Ivor's Insight

Ivor's Insights Part 16

INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Sixteen
 
 
 When Dad, Bert and David were working at the Hazel Press there was a part of the building rented out to a Mr Walter Phillips. He was a designer and marketed photographic mounts which were printed by the press for him. He told Dad that he liked his work and insisted on Dad doing his printing. He also told Dad that, one day, he intended to have his own printing press and would like Dad to come and work for him. His dream became reality in 1947 when the Walter Phillips Unicorn Press was opened in Perivale and Dad left the Hazel Press and resumed his happy working relationship with Phillips by joining him at the Unicorn Press. This association lasted until Dad retired from the world of printing, a world in which he has left an indelible mark, in 1963, aged 70. 
 
   As mentioned earlier in my story I am lucky to come from a musical family. My Dad played piano and mandolin banjo and formed his own dance band during his time in Wales . Bert played tenor and alto saxophone plus clarinet and after the Second World War also formed his own dance band. My sister Lily also occasionally dabbled on the old Joanna (piano for the uninitiated). Bernard became interested in Traditional Jazz, learnt to play the trumpet and later joined the Greenford Rhythm Kings. There will be more information about this later in the story. David played bugle in the BB. 
 
   As for me I had some piano lessons from Dad when I was about 15 but my passion for sport was too powerful, I wanted to be out playing football, cricket, golf or tennis so I stopped tinkling the ivories. It was a pity because I could pick out most of the popular melodies of the day using my right hand and I learnt a few chords for the left hand but putting them together at the same time was not so easy.  Dad and Mum were disappointed but as usual they accepted it was my decision and I can tell you it’s a decision I have regretted ever since. I am green with envy when I see someone casually sit down at a piano and, without the need for any music, hear the melodies flow effortlessly from their prowess at the keyboard.  I could also play the mouth organ and as previously mentioned the bugle. Later on Bert taught me to play the Alto saxophone and eventually I became proficient enough to join forces with Bert. We spent many happy moments playing some of the old standards such as ‘Lover come back to me’ ‘South of the Border and one of our all time favourites, ‘If I loved You’ from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s ‘Carousel’. I can still remember playing the lovely melody of this song on my Alto and Bert coming in with the harmony line on his Tenor sax. What wonderfully happy and treasured days they are. Finally in the 1950’s I bought a guitar and joined the skiffle craze, more about that later.
 
   I also liked to sing and although I don’t profess to have a particularly good voice, it was enough to impress my teacher, so I was told.  I would also sing for my Boys Brigade tent mates on summer camps. Perhaps my love of singing and the ability to hold a tune comes from all that Welsh air I inhaled for the first 4-1/2 years of my life?
 
      I left school in 1946 aged 14 not knowing what I wanted to do except to be a footballer. I was told that I had been watched by a scout from Brentford Football club but nothing came of that. I knew those ‘wet’ football boots of mine were a mistake. Anyway, like my brother Bernard, I had no desire to go into the printing trade, it just didn’t appeal to me. Although I would never be considered the Brain or Dunce of Britain I quite enjoyed my school days. I think on a scale of ten I would probably rank at around seven and a half.  I liked sport – you knew that anyway – reading, writing, geography, history and singing. My maths or Arithmetic as it was called in those days was alright but I never could make head nor tail of Logarithms or Algebra. 
 
   So, not knowing what to do I spent a few weeks hanging around at home until one day my Dad heard of a vacancy in a local factory which made tables and chairs.  So, taking a day off work Dad and I took a bus to this emporium of wood which was situated in Southall and we met the Manager. To be truthful I wasn’t really interested in the job, I quietly mused to myself that if this factory were making goalposts or corner flag posts for football pitches that would have been more appealing but tables and chairs, how mundane can you get? But the pressure was on and I had no choice other than to accept the job.
 
   The job entailed me standing at a bench which had a vice fixed firmly to it. On one side of the bench, neatly stacked, was a pile of table legs. After picking up a leg, I would insert it into the vice which I would then tighten. The next operation was to pull down a handle, which had a drill attached to it, and drill a hole into the table leg.   Upon completion of this exciting task I would return the handle to its upright position, loosen the vice, remove the leg, now complete with a beautifully cut clean hole, and place it with pride on another pile of similar completed ‘holey’ legs on the other side of the bench. Then I would return to the ‘unholy’ Everest mountain of legs, eagerly awaiting their turn to be drilled, and repeat this tricky operation. For this daily exacting and mind boggling procedure I was paid the princely sum of £1.30 a week. No wonder there was a vacancy for the job.
 
   After two weeks of this, I tabled a motion that I didn’t want to be lumbered with the world of wood anymore so I gave in my notice and decided to leg it.
Naturally Mum and Dad were disappointed but accepted that it wasn’t for me.
   I had a few weeks of convalescence at home until Mum took the initiative and told me she had found me another job. No bus trip was required for this new venture because the job was in a shoe repairers shop just around the corner from home. Off I went, leaving the world of wood behind and entered one of leather.
   I couldn’t help imagining the answer I could give to someone asking me about the sequence of these two jobs, my first after leaving school. I thought I could reply that I left a ‘boring’ soul destroying job of making ‘oles’ in furniture legs, - a sort of human woodworm -  and went to a job where I repaired the down at heel and worn out ‘soles’ of shoes by becoming a Cobbler! No-one ever asked me the question which I suppose is just as well.
    
   Much to my surprise I found the job quite interesting. There is a sense of achievement in removing the worn out soles and heels of a pair of shoes and replacing them with new leather, which after polishing, made them look as good as new. .
   The shop was owned and run by a husband and wife who were not only very pleasant and kind to this new kid on the block but also increased my pay to £2 a week.  I settled into this job well, learning the noble art of cobbling. I stayed there for a couple of years and then moved to another cobblers shop for more money and  ‘lasted’ there until I was eighteen and called up for National Service. Even then I carried on pounding and polishing leather except that by this time it was more on boots than shoes.  
 
   Disaster was to strike our family in 1947 when Mum was ill and after many hospital visits was diagnosed with cancer. An operation was scheduled for January 1948. My brother Bernard, who was now in the Army in Palestine , was allowed home on compassionate leave. The operation was successful and Mum came home. Two of Dad’s sisters came and stayed with us, helping with the nursing and carry for Mum. After about a month, Bernard’s compassionate leave finished and he was sent back to Palestine . He was very lucky when a train he was travelling on through Gaza was blown up by a Jewish terrorist organisation. Thirteen servicemen were killed and many more seriously injured, but Bernard escaped with only minor injuries.
 
   Sadly in May 1948 Mum suffered a relapse and went back into hospital for another operation. The news was so bad that the surgeon warned us to prepare for the worst. Once more Bernard was flown home on compassionate leave. It was certainly a black and worrying time for our family. I remember lying in bed one night thinking deeply about the situation and, yes, also praying, when suddenly I had what I can only describe as a ‘warm glow’ enveloped me telling me that everything was going to be alright and Mum would recover. It was a little uncanny but the feeling was so strong that I told my brother Dave about it. Whether it was divine intervention, a miracle or just luck I don’t know but what I do know is that, thankfully, due in no small measure to the nursing care she received from Dad’s two sisters, Mum made a fantastic recovery, came home and we were blessed in having her with us for a few more years.
 
---End of Part Sixteen---
Happy Victoria day to you all. (Queen Victoria would have been 198 this year !)
 
Take care, and thanks for reading.
Cheers
Chris, Carys and Ivor.

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Ivor's Insights Part 15

INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Fifteen
 
   The end of the war was celebrated throughout the country with street parties organised for the children. We had one in Wedmore Road and I remember the occasion well. Tables and chairs were arranged in the road outside our house which
was conveniently situated equidistant from beginning to end of the road. There were Union Jacks proudly displayed everywhere and the feeling of utter joy and relief pervaded the whole atmosphere. The strain and worries etched on the faces of many of the adults resulting from the six years of war seemed to be slightly lifted as the realisation and significance of this day gradually sank in.
 
   There was one incident on that glorious day which I’ve always remembered. It happened when a soldier, a complete stranger, strolled down our road and not only joined us in our celebrations but also surprised us by singing a well known popular song called ‘Together’. I like to think this is a song for anyone who’s lost a loved one, a fact which is evident in the poignant lyrics. I see them as symbolising someone recalling good times past and gone forever but not forgotten. The words start by specifying particular things they enjoyed together and ends in a uplifting positive manner by asserting that the memories of those times will remain everlasting.
 
   We never did know who this soldier was or where he came from but I can’t help wondering if he was one of the many who had lost someone dear and found comfort,  solace and strength in these heartfelt moving lyrics!  
 
   After the euphoria of the war ending the colossal task was one of coming to terms for both victors and vanquished with the terrible aftermath. The rebuilding of lives, cities, economics and infrastructures presented a formidable task requiring many years of hard work for all concerned. In Britain we had a General Election in July 1945 and despite all the efforts of the one man who lead us and the free world to victory, Winston Churchill was not elected to carry on as Prime Minister. That job went to the leader of the Labour Party, Clement Attlee, a veteran from the First World War.  Although Mr Attlee was small in statue and a mild, slightly insignificant looking man, he had a firm resolve, deep conviction and determination to tackle the enormous task of picking up the pieces and trying to rebuild a New Britain.
 
   Before that election, in May, there was a marvellous uplifting sight for all of us cricketing fans when an Australian team – made up of players just out of military service – came over and played five Test matches against England. This happy event was known as the ‘Victory Tests’  there were no Ashes involved, it was just a wonderful occasion for everyone to forget the war. One person who captured everyone’s hearts was a dashing Australian named Keith Miller. He was a RAF fighter pilot, flying Mosquito aircraft in which he had survived quite a few narrow escapes. On the cricket pitch he was a revelation, a batsman who hit the ball with great ferocity to all corners of the ground. As well as that he was a brilliant fielder and a top medium to fast bowler. There is a story saying that he once heard someone make a remark about the pressure of batting in a Test Match, to which he is quoted as replying ‘What pressure? I’ll tell you what pressure is – pressure is having an enemy plane up your tail, that’s pressure’ although I believe he used a different word to tail!
 
   In 1946 Miller was joined by another Australian fast bowler, Ray Lindwall – who had a beautifully smooth bowling action -  and the two of them together were the scourge of many an English batsmen then and for many years after. I remember the 1945 Test match at Lords for two reasons. Along with a pal of mine, also a cricket fan, I queued up outside the ground eagerly awaiting this cricketing spectacle.  The second reason I remember it is because as we stood waiting to enter cricket’s hallowed ground we couldn’t avoid seeing a giant poster advertising a new film – which considering the spectacle of seeing Miller and Lindwall in action was very appropriately called – ‘Spellbound’. Directed by the master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock, the film starred Gregory Peck and Ingrid Bergman. This is one of Hitchcock’s top films and is still worth watching when it appears on television.
 
    Rationing of food, clothing, confectionary (of vital importance to the children!) and many other items was to continue for years after the war. In January 1946 the first post war consignment of bananas arrived in Britain. Many children had never seen a banana before. Sadly one little girl in Yorkshire died after eating four, which had been given to her as a treat.  On a lighter note hit songs of the period included ‘Cruising down the river’, ‘We’ll gather lilacs’  ‘A gal in Calico’ to name a few. Cinema audiences were queuing up to see ‘Brief Encounter’ and ‘Blithe Spirit’ but my favourite was one called ‘State Fair’ this was a good old fashioned feel good homespun piece of Americana type of film. The music was by Rodgers and Hammerstein,   the best remembered song from it was ‘It might as well be Spring’
 
   The film starred Dana Andrews, singers Dick Haymes and Vivian Blaine and a gorgeous girl named Jeanne Crain. The lush Technicolor and full Hollywood make-up turned her into a goddess to us fourteen-year-old schoolboys. My sister used to read a film magazine called ‘Picturegoer’ and one week its cover picture featured Jeanne Crain. Some of us boys wrote a letter to her requesting a signed photograph but alas no reply was received. I suppose being a goddess doesn’t leave much time to get involved with adolescence infatuation.
 
    Some of the popular radio shows around this time were ‘Dick Barton – Special Agent’ ‘Much Binding in the Marsh’ (a comedy starring Kenneth Horne and Richard Murdoch as RAF officers on a RAF camp), ‘Stand Easy’ an Army oriented comedy starring Cheerful Charlie Chester, ‘Water-logged Spa’ – a Navy comedy starring Eric Barker and ‘Take it from Here’ starring Jimmy Edwards, Dick Bentley and Kitty Bluett and later, June Whitfield.
 
    In the theatres two big American shows hit London. The first was Irving Berlin’s ‘Annie Get Your Gun’ followed by a show which changed the face of musical theatre, Rodgers and Hammerstein’s ‘Oklahoma’. The star of this show was a young, unknown to us, baritone named Harold Keel who subsequently changed his first name to Howard, went to Hollywood and the rest is history. Another show which also opened at this time was ‘Starlight Roof’ where a twelve-year-old girl made a big impression with her singing. Her name?  Julie Andrews.
 
   By this time my earlier interest in the cinema had continued to grow and I learnt a lot about the history and birth of the early days of silent movies, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, The Keystone Cops etc and the subsequent coming of the talkies. Fortunately my friend Graeme also shared this interest and we became frequent cinemagoers resulting in us becoming quite knowledgeable about films and the people who participated in the making of them. This interest led to Graeme buying a cine camera and projector. Now fired with ambition we decided to make our own movie. Another friend joined the ‘cast’ and between us we thought we’d try to make a gangster type film. It was decided that as I could portray getting shot and ‘dying’ the ‘best’ then I would play the villain. We needed a scene where I walked into a large building so off we went on location to a large block of flats along the Western Avenue. Dressed in a Humphrey Bogart/George Raft type raincoat with the collar turned up, and wearing a hat, borrowed from Graeme’s dad, pulled down, I walked down the entrance path and entered the doorway into the flats.  Graeme thought he saw one or two enquiring faces peering down from their windows at this young ‘film star!’ as he captured my actions on his camera using 9.5mm black and white film. All went well with that sequence but after that we ran out of ideas. So my big scene of being ‘shot’ never got recorded onto film thus denying posterity the pleasure of seeing my Oscar winning performance!
 
   But later that year (1946) a film came out called ‘The Jolson Story’ this was Hollywood’s version of the life of singer Al Jolson. He was one of the biggest singing stars of the twenties and thirties appearing in vaudeville and Minstrel Shows. This entailed him blacking up his face, and adopting a voice and accent similar to that heard in the Deep Southern states of America. In 1927 he made history by starring and singing in the World’s first sound film ‘The Jazz Singer’. During WWII he made frequent visits overseas to entertain the American troops. Hollywood’s Warner Brothers and Columbia studios decided to make a film of this extraordinary entertainer’s life but by this time Jolson was getting a little old and although his voice was still strong the studio decided they wanted a younger man to take the part of Al Jolson. So, they bought in a lesser known actor named Larry Parks. He could sing a little but nothing like Jolson, who could anyway? So it was decided that Larry Parks would sing along with recordings made by Jolson but by clever cutting Parks’s singing voice would be cut out. This method proved very successful and it was generally agreed that the end result was the best example of dubbing ever seen.
 
   So, now you are thinking what all of this has got to do with me and Graeme and our foray into film making.  Well, I’ll tell you. We enjoyed the film and marvelled at the dubbing so much that we thought we would have a go. We bought an Al Jolson record, I blacked up my face with burnt cork, borrowed (again) not a hat but a pair of white gloves from Graeme’s Dad and performed and sang along to the record whilst Graeme filmed me.  Now at this point I must tell you that in those days our film was silent. So, once the film was developed we would run it back through Graeme’s projector onto a screen and at the same time play the original record of Jolson singing. Because the projector was a hand operated machine Graeme would try valiantly to keep turning the handle in synchronisation with the screen image of me opening and closing my mouth as I cavorted around matching the sound of Jolson’s voice booming out from the record.  No easy feat I do assure you. Tragedy and laughter would sometimes happen when the film would get stuck in the gate of the projector. This jamming would ‘freeze’ the screen image but because the film couldn’t move on it would overheat in the projector which manifested itself by producing a series of brown holes on the screen. As the heat intensified so the holes got bigger and bigger before our very eyes. This forced Graeme to frantically turn the projector’s handle faster and faster in a mad effort to free the affected jammed piece of film before the Fire Brigade were called. Whilst this fiasco was going on, the frozen screen image of what was me manfully jumping around miming my head off, following the age old tradition of the show must go on, was rapidly disappearing under the intense heat.
 
   As well as being a good singer Jolson would sometimes cup his white gloved hands together and whistle a chorus or two in some of his songs. So, nothing daunted I thought I’d have a go, hence the borrowing of Graeme’s Dad’s white gloves.
 
    As it turned out that was one of our worst mistakes. During my frenzied attempts at whistling I got some black marks from the burnt cork on my face onto the pristine white gloves!  I bet they never had that trouble with The Jolson Story.  
 
Although Graeme and I never made another film together I did, later in life; acquire a camcorder to record family occasions and holidays etc and by using two tape recorders and editing machines I produced VHS tapes combining images with music and narration for playing back through my VHS tape player, and not a white glove in sight. But that’s another story for another day.
 
--- End of Page Fifteen--- 

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Ivor's Insights Part 14

 
 
INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Fourteen
 
  The Boy’s Brigade movement was founded in 1883 by William Alexander Smith in Glasgow.  It was his vision to bring young boys together with the aim of teaching them Christian values such as discipline, reverence, obedience, tolerance and comradeship. These were, and still are, similar aims to the Boy Scout Movement founded by Robert Baden Powell in 1908. From these humble beginnings the Boys Brigade, usually referred to as the BB, grew to be a worldwide organisation involving millions of young people.
 
    My eldest brother Bert had joined the BB before the outbreak of the Second World War so we had some knowledge of the organisation. Apart from learning, absorbing, and practicing the basic rules Bert also used his innate musical talent to good effect by learning to play the bugle in the drum and bugle band.  None of these activities appealed to my next brother Bernard but as I have said earlier, it did interest the next in line, David, and subsequently, me. I joined as soon as I reached the requisite age which was 12 in those days.  I must say it was a very wise move. 
 
   Although I was very fortunate in being the youngest of five children and raised in a happy, loving, caring close knit sharing family unit the BB gave me the opportunity and experience of going away on summer camps and mixing with like minded boys lots of sporting activities, learning new skills, having fun, standing on your own feet, or in other words, growing up.
 
   Dave and I also learnt to play the bugle and joined the band. We were members of the West Middlesex Company based in Greenford which boasted a membership of 100 boys, the largest company in the world at that time. Another of the many benefits of being in the BB was learning the basic marching drills. This was a blessing when later I went into the RAF.  Square bashing on the parade ground held no fears for me as I about-turned, formed fours and slow marched with consummate ease, all thanks to the BB. 
 
   Another blessing from my experiences in the BB of being away from home and mothers apron strings, enticing and loose as they were, was further bought home to me in the RAF when I  tell you that it is a somewhat sad revelation lying in bed in a billet and to hear some young conscript sobbing. This usually came from a boy who was an only child and had never been away from home before.
 
    I remember my first summer camp. It was decided that we were all fit enough to cycle from Greenford to the village of Thame in Oxfordshire, a distance of thirty three miles. I only had a ladies bike which you can imagine bought forth a few ribald comments but nothing daunted I made it both ways as did everyone else. We camped in the grounds of a house belonging to a Colonel Birch Reynoldson if my memory serves me right. There was a small swimming pool in the garden and as the weather was good we took advantage of this nice facility. We also camped at Littlehampton in Sussex next to the seaside fairground and a new, just opened, Pitch and Putt golf course where, because by this time in my life I had started playing golf a little, I was invited to join the Mayor of Littlehampton for a game. Needless to say he won, well, the course was his brainchild in the first place so I couldn’t show him up could I?
 
    Another summer camp I always remember going to started at London’s Waterloo station on August 15th 1945. Whilst awaiting the train to take us to Lymington for the ferry trip across to Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight, we received the news that Japan had unconditionally surrendered and the Second World War was finally over. This momentous day became known as Victory over Japan day or VJ-Day. As you can imagine this news was greeted with great relief and unbounded happiness. We were determined that now we could relax and enjoy our holiday all the more knowing that the last remaining dark clouds of six years warfare would be replaced by the prospects and hopes of a bright new future for all of us lay beyond the blue horizon.  
 
   On arrival at Yarmouth we were transported to our camp at Freshwater.
Unfortunately our euphoria wasn’t to last, the expectant good weather didn’t materialise and we had rain for about ten days. It was so bad that our Captain had no option other than to abandon the camp. Most of us returned home leaving a couple of the Officers aided by a number of the older boy members, my brother Dave being one, behind to dismantle the tents and generally clear the camp site before also leaving for home. Naturally it was a big disappointment for all of us. The general opinion was that the town’s name of Freshwater should be changed to Rainwater!   
 
    There was an incident at one of these summer camps, which one I can’t remember but wherever it was, that made an impression on me which ultimately led to my first effort at writing.  Because our Company Leader was a priest we had a Sunday morning service and sometimes a Church Parade with our marching band in the afternoon. This incident happened during a morning service held in a typical English field setting with the corn in a nearby field gently waltzing to a warm summer breeze and the sound of bird song competing with the boys singing hymns, which naturally included the BB’s anthem, ‘Will your anchor hold in the storms of life?’
 
   Singing whilst surveying the green lush, and now thankfully once more peaceful, fields of our England, with he neat rows of our white bell tents and the big marquee, where we had all our eagerly awaited meals, I was suddenly aware of how lucky I was to be free and surrounded by such warmth and camaraderie.
 
   When the holiday finished we returned home and back to school. It was usual for us to be given the task of writing an essay, or composition, as we called it in those days, about what we did on our summer holiday. I decided to try to describe the feelings I felt on that magical Sunday morning.  My teacher was impressed with my humble effort and took it to the Headmaster. He duly called me into his office and after congratulating me asked me if I wanted to be a writer. To be honest I didn’t know what I wanted to be, other than a footballer. I replied that I had just tried to put into words the emotion I felt at that particular moment in time. Whilst I was pleased they liked my story, amateurish as it was, it was their reaction to it which bought home to me the power of words.
 
     I learnt that the right words, even those in my amateurish story, can have the power to please, persuade, influence, comfort, inspire, move, disgust, console, anger, amuse, or any other emotion you may think of.  Their ability to stir our inner being is very evident in our wonderful expressive English language. Speakers such as Winston Churchill, who wrote many wonderful phrases, actors Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, and Richard Burton all knew how to use words to good effect. Similarly, musicians such as Cole Porter, who not only wrote his own music but also wonderful clever lyrics to accompany that music. W.S. Gilbert (of Gilbert and Sullivan fame) and Noel Coward are others who also used their talent with words to amuse. Writers and Poets also have this gift. Think of Shakespeare and the influence his use of words have had, and still do, on people the world over as are the words of Dylan Thomas and Oscar Wilde.
 
   Finally we can’t forget the work of the war poets, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, Rupert Brook, Robert Graves and John MaCrea who so brilliantly put the horrors of the First World War into such emotive and evocative words that are as powerful and poignant now as the day they were written.
 
    This interest in words started for me from that summer camp awakening and led to my first effort at describing something I’d experienced by writing about it. This desire to write is something I find challenging, rewarding and satisfying, when I get it right! I didn’t study English to any great degree at my Secondary school so I have no illusions or pretensions about the quality of my efforts other than to say that I have been lucky in having quite a few articles published, some accompanied with photographs I’ve taken (photography being another passion of mine) so perhaps that says something!  I enjoy trying to wax lyrical with poetry whether serious, light-hearted limericks, silly rhymes or just playing around with words. I think this love of writing is something inherent in our family. As many of you know my father wrote his memoirs and my three brothers have also partaken, with varying success, in this writing pastime and I’m pleased to say both our sons have a penchant for words, Chris has a vivid, imaginative and humorous mind when writing stories and Martin is very clear, analytical, and persuasive with the written and spoken word.   
 
    I just wish I had kept that original school composition but unfortunately I didn’t.
 
     Another aspect of the Boy’s Brigade which I enjoyed was marching through the streets playing my bugle on those Sunday Church Parade’s. Although having said that, there was a downside to this. If the parade took place on a very hot summer’s day it is not easy to blow a bugle when you are dripping with perspiration and your lips keep slipping off the mouthpiece. Similarly in complete contrast it is also not easy to be woken up at some god forsaken hour from a deep sleep in your tent when it’s your turn to blow reveille to wake up the rest of the camp.
 
   At this point I should tell you that our Company leader had decided that on our camp we should be segregated into groups like some schools are into ‘Houses’ etc.  Well, he decided that our contingent should be split into four groups namely Eskimos,
Hottentots, Mohawks, Zulus.  I was a Zulu. In these days of PC (Political Correctness) some people might take offence, thinking it degrading or trivialising these indigenous native people but believe me in those days, and bearing in mind the names used were suggested without any racial intent, by our leader, a Church of England Priest!  Nevertheless it could have had some repercussions arising from one particular Sunday Church Parade. We proudly marched through the streets, white sashes gleaming, cap badges, shoes shining and bugles firmly glued to our lips.
 
  
   The service went well and, as is usual at the end of any church service, when the final Amen is said it is customary to have absolute silence for some seconds before anyone rises from their sitting or kneeling positions. Well, on this particular occasion this respectful silence had only been observed for a few seconds when suddenly this time lapse was shattered by the sound of a lone young voice ringing through the rafters of this sacred and ancient building inviting the congregation to join in the rallying cry of ‘Up the Hottentots’. Fortunately our leader thought it amusing as we boys did except for Billy Collins, the over enthusiastic perpetrator of this invitation to a surprised and somewhat bemused congregation. Poor Billy, it was something he never lived down.
 
--- End of Part Fourteen---

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Ivor's Insights Part 13

                                                 INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Thirteen
 
 
   Going back now to December 1941. This was when Japan made their surprise attack on Pearl Harbour and Americaentered the war. This was a momentous occasion which President Roosevelt described as ‘An act of infamy’. Winston Churchill, who had a close working relationship with Roosevelt – it was the President who had sanctioned the supply of ships, guns and other weapons of war to aid Britain earlier in the war, but due to political pressures within America at the time held back from actually taking his country into war – immediately condemned this barbarous act and joined Roosevelt in declaring war on Japan. But at the same time Churchill admitted that he was elated and voiced the opinion that at last, and because, we now had the colossal military strength of American behind us the war was over!
 
   After Pearl Harbour it wasn’t long before Britain was ‘invaded’ by thousands of American troops. They were a welcome sight, particularly to the ladies and the children. Their smart uniforms and general easy going nature made a refreshing change for the war weary people of Britain. Some of the British servicemen were slightly wary and to be honest a little jealous due to the big difference between the wages of the American troops compared to the British. This enabled the Americans to be generous, which they always were, with nylon stockings, perfumes, lipsticks
for the girls and dishing out chewing gum, candy for the children as well as putting on parties for them. It was fun for the children to ask the American soldiers ‘Got any
gum chum? The request was usually successful.
 
   Another attraction the Americans bought was their accents whether from the Bronx area of New York City, the Southern States, or from Deep in the heart of Texas (all give four claps now). As far as we were concerned they all sounded straight from Hollywood and therefore they lived either in big houses, surrounded by white picket fences, drove big gleaming cars or they lived on ranches with houses that had veranda’s where they’d sit in rocking chairs on the porch, sipping from a glass of mint julep watching the red face of the sun as it retired for the night and slowly disappeared below the sage bush on the prairies.
 
   American personnel were based all over Britain in places such as Burtonwood in Lancashire and East Anglia, which due to its flattish landscape provided ideal conditions for the many Bomber bases used by the RAF and the USAF. The RAF would carry out night bombing raids over Germany including Berlin, whilst the USAAF covered the daytime raids.
 
   Before the arrival of the American forces Britain had already called for help from its vast Commonwealth countries. Not that they needed much calling. Australia, Canada, New Zealand, South Africa, Rhodesia, India, Jamaica and many others had already rushed to our aid. In addition, others like the already oppressed and overrun peoples of Poland, Czechoslovakia and the Free French also quickly responded to the call.
 
   Living in Greenford we saw, and heard, many American airmen from the base in nearby South Ruislip.
 
   It wasn’t long before the attraction between the American troops and the ladies grew with the girls living under the illusion of living the American dream, as stated above. They were swept off their feet and this led to many engagements and weddings between them and the G.I.’s as they were called (meaning General Issue). Unfortunately many of these G.I. brides were bitterly disappointed and disillusioned when they later left Britain to start a new life in America. They expected their new homes to be palatial as depicted in the films but many were run down houses, apartments or even worse a broken down shack with terrible, if any, sanitary facilities.  This naturally, but sadly, led to heartbreak and many subsequent divorces.
 
   Some of the films I remember from this time are Bambi, Mrs Miniver, which won a Best Oscar award for Greer Garson, Holiday Inn – in which Bing Crosby introduced
Irving Berlin’s ‘White Christmas’ to the world which in time became the best selling record of all time. This was superceded in 1973 when ‘Candle in the Wind’, part written, and recorded, by Elton John displaced Bing’s record at the top, at least in Britain that is. But it was impossible to keep the old Groaner (Bing’s nickname) down because it just wouldn’t be Christmas without Bing telling us that he’s dreaming of a white Christmas would it?   Whilst many of us wanted to hear Bing sing White Christmas actors Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman wanted to hear another song, called,  ‘As time goes By’ because  they kept asking pianist Sam to play it in the 1942 classic film ‘Casablanca’.
 
    One of the biggest disasters of the war occurred on August 19th 1942. This was the ill-fated Allied raid on the French port of Dieppe. The raid was carried out in response to a request from Russia’s leader, Josef Stalin, for the Allies to open a Second Front on the continent because his own troops were under extreme pressure fighting the Germans on the Eastern Front.  
 
   The Allies troops consisted of 5,000 Canadians, 1,000 British and 50 U.S. Rangers.  The Canadians had well over 3,000 casualties, of which there were over 900 dead and the rest wounded or taken prisoner. The British Commando’s whilst having the most military success of the raid still lost 275 men.  In addition there were many ships and planes lost in this fiasco. It was total carnage and if you’ve ever visited this port you will know how easy is was for the German forces, high up in their vantage positions to machine gun the troops as they landed on the beaches.
 
   It was subsequently claimed by the military ‘planners’ that although the lose of life was regrettable lessons were learned as to the best way for any troops to carry out any future amphibious raids from England across the channel to France, which of course this is what was done on D-Day 1944.
 
      By April 1943 massive preparations along Britain’s south coast were under way with Military vehicles, glider planes, and thousands of British, Commonwealth and American troops assembling for the Allied invasion of Europe.
 
   My wife, although only a schoolgirl at the time was living between Southampton and Fareham, Hampshire, saw many of these troops, particularly Canadians sleeping under their trucks and tanks all ready for the big day. One night, during a severe air raid, some of these Canadian soldiers were commended for driving their burning armed vehicles away from their village base to minimise casualties. She also remembers asking the Canadian troops ‘Got any gum chum?  a request which, like the American troops,  always brought success.
  
   May 17th 1943 was the date when the daring Dam Busters raid by the RAF’S 617 Squadron led by Wing Commander Guy Gibson took place. Their ‘bouncing bombs’ invented by Barnes Wallis, didn’t inflict as much permanent damage to Germany’s war production machine as had been hoped. Our casualties were high but the sheer daring and inventiveness of the surprise raid certainly shook the enemy and did wonders for the Allies morale. Sadly eighteen months later Guy Gibson, who received the VC for his part in the raid, was killed when his plane ran out of fuel and crashed near Steenbergen in the Netherlands.
 
      D-Day finally arrived on June 6th 1944 when at long last the Allied invasion to free Europe from the tyranny of the Nazi’s began.
 
   A week later on June 13th the first V1 flying bomb landed on England. There are many claims as to exactly where it landed, from places such as Swanscombe in Kent, who claim one landed there at 3.41 a.m. on the 13TH, to London’s dockland area.
I can still recall the chill that went through me when I heard the BBC news referring to these new ‘pilot less’ planes. As a twelve year old I wondered how on earth a plane could travel without a pilot. I don’t mind admitting, it scared me a little.  We eventually got used to the eerie sound of these ‘buzz bombs’ or ‘doodle bugs’ as they were named. They were capable of speeds up to 400 mph and carried one ton of hi-explosives. Designed to run until they ran out of fuel at which time they would then stall and around 15 seconds later would crash down to earth exploding on impact. At night the rocket, for that was what they were, emitted an orange flame as it went on its murderous mission. As long as you could hear the drone of the engine you were safe but as soon as that drone stopped you could only pray that the bomb wasn’t heading your way. Because of this they were also known as ‘Bob Hopes’, you bobbed down and hoped for the best. The sound of silence was deafening and frightening at the same time.
 
   In July the danger from these V1 attacks was so bad that parents in the inner London area once more decided to evacuate their children to the safety of the countryside.  After having killed over 6,000 and severely injuring 18,000 people the attacks stopped on September 2nd.
 
   A short respite was followed by Hitler’s final plan. This was the launching of his more deadly V2 rockets. These were capable of supersonic speed and flying at over 50 miles high. I believe Chiswick, west London received the first one on September 8th killing three people and injuring 22. Unlike the V1 these machines had no engine droning to alert you of their presence. When they ran out of fuel they just left the heavens and brought hell on earth without any warning. The heaviest casualties were  168 people died when a V2 landed on a Woolworth store in New Cross, London in 1944. But fortunately for us these weapons were unreliable. Many either exploded on launching or they completely missed their target when they did come down. Nevertheless, of the 5000 launched, about 1000 reached Britain killing nearly 3,000 and badly injuring 6000. The attacks finally ended on March 27 1945 when the last one landed on a street in Orpington Kent killing 34 year old Mrs Ivy Millichamp, the last British civilian to die from these silent killing machines.
 
     On May 8th 1945 Germany surrendered and the war in Europe was over. This was followed on August 15th when, after America had dropped two atomic bombs on Japan, they also surrendered. These two historic days were named VE Day (Victory in Europe) and VJ Day (Victory over Japan). Although there was plenty of celebrations all over the country not everyone felt the euphoria. These were the people who had lost loved ones and still felt the loss too much. There were others who seemed to have forgotten how to have fun. One story tells of a lady who overcame that problem by suddenly deciding to put the kettle on and in a fit of devil may care attitude opened a tin of pears she had kept stored on a shelf!
  
     Who would have thought of this wondrous victory day (over Hitler) back in the dark days of 1940 when we were preparing for his armies to invade Britain?  At that time the threat was so great that Anthony Eden, the Minister for War at the time appealed for volunteers to join a new fighting force he planned for the home front. This force was to be called the Local Defence Volunteers, LDV for short. There was a huge response, many veterans from the First World War signed up. By the next day a quarter of a million men had enlisted. The experience of these older men bought forth a little humour with them by suggesting some alternatives to the proposed name of this new force. For instance they suggested that the letters LDV could mean ‘ Long-Dentured Veterans’ or even ‘Last Desperate Venture’ but for me the best, although maybe a little unpatriotic, suggestion was ‘Look, Duck and Vanish’ But none of these suggestions were implemented as Winston Churchill decided this new fighting force was to be known as the Home Guard.
 
   This name remained until actor and writer Jimmy Perry (1923-2016) teamed up with BBC producer, director and writer, David Croft (1922-2011) in 1968 and bought one of the most successful television shows to our screens. Jimmy Perry had served in the Home Guard himself and decided to write a show based on his experiences. His original title was The Fighting Tigers but this was changed at the suggestion of the BBC Head of Comedy at the time, Michael Mills, to Dads Army and the rest is history. The television series ran from 1968-1977 and is still showing repeat episodes at the time of writing this, (2016). There is also a full length film version made in 1971. In my opinion Dads Army ranks alongside The Good Life and Yes Minister/Yes Prime Minister as the best television programmes ever made. They are beautifully written, superbly cast and acted and just as importantly, they are still funny after all these years. As Captain Mainwaring might have said ‘Well done men, Britain is proud of you all. Wilson, tell the men to stand easy, that means you too Pike, stupid boy’’
 
---End of Part Thirteen---
 
 
 

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Ivor's Insights Part 12

 
 
 
 
INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Twelve
 
 
  
    At this point I think it’s only fair to warn you that I shall now return to my ramblings on the football scene, so for anyone who wishes to skip these scintillating memories you may leave and I look forward to your return when the match is over, including extra time of course! So let’s carry on from where I was before, if I can remember, oh yes I know, I wanted to tell you that my interest in football increased rapidly. I would spend hours in the street outside the front of our house kicking a tennis ball against the wooden fence. The design of this fence was of the angled overlapping panel style which meant the ball would come back at you from different angles. This necessitated learning to use either foot, left or right to return the ball back to the fence. My dedication to this practice bore fruit because throughout my subsequent football years – and I say this with all due modesty - I could use either foot with ease and not worry, or waste time, juggling it over to what is called ‘my good foot’.  I find it pathetic when some of the present day so-called stars miss so many goal chances because they are fiddling about trying to get the ball onto their ‘good foot’. 
 
      Another action I undertook was due to reading in a football manual that a good way to practice ball control was to place a line of posts in the garden and dribble the ball as you weaved your way around them without knocking any over. Now, as I didn’t have any suitable posts, I improvised by using some of my Dad’s, I hasten to add, empty beer bottles. It was a sight to behold, this young football fanatic imaging he was Stanley Matthews bringing the crowd to their feet as he weaved his magic around ten empty bottles of Watneys Brown Ale without knocking any over.
 
   In those far off days our football boots were not like the present day lightweight models. Ours were very heavy particularly if the pitch was rain sodden, producing mud as cloying as any farmer’s cattle yard.  In an effort to combat this problem I followed another tip I read which suggested trying to ‘mould’ your football boots to fit your feet so that they felt like one entity and lighter. So, what did this young, dedicated, enthusiastic callow youth do? Well, he filled two large bowls with water, one cold and one hot. With boots firmly fixed on my feet I placed them alternatively into the two bowls. Sad to report it didn’t do a scrap of good and I ended up waiting ages for the boots to dry out!  It’s tough training to be a star I can tell you.
 
   None of this deterred me from my passion for the game. I became Captain of my school team playing in, what was called in those days, the left half position. This is similar to today’s midfield position. In those days we didn’t have the luxury of a dressing room to change in. We had to make do with a few pieces of corrugated iron sheets, the same as used for the Anderson Air Raid shelters. These sheets were interlocked and assembled into a tunnel long enough to provide room for twenty two boys to change. There were no doors attached to either end and, by George, the wind didn’t half blow through sometimes.  Inside this structure, placed along each side, was a wooden bench seat which housed our clothes.  On the occasions when we played a match on a rain sodden muddy pitch I couldn’t get home quick enough to wash away the mud caked on my legs and arms.  No luxury of baths and showers for us budding stars.
 
   Another memory I have is playing football on a pitch close to Wormwood Scrubs prison with some of the inmates watching and shouting ‘encouragement’ – at least that’s what I think it was! - from their cell windows. If my memory serves me correctly I think it was at the Scrubs, and also at Hackney Marshes, when we boys had to carry the goal posts to and from the pitch before and after each game. Another abiding memory for me was being selected to play for Middlesex Schoolboys in a big match against London Schoolboys. I can’t recall the actual score; I think it was a draw. I was warned in advance to watch out for the boy playing centre forward for the Londoners, he was their star player and top goal scorer. So I stuck next to him like a leech, wherever he went I followed. Whenever he got the ball I was there, tackling and worrying him so much that he ceased to pose any threat to us. At the finish I was congratulated for my performance. That’s enough of my self glorification.
 
   By now I had joined my brother David in becoming a member of the Boy’s Brigade and we both played football for them. We won the league championship one year which meant we attended the annual Boys Brigade get together at the Royal Albert Hall later that year to receive our medals. The Royal Albert Hall is one of London’s most distinctive and popular tourist attractions. The foundation stone of this unique building was laid by Queen Victoria in 1867 and named in memory of her beloved husband Prince Albert who had died six years earlier. The building was completed in 1871. During the Second World War it suffered little damage from the bombing raids. This could be because it is thought that many of the German planes used the unique structure of the building as a good landmark on their flight path!
 
   There are many entrances within the building enabling anyone to walk into the actual arena. Many of these entrances entail walking down a flight of carpeted stairways to reach the arena. Those of you will know this from seeing the annual Service of Remembrance held every November. Members representing all of the Armed Services, resplendent in their uniforms, and many others descend these steps and proudly march into the arena.  Well I can tell you from my experience that
it wasn’t easy walking down those steps wearing studded football boots and marching across the arena. Still, at least by this time my boots had dried out from the failed earlier bowls of water treatment.  Another memory for me was to play at the grounds of Walthamstow Avenue and Hendon.  There were quite a few occasions when I played twice on a Saturday, the school team in the morning and the Boys Brigade team in the afternoon. I remember my Mother telling me one day not to play football because the day in question was a Good Friday. She thought it wrong to play on such a day. She was quite right, as Mothers usually are, because during the game I took the full force of a football struck from close range straight in the face, leaving me with a ‘lovely’ black eye. Talk about retribution for not listening to Mother.
 
   I still have my three medals earned from my footballing days, but not the black eye..
  
   One of my school football team members was a very good friend of mine called Graeme Merton. He played in the right back position and as he was fairly tall and well built he used this feature to his advantage, as many a recipient of his tackles would testify to. His enthusiasm and the impact from it lead me to bestow upon him the accolade of ‘Killer’ Merton.  When we were not playing football we would travel from Park Royal tube station, on the Western Avenue not far from Hanger Lane, to London’s Manor House station, near what is now called Harringey. This journey took us through 21 stops on the Piccadilly line. Upon arriving at Manor House we would then fight our way onto a trolley bus to take us to White Hart Lane to see our favourite team Spurs play, (having changed my allegiance from Brentford and QPR to Tottenham) The big problem with this route was that when the game finished there was always such a stampede to get on trolley bus back to Manor House station.
So, to avoid this near life threatening mad rush we would, reluctantly, leave about 10 minutes before the final whistle. As if that wasn’t bad enough there were occasions when, as we stood waiting for the bus to turn up, suddenly there would be a big roar from inside the stadium signifying a goal had been scored but which team had scored was unknown to us until we got home. It was some years later when we found out we needn’t have used that long arduous route to the ground at all. We found out we should have gone to London’s Liverpool Street station where we could have caught a train direct to White Hart Lane!  Still, I have happy memories of those days seeing players of the calibre of Ted Ditchburn, Alf Ramsey, Ronnie Burgess – the Captain - Len Duquemin (from Guernsey), Les Medley (who later in life emigrated to Canada) to name just a few.   To illustrate the difference from those days to the present I remember being on a bus to the ground one day and seeing Len Duquemin get off the bus when we reached White Hart Lane and carrying his football boots in a brown paper bag!
 
   I never imagined in those days that one day, long into the future, I would not only walk onto Tottenham’s actual playing pitch myself but would also be sitting, with my wife, in the stands watching a son of mine playing on its hallowed turf! But this actually did happen in 2004 when our youngest son, Martin, aged 41 at the time, was playing for a team in a charity match.
 
   These charity matches were played at Tottenham’s ground and amateur players were invited to apply for the chance of playing at White Hart Lane. Each team consisted of ten amateur players with the eleventh player, and Captain, being a retired former Spurs player. Martin first played in one of these matches in 2003 when one of Tottenham’s best strikers, Martin Chivers, was the team’s Captain. The following year, when my wife and I attended, Mickey Hazzard led the team out to do battle against a team having Ricky Villa in charge.
 
   We were very proud to see our Martin run out onto the pitch and despite the fact that he was whistled up once by the referee for a, shall we say, slightly over enthusiastic tackle, bringing back memories of my friend Graeme? He acquitted himself very well playing mainly a defensive role but not afraid to undertake many forays into the opponents half and I must add, he used both feet, not at the same time of course.
 
   I had a video camera that day and shot some footage which is always nice to revisit.
Before the game started I was invited backstage where I saw the dressing rooms and hospitality areas which displayed many photographs and other memorabilia of many of the great players throughout the clubs history. As if that wasn’t enough I was also allowed to walk out onto the pitch where I stood in one of the goal areas. It was something rather special for me as the memories came flooding back of standing on the terraces with Graeme in those far off war torn austere, but also halcyon, days of my youth.
 
   Finally there were other welcome benefits of our day out at White Hart Lane. Namely, there was no need to travel twenty one stops on the Underground tube train to Manor House station and then risk life and limb in the battle to board a trolley bus to the ground. We saw the whole match through to the end without the necessity to leave ten minutes before the final whistle and thereby avoiding another trolley bus scramble. All of this was achieved because we travelled both ways in Martin’s car.
 
  At around that time footballers were on a maximum wage of £10-20 a week. It wasn’t until 1961 when Fulham footballer Jimmy Hill won a battle with the Professional Footballers Association to scrap this maximum wage. This made headline news and Johnny Haynes, also a Fulham player, became the first player to get a wage of £100 per week.  Nowadays England’s Wayne Rooney is on a wage of around £200,000 a week!
 
   During the war years many professional footballers were called up to one of the armed forces. This meant that many of those who became soldiers were posted to Aldershot whereas Portsmouth was the natural base for sailors. The football clubs of these two towns were allowed to use any players posted there to play for them as guest players. This greatly increased their chances of winning matches.
 
   My father, after discussion with Mum, decided to take on a second job. This was as a turnstile operator at Wembley Stadium. During the war years there were some matches played at Wembley and Dad was often able to obtain tickets for us. I saw England play Scotland once where such English stars as Frank Swift, Eddie Hapgood, Cliff Britton, Stan Cullis, Joe Mercer, Stanley Matthews, Raich Carter, Tommy Lawton, Jimmy Hagan, Jimmy Mullen, Leslie Smith and two of Scotland’s finest, Matt Busby and Archie Macaulay parading  their skills. After the war there was a great interest in Speedway racing and although I wasn’t particularly interested in it I did go to see it at Wembley a few times. I remember Bill Kitchen, Tommy Price, Split Waterman and Jack Parker.
 
--End of Part Twelve---

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Ivor's Insights Part 10 and Part 11

                                                 INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Ten
 
   The air raids intensified particularly during the Battle of Britain. It was thrilling for us boys to watch the Spitfires and Hurricanes engaged in a life or death dogfight with the German planes. The vapour trails left by the crisscrossing aircraft left beautiful
patterns in the blue summer sky which belied the deadly battle for survival above us.
 
     My sister Lily decided that she wanted to ‘do her bit’ to help the war effort so she joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service (ATS) and worked in London helping on,  what was called the Ack Ack guns. These weapons were deployed in an effort to shoot down the German planes attacking London.  It was around this time that Ealing Borough Council sought to encourage the evacuation of children away from the London area to safer areas of the country. It was a voluntary scheme but my parents thought it wise to send their three youngest, Bernard, David and me.  Pupils at Greenford County School, which Bernard and David were, were being evacuated so my mother asked the headmaster if I could go along with them. He agreed, so, in October 1940 she took us all to the school and watched us board a coach, complete with our gas masks in their cardboard box over our shoulders, leave Greenford for a secret destination. It was fortunate that Bert was home on leave at the time and was able to give Mum support at this necessary but emotional time. Naturally my parents found it very strange to return to a house now silent, devoid of the sound of family laughter and bustle.  It was a couple of days later that an official letter arrived telling them that we were now being taken care of by a family in Torquay, Devon.
 
     When our coach arrived at Torquay all the children were offloaded and taken into a school. We were greeted by many local residents who were willing to take one or two evacuees into their homes. Of course there were three so we had wait until a family willing to take all of us was found. It was around 9 o’clock when such a family arrived. We were then taken by car to the house of a Mr and Mrs Hawkins who had a young daughter and a grandmother already living in the house. Upon our arrival Mrs Hawkins sat us down to have something to eat. All was fine until her daughter bought a cup of cocoa into the room and accidentally spilt some of it over Bernard’s coat. Not a very auspicious start. We were very tired from our long journey and soon packed off to bed.  David and I were not happy bunnies at all and once in our room we sat down and wrote a letter to Mum and Dad saying so and asking if we could come home!  Needless to say the letter wasn’t sent.  Bernard was fine and soon attended a local school whilst Dave and I explored the local fields having the life of Riley – I often wonder who is this Riley fellow, is he related to Larry, who it is said is always ‘happy’? - for a few weeks.  Anyway our carefree life came crashing down when Bernard came home one day and told us that we were to report to school the next day.
 
   In time we settled into our new life in Torquay and enjoyed trips to the beach and sea. Dave and I remember one particular day when I was standing on a rock in the sea dangling a piece of string which had a small lead Farmer Giles type character fixed to it (or so I thought) when tragedy struck. Why on earth I was doing such a strange thing I have no idea. It seemed a good idea at the time I suppose. Anyway, suddenly a
big wave came crashing in and I was left with just a piece of string with Farmer Giles lost at sea. We often wondered where he ended up.  Even though the many people who welcomed the evacuees into their homes were recompensed by the Government, it should be remembered that they deserve our thanks and recognition for the vital part they played in helping the war effort. Our landlady Mrs Hawkins had a strict method of food distribution at mealtimes. For instance at tea time she would lay the table and point to the contents on each plate. It might be a plate with cakes on it and another plate with scones lying invitingly there and a third plate containing slices of bread and butter. She would point to one of the cakes on the first plate and utter the firm instruction ‘‘there’s one of those each’ and the same method and instruction was issued on the next plate holding scones. But when she reached the bread and butter plate she would show generosity and boldly declare ‘there’s two slices of bread each’.
   
   Now this was fine for Dave and I but Bernard was a growing boy and needed much more sustenance. So, he resorted to creeping downstairs at night and raiding the kitchen for any tasty morsels he could find.
 
     In 1941 my parents decided to visit us. They caught a night train that passed through Bristol. A German air raid on Bristol had just finished when they arrived. Several engines and carriages outside Bristol station were alight and there were palls of smoke around. This delayed them which resulted in them being two hours late arriving at Torquay. We had a lovely day with them and in an effort to take our minds off their necessary departure back home to London later that day they took us to the cinema where we saw Gulliver’s Travels.
 
   As the time went on and the bombing raids eased it was decided it was safe for us to return home. Bernard by this time was thirteen and wanted to stay. He wanted to change his billet and found one with a friend of his but the lady couldn’t take his two brothers. So David and I left the green pastures and seascapes of glorious Devon – and a wet and never to be seen again, Farmer Giles, and returned to Greenford. I remember, for our homecoming Mum had got a treat for our tea, a tin of pears which were very rare. We were glad to be home again and soon adjusted to our old life with friends and familiar surroundings. I became interested in sport, particularly football and saw my first professional football match when Brentford played Clapton (now Leyton) Orient at Griffin Park – Brentford won 4-2.  I remember three of the Brentford players, goalkeeper Joe Crozier, and the two full backs Bill Brown and George Poyser. Brentford and Queens Park Rangers (QPR) at Loftus Road, Shepherds Bush were our local teams.
 
---End of Part Ten---
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Eleven  
 
   At around this time I also became very interested in going to the cinema or ‘pictures’ as we called it. I would pester my Mum for the few pennies it cost. We had two cinemas in Greenford, the Granada – opened by singer/comedian Gracie Fields in 1938 – which cost the princely sum of sixpence to see two films, a ‘B’ film which was usually shorter in length, followed by the main feature film plus a cartoon plus a newsreel plus a ‘trailer’ advertising next weeks films and sometimes, arising from the depths at the front of the stage, a mighty organ would appear and the onboard organist would serenade the audience for about 15 minutes. The one I remember most was a very well known organist called Robinson Cleaver. He was born in 1906 and at 9 years of age played his local Parish church organ. In the early 1930’s he was the solo organist at the Lonsdale Cinema in Carlisle. He became the organist at the Regal Cinema at Bexleyheath in 1934.  He later played at other Granada cinemas in places such as Welling, Woolwich, Dartford and Tooting. His wife Molly was a pianist who would sometimes play duets with him. Robinson Cleaver died in 1987.
 
   I remember him for one simple fact that as he ascended from the depths he would be playing his signature tune – which I can still remember – and half way through it he would insert a few bars of the sailors hornpipe and as he did that passage he would put one hand behind his back just as sailors do when performing this traditional merry dance. Isn’t memory a funny thing when one can remember such an inconsequential thing as that? 
 
    The Granada also had occasional talent shows which were presented by a chap called Bryan Michie. There was another man, named Carroll Levis, who presented a similar show called Carroll Levis and his Discoveries. When my brother Bert was home on embarkation leave, prior to being posted to the Middle East, he decided to enter the show. Naturally Mum, Dad, Lily, Bernard, David me plus a few neighbours all  attended the show and we were full of pride when Bert walked on in his Army uniform with his saxophone and played three songs. I wonder if any readers remember these old numbers, ‘It’s a hap-hap-happy day’ ‘It’s a lovely day tomorrow’ and one of Bert’s (and mine) favourite songs of all time, Hoagy Carmichael’s ‘Stardust’?  You can imagine how we all felt when Bert won the contest. It really was a hap-hap-happy day for us all. 
 
   If all of that was too much for you then you only had to walk around the corner and lo and behold there was another cinema –I use the term cinema loosely as this establishment was quite different in opulence to the Granada. The name on the front was The Playhouse but it was better known locally as The Bughouse. But although the quality inside was not up-to-scratch which meant we weren’t itching to get in but itching to get out, it made up for that by only charging four pence to enter this interesting emporium and the films shown were of the same quality as the Granada.
 
   Quite a few of the films we all saw during this time were war stories and it’s interesting to relive some of them nowadays as many crop up on television or can be purchased on DVD’s.  Some I remember include, Went the Day Well, Dangerous Moonlight, Millions like Us, Cottage to Let (George Cole as a 10 year old evacuee from London), Hue and Cry, Next of Kin, One of our aircraft is Missing, In Which we Serve, The First of the Few (Leslie Howard playing the part of the Spitfire’s inventor, R.J.Mitchell), Thunder Rock, and to lighten the mood there was Somewhere in Camp (with the Northern comedian Frank Randle), Abbot and Costello, The Three Stooges, Disney cartoons like Donald Duck, Goofy and the wonderful Will Hay with his side kicks, Graham Moffat and Moore Marriot.  
 
   If, when watching a film, an air raid suddenly occurred a warning would appear on the screen informing the audience and anyone wishing to leave the cinema would do so whilst the film continued on the screen. At first most people did leave and hurry home but in time many became a little blasé and remained in their seats often, quite ironically, watching war films!
 
   In those days films were checked by the British Board of Film Censors and given a rating according to their content. A rating of U (Universal) meant the film was suitable for all ages. A rating (Adult) signified a film not suitable for children under the age of 12 unless accompanied by an adult. The last rating was H which was used for Horror films. Not my favourite. I think there was enough real life horror going on all around us without paying money to see more.
 
   When I used to pester my Mother for the money to go to the pictures I was under 12 years of age which meant if the particular film I wanted to see was rated an A film the only way in was for me to hang around outside the cinema and ask any adult approaching the cinema entrance ‘Please will you take me in’. This pleading question was delivered in my most polite voice accompanied by my dazzling smile as I offered  up to them my entrance fee.  How could it fail I thought? After all, this approach was common practice amongst us boys and usually worked but sometimes there would too many of us hanging around outside the cinema with the same aim. So then it would be necessary to move further away up the road from the cinema entrance and try to catch any person you thought might be heading for a night at the pictures, and approach them before your mates could. Many a completely innocent, minding their own business and perhaps heading home or going shopping, person had quite a shock to be suddenly accosted by some boy asking to be taken into the cinema when all they wanted to do was to get home and put their feet up.
 
  
   The Second World War was in full flight by the beginning of 1941. The absence of so many men into the Forces caused the Minister of Labour, Ernest Bevin, to introduce plans to mobilise women to take on vital jobs in industry. There were already thousands of women in the Armed Forces but now thousands more responded to the call to the Home front. Whether single, married, widowed, young or old the women of Britain proved that they were ready, willing and very able to more than do their bit for the war effort. 
 
   In March 1941 there was a shock announcement when it was disclosed that Germany’s Luftwaffe planes had made an attack on Buckingham Palace. The planes dropped Flares first to light up the Palace before incendiary bombs were unleashed.. Fortunately they all missed the Palace. As Queen Victoria might have said ‘We are not amused’.  
 
   On May 9th 1941 a gigantic breakthrough occurred when Royal Navy Destroyers, HMS Bulwark, Broadway and a Corvette, HMS Aubretia, attacked and captured the German submarine U-110. This in itself was a victory but when the British Naval boarding party entered the submarine they found something which was far more valuable. It was an Enigma Cipher machine plus all the relevant codebooks relating to it. This was such a massive coup and one that Churchill and many historians estimated could have shortened the length of the war considerably and thereby saving thousands of lives.  Later in my life story, when I was in the Royal Air Force (Signals) I was fortunate enough to see first hand an Enigma coding machine which is on display to the general public at Bletchley Park in Buckinghamshire.  If you ever get the chance to visit Bletchley Park – especially the ladies, of whom there were many working there intercepting and decoding the hundreds of coded Top Secret messages being received daily - I urge you to do so. You won’t be disappointed.
 
   At about the same time as the above event another shock arrived when Hitler’s deputy, Rudolf Hess, surprised everyone by parachuting into Scotland. He broke his ankle upon landing in a field. He claimed he had a message for the Duke of Hamilton, whom he had met briefly at the 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin.
 
   Although I heard about this on the BBC news I had no idea that at the time of Hess’s arrival there was a young lady living with her mother in a cottage on the Duke of Hamilton’s Estate. The young lady was Ethel Stuart and she remembers the day well. She had gone out in the morning and upon her return the place was swarming with Police and troops. At first she was refused entry but after she convinced them that she did live in the cottage she was allowed in. Ethel later decided to follow the example of many other like minded women and joined the WAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) where she worked alongside Wing Commander Kenneth Horne and Squadron Leader Richard Murdoch, two well known popular radio artists. She also became a pen pal, writing to a soldier serving in the Middle East at the time. I know all of this about Ethel for she eventually became my sister-in-law through the fact that the soldier she wrote to was Herbert Hodgson, in other words my eldest brother Bert!
 
   As for Rudolf Hess, after his attempt at trying to make peace between Germany and Britain he was judged to be mentally unstable and was jailed in the U.K. until 1945 when he was transferred to Germany and stood trial at the Nuremberg War Crimes Tribunal. He was found guilty of war crimes and imprisoned in Spandeau jail until his death aged 93, on 17th August 1987.  An interesting addition to the Hess story is that the father of the popular singer Olivia Newton-John was a code-breaker working at Bletchley Park during World War II and according to Olivia was responsible for the capture of Rudolph Hess!
 
   Away from the war, a fuel shortage hit Britain and the need to conserve water by using less when bathing was encouraged. Hotels were marking a ‘Plimsoll’ line on their baths. People were asked to take fewer baths (which went down well with us kids!). The suggestion was that anyone taking a bath should not use more than five inches of water (that was about four inches more than we kids used anyway). It was reported that even the King followed these guidelines (five inches I mean not the kids measurement). It was even suggested that shared baths would be a good idea. (I say, Carruthers, that’s carry things a bit too far don’t you think? After all, one’s got to keep up standards old boy, what what!).  Soap rationing meant that one tablet of soap per month was the normal ration unless you were a coal miner who got more. Shaving soap was not rationed but difficult to obtain, as were razor blades. The women had their own problems with shortages of cosmetics. This reduced them to using cooked beetroot juice for lipstick and soot for eye makeup.
 
   The new utility cloth allied with a limit on the number of styles available meant fashion was very plain and because due to the shortage of material ladies hemlines were always rising, which bought the colour back to the cheeks of many of the men. Ladies also suffered another blow when a ban was imposed on using any embroidery on nightclothes and underwear.  The men had no double-breasted coats, no sleeve buttons and no turn-ups on trousers, all part of the rationing programme.
 
   Anyone lucky or rich enough, to own a car was only allowed petrol if their journey was essential. Driving for pleasure was banned. I remember the posters which clearly stated ‘Is your journey really necessary?
 
   It was also around this time that a group of people met in Oxford. They were exploring ways of bringing supplies of food and clothing to War torn Europe. This humanitarian idea blossomed and grew until eventually it became known world wide as Oxfam (The Oxford Committee For Famine Relief).
 
   At this stage of the war the Government released figures showing that the total cost of the war so far was £9.050 million. This was more than the entire cost of the First World War.
 
    When my brother Bert was with the Eighth Army in Egypt he was chatting one day to another soldier, a Welshman from the Rhondda Valley named Richard Price. Bert discovered that Richard also worked at Sanderson’s Wallpaper Manufacturers factory in Perivale and furthermore not only knew our sister Lillian (See Part Seven) but had taken her out a few times. Some time later Richard was sent home on leave and called round to our house, just to tell our parents of his chance encounter with Bert, and as luck would have it, Lily opened the door to have the surprise of her life. Well, all good stories should have a happy ending and Bert and Richard’s is no exception. Bert was demobbed in 1946 after six years of Army life, four and half years of which were in the Middle East and North Africa. I remember the day he came home. Obviously after being in the Middle East for four and a half years he was very brown, a fact which Dave and I couldn’t get over whereas Bert was totally surprised as to how much we, especially me, had grown taller. Dave was nearly 10 and I was under 8 when Bert had last seen us. I remember he took us swimming the next day to the indoor Public Swimming baths at Ealing. Seeing him standing up on the top diving platform all brown and a picture of health made us feel very proud.  Naturally his safe homecoming was such a relief to my parents.  I remember him and Mum hugging and crying and, later in the day, watching Dad cycling home from work and being greeted by Bert at the garden gate. It was, quite naturally, a very happy and emotional time for all of us. 
 
   Because the war had interrupted Bert’s working experience in the printing trade he was very keen to get back and expand his knowledge so eventually he got a job and settled back into civilian life. He also bought a motor cycle and I well remember one summer Sunday afternoon when he took me for a ride. As it was a warm sunny day I left the house with suitable clothes for such a day only for Bert to order me back to the house to put on a sweater and a coat. All my protestations were in vain so somewhat reluctantly I did what I was told and, suitably attired to pass inspection, I climbed onto the pillion seat and off we went from Greenford past Uxbridge heading out to Denham in Buckinghamshire. Later we stopped for a rest and some light refreshments amid the peaceful and welcoming branches of Burnham Beeches before heading back for home. It was then that I, inexperienced in travelling on the pillion seat of a motor bike, had a rude awakening and realised why Bert had ordered me to don the appropriate warm clothing. The summer sun decided it had had enough for the day and whilst it was somewhat red faced as it gently descended over the horizon, my face was white with the bitter cold as I descended lower down the pillion seat and clung onto Bert for warmth and dear life.  
 
    Thank goodness in time Bert decided to change to a car and bought a second hand Austin 7. Being in the Royal Army Service Corp he gained a lot of mechanical experience working on lorry engines so every evening after work he would use this knowledge to good effect by tinkering with his car endeavouring to rectify any faults and ensure it was road worthy. For this nightly ritual he would often enlist my help to ‘hold that’ or ‘hang on to this Ive’ - I was Ivor to my parents and my sister Lily but to my three brothers I was, and still am, Ive - whilst he was grappling with some mysterious (to me) and obstinate engine component which refused to do what it was intended for.
 
   Eventually the big day dawned when Bert decided the car was ready for a trial run so once again I was detailed to help. This time there was no sitting on the back of a noisy motor bike and getting frozen in the process, instead I was promoted to chief pusher of this refurbished ‘gleaming’ Austin 7. With me at the back pushing like mad Bert would wind down the window of the drivers door put his hand through to steer the car as he also pushed whilst running alongside the car. When sufficient speed was gained he would jump aboard and endeavour to jump start the engine. After quite a few fruitless attempts Chief mechanic Bert decided the car needed more speed before a jump start would succeed so between us we pushed the car around a couple of streets from ours and halfway up the next road which had quite a steep incline. The idea was that when we got to the halfway point up the incline we would turn the car around and with Bert doing his running and steering act and good old Ive  - in reality, it was young Ive, I only became old when I finished pushing -  at the back pushing like mad this would produce  a speed and momentum of such velocity that the car engine had no chance against such odds and would reluctantly leap into life when Bert applied the jump start action. Was it a success I hear you ask? Well up to a point it was but only up to a point and that point was reached when both Head mechanic and Chief pusher decided they were worn out and more tinkering was required to avert possible injury to Head mechanic Old Bert and Chief pusher who was by now, not so Young, Ive. 
  
   In 1943 my father had started working for the Hazel Press in Wembley, a year later my brother David joined Dad at the same press where he became an apprentice compositor. I remember them telling the story of how one evening when they were cycling home from work they heard the dreaded drone of a doodlebug. When the noise suddenly stopped they quickly abandoned their bikes and hit the ground.  They were lucky because the rocket went on for another mile and hit the Glaxo factory in nearby Greenford.   Another story I enjoyed hearing them relate concerns where they used to have their daily lunch. During the war the Government had organised thousands of eating places which were named ‘British Restaurant’. For the princely sum of between nine pence and one shilling these emporiums provided, for your delectation, a very basic meal.
 
   The food was whatever was available during those hard times. Cold spam sitting sorrowfully amongst soggy and lumpy mashed potatoes floating in watery cabbage was often the only choice. This mouth-watering delicacy was usually followed by apple pie, which was mostly pastry, searching for some apple and then, not finding any or very little, covered in embarrassment, with anaemic looking custard made from powdered milk and water. For those of a faint heart, or stomach, having more respect for their inner workings, would reject the custard option whereby the server would call out ‘Pie in the nude is it?’ 
 
   Meanwhile Bert joined Dad and Dave at the Hazel Press and in a bid to further his career started attending evening classes. My other brother Bernard, not keen on entering the printing trade, was also attending night school three evenings a week following his chosen career to becoming a Quantity Surveyor. I was still only a mere lad of twelve whilst all of the above was going on and would listen to all their stories at evening mealtimes. 
 
   Another emotional milestone came when Bert and his pen pal Ethel arranged to meet for the first time. Under the clock at Kings Cross railway station in London was the agreed rendezvous. It wasn’t long before they, like millions before and after them, found out their answer to the question posed by Cole Porter in his song ‘What is this thing called love?’  It’s hard to define, it just happens, a feeling that this is the right person. They quickly knew that their letter writing days to each other were over. They fell in love and were married in 1947 in the private chapel on the Duke of Hamilton’s estate at Dungavel, near Hamilton where Ethel had been brought up. My parents plus Lilian, Bernard and of course, Bert made the trip to Bonnie Scotland.  After their marriage Bert and Ethel bought a house in Greenford and later had a daughter.
 
   Meanwhile Richard (Jack) Price was also now back in Civvy Street and returned to work at Sandersons in Perivale. He renewed his friendship with Lily and they too eventually married, also in 1947. They later had two children, plus grandchildren and lived happily ever after, finishing their days in Scone, Perthshire, Scotland where their youngest son and his family still live. 
 
   Referring back to Rudolf Hess for a moment you might be interested to learn that on the same night (May 10th) of Hess’s arrival in Scotland, London suffered the worst air raid of the entire Blitz. The bombing carried on through the night. It is estimated that around 1,500 people were killed and 11,000 houses were destroyed. Bombs hit the Houses of Parliament; Big Ben was marked but continued to record the correct time. Both Westminster Abbey and Hall were hit as was the British Museum and Waterloo Station. Even St. Paul’s Cathedral didn’t escape. Damage was done to the High Altar, Crypt and many of the stained glass windows.
 
   But as the saying goes, even in tragedy there’s often humour and that was vividly demonstrated on this night of horror with a typical example of British humour shining through.  The well known actor, Ballard Berkeley (the Major in Fawlty Towers) was a Police Special Constable on this dreadful night of Incendiary bombs raining down like fireworks, giving off their bluish and white flames upon exploding. He recalled seeing a man put a steel helmet over one bomb and watched it become red hot, white hot before disintegrating. There was a newspaper seller standing stoically at his usual corner calling out the familiar cry of ‘Star, News, Standard’ but, as it was Cup Final Day, he added the words ‘Cup Final Result’ to his call. Similarly he witnessed a prostitute walking by holding up an umbrella as she sang ‘I’m singing in the rain’   Thank goodness for such people in times of crisis.
 
---End of Part Eleven---
 
 

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Ivor's Insights Part 9

 
INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Nine
 
     We were allocated a corrugated-iron Anderson air raid shelter which was installed in our back garden. A hole approximately 2.50 metres by 2 metres by 1.50 metres
deep was dug out, a concrete floor laid in the bottom and 100mm thick concrete walls lined the sides.  The superstructure of the two longitudinal sides of the shelter consisted of 2 metre long sheets of corrugated iron with curved ends which were bolted together to an arch. The ends of the shelter were plain sheets of corrugated iron with an opening at the front for access. The earth from the hole was then backfilled up and around the superstructure. Bunk beds that would sleep four children were supplied. Any other furniture had to be found by the householder.  
  
   This was all fine except for the fact that we had to share this shelter with our neighbours, Lou Cordon, his wife May, daughter and son. This meant that the five children had to cram themselves into the two bunk beds whilst the four adults made do with any chairs small enough to fit into the available space. I remember the air raid siren wailing out its mournful sound every evening at around 6.45. My father would just have time to get home from work, have something to eat and then we’d all descend to our hole in the ground until morning. We had to find something to act as a door to cover the access opening at the front of the shelter. This was solved by sacrificing our slate bedded billiard table which did the job well. It received no ‘cannons’ or thankfully, no bombs throughout those raids. 
 
    Every morning we kids would look for shrapnel which may have fallen in the street from the overnight raid. We collected it as souvenirs, the bigger the better, some pieces were so jagged the thought of the damage they could, and did, do was frightening. My mother used to warn us of these dangers and told us to stop collecting it. The ironic thing about all of these nightly raids was that our neighbours had an old lady lodger who refused to take any shelter. In true Churchillian spirit she declared that Hitler and his murderers were not going to make her leave her bed at night and they didn’t. She survived the war in her nice warm bed!
 
    Finally, on this nightly shelter ritual I must tell you that there were occasions when things quietened sufficiently during the night for the two men, my father Bert and our neighbour, Lou, to venture outside the shelter into the garden on the pretence that it was just for a ‘look around to see everything was in order’ Just what they would do if things weren’t in order we never, thankfully, found out. Suffice to say that on these occasions after a couple of minutes the sound of a bottle opening and liquid being carefully transported into a glass was heard. This delicate operation was followed by our neighbour saying in hushed tones ‘Cheers Bert, all the best’, a toast eagerly reciprocated by my father with ‘Cheers Lou, same to you’ You certainly couldn’t blame them for having a few beers and a smoke, usually Woodbines, Players Weights or Park Drive, not knowing if each drink or smoke would be their last. 
 
   These day and night bombing raids were so common that it set a pattern, which became a normal way of life for many people throughout the country. Life and work had to go on. The men would go off to work every day and hope that their loved ones, to say nothing of their houses, would still be there upon their return. Everyone was issued with a gas mask. This was stored and carried in a cardboard box or a round tin which had to carried with you at all times. Windows in all buildings had to be completely blacked out at night so as not to emit any chink of light which could help guide an enemy aircraft. Air Raid Precaution Wardens (A.R.P) would patrol the streets and if they spotted a light anywhere they would shout out in a loud voice ‘Put that light out’
      We were lucky in that as Greenford is about 10 miles west of London we were spared the terrible bombing raids they and other big areas of Britain experienced. We had a shock one day when one of our own anti-aircraft shells fell on Wedmore Road but no one was hurt. The worst we had was when a land mine – a large bomb dropped by parachute from German planes - destroyed a local pub called ‘The Load of Hay’, killing the family owners. My father remembered seeing the remains of the parachute hanging from the trees surrounding the piles of rubble.
  
   I remember sometimes on my way to school the air raid siren would sound just as I was approaching the entrance to the school.  I would quickly turn round and being young and quite fleet of foot would tear back home hoping for a day off school. This ploy was sometimes viewed with suspicion by my mother who would doubt my protestations that I was only just around the corner when the siren sounded. Sometimes it worked but on other occasions just as I arrived home, panting and puffing a bit, the All Clear siren would sound and all my efforts came to nothing as I was packed off back to school. Rotten old Hitler or words to that effect come to mind.  Of course if we were already in school and the siren sounded we were marched to the underground air raid shelters in the school grounds and continued our lessons there until the All Clear siren sounded.
 
   Another hardship we all endured was rationing. In January 1940 due to the German submarines attacking many British ships bringing food and other supplies to Britain the Government were forced to introduce some sort of rationing. This entailed each adult being issued with a ration book which you presented to each shopkeeper when purchasing any product. The shopkeeper would cross off the appropriate coupon in the book accordingly. Remember there were no supermarkets in those days.
 
     Here is a short list of some of the food stocks which were rationed.
Bacon, sugar, butter, meat, tea, cheese, tinned tomatoes, rice, eggs, peas, canned fruit, biscuits, breakfast cereals, milk, dried fruit, cooking fat, jam.
A typical ration per person per week was butter 2 oz, margarine 4 0z, bacon, 4 oz,
Sugar 8 oz, milk 3 pints (sometimes only 2 pints), meat – to the value of one shilling, approximately equates to 6p today, cheese 2 oz, one fresh egg, dried egg 1 packet every four weeks, tea 2 oz, jam 1 lb every 2 months, sweets 12 oz also every four weeks. I remember visiting our local sweet (candy) shop with our ration coupons and trying to make up our minds as to what to buy and would it last until we were able to get any more. One of my favourite chocolate bars was Fry’s Chocolate Sandwich. The name wasn’t surprising because it was made up like a sandwich having a top and bottom layer of milk chocolate with a layer of dark/plain chocolate in the middle. Unfortunately this delicacy melted away many years ago.
 
    In addition to the above rationing list, everyone was allowed 16 points per month to use on whatever food items they chose.   I remember the packets of dried egg powder which came from America. It was in a brownish coloured waxy type cardboard packet bearing a picture of the Stars and Stripes on the front. One packet was equivalent to 12 eggs. The product was suitable for making omelettes or scrambled eggs and quite nice to eat as I remember. We also had Spam tinned meat from Argentina and whale meat called Snoek from South Africa. Of course expectant mothers and all infants were entitled to more than the above rations. 
 
     The government encouraged all people to grow their own food wherever possible. Dig for Victory was the motto which saw house lawns, flower borders as well as plots of land called allotments turned into vegetable gardens. We benefited from all of those options through the efforts of my father working in our garden as well as an tending an allotment. I remember every house had ‘Pig’ bin allocated which housed any scraps of food left over (which wasn’t very much really). This receptacle was collected weekly by the local council and its contents were fed to some hungry pigs somewhere. Our bin was often hauled into the middle of our road by us boys and served as a wicket in a game of cricket. Sometimes a figure of authority would appear and tell us off; forcing us to put the bin back in the garden which isn’t cricket is it?
 
   In later years when the health experts looked back at the war time food rationing regime they came to the conclusion that the general health of the public was far healthier in those days than subsequent years when food stocks were plentiful with shops full of so many choices of food but unfortunately much of it contained excessive fat, sugar, salt as well as chemicals and insecticides which subsequently led to a dramatic increase in cases of Diabetes and Obesity. This problem greatly increases the chances of coronary and stroke issues.
 
  As well as food being rationed there were other items such as clothes, paper, petrol, soap – 1 bar a month (hurrah said the kids) - and washing powder which was also rationed.  
 
   I can’t say I will never know how on earth my mother coped with feeding and looking after all of us so well during those days of austerity, because I do know the answer. She was, like all mothers, always putting their families first. She may have been small in stature but what she lacked in height she more than made for by her stamina, dedication and love for her family. I should also add that like, many other women, she also took a job working in a local factory, helping the war effort.
We were so lucky to have such a strong lady as our rock and anchor.
 
   I remember in the kitchen, in an effort to eke out the meagre butter ration she would make her own substitute butter/margarine spread, don’t ask me what the ingredients were but it tasted fine to us and helped us through.  Also when making a beef stew with dumplings she would put in a couple of extra dumplings and when they were cooked would fish them out, drain off most of the gravy and then put some jam over them and feed them to we three, always hungry, boys who devoured them with relish and gratitude. I carried the memory of this innovative easily made and filling dessert into later years and when I was married, much to the surprise of my wife, and I suspect many of you readers, I would occasionally ask her to put an extra dumping into the wonderful beef stews she makes! I’m pleased to say she does sometimes indulge me.
 
    As the youngest son, it was natural that some of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my brothers but my mother would also visit Jumble Sales and find other suitable clothes for all of us.  I remember coming home from school at lunch time on Monday’s, and seeing the kitchen filled with steam with my mother, up to her arms in soap suds washing clothes in the boiler. As if that wasn’t hard enough work the clothes still had to be put through the hand operated mangle afterwards. But, being a Monday Mum would usually have managed to keep some meat and vegetables left over from Sunday so I would have a slice of some kind of meat accompanied by lovely Bubble and Squeak for my lunch. Unfortunately, in time this weekly hand washing task affected Mum’s hands so badly that she developed dermatitis. She was forced to daily apply the appropriate cream onto her hands and cover them with bandages to ease the suffering. This painful and debilitating condition couldn’t go on so my father bought Mum a washing machine which if I recall correctly was called a Swirl-lux. Thank goodness this innovation made her life a lot easier.  
 
---End of Part Nine--- 
 

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Ivor's Insights Part 8

INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Eight
 
     I well remember that fateful September day in 1939. With my brother David and our gang we were out playing near the railway lines, as one did in those days, we were probably trying to repel Sitting Bull and his Apaches at the Battle of the Little Big Horn.  Suddenly a woman appeared; she had an anxious look on her face and a sense of urgency in her voice as she instructed us to quickly get off home to our mothers. Wondering what on earth was more important than our historic battle; we mounted our trusty steeds and high tailed it back to the old homestead.
 
     The general opinion was that this war would be over in a matter of months. My eldest brother Bert was nineteen and called up straight away. He went into the Royal Army Service Corps, taking his sax and clarinet with him. He thought it would break the monotony!  Later he was shipped overseas and served with the Eight Army under General, later Field Marshal, Montgomery in Egypt and Libya. Whenever it was safe to do so Bert would take his clarinet and would wander off to find a foxhole in the desert and practice. The odd squeak emanating from the clarinet, would occasionally echo across the desert sand causing laughter from his comrades back in the camp.  Talk about the Desert Song!
 
    My father was appointed Air Raid Warden for our area which meant that every time the siren sounded he would patrol the streets blowing a whistle and telling everyone to take cover. Not that there was anything to take cover from in those first few weeks. His work was slacking off at the Raven Press when out of the blue he was told by Robert Maynard that he had had a request from the  Gregynog Press in Wales  to loan him back to them to finish a couple of books. Maynard agreed to the request but said it was up to Dad.  After much discussion with my mother and all the safety precautions details were sorted out, such as should the air raids get worse then he would return home immediately, it was decided that Dad would go back to Wales for two to three months, returning every weekend.  
 
     During our time living in Perivale it gradually became obvious that the lack of nearby shopping facilities was becoming too much of a burden on my mother. She would prepare breakfast and packed lunches for Dad, Bert and Lily and then breakfast for Bernard, David and me. We three younger boys also came home for lunch and later for tea. After that the three working members of the family came home to a cooked dinner. Remember in those days we didn’t have a fridge to keep food safe so Mum would have to walk to the local shop everyday. As there was a bigger variety of shops in Greenford, and Mum could catch a bus for the two-mile journey, it was decided to move there. So in May 1940 we left Perivale and moved to 21 Wedmore Road, Greenford, a three bedroom semi-detached house with a bigger garden. This move made life a bit easier for Mum.   
 
   Of course it should be said that during these days we had no television, computers, smart phones and the only Tablets we had were the ones you swallowed for medical reasons. All the news came to us via the Radio or wireless or at the cinema with Pathe  or Gaumont British newsreels. The BBC broadcasts were the lifeblood of communication to the country. Every News bulletin was eagerly awaited and listened to by all the family. In addition to providing this essential service the BBC also raised the country’s morale by broadcasting a variety of entertainment programmes.  Millions gathered around their sets every Thursday evening at 8.30 for their much needed weekly ration of laughter. The show that provided that was called ITMA (It’s that man again) and starred comedian Tommy Handley. To hear a recording of that show today sounds very old fashioned and to be truthful a bit ‘corny’ but believe me it was a life saver in those dark and frightening days. There were plenty of programmes dedicated to popular and classical music also. One programme, broadcast twice daily was called ‘Music while you work’. This was a happy-go-lucky non-stop medley of well known popular tunes which had the listeners singing along whether in their homes, offices or in the factory’s. One hit song of the time was ‘Deep in the heart of Texas’. After the first eight words, ‘The stars at night are big and bright’ were sung you clapped your hands four times and sung the next line, ‘Deep in the heart of Texas’. This clapping of the hands was a recurring feature of the song which was fine until in some factories the workers instead of clapping would pick up their hammers and bang out the four beats on their benches or machines causing damage which didn’t amuse the management.  Another popular show was ‘Workers Playtime’ this was broadcast at lunchtime from a factory ‘somewhere in England’ (this was a phrase deliberately used to avoid the enemy knowing exactly where it was coming from). Anyway the show was sent out live and the comedian would always find out in advance the name of the manager or foreman of the factory and use it in some comical way bringing brought forth laughter and good natured jeers from the workers.
 
   The other star who must always be remembered was singer Vera Lynn. Many people thought her voice to be a bit ‘slushy’ but personal taste should not be allowed to detract from the wonderful work she did. As the ‘Forces Sweetheart’ she regularly broadcast on the BBC with her programme ‘Sincerely Yours’ and travelled overseas to entertain the troops particularly in to Burma to sing for what was called ‘The Forgotten Army’. She was a vital link between the troops and their loved ones at home. At the time of writing this (2016) I am pleased to say Dame Vera (as she is now) is still alive, aged 99. I still enjoy listening to her for, like Churchill’s stirring speeches, hearing her singing those wartime recordings of  ‘Yours’, ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ and ‘I’ll be seeing you’ takes me right back to those dark days. 
 
   In July 1941 the BBC introduced its new V for Victory sign. This brilliant idea took the form of the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony –daa, daa, daa, daa,  This was ironic to say the least, considering that Beethoven was German, and now part of his music was being used against his own countrymen. The BBC broadcast these four notes to occupied Europe and it proved to be a great morale booster to the resistance workers giving them encouragement and also engendering a spirit of defiance to the enemy which resulted in them chalking up V signs on doors and walls.
 
     After the tragedy of the Dunkirk evacuation in 1940, air raids became a nightly occurrence. Due to my father’s three month period away working in Wales he found on his return that he had lost his warden’s post, but he quickly stepped in and became a ‘fire watcher’ both at work and in our street.
---End of Part Eight---
 
 
 

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Ivor's Insights Part 6 and Part 7

INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Six
 
The Saturday morning films were so vivid and realistic that it was usual for us to exit the cinemas not as young boys but as cowboys or soldiers chasing Indians firing imaginary guns at each other as we tore up the aisles and returned to the reality of our life in Middlesex.   It’s amazing when one looks back to that period, and realise how wrong and misguided it was that whole generations of children – as well as adults – were brainwashed into thinking that what we now know, and call, the indigenous American Indians, were blood thirsty savages riding the Great Plains attacking wagon trains and scalping any white people they captured.
 
   Of course we mustn’t forget the last film shown each week was the ‘Serial’ film which always ended with a scene showing the hero facing certain death, hanging from a cliff top for instance, which meant we had to return next week to find out what happens. Of course he always found a way out and survived only to face another cliff–hanger ending which forced you to return again and so on until the final happy ending was shown to make room for the next serial to take over and the whole rigmarole started again.
 
     Meanwhile from my parent’s point of view the new house at Pinner was Xanadu compared with our small two bedroom cottage in Bettws. The move from Wales back to the London area was not only to benefit the children’s education and work prospects but it also had the added bonus of making it viable for my mother to visit her own mother and sister in London. She did this by catching a tube train at nearby Hatch End station straight through to the Elephant and Castle. From there it was a penny tram ride down the Old Kent Road to her mothers and sister’s house in Marcia Road Peckham just around the corner from the Dun Cow public house.
 
     Life was good but another change was necessary when in 1938 Robert Maynard announced that due to his business expanding he needed bigger premises. This he found in Alperton near Wembley. Although Dad had been a keen cyclist all of his life he decided that the distance from Pinner to Alperton was a road (or two) too far for him to cycle daily, so we upped sticks once again and moved to 102 Rydal Crescent, Perivale. This time the house was a three bedroom modern bow-windowed, terraced and privately owned house. What also surprised and, as a life long cyclist, pleased Dad was the house was near one of London’s new roads, the Western Avenue, which had cycle tracks on each side of the road! 
 
---End of Part Six---
 
 
 
 
INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
 
Part Seven
 
   If any of the older readers know Perivale they will no doubt remember the large Hoover factory (long gone) on the Western Avenue to the left of Rydal Crescent and  a Peerless factory at the opposite end. I have fond memories of the Hoover factory because one year, as a six year old, I was invited to the traditional Christmas Party they put on for the local children. Jellies, trifles, ice cream, and all the cakes you could stuff in – plus a few more you shouldn’t have – there were games, crackers, prizes, balloons; you name it they provided it. When Hoovers eventually stopped this annual treat it left a big ‘vacuum’ in the children’s lives I can tell you. 
 
     I remember the ‘Stop me and Buy One’ ice cream man who rode his three wheeler bicycle around our streets displaying the above invitation. His bicycle had a wooden cabinet attached to the front which contained a variety of ice creams and ice lollies. Everyone, especially the children would rush out, a penny in their hand, and accept his invitation with relish.. Another welcome street visitor usually arrived on Sunday afternoon. This was the Muffin man who sold his wares from a tray carried on his head. As electric toasters weren’t so readily available in those days we would stick our toasting fork into each muffin and toast them one at a time over a open coal fire. The memory, and taste, of those muffins, especially when consumed around the fire on a cold winter’s afternoon, is remembered with great fondness.  Other street vendors in those days included a man we called a rag and bone man who called out ‘any old iron’ as he drove his horse and cart down each road. If you had any old bits of iron, old clothes or other paraphernalia you wanted to dispose of he was your man and if you were lucky he would give you a few pennies for them. Another long gone caller I remember is the knife sharpening man. He would have a knife grinding stone with him and for a small payment would sharpen any kitchen knives in need of it.  
 
     By this time my eldest brother Bert had followed Dad into the printing trade joining him at the Raven Press in Alperton and my sister Lily went to work in Perivale at Sanderson’s, the well known Wall Paper manufacturers. It was there that she was destined to meet a man who would eventually change both their lives for ever!
  
     When I was six years old I contacted Scarlet Fever and was taken into Clayponds Isolation Hospital in South Ealing. Due to the high risk of contagion of my condition no visitors were allowed any direct contact with me, all they could do was to peer through a window at me. My only recall of this illness is the fuss bestowed upon me when eventually I recovered, was discharged and taken home.
 
The year 1936 is notable as the year when the first Royal Christmas radio broadcast was by made when King George V addressed the nation. This same year also heralded the world’s first public television service when, in November, the BBC transmitted it from Alexandria Palace London. Sporting highlights that year included Britain’s Fred Perry winning Wimbledon for the third year in succession and Yorkshire cricketer Len Hutton making a world record innings score of 364 runs which he achieved over 13 hours against Australia at the Oval.
 
In 1938 there were ominous signs emerging from Europe that Adolf Hitler was causing much unrest spreading his Nazi doctrine throughout the continent. The threat of another war so soon after the horrors of WWI, - the war to end all wars - was worrying to say the least. But, as always, life must go on and our family continued
living in the relative suburban peace of Perivale. We even had a holiday when Mum and Dad took us to sample the seaside delights of Margate.
 
     Just before we embarked on that adventure a letter arrived from the well known cake, biscuit and chocolate company J.Lyons (Joe Lyons to everyone).
The company had a sports sheet which was printed on the back of the menus in their J. Lyons Corner House tea shops, which were familiar sights throughout the country.  This sports sheet changed every week and one of its features was to announce the latest winner’s name for the prize of a Dundee cake which was awarded to someone who, in the opinion of the editor, had achieved an outstanding feat on the sports or athletic field. My brother Bernard, who was aged 11 years and 11 months at the time, had been chosen as a worthy winner for his outstanding cricket achievement whilst playing for Perivale School the previous season. The citation recorded that he took 123 wickets in the season and recorded the highest one innings score of 52 runs. The Dundee Cake arrived in a large round tin, not on it’s own of course, it was delivered to our house.   Now there’s no ‘point’ in giving you a lot of ‘flannel’ or trying to ‘cover’ it up, so we have to ‘declare’ that it tasted ‘out’ of this world. We were all ‘bowled over’; ‘stumped’ for words and our pleasure knew no ‘boundaries’. Howzat?
 
    So, on our Margate holiday Mum spotted a Lyons Corner House teashop and marched in. She explained about her son’s prize and asked for, and was given, a menu with the story of his sporting prowess printed on the back. The citation was subsequently framed and proudly shown to all and sundry and is still with Bernard today.
 
     My father not only had a love of, and a varied taste in, music he was also blessed with the talent and aptitude to express this love by playing the piano and the Mandolin banjo (not at the same time I hasten to add). So when he was living and working in Wales he decided to form a dance band. This venture was a big success and the band  were in constant demand performing at weddings and dances in many of the surrounding villages.  Dad’s musical ear and talent was passed down through his children starting with my eldest brother Bert who received violin lessons, also in Wales, but now in 1938, he decided to switch instruments and bought a trumpet. If anything Bert’s musical ability surpassed Dad’s and he quickly became very proficient in mastering the trumpet. But unfortunately this venture didn’t last because one day whilst out riding his motor cycle he was involved in a road accident and suffered a cut to his upper lip which ended his trumpet playing days. But, nothing daunted, he went on to buy a saxophone and later a clarinet. As with the trumpet, Bert’s natural talent and dedication soon had the sound of the saxophone filling the house with many of the lovely melodies from the likes of Gershwin, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin and Jerome Kern.  Alas those peaceful innocent and melodic days were ended the next year when on Sunday Sept 3rd 1939 Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain made his historic radio broadcast that ended with the words ‘Consequently, this country is now at war with Germany’
---End of Part Seven---
 

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Ivor's Insights Part 4 and Part 5

INSIGHTS ON IVOR
 
Part Four
 
 
 
     After suitable accommodation in nearby Bettws Cedewain was found Dad returned to London to make the necessary arrangements for the whole family to leave the smoke of London and move to this completely new world, a world not polluted by the smell and sight of smoke but one of clean air amid the green hills of the Welsh
countryside. This was the Brigadoon type world into which my brother David and I were born in 1930 and 1931 respectively.
 
    My four older siblings, in later life, would often recount their memories of Bettws and then register their surprise, amazement and yes, even mock indignation because I couldn’t remember or share their memories. I would be ‘dismissed’ for being ‘too young’ to remember.  It’s quite true because I have to admit that my only memory of living in Bettws is of the small stream at the back of our house. In my defence I was only four and half years old when we left Bettws! Oh well!  I suppose that’s what becomes of being the youngest of five.
 
   The Gregynog Press was world famous for its fine art printing, employing only the very best artists, engravers, book binders of the day. Dad’s printing expertise found its zenith enhancing this amalgamation of such talented creative people throughout the years 1927-1936, so much so that he was held in such high esteem as ‘one of the finest printers of the twentieth century’
 
     I think it’s no exaggeration to say that Dad and Mum’s decision to move to Wales turned out to be, after the First World War and the Lawrence of Arabia experience,  the third history making pivotal period of their, and consequently the family’s,  life.
 
     In addition to his magnificent printing skills Dad was also a musician, playing the piano and mandolin banjo, not at the same time of course. This talent led him to form a dance band which they called ‘The Venetian Dance Band’. They were very successful and in great demand playing at dances, weddings and parties in Bettws and the surrounding villages.
 
     The saying ‘all good things must end’ came true for us all in 1936 when Dad and Mum realised that with a growing family and the lack of suitable work opportunities for them around the Bettws area, apart from agricultural employment, it was time to leave this idyllic setting and move back to the London area. 
 
---End of Part Four---
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
INSIGHTS ON IVOR
Part Five
 
     During my father’s time at the Gregynog Press he had built up such a happy
working relationship with Robert Maynard, the Controller of the Press and the man who had employed Dad in the first place, that Maynard told Dad that if ever he decided to leave the Press and move back to London seeking a job, to contact him.
So, when in 1930, Maynard announced that he was resigning his post and leaving the Press to set up his own business, The Raven Press in Harrow Weald, Middlesex, Dad remembered Maynard’s words so when in 1936 he and Mum also left Gregynog and Bettws and moved the family to Pinner which is near Harrow he went to work for Robert Maynard. As is the case with my cloudy memories of Bettws it is the same regarding Pinner. What little I know about it has been gained from family conservations and my Dad’s memoirs. Suffice to say that we moved to 65 Pinner Hill Road into a modern semi-detached council three-bedroom house which had two rooms, a kitchen, cloakroom downstairs and three bedrooms and bathroom upstairs.
 
      For the first time we had a bathroom –instead of bathing in a tin bath filled with kettles of hot water - and electric lighting and power. Naturally, my brothers and I felt it necessary to check out this new fangled lighting device by frequently switching the lights on and off much to the annoyance of our parents.
 
     We also had a one of the new electric-powered radiograms which was housed within a beautifully-finished wooden console model that was such a piece of furniture in itself that it was afforded pride of place in the room. It was also the period when cinemas were spreading like mushrooms throughout the country. Pinner had the Langham and in nearby Northwood Hills they was the Odeon and the Essoldo in Northwood. A weekly visit to the ‘pictures’ was a way of life for millions throughout Britain. The children were well catered for by having suitable films shown every Saturday morning.  There would be cartoons, crime busting heroes like Flash Gordon and Superman. But probably the most popular films were the Westerns. These followed two patterns, sometimes it would be cowboys such as Buck Rogers, Tom Mix, Hopalong Cassidy chasing bank robbers or saving a town from unscrupulous greedy land barons or others, which were watched by young impressible eyes in animated excitement, were when the  prairies would echo to the sound of thundering hoofs of cowboys horses as they chased, or were being chased, by hordes of Apache, Arapaho or Comanche Indians riding bareback, uttering blood curdling whooping cries and yielding their tomahawks.  Another familiar scene was a wagon train being surrounded by marauding Indians, usually led by Geronimo, and when all seemed lost the air would suddenly echo to the sound of a bugle as the U.S. Seventh Cavalry came galloping to the rescue. This would bring cheers and screams from the children.
 
     One scenario which annoyed me was when the Sheriff with his posse arrived at the bandits hideout he would immediately say to one member of his posse ‘You stay here and the rest of you come with me’ Now, this I always felt was a little unfair. I can imagine the man told to stay behind saying to himself ‘Why is it always me who has to stay behind and miss all the fun?’     
--End of Part Five---
 
 
 
 

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