If I was a 1937-era housewife, this advert would definitely work on me. The thought of spending one whole day a week washing all the dirty laundry in one big go, the hard way, is a tiring thought. It’s bad enough having to handwash the essentials on those occasions when my washing machine has given up the ghost, but adding towels, bedding and baby-stained clothes to the mix – well, I’d be pretty happy with someone giving me advice on how to make it all end faster so I could go to the theatre instead.
Oxydol has a bit of a history as a pioneering product – it was the first commercial washing powder produced by Proctor and Gamble, introduced in 1927. And it’s left a lasting impression as the original “soap” behind the term “soap opera” as it became the sponsor of the “Ma Perkins” radio show in 1933, considered to be the world’s first soap opera.
The Mirror, 1937
Maybe that’s why their adverts are little soap operas themselves. Here’s another from 1937:
Lancashire Evening Post, 25th February 1937
If you want the details on what exactly “wash-day” consisted of in the 30s, see my post here of instructions on how to manage it in 1938.
And then there’s this rather lovely little film also from 1938, produced by the American HQ of Oxydol, with the “Scientific Tintometer” mentioned in the advert above, shown in action. I’m rather fascinated by the washtub set up with the electric mangle.
The vitriol is really flowing in this opinion piece about the GI brides taking their leave of the UK for pastures new with their American husbands. I would be amazed if there wasn’t a dash of personal indignation over a potential sweetheart here, although the American GIs based in the UK were famously resented as being “over-fed, over-paid, over-sexed and over here,” wooing British women with their ready supply of nylons and cigarettes.
The writer, a serviceman recently returned from overseas, is “fizzing” about the luxuries bestowed on the travelling wives – the ships laid on for their trip containing beds, food, clothes and toys galore. Or at least “galore” from the perspective of those having suffered the deprivations of 6 years of total war. He points out that the ships also contain “Thousands of soluble nappies (whatever they may be)” – and yes, whatever were they? I can’t find any more details about them but presume they were an early form of disposable nappy.
Their food is a particular bugbear:
“Notice their breakfast the day they sailed? Tomato juice, porridge, scrambled eggs, bread, marmalade and coffee. Now, I hope America provided that for them. Because if it came off our rations, then I take more than [a] somewhat dim view of it. Particularly when I think of the mess of dried egg I went to work on this morning.”
Well, he’s got a point. But between the delights of young love and the joy of the war ending, it must have been a giddy time.
“Well, isn’t that just too, too thrilling?”
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 3rd February, 1946
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 3rd February, 1946
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 3rd February, 1946
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 3rd February, 1946
And here’s the article that has got our brilliantly sarcastic author all worked up – bananas, soluble nappies and all. It’s from the same newspaper, a week earlier. It shows that an amazing 12,000 brides were due to sail to the U.S. in February 1946.
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 27th January 1946
Interestingly, I found out that “over-fed, over-paid, over-sexed, and over here” is a phrase that doesn’t seem to have featured in print during the war, despite it being extremely well-known at the time as it was popularised by comic Tommy Trinder. The earliest reference to it in print found by Phrases.org.uk is from 1958, but I’ve found this, an ex-GI mentioning the phrase, from 1948:
Jean Harlow, tragic blonde bombshell, died only 2 years after this article was printed. In 1937, kidney failure took her at the ridiculously young age of 26. “Jean” was actually her mother’s name, she was born with the very original name of “Harlean”.
Jean Harlow, 1930
This woman knew a strong look when she saw one, and here she is discussing something close to my heart, the joy of wearing black, which looked exceptionally striking against her platinum blonde hair. The intricately-described outfits sound like the most dizzyingly perfect of 1930s creations. This is from The Gloucester Citizen, which also published Katharine Hepburn’s Beauty Tips.
The Gloucester Citizen, 7th May, 1935
“Newer and more original colours may come and go, as fashion predicts, but black, in so far as I am concerned, is always first favourite. There was a time, of course, when blonde-haired girls carefully avoided black for summer and springtime wear. But clever draperies, cool accessories, and diaphanous materials have succeeded in making black look as cool, if not cooler, than its pastel and white competitors.
In fact, cooler – because nothing looks more ungainly to the eye on a hot day or evening than a rumpled, soiled gown that started to a social function or on a shopping jaunt, as fresh as a flower, and will inevitably return “dashed” looking, and with its owner in a “dashed” temper because she knows she is not looking her best.
Here are descriptions of three of my favourite additions to a Springtime wardrobe. The first is that enviable possession – an evening gown. Of sleek, heavyweight crepe de chine, the long, slim skirt flares out at the hem, which is only half an inch from the ground, and ends in a tiny train. The “top” or jacket, which is waist-length and is attached to a stitched belt of its own material, is covered with gleaming paillettes, which look like jet “bugles”, but are actually manufactured from cellophane and are much more durable than bead trimming.
Sleeves are elbow-length and again trimmed with the paillettes. A long, turn-back collar has a daringly low V-shaped décolletage. This creation can be worn with an evening hat, a toque of dull crepe with a design of the paillettes sewn on at one side and decorated with tiny wisps of paradise.
Then for the “little occasion”, there is long, sleek gown on crepe romaine or heavy georgette, over a white satin slip. A bloused effect, rather high-waisted, and with plenty of fullness, has tiny pleats each side. The sleeves are composed of sets of minute pleats drawn into a tight cuff at the elbow, finished with a turn-back fold of white silk pique. A high-cowl collar, with a fold of the white silk pique next to the face (for a youthful look), dwindles away into nothing at the back but a set of crossed-over “braces” of the silk pique. The skirt is long and narrow and affects no fullness until it gets to below the knees, when it frivolously flares out round the feet.
For afternoon wear or a game of bridge comes a gown as austere as a man’s. Fashioned from very fine wool crepe de chine, the whole garment is simply a series of cartridge pleats. A long finely pleated gown from shoulder to bottom hem line, drawn in at the neck line with a silver cord, and at the waist line by a beaten silver belt of Russian design. Voluminous sleeves, cut high on the shoulder line and drawn in at the wrists with tiny silver cords. No jewellery or embellishments but one thin strand of seed pearls around the neck.
Three black thoughts, but elegant ones, I can assure you.”
Right, so this is the new Keep Calm and Carry On, as far as I’m concerned.
For the good of your health, have a biscuit! Well, so said the “Cake and Biscuits Manufacturers War Time Alliance Ltd” in 1948. I love the way the fact that a pound of sweet biscuits is proudly presented as containing (a strangely specific) 2,204 calories, which would be cause for shame now.
Western Daily Press, 5th July 1948
This also happened to be the first day the National Health Service came into being.
I don’t know about you, but this is an extremely apt motto for my office at around 3pm. In fact, I’m off to print a copy of this to place over the special “biscuit desk” we have (and which is just one reason I love my new job).
An article on “Chest Development” from Herald of Health magazine, 1910. It includes quite an alarming depiction of exactly what happens to those poor internal organs when subjected to the tight lacing of regular corseting.
“The conventional mode of dress in women, with constriction of the waist, is one of the greatest of all factors in the general decadence in physical vigour so apparent in women of the present day.”
Spinal curvature, liver deformities, weak back and stomach muscles, pelvic congestion, the internal organs being unable to fulfil their functions and blood not circulating properly…..Just some of the agonising-sounding effects of the fashion for tight corsets.
The 1930s and 40s with their stiff upper lips, blitz spirit and derring-do remind me a bit of the quote from Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, doctored a bit by me:
“In those days spirits were brave, the stakes were high, men were real men, women were real women and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri were real small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri. And Cadbury’s chocolate wasn’t buggered up by Kraft Foods.”
Cadbury’s Dairy Milk – eat it, just like some of the “wisest people you ever saw” do.
“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.
“Atora puddings solve the difficult problem of children who dislike fat.”
Not a sentence I can imagine would be used in today’s advertising. These adverts are from The Children’s Newspaper, and it is true that children do need fat – apart from other things, fat helps in the development of brain cells. Did you know that the brain can contain up to 60% fat? (More in some people’s cases….) Fat is of course one of those food groups that was celebrated, then demonised, and recently started to be rehabilitated as a useful part of your diet. My grandma could eat a mound of fat – she preferred the fat to the meat – and she was slim all her life and lived to a good old age too.
“Medical testimony proves that the children – and adults – with weakly and “chesty” tendencies, who most need nourishing fat, are the ones who don’t like it.”
Oh, I do like the idea of eating suet puddings for the good of your health. I’m sure the 1930s style diet is worth a try. I’m quite tempted to try something along the lines of this blog, The 1940s Experiment, where a woman lost weight by following Second World War rationing recipes. I could try the 1920s-30s version, the typical diet from just before rationing came in (well, it sounds more fun anyway – apart from the Mice in Honey). Nourishing Rowntree’s Chocolate Crisps all round!
The Children’s Newspaper, 8th May 1937The Children’s Newspaper, 8th May 1937
Some vegetable-based advice from 1929 here, but it’s a bit harsh on the poor old radish, which is declared to have no food value.
The Southern Reporter, 24th October, 1929
It’s also really wrong. The radish is a good source of vitamins and minerals, particularly vitamin C and antioxidants, especially one called sulforaphane which might help fight cancer cells. In your face, 1929!
I’m fascinated by nutrition knowledge and advice though, the way it changes, and how we’re still finding out things all the time about how the body works. Doing Weight Watchers some years ago, I saw a slimming tip from an old issue of Jackie magazine promoting cheese as a dieting snack. On the Weight Watchers points system, cheese was one of the first things to be, very sadly, ditched, as you can probably use up a days worth of points on one small block. So this seemed absolutely ridiculous to me. But then the Atkins diet came in, advocating avoiding starchy foods and promoting protein and fats, and it suddenly didn’t seem so crazy after all.
And it will all change again, I expect. Maybe like Woody Allen predicted in Sleeper:
Photo posted by Stephen Proctor in the "Liverpool Yesterday to Yesteryear" Facebook group
Once upon a time, there was a zoo in Liverpool. In fact, there were quite a few. A short history on the subject would include Liverpool’s first zoo – the Zoological Gardens on West Derby Road, Tuebrook, open from the 1830s to 1860s (and near the site of where I lived during my student years). This zoo was owned by one Thomas Atkins, a showman who claimed to be the first person in England to breed the ‘liger’, a cross between a lion and a tiger.
Then there was William Cross’s Menagerie in the 1880s, housed on tiny Earle Street in the city centre. Such a small street I’m amazed he ever fitted a zoo on it. In this case the word “zoo” was fairly interchangeable with “pet shop”, as William Cross was primarily a dealer in animals, should you fancy your own wolf, baboon or lion. Sarah Bernhardt was a regular visitor, and did in indeed purchase a lion from Mr Cross. In 1898 a major fire on the premises sadly resulted in the deaths of a number of lions and tigers within. I know Earle Street as it was just round the corner from where I used to work for the doomed Littlewoods shopping channel “Shop!” – I was the buyer for DIY and Erotica (which is a story for another day).
Another one was Liverpool Zoological Gardens at Rice Lane, Walton, from the 1880s to around 1918. The old ticket booth still survives – it’s currently a pizza takeaway shop near to where I lived when I left university.
There was a small zoo at Otterspool Hall from around 1913 to 1931. And even in the early 1970s dolphins were, strangely, housed in the public swimming baths in Norris Green – on tour from a dolphinarium in Margate during the winter season. Norris Green is my adopted home turf so this is especially interesting to me. But it doesn’t seem right…surely swimming pool water isn’t exactly right for dolphins? Anyway.
My concern today is with Liverpool Zoological Park, based on Elmswood Road, in Mossley Hill, and which is also where I first lived as a student, in Carnatic Student Halls. In fact, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from today’s blog research, it’s that in my time in Liverpool, I have unwittingly lived or worked right in the middle of defunct zoo-ville.
This zoo was a short-lived affair, only open from 1932-1938 – it was the old Otterspool Zoo moved to a new location. The star attraction was a chimpanzee called Mickey. Not just any old monkey, Mickey was billed as “The World’s Cleverest Chimpanzee”. His cleverness manifested itself in such ways as being able to light his own cigarettes, which he would also smoke. This is one of the most 1930s things of all time. Well, this and the fact that the zoo’s official leaflet said “All Living Specimens of Animals, Birds and Reptiles on Exhibition at the Liverpool Zoological Gardens Can be Purchased. Apply for Prices to the Office.” If anything shouts “I am from another age” it is precisely the fact that you can pay to walk home with your very own wild animal from the zoo. In fact, that’s a blog post of the future right there – I do have an Edwardian book on how to look after all manner of wild animals.
Here’s some adverts for it:
Lancashire Daily Post, 11th August, 1933Liverpool Zoo advert, early 1930s
Now I was first alerted to the zoo’s existence by reading my 1937 copy of The Mirror newspaper. A small article about an escaped chimpanzee in Liverpool caught my eye, “Escaped ape attacks and bites two men,” says the headline. Mickey the chimp had escaped, enjoyed “three hours of liberty” and bit Arnold Bailey, travelling circus proprietor. This wasn’t “Barnum and Bailey” Bailey, though, but some other circus proprietor.
The Mirror, overseas edition, 13th May, 1937
So, I wanted to find out more about this audacious chimp. And many stories there are too. There’s this one that I’m convinced is about Mickey before he landed in Liverpool Zoo. A monkey called Mickey escaped on arrival by train into London, and took up residence in the rafters of Liverpool St Station in 1929. If there’s one thing I know about Mickey, it’s that he liked escaping, and I think this is him making quite an entrance into the UK.
Bristol Daily Press, 23rd October, 1929
Then there’s this one, which I think is hilarious. Mickey first went to Rhyl Zoo, where he wasn’t a big hit with the other chimps. So much so, that when they were packing them all up ready to go to the Otterspool Zoo for the winter, Mickey helped the keepers to cage his monkey-enemies, trying to nail them into their cages. Mickey, as befits the World’s Cleverest Chimpanzee, was allowed to travel in the arms of his attendant rather than in a cage. I’m wondering if the fact he didn’t escape again at this point perhaps means he just didn’t like cages – and who can blame him?
1931
Mickey ended up staying in Liverpool for good, becoming the star attraction in the new Mossley Hill zoo. Here’s his aforementioned smoking party trick, posted on the brilliant Facebook photo group “Liverpool Yesterday to Yesteryear”:
Photo posted by Stephen Proctor in the “Liverpool Yesterday to Yesteryear” Facebook group
But it wasn’t long before Mickey was up to his old tricks. The newspaper article I read in The Mirror was just one of four occasions when Mickey escaped. One that occasion in 1937 he snapped his chain like some kind of King Kong, shook hands with some clowns, kissed a woman in the street, bit some men and then submitted to being taken back after three hours of mayhem. My copy of The Mirror is the overseas edition, and so it’s a week behind these other newspaper reports.
Dundee Evening Telegraph, 6th May, 1937Gloucester Citizen, 6th May, 1937
As the first article states, Mickey broke into some offices and threw papers around. That wasn’t quite all he did, as legendary jazz-man George Melly revealed in his rollicking memoir of his Liverpool childhood, Scouse Mouse. George lived just down the road from the Liverpool Zoo and recounted how the roars of the lions kept the residents of Mossley Hill awake at night. Those offices, in fact, were something to do with his grandfather, and Mickey not only messed the papers up, he also left a “dirty protest” on the desk and in the drawers. I just love the line “My grandfather was not lucky with monkeys.” George seems to have misremembered the ultimate fate of Mickey though, which is odd as it was rather dramatic. Mickey wasn’t “transferred to [another] prison”, his end was rather more of a sad spectacle.
George Melly’s Scouse Mouse
George Melly’s Scouse Mouse
George Melly’s Scouse Mouse
There was another incident a month later:
The Yorkshire Post, 28th June, 1937
And then in 1938, Mickey escaped for the fourth, and last, time. This time he escaped into a schoolyard, mauled some of the children and was eventually shot dead by a Major Bailey – a different Bailey to the bitten man of the year before.
1938
One of the children eventually received damages for his injuries:
Damages, 1938
Poor Mickey was stuffed after he was shot, still on display even after death. He ended up exhibited in Lewis’s Department Store in Liverpool. That is, until the shop was badly bombed in the 1941 blitz and Mickey really was no more.
Micky, stuffed
It’s a sad story, but I think it would make a cracking film. More information about Mickey and his escapes are in these excellent posts on the Stuff and Nonsense blog here and here
