A warning from 1921 informing the public which window cleaners were covered by accident insurance in Burnley.
It’s a good point actually. Who checks whether your window cleaner has insurance these days?
Tag: Lancashire
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Veget National Bread, 1946
Here’s an advert for Burnley’s version of the World War Two National Loaf, Veget bread:
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.
Categories
Phosferine Tonic, 1940
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.
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.
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?
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 also has much to say on the subject of tobacco, even in 1917 – it’s the “greatest of all curses of modern times.”
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.
And here’s a picture of Grandad around that time:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
“…while the closing rounds of The Lord Cup are arousing widespread interest.”
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.”
This is the post I’ve been wanting to put up since I started this blog. It’s my treasure trove – my Grandad’s archive of his wartime activities, stuffed inside a book that both fascinates me and creeps me out in equal measure.
Firstly, a note – my scans are often a bit wonky on this blog, I’m afraid. This is usually due to the delicate nature of my old books, which means that they don’t take kindly to being pressed open (and, admittedly, sometimes it’s just because I’m still trying to improve at the scanning and photo editing involved). But this post is full of some of the most delicate things I have, and some of them have almost disintegrated. So wonkiness is rather unavoidable.
My Grandad was Allan Pickup, a lovely man from Rossendale, in Lancashire (and apparently one of his much younger cousins was Ronald Pickup, the actor). He’d been a bus driver before the Second World War, and after signing up he landed quite a brilliant job – he served with the Motor Transport Corps and became one of the official drivers for the brilliant Richard Dimbleby, the BBC’s first and most prominent war correspondent.
This was pretty exciting stuff, at least at this point – to start with he was in France with the British Expeditionary Force, on the Maginot Line. This was during the so-called “phoney war” period, before things really kicked off properly. I do imagine him on the Maginot Line, as the George Formby song goes. Being a big Formby fan, I just have to include the clip below, where he’s singing his song to the soldiers on the Maginot Line itself. I really love this footage – it gives me such a sense of a moment just hanging in time.
Grandad’s proximity to the press meant he was in sight of many luminaries of the period – which I know because he kept his clippings from the Rossendale Free Press in this book. It sounded like he was a slight celebrity to his local newspaper because of his job – the clippings show he handed Gracie Fields a bouquet, met the actor Sir Seymour Hicks, and was “in reaching distance” of King George VI when he visited the front. He was on the BBC giving his impressions from The Maginot Line, and also on a BBC spelling bee quiz for soldiers and their relatives – he and my Grandma, Bessie, being on opposing teams. As far as anyone was having a good time in the war at this point, it sounds like he was finding it all pretty thrilling, and I don’t blame him. He says,
“I myself have been on the air, on the screen (on the news reels) and also been mentioned in The Daily Mail, so that is not a bad show for just a common bus driver.”
(I’ve looked for the newsreels and although the British Pathe archives are incredible, and one of my favourite places on the internet, I sadly can’t find anything.)
He told my mum that Richard Dimbleby was a lovely man – in fact, once they were in Arras, in northern France, when Dimbleby wanted to stop at a jeweller to buy his wife a present. Grandad was looking at the rings, but couldn’t afford to buy one. So Dimbleby bought one for him, to give to Grandma. We still have it, in its box, on the bottom of which Grandad wrote “To Bessie, with love from France” (and then, possibly as an afterthought, thinking “France” was too vague, he wrote “Allan” up the side).
And when Richard Dimbleby was on the cover of The Radio Times in January 1940, there was Grandad, in his driver’s cap, standing next to the car. Thanks to the brilliant and recently launched BBC Genome project, I see the reason Dimbleby was on the cover that week was because his programme “Despatch from the Front”, was launching in a new weekly format. Grandad saved the cover and back pages, and they’re wonderful. I did post up my favourite advert of all time earlier this week, but here it is again (any excuse):
Here are the other things Grandad kept in the book:
An authorisation chit for a press visit to a site in France –
A photo of a friend of his –
A tourist guide to the First World War trenches of Vimy –
A newspaper page showing a bombed site, with a cross drawn on it. Not sure what this is, but presumably one of them is Grandad or one of his friends.
A morale-boosting piece about a soldier missing his home and family –
Which was obviously especially poignant as his daughter, my mum, was born in 1942. He posted a happy birthday message in the paper for her in 1945 and kept the clipping here –
I posted this earlier this week too – the fabulously British certificate he was given at the end of the war:
This is what really chokes me up, though. It’s a couple of pages torn from The Journal of the Royal Army Service Corps, and an article by Major C. R. Thompson called “The Horror of Belsen”. I don’t know what date this journal was from, but the letters mention a previous edition of March 1945, and as Belsen was liberated by the British Army in April 1945, this must have been one of the very first impressions of the concentration camps. Perhaps Grandad had been there – Richard Dimbleby famously filed the first report from Belsen, breaking down as he described what he’d seen. The BBC didn’t believe that what he was saying could be true and decided not to run the report. Dimbleby threatened to resign if it wasn’t broadcast, and so four days later it was. At this point the world began to find out about what had really been happening in those camps.
Grandad had torn the pages out in order to post them to Grandma, and he wrote at the top, “Read this darling, and think what may have happened in England x”
But this is all only half the story. The thing is, before my Grandad kept his clippings and reminders of home in this book, someone else did too. And they’re still there. Because this book belonged to a German soldier first; it’s called Fahrten und Flüge gegen England (“Trips and Flights from England” is the translation, I think) published in 1941 by the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the Supreme Command of the Armed Forces.
What it is, is a book celebrating the victorious strikes by both the Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine against England in 1941, entirely written in headache-inducing gothic font. Here’s some pages detailing the attacks on Coventry, Manchester and Liverpool. Google Translate tells me these chapters are called “The attack on Coventry”, “Twice the big attack on Manchester” and “The Port of Liverpool, a single Inferno”:
I have no idea where or how Grandad got this book. But inside it were similar mementoes of the German soldier it once belonged to, which Grandad kept along with his own.
This might have been him:
There’s a postcard of soldiers –
Plus some postcards apparently dated 1915 and addressed to somewhere in Holland. Perhaps a family heirloom from the First World War?
And I don’t know if Grandad even knew about this. All the other memorabilia was mixed together with Grandad’s own, but I found this thin letter from 1944, unobtrusively slipped between two different pages. It’s written to “lieber Heini” so presumably this soldier was called Heinrich. I’d love to translate this as far as possible one day –
The book is incredible and quite sobering. At this point in 1941, things were looking pretty good for Germany. I get the sense this book is a very confident expression of the expectation of ultimate victory. There are a lot of pictures – here are some of them. They show bombs over London, Maidstone, Swansea, ships exploding, mines erupting, attacks at Scapa Flow, Tower Bridge as seen from a bomber plane, shark-painted Messerschmitts, and the Nazi High Command meeting the troops. Strange to think it was someone’s job to take these action shots as they happened –
In the end, at this distance, it’s hard to know what to feel, exactly. I have a great sense of melancholy for “Heini”, who I presume didn’t live to see the end of the war. I have a huge admiration for Grandad, who saw quite some sights and then quietly went back to his life in Lancashire. And I’d love to have one last conversation with him now, about all this.