Britain had been preparing for conflict long before the actual declaration of war on 3rd September 1939. The government had started building warships from 1938, but a lot of thought was also given to how life would best work on the home front. It was clear that this war would be all-consuming, and so things like how food would be rationed, and whether evacuations from the larger cities would be needed were all considered. Right from the start, bombardment by the Luftwaffe was considered to be a threat which could begin at any time, and the Blitz of the UK began a year after the war started, in September 1940.
What’s interesting about this advert, for a “Eugene Wave” home perm, from only a few weeks into the war, is that it references the “midnight alarms” that were anticipated, as well as women’s “war-time jobs” that were immediately called for. The Eugene Wave was marketed as a way to continue your preparations for war on a personal appearance level.
Manchester Evening News, 25th October, 1939
“Midnight alarms are apt to catch you unawares and the wan light of dawn has no mercy. The rush and fatigue of your war-time job calls for special attention to your beauty. Now is the time to treat yourself to a Eugene Permanent Wave, the really permanent wave, which keeps its charming natural “shape” under the most difficult conditions.”
During the Blitz if you didn’t have your own Anderson shelter in the back garden, or a Morrison table shelter in your house, sleeping in the space under the stairs was another option. But make sure you thoroughly clean it with antibacterial Bodyguard Soap first.
A public information advert on how to get rid of rats during the Second World War. They were eating food supplies and so “were doing Hitler’s work”
Aberdeen Journal, 19th March 1941
I find myself quite uncomfortable with this advert. I suppose because this wasn’t a million miles away from German anti-Jewish propaganda itself, which used the rat analogy. The fact that the rat has a little Hitler face instead almost emphasizes that for me. I wonder if that reference was intentional at all?
I love it when I can link something from one of my old books or pieces of ephemera to some current story. This one is all about Dad’s Army, new and old. You might have seen the trailer for the new film recently. Here it is.
Despite being a history buff, I never much liked Dad’s Army when I first saw it on TV as a teenager. It wasn’t my sort of humour, I thought, although then as now I still had a massive affection for Clive Dunn – or “Grandad” as I always thought of him. Here he is, singing his famous song – and I really can’t believe that at this point, he was a mere 51 years of age:
Watching the series later on though, I appreciated it a lot more. The writing, the performances – it was a class act. My first thought when hearing about the new film was a big “Why?” and it still is, really. But….what a cast! Toby Young, Bill Nighy and Michael Gambon are enough to make me put the film on my must-see list, when it comes out next February.
And this is where my (real) Grandad comes in. I’ve blogged quite a bit about his wartime experiences and ephemera but I haven’t posted this piece up before. It’s the menu and programme for the British Army Public Relations Christmas Party, 1939. As my Grandad was an official driver for Richard Dimbleby, he came into contact with such journalistic-type events. There is no information on where this meal was actually held, and I haven’t been able to find out more online, but I presume it was somewhere near the Maginot Line as that was where Grandad and the British Expeditionary Force were at that time.
The menu is rather impressive, or at least maybe it sounds more impressive than it is, as it’s written in French. I have to say that Pommes Vapeur sounds rather grander than what I believe is actually “Boiled potatoes”. Plum Pudding aux Feux Follets is intriguing. As far as I can tell “feux follets” is French for “Will-o’-the Wisp” or fireflies. So maybe this means plum pudding set alight in the traditional (English) way.
However, the most interesting part to me is the entertainment. “The Crimson Cocoanut” was a little play dramatized for the occasion, and was particularly notable for two facts – firstly, that it was rather appropriately written by the Director of Public Relations at the War Office. This was John Hay Beith, but his pen name was Ian Hay – as well as a soldier, he was a novelist, playwright, essayist and historian, and adapted The 39 Steps, among other things. He wrote the play in 1913 though, not especially for this event.
Secondly, the play was produced by Arnold Ridley, Officier de Champ at this time, and later to be Dad’s Army’s Private Godfrey. His Army post translates as “Conducting Officer”, and it was his job to supervise the journalists visiting the front line in France. He had a hell of a time on the battlefield. He was in the First World War, and sustained dreadful injuries – his left hand was badly damaged in the Battle of the Somme and left virtually useless, he was hit on the head by the butt of a German soldier’s rifle which led to him suffering blackouts over the rest of his life, and he was bayonetted in the groin. Bayonetted in the groin. It wasn’t enough to put him off signing up for the army as the Second World War began, but he was discharged in health grounds in 1940. Pleasingly, he joined the Home Guard for real for the rest of the war.
I found out that the University of Bristol has his showbusiness ephemera collection – the Arnold Ridley archive, although it is not especially accessible at the moment. I found a copy of this menu and programme on there too.
My mum tells me that Grandad used to love watching Dad’s Army. But when she gave me this programme she didn’t realise that a cast member was mentioned on it. She doesn’t remember him mentioning Arnold Ridley as someone he was ever acquainted with, so I wonder if he even knew of this connection.
(As an aside, I have to say that the purveyor of the comic song has an excellently suitable name – Bugler Dipple.)
An intriguing letter from The Lanarkshire Sunday Post in 1946.
So, the Second World War is not long over, and a Kirkcaldy housewife, Mrs A. G. Forsyth, receives a letter out of the blue from an ex-Italian soldier. (At this point I’m totally imagining Mrs Forsyth looking like Terry Jones as a Monty Python “pepperpot”, unfairly.)
Never mind how the Italian ex-soldier got her address, but it was a heart-rending plea.
“After five years of war I am remained without anything but the eyes to weep, and a maiming of more than 50 per cent. as certificated by the document lieing by. Not knowing how to carry on my life and support the expenses of my family, I apply to your noble, great, and generous heart, praying for a financial help limited to your possibilities.
Or better, if you could present me with a small ice cream machine with your name cut on it, as it is very seldom to get one in Italy, and also very dear, more than 150 thousand lires and I cannot afford to buy due to my poverty…”
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 3rd February 1946
Because ice cream machines were plenteous and cheap in 1946 Kirkcaldy, of course.
It’s got to be a scam, hasn’t it? But a bit of an odd one. Mrs Forsyth thought so. She “wonders if other readers had got similar letters”, and dismissed the whole thing with “I know the British are considered soft by foreigners, but we’re not as soft as all that!”
It reminds me a bit of the Nigerian 419 scams of today, although, to be fair, there’s nothing promised to the recipient of the letter apart from a feeling of goodwill. Still, there’s nothing new under the sun, as the con tricks of 100 years ago detailed by Harry Houdini show – here.
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”
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.
Hooray Hooray, it’s a happy holiday! It’s a 20-hour joy-day! To be more precise, it’s May 1937, the week before George VI’s coronation, and The Mirror couldn’t be more excited. I have the overseas edition of The Mirror, which was a week’s worth of newspapers bundled up into one edition (the overseas edition was out a week later, so the dates are actually those of Coronation Week itself). We moaned about the coverage of the last Royal Wedding, but this was something else. Nearly everyone was trying to get in on the act. (By the way, I’ve not been able to scan everything in the paper, it’s quite delicate in places, so the not so good bits are photos that might not be quite as clear.)
Firstly, the reason for George being King at all – Edward and Mrs Simpson. 12th May 1937 was originally Edward’s coronation date and, when he officially abdicated, the same date was kept for his brother. There’s lots of sweet, romantic pictures of the couple, and seemingly no disapproval at all, in this paper at least.
The Mirror, 1937
Here’s the schedule:
The Mirror, 1937
There are many ways to celebrate the day, as the Very Reverend Edgar Rogers rather tolerantly points out. He might be singing hymns, but he doesn’t mind if you’re getting completely blotto instead. In fact, is it just me, or is there a bit of a homoerotic vibe going on here? I’m imagining he has a secret passion for a “bit of rough” neighbour of his who likes a drink – all that talk of “he-manness” and everything.
The Mirror, 1937
And, along those lines….
The Mirror, 1937
It seemed like all the nations of the world wanted part of it. Nazi Germany was no exception, with Hitler giving George a special honour and sending a present.
The Mirror, 1937The Mirror, 1937
Generous Ovaltine gave its workers an extra week’s wages to celebrate the occasion:
The Mirror, 1937
The Mirror had a special song commissioned, with a tune by Ivor Novello, no less.
The Mirror, 1937
Planning to get a good spot for the procession? Hyde Park was specially open all night on 11th May for overnight sleepers – here’s some tips:
The Mirror, 1937
But don’t bring your car: The Mirror, 1937
Working underground? There’s still no excuse to miss the event!
The Mirror, 1937
You’re not patriotic enough unless you’re eating the correct food for the occasion.
Eat Nestle’s chocolate (in the days when everyone called it “Nessles”):
The Mirror, 1937
Or perhaps you fancy a Rowntree’s Chocolate Crisp? I know I do. It’s a Kit Kat now, by the way. The Mirror, 1937
Drink beer! I love how this isn’t an advert for a particular company, it’s just that YOU’RE BRITISH SO DRINK BEER. From 1429 (that was Henry VI’s coronation) to 1937, beer has been going strong. I don’t know what they had before 1429, though.
The Mirror, 1937
Stuck in a crowd waiting for the King to go past? Eat some specially shaped cheese triangles:
The Mirror, 1937
And smoke some special coronation fags while you’re at it:
The Mirror, 1937
And here’s the film to use to take your pictures:
And finally, the new King pardons a murderer to mark the occasion, for some reason (welease Woderick). Well, he only stabbed his 20 year old fiancee to death, poor lamb. At least his “grey-haired” mother gets to see him again:
