It was a bit startling to see this in a newspaper from 1918. I had to check the date first as a swastika seems strangely out of place in Western history outside of Nazi Germany. And then there’s the fact that it was used officially by the UK Government to promote war savings certifcates – with the word “war” right in the middle to look extra-sinister.
The National Savings Movement, as it was called, actually ran until 1978 and was of particular value in World War Two to support the war effort. Although unsurprisingly the logo had been changed by then to one showing St George slaying a dragon.
Sunday Pictorial, 24th November 1918Sunday Mirror, 11th August 1918
The adverts themselves are interesting though – with tips on how to save money. Your newspapers can be sold, your bottles can be reused and your tincans can be recycled into munitions.
I like this advert from The Liverpool Echo, which informs you in detail exactly how many armaments could be funded from your war bond contribution. £5 could buy two 20lb bombs, £100 could buy a machine gun and 3000 rounds of ammunition, and £5000 could pay for two aeroplanes for “our splendid airmen.”
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:
This little article in The Children’s Newspaper from 1937 caught my eye. Wear more milk?
The Children’s Newspaper, 3rd April, 1937
In the 1930s, Italian chemist Antonio Ferretti worked out how to extract fibres from the casein protein in milk, which could then be used to make material. It was called Lanital (and Aralac in America). This was celebrated as a national success in fascist Italy, which was looking to promote self-sufficiency in fabrics and everything else, on account of sanctions being placed on the country by the League of Nations in response to Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia in 1935.
In the end, Lanital didn’t wash well, apparently smelling a bit like sour milk when damp, and bacteria could eat away at it, which is why it was soon replaced by the newer synthetic fibres.
Futurist poet Antonio Marinetti wrote “The Poem of the Milk Dress” about the invention of Lanital and how it was interwoven with the fascist system of Italy. In the extract below, “the man” is referring to Mussolini:
“The Man commands Milk, divide yourself […]
And let this complicated milk be welcome power power power let’s exalt this MILK MADE OF REINFORCED STEEL MILK OF WAR MILITARIZED MILK”
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.
Here’s an advert for Burnley’s version of the World War Two National Loaf, Veget bread:
Burnley Express, 1946
The National Loaf wasn’t very popular. It was the consequence of white bread flour being in short supply and was made with wholemeal flour, husks and all, and added calcium. It was a bit of a shock to the system of the British public, who had previously only been used to eating white bread, and soon started to be referred to as “Hitler’s secret weapon”, as bakers were banned from making any other type of loaf. Wikipedia describes it as “grey, mushy and unappetising” so it’s no surprise that I also found this rude local rhyme about Veget:
Don’t eat Veget bread,
It makes you shit like lead,
And fart like thunder,
And no bloody wonder,
So don’t eat Veget bread.
I love that Wikipedia says that “The loaf was abolished in October 1956.” I bet there was cheering in the streets. I was wondering if Veget had another ingredient included – the name implies there’s vegetables involved, but maybe that was just to make it sound healthier.
Here’s a recipe for a version of the National Loaf you can make now, by Hugh’s mum, Jane Fearnley Whittingstall. It’s taken from Lavender and Lovage:
The National Wheatmeal Loaf: (Makes 2 loaves) From: Ministry of Food – Jane Fearnley Whittingstall
1 ½ lb wholemeal bread flour 1 ½ tbsp salt 1 ½ tbsp dried yeast 1 dsp honey or treacle 450 ml tepid water
Mix together all the ingredients and knead for about 10 minutes until you have a soft dough. Place the dough in an oiled bowl, cover with a tea towel and leave until dough has doubled in size (around 2 hours).
Knock back the dough, give a short knead then cut into two equal pieces. Place in 1.5 litre loaf tins, allow to rise for a further 2 hours.
Pre-heat oven to 200°c then bake loaves for 30 min. To test the loaves turn them out of their tins and give the base a tap. if it sounds hollow they are ready. Allow to cool on a wire rack.
In amongst my Grandad’s wartime letters and ephemera is this photo-made-into-a-postcard of George Formby, sent to Grandma in a letter. The nice thing about this is that two of my Grandad’s army friends are pictured either side of George – they’re the ones who Grandad marked with crosses. I didn’t even know about this picture until a few weeks back, when my mum uncovered it. But I was immediately massively impressed, I’m such a George Formby fan that the thought that Grandad had (presumably) seen him in person is incredible.
Grandad’s George Formby photograph
And here’s a picture of Grandad around that time:
Grandad in the Second World War
I didn’t know know anything about the photo apart from the fact that it appears to be in France – most of Grandad’s wartime things seem to be from the early part of the war when he was based in France on the Maginot Line during the Phony War period. I thought he must have taken it himself, as his friend is looking right down the camera at the photographer. Grandad wasn’t anywhere in it himself, although as it’s his unit it seems very likely he’d also be there. But that was it.
In fact, in this previous post about Grandad, Richard Dimbleby and an unknown German Soldier, I’d posted up this video of George singing his song Imagine Me on the Maginot Line and wondered if there was any chance that Grandad had actually been there. It’s such a fantastically alive moment in time for me, this video.
I didn’t expect to be able to bring the photo to life, but that’s just what happened a couple of weeks ago. I was going to post it up on the blog anyway because I loved it so much, and was just having a look at George’s Wikipedia page, something I’ve looked at quite a few times before, but this time I immediately noticed something amazing. On the top picture, there was Grandad’s friend right next to him! It wasn’t the same photo as the one I have, but it was obviously taken almost at the same time.
George Formby on Wikipedia
This was exciting. It was my lunch break at work and I was suddenly gripped by the desire to find out more about whatever was happening here. The Wikipedia page links to the Imperial War Museum online archive – here, which shows the full, uncropped picture, and reveals the same “English Spoken” sign as on my picture.
From the Imperial War Museum archive
So I learned it was taken on 13th March 1940, 75 years ago exactly today.
It was also taken by the War Office Official Photographer Lt. L. A. Puttnam, which means presumably my photo was too, and also produced as a postcard for the soldiers perhaps?
This was exciting enough, frankly, some information gathered. But now I had the date I could search more. And I found more, here in the incredible British Pathe archive – British Pathe
It’s a whole skit for the newsreels! And Grandad’s two friends got little speaking parts in it to boot! I wonder if this group were picked as they were fellow Lancastrians to George?
So they all sing When I’m Cleaning Windows, and I’m practically in tears watching a family photo unexpectedly turn into moving pictures.
But not only that….if you carry on watching, it turns into the moment I posted above, and also posted months ago before I even knew of the photo. The soldiers have him by bayonet-point to sing another song, and there it is, the Imagine Me on the Maginot Line that is one of my favourite clips of George. Perhaps the photo is actually a still from this film.
And there it was, a little bit of personal historical research done in a lunchtime, and something that profoundly moved me. Not for the first time, I wished that I could talk to Grandad again one last time, and hear what really happened on that day from him.
I’ve got this rather interesting little thing – an Oxford Probate Registry document for a Mrs Elizabeth Robinson who died on 25th March 1919 without leaving a will. I find it fascinating for a couple of reasons.
Firstly, she lived in Buckingham, which is where my family lived until a few years ago, and where I went to school. She lived at 20 Church Street, to be precise, and that house is there still.
But the second point is something that dates this to a very specific time – wartime conditions attached to the probate document. Her estate was duly passed to her husband, Charles Robinson, but with a little note inside stating that:
“This grant is made on the condition that no portion of the assets shall be distributed or paid during the War to any beneficiary or creditor who is a German, Austro-Hungarian, Turkish or Bulgarian subject, wherever resident, or to anyone on his behalf, or to or on behalf of any person resident in Germany, Austria-Hungary, Turkey or Bulgaria, of whatever nationality, without the express sanction of the Crown, acting through the Treasury; and if any distribution or payment is made contrary to this condition the Grant of Probate or Letters of Administration will be forthwith revoked.
Upon an application to the Solicitor to the Treasury there will be no difficulty in proper cases in obtaining the sanction of the Treasury to the payment of a moderate sum out of assets to beneficiaries or creditors who are German, Austro-Hungarian, Turkish or Bulgarian subjects resident in this country at the commencement of the War and during the War.”
I thought it was a bit odd to include these conditions of wartime in 1919, but, then again, the Treaty of Versailles was only signed on 28th June 1919. At this point hostilities between Germany and the Allied Powers were finally formally ended (only to begin again, in a different way, in reaction to such a draconian settlement).
A quirk of dates is that this document is dated 2nd July 1919, after the Treaty was signed, and so maybe it was one of the last to contain these conditions of war?
Ping Pong – what a great name for a sport. Although I should properly be calling it Table Tennis, as I’ve recently (and unexpectedly) ended up wading deep through Table Tennis England’s online archives.
Now, this isn’t a sport I know anything about. In fact, there’s only one sport I do know anything about (if you don’t count maypole dancing, and why would you?), and that’s tennis of the non-table variety.
But I’m a sucker for a mystery to solve – and I’ve been pretty successful of late as well (just call me Scooby Doo). Look at this! Today’s puzzle came in the shape of this little medal, tucked inside the box of my Grandad’s wartime memorabilia.
R.B.S.C. Lord Cup Runner Up 1937 medal
R.B.S.C. Lord Cup Runner Up 1937 medal
Engraved on the back is R.B.S.C. Lord Cup Runner Up 1937. And that’s all the information I have. I love having a starting point for some history-surfing, though, so I was off to investigate. I thought it wouldn’t be too difficult to find out about whatever the Lord Cup was, and what R.B.S.C. stood for, but it took quite a lot of searching to find anything.
The only place that currently has those initials is the Royal Bangkok Sports Club, and as it was founded before 1937, I thought I was onto something. That is, until I actually thought about it for a second. I realised that Grandad wasn’t a jet setter, he lived in Lancashire, and this was 1937 – so pre-war and any wartime related travelling hadn’t yet happened. Not that he was in Asia anyway, as far as I know.
But “Sports Club” is probably right for the last two initials, as it sounds like a sporty kind of thing. More searching on “Lord Cup” was rather hampered by the fact that it’s so similar to “Lord’s” and therefore lots of cricket stuff comes up. I’d assumed that the medal was something to do with cricket anyway, just because of the name, even though there was no reason to think so.
Eventually, I found one tiny reference, buried in the aforementioned Table Tennis England site. It turns out that they have an absolute joy of an archive – all their monthly magazines from 1935 to 2000 are beautifully scanned and available to view (although it looks like it was out on hold from 1939-1947 for war time reasons. I guess there wasn’t much table tennis going on during those years.)
Here they are, and very lovely they are too, especially from a design point of view, seeing how aesthetics changed over the years – TTE Archive
In issue 23, from April 1938, there’s a little nugget of information in a piece about events in North East Lancashire. All it says is:
No issue of 1937 mentions The Lord Cup, however – I read them all, and now I feel quite au fait with the personalities and issues of 1930s table tennis. But it’s the right name, and the right place (Ribblesdale and Burnley Sports Club? Rawtenstall and Blackburn Sports Club?) and, importantly, it’s ever so slightly more plausible than my Grandad flying off to Thailand to take part in a tournament. Only slightly though – Mum says he never mentioned table tennis ever, and he wasn’t a sporty man. So, it’s all still a bit of a mystery.
Never mind. It’s a little bit of information, at least, and that makes the medal more interesting to me. BUT! Brilliantly, I also discovered that the England Table Tennis Association magazine was an unlikely arena for satire. Issue 24, May 1938, is rather in a huff with Mr Hitler. The recent Anschluss, the official joining of Germany and Austria, had an extra bonus – Germany could now claim that the women’s world table tennis champion, the Austrian Trudi Pritzi, was, in fact, officially German. Was this cricket? No, it bloody well was not! (In a number of ways.)
They jokingly suggest that England should follow suit, here:
“Perhaps the E.T.T.A. Selection committee should look around and select a promising country. We could get a few world champions. Say, Hungary. Or, perhaps, take over U.S.A. After all, that was once British territory.”
They are not happy at all that the correct procedure was not followed – surely the obvious next step after notifying the League of Nations about the forthcoming Anschluss was to make sure the tennis table situation was all agreed happily? And, more seriously, I presume that the last paragraph references Jewish Austrian players:
“The matter has not been regulated with proper courtesy to the International Federation. No doubt at all that, as in the case last year of Northern Ireland and the Irish Free State, the Federation will willingly recognise the desire of two associations for joint representation, when application is made.
Meantime the high-handed attitude is a slight on the I.T.T.F. (International Table Tennis Federation). Even in the matter of the Anschluss of the two states. The German Government notified the League of Nations of what had taken place. In taking over the Austrian T.T.A., however, as far as we know the German T.T.A. has not yet thought it necessary to inform anyone.
When it does the question will probably be raised of the position under Article 2 of many Austrian table tennis players who are well known and are popular in this country and who were expelled from their association within a few hours of its annexation.”
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?
