn’t written at the actual time of the race, otherwise why do all the newspaper accounts mention Aintree instead? The Nottingham Evening Post, 17th March, 1937
And then this became a local urban legend, propagated by local farmers. Although in this case, perhaps it could be better called a “rural legend”. There was still dispute over this – many different farmers claimed the race was run over their fields, basically graffiti-ing “The Grand National woz ‘ere” over their walls: The Nottingham Evening Post, 17th March, 1937
Confusion reigns at the end of the day, but in matters of detail I tend to trust the contemporary accounts. Aintree was a newer course, and so I don’t think it would have just been assumed that the steeplechase would have been held there. Admittedly, the fact the two villages were not far from each other could have caused some kind of geographical confusion in the newspaper reports. But despite that, none I saw mentioned Maghull at all. That course had already closed down.
But despite the lack of “national” status (however that was bestowed), I feel the first three should count, they certainly are reported as being run over the same course after all. Give Captain Becher his due as the first Grand National winner! There’s such a poignant line from his obituary in The Lancashire Gazette – at his last public appearances “he was in his usual spirits but it was clear he had almost run his race.” Lancashire Gazette, 22nd March, 1864
Finally, there’s nothing new under the sun and all that. Here’s a complaint about the race’s cruelty, way back at the time of the first official race, in 1839: Blackburn Standard, 6th March 1839
Mercer's Meat Stout, The Lancashire Daily Post, 1940
Here’s a curious advert I stumbled across in The British Newspaper Archive – it’s for Mercer’s Meat Stout. “Tastes good, does you good.” Now, I’ve heard of milk stout (Ena Sharples springs to mind), but…..meat stout?
Mercer’s Meat Stout, The Lancashire Daily Post, 1940
Is it me, or does this look exactly like a mock advert from Viz? Meat and beer, together at last.
This wasn’t just a quirky name, it was stout that actually included meat extract in some form. It was sold (as every food-and-drink-stuff was, even chocolate) as being good for you. It was also advertised as a nourishing drink for invalids. Invalid cookery and care was a big deal pre-NHS and a special invalid recipe section was in nearly every cookbook up until around 1950. I’ve got some recipes here if you’re feeling a bit peaky.
The Zythophile blog has more information on Meat Stout. It turns out it might have had some offal chucked in during the brewing process. Mmmm. Well, one of the aforementioned invalid recipes was raw beef tea – raw mince steeped in lukewarm water – so I guess it might not have seemed so strange at the time.
I’ve looked at Tod Browning’s 1932 cult horror film Freaks before, a few weeks ago when I found out some previously unknown information about one of the cast, the “Half Man-Half Woman” Josephine Joseph here Tod Browning
I also found this little gossipy snippet from The Burnley News dating back to when the film was in production in 1931. It talks about how the subject of the film was kept under wraps during the making of it, and the egos of the cast members, all of whom would have been used to being star of their own particular show, I expect.
,
The Burnley News, December 19th, 1931
A NEW METRO-GOLDWYN-MEYER PRODUCTION
Temperament is not exclusive to the Garbos and Deitrich’s [sic]. Even the bearded ladies, Siamese twins, half men-half women, sword swallowers and other familiar figures of the circus show have it – and to a greater extent than any dozen prima donnas. Tod Browning says so. The man who is used to handling weird characters in his films – the late Lon Chaney adopted some of his most amazing guises under Browning’s direction – has all the varieties that Barnum ever brought together and a few more besides, under his command for his new Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer production which bears the apt title “Freaks”.
He is finding the petty jealousies and differences make them anything but a happy family and that a great deal of diplomacy is required to prevent friction running riot. Browning is also called upon to ensure strict secrecy on the “Freaks” set in order that the inside working of the film does not leak out. Every member of the unit has meals on the stage, and at the end of the day’s work the freaks are conveyed straight to the apartment house where they are quartered.
From the Gloucester Citizen, June 26th 1933, comes this little piece – “Beauty Tips by Katherine Hepburn (The Film Star)”. (Spelt wrong)
Gloucester Citizen, 1933
“Make a point of going to bed at least once at week at 9.30 or before…” – oh, I so need to start doing that.
In fact, it all sounds good to me. Sensible stuff. And anyway, who am I to argue with the mega-cool original Hep-Kat? (Is that already a nickname for her? It should be.)
This is one look she had in 1933. Dressed as a moth for the film Christopher Strong. I’ve never seen the film, but now I feel I need to see this costume in some kind of context.
