I am Estelle, a small person who lives in Liverpool. I love all books apart from "The World According to Clarkson". Also very keen on comedy, cooking, octopods and other small people.
I think you’d have to go a long way to get a more half-arsed advert than this one, for Holland’s Everton Toffee. It simply states:
“Sugar is Food. So are Sweets. Try Holland’s Everton Toffee. Sold Everywhere. Advt.”
The Lancashire Daily Post, 1920
Hitching a ride onto a small piece about the price of sugar, its entire sales pitch is “Buy Toffee, it’s food.” Not even sticking in a spurious claim about being nourishing or anything. It looks like it’s trying to pass itself off as news, so it has to be made clear it’s an advert at the end of the line.
All the old school “Family Fun” games that I post from time to time remind me of just one thing – old fashioned cherry cake. Especially Up Jenkyns and Ghosts because those were the games we played with Grandad and Nan, and Nan generally provided the aforementioned cherry cake for tea. Proust had his madeleines, I have cherry cake.
It’s the rich Madeira cake recipe, which has various alterations to make different cakes.
Radiation Cookery Book, 1948 edition
Radiation Cookery Book, 1948 edition
Radiation Cookery Book, 1948 edition
Cherry Cake
4oz/115g butter or margarine 4oz/115g caster sugar 4oz/115g glace cherries 2 eggs 6oz/170g plain flour 1/2 teaspoon baking powder Grated rind of a lemon Milk as needed
Beat the butter and sugar to a cream, add the eggs one at a time, and beat until the mixture is stiff and uniform.
Stir in the sifted flour and baking powder, adding milk if necessary to form a soft mixture which will shake easily from the wooden spoon.
Transfer to a tin lined with greased paper and bake in the middle of the oven for 1 hour and 5 minutes with the Regulo at Mark 4 (but I baked it at 180C for around 45 minutes).
Next time I’m trying the reliable Mrs Rea’s 1910 version, below.
Mrs Rea’s Cookery Book, 1910
The Radiation Cookery Book contains hidden treasure in the form of this scribbled recipe by the original owner for coconut ice, a none-more-Blyton kids treat, that I am planning to make soon:
Happy April Fools Day! Who’s having an April 1st party? What do you mean, you’ve never heard of it?
Here’s Sid G. Hedges’ ideas from The Home Entertainer for such a party. “You must be careful, however, that all the guests are congenial and chosen carefully”, as this is not a party for those who take themselves particularly seriously. It’s a practical joke made into a party, really – motor horns under the front door mat, rubber coat pegs so your coat falls on the floor, serving fake food and luring your guests down dark corridors strewn with balloons and bells.
The games suggested are idiot-themed – “Dunderheads”, where people and professions are all mixed up and you have to identify them correctly, and “Hat Dance”, where you “Fit two players with dunces’ hats, and let them see who can first knock off the other’s.” I’m not sure if you have to use your hat to knock off the other hat like rutting idiot stags, or if you can just punch it off instead. A thought – did people used to actually manufacture dunce’s hats?
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.
After writing my recent post about The Edge of the Universe, I was thinking about one of my heroes, Edwin Hubble. He’s (kind of) responsible for two of my all-time favourite photographs.
Firstly, the lad himself. Hubble, looking every inch the gentleman scientist, pipe in mouth, looking through the 48″ Schmidt Telescope at Palomar Observatory, 1949. This photo feels to me like the past and the future colliding.
Edwin Hubble
And then there’s this, the Hubble Ultra-Deep Field image, produced by the Hubble Space Telescope. It’s not exactly a photo, but an image put together from a lot of pieces of information. It was created from data gathered in 2003-04, but was released most recently in June 2014 – the new image including the full range of ultraviolet to near-infrared light for the first time. It’s as mind-bending as it’s possible for a picture to be. This is only a small area of space, and yet it contains about 10,000 galaxies. And the light from the galaxies stretches all the way back 13 billion years – some of these came into existence not that long after the Big Bang. The telescope was named after Hubble, and this image is an incredibly appropriate tribute to him, as the first man to realise that there were galaxies separate to our own and that what we thought was the whole universe was just our little Milky Way.
Hubble Ultra-Deep Field
On a completely different vibe, here’s my favourite photo from my blog so far. A woman letting the darning fend for itself while she loses herself in a book – from The Mother’s Companion, 1891.
What is there to prevent a woman from enjoying a good book? The Mother’s Companion, 1891
And finally there’s this photo of Buster Keaton’s beautiful face, taken from Go West in 1925. What a unique talent this man had. If you haven’t seen his film Sherlock, Jnr, I would recommend it very highly. It’s hilarious, astounding and a beautiful piece of work, and it’s also my joint favourite film ever, along with 2001: A Space Odyssey. Back to the photo – his eyeliner, dark silent-film lips, the unsettlingly sinister look giving a slightly different take on his usual stone-face expression….it’s just perfect. We did have this picture up in the kitchen until my small son complained that it “freaked him out”.
Buster Keaton, Go West, 1925
History, comedy, space and reading – I think these pics pretty much sum me up.
Tell me or show me yours! Or send me a link and I’ll put them in a new post for you.
This is my copy of The Children’s Newspaper from June 10th, 1922. I confess to mainly buying it as that date is also my birthday. The June 10th bit anyway, not the 1922 part.
The Children’s Newspaper, 10th June 1922
A couple of interesting, on-the-brink-of-discovery, articles in this. Firstly this one, which talks of the difficulties before nuclear energy becomes possible: The Children’s Newspaper, 10th June 1922
But this one I find fascinating, given just how near it lurks to a reality-altering discovery.
A very distant star cluster, N.G.C. 7006, had been observed by astronomers, and was thought to be 220,000 light years from Earth (it’s now measured as being 135,000 light years away). The Children’s Newspaper wonders if this, possibly the most distant thing yet seen, is actually on the edge of the universe. In a way they were right, given that the Milky Way was then actually the known universe – this star cluster is on the outskirts of our own galaxy. The concept of other galaxies was still undiscovered. But not for long. In fact, it was the very next year, 1923, that Edwin Hubble, one of my all-time heroes, concluded that the extremely distant Andromeda star cluster was actually the Andromeda galaxy. One of those shifts in perception that fundamentally change the way we view the universe as a whole, and an incredible mental feat.
He expanded our idea of what the universe is, and then followed that up in 1929 with the discovery that the universe was actually expanding to boot. Whaddaguy.
Tomorrow, there’s something that doesn’t happen every day – it’s a total eclipse of the sun.
I have read that Scotland will lose 98% of its sunlight (insert joke) and the lack of solar power across Europe will cause all kinds of disruption. But never mind that, I’m excited! I saw the last one on 11th August 1999 when most of Quiggins, the Liverpool alternative shopping arcade where I worked at the time, piled outside to not watch the sun through those little cardboard contraptions. It was very cloudy though so we didn’t need the cardboard things. I seem to remember it went a bit gloomy and that was it.
But there won’t be another on mainland Britain until 23rd September 2090, which means it’s almost certainly the last one we’ll see in our lifetimes. That’s a bit of a sobering thought, isn’t it? I remember thinking the same kind of thoughts about seeing Halley’s Comet when I was 11 – but that comes back in 2061 so there’s an outside chance of still being around at any rate.
In 1927 another total solar eclipse was due and my Grandad had to write a project about it as a 14 year old schoolboy. We’ve still got his exercise book: Grandad’s schoolbook, 1927
This was an particularly exciting total eclipse as it was the first one visible from the British mainland for 203 years. And especially so for a Lancashire schoolboy, as the North of England was the best place to see it.
There are a lot of clippings glued into his book. I am especially overjoyed that so many of them come from The Children’s Newspaper, which I have been reading a lot of recently: The Children’s Newspaper, 1927
This is my favourite clipping. A cartoon showing the best places to see it – with Giggleswick in Yorkshire being the prime location. On the day, it was pretty cloudy and not much was seen, but the Astronomer Royal in Giggleswick was lucky, he was in one of the few places that saw the totality. Solar Eclipse, 1927
“For many years I had loathed being called Alick, partly because of the unpleasant sound and sight of the word, partly because it was the name by which my mother called me. Edward did not seem to suit me and the diminutives Ted or Ned were even less appropriate. Alexander was too long and Sandy suggested tow hair and freckles. I had read in some book or other that the most favourable name for becoming famous was one consisting of a dactyl followed by a spondee, as at the end of a hexameter: like Jeremy Taylor. Aleister Crowley fulfilled these conditions and Aleister is the Gaelic form of Alexander. To adopt it would satisfy my romantic ideals.”
So said legendary occultist Aleister Crowley on the subject of his name change from Edward Alexander Crowley. Aleister Crowley
I had to look up dactyl and spondee. Fantastic words.
A dactyl is a long syllable followed by two short syllables. And a spondee is two syllables, which are both stressed equally.
Hence the “Jeremy Taylor” of Crowley’s example. I’m pleased to note that both my children’s names are spot on for the dactyl-spondee combo. Although mine isn’t, well first name anyway – “Estelle” being a spondee. Perhaps I should change my first name to the one that I spent a good deal of time hankering after as a kid, because it was the name of a friend of mine – Rosemary. That is, until the kids in school became aware of Hong Kong Phooey and “Rosemary the telephone operator” became my nickname because of my thick glasses (it was that and Penfold – which ticked the boxes of both the glasses and being small). I went off it a bit then.
Anyway, I’m trying to think of phrases that match up with this….
