tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71320305490939979422024-03-05T13:58:41.024-08:00Bulleteer BillThe Word game that gripped the nation - and my fatherIan Cowmeadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06051117972041298072noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7132030549093997942.post-87320408915840180332016-06-14T06:37:00.000-07:002016-06-14T06:41:32.669-07:00Ship of State<style>
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<span style="color: #bf9000;"><span style="color: #f1c232;"><span lang="EN-US">Bullet 1687 (1949)</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihIsVx9UfS3ID-jE1DOMfWNf5xyN-rkNRZ25nUbrxviFGQhTmo7xRfDD6tCHO08pSh-jFtlR0sFcG6TZ0HgDiFaciPVezslOQQX4skhBZy4BcHOrW98h93FpQjyxZLWUuz3kiDwhM3pDWq/s1600/Bullet1687.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="66" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihIsVx9UfS3ID-jE1DOMfWNf5xyN-rkNRZ25nUbrxviFGQhTmo7xRfDD6tCHO08pSh-jFtlR0sFcG6TZ0HgDiFaciPVezslOQQX4skhBZy4BcHOrW98h93FpQjyxZLWUuz3kiDwhM3pDWq/s320/Bullet1687.jpg" width="320" /></a><b><span lang="EN-US">SHIP OF STATE</span></b></div>
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<i><b><span lang="EN-US">“Amethyst” to <u>Britain’s</u> Communists</span></b></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A large number of the lead-in lines
supplied to competitors by John Bull related to British and world affairs of
the time. Sometimes, the theme was specifically indicated – Russia crops up
regularly in the late 40s and early 50s, for example – and sometimes the
approach is more general, as in this case. In theory, competitors could have
turned “Ship of State” into a comment on domestic life, perhaps comparing the
steady running of a household with weighty affairs of government, and maybe
some did. Bill, though, went for an issue-of-the-day approach.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYd8sNIQ7YQdwM6y3EatK2Xz-Q4La9rI2IuxSQ_Az-qSx67-HIzrG-DFnDqTIuYIH0XwawAksrXlE3eAK6ojCtixFmhlGs9iS8_ar9qWPYFSjnPqrSOrOeTFNqRy4bBEPtu7rx50cevDQ-/s1600/John+Bull+dealer+placard%252C+1950.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYd8sNIQ7YQdwM6y3EatK2Xz-Q4La9rI2IuxSQ_Az-qSx67-HIzrG-DFnDqTIuYIH0XwawAksrXlE3eAK6ojCtixFmhlGs9iS8_ar9qWPYFSjnPqrSOrOeTFNqRy4bBEPtu7rx50cevDQ-/s200/John+Bull+dealer+placard%252C+1950.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US">The <i>Amethyst</i> was a Royal Navy ship, and it
was attacked by communists. In the spring of 1949, she was chugging along the
Yangtse River on her way to relieve HMS <i>Consort</i>, parked up at Nanking ready to
evacuate British embassy staff as the Chinese Civil War headed into the final
months of conflict. The British thought they had an agreement with the Chinese
government that allowed Royal Navy vessels to potter about on the local rivers
protecting the UK’s interests. The communists under Mao Tse-Tung, who had positions
all along one bank of the Yangtse, thought otherwise and duly opened fire on
the Amethyst. The captain was killed and the wheelhouse destroyed so that the
ship lost control and ran aground on a mud bank in the river.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">Unable to return fire because the power
room had also been hit, paralyzing the gun turrets, the crew tried to ferry
injured sailors to the bank. But these too came under fire until more than 20
of the <i>Amethyst</i> sailors were dead. The British response was to order <i>Consort</i>
and another vessel to attempt a rescue of the stricken ship, but both were
beaten back by heavy fire from the river bank, which inflicted further losses. The
communists let it be known that they would not allow the ship to move until
Britain withdrew all of her armed forces from China.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4OaDShEfdr3EqscIGOSm8NTA3enYQxZDhyphenhyphenVqXlC_MsZJh8W2u_5gHvs5ahKzR46Syn2y7uhTCu4GC5C8_5T84R8CbPosGZawHrcyWlFz6-SgSzG2HKmL-7JUUxNETBRSeyZhfDeni0NBT/s1600/Yangtseposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4OaDShEfdr3EqscIGOSm8NTA3enYQxZDhyphenhyphenVqXlC_MsZJh8W2u_5gHvs5ahKzR46Syn2y7uhTCu4GC5C8_5T84R8CbPosGZawHrcyWlFz6-SgSzG2HKmL-7JUUxNETBRSeyZhfDeni0NBT/s320/Yangtseposter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US">Eventually, the <i>Amethyst</i> got free of the
mud bank under cover of darkness and prepared to move off down the river, its
insignia covered with dark cloths. As luck – for the <i>Amethyst</i> – would have it,
another boat called the <i>Kiang-Lin Liberation</i>, carrying refugees back to
Shanghai, passed as she was about to get going. Using the lights of the other
ship, <i>Amethyst</i> was able to navigate along the river from some distance behind. But
the communists spotted what was happening and opened fire once more. In the
barrage, the refugee ship was sunk with heavy loss of life and the <i>Amethyst</i>
made it, battered and limping, to safety.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6qhgtosD2WGet5p9Jff29QRKCh1nwV46M3QluhWc77eLrJ3fwj0iqn6j0Afi7nZT4Lpl5IL84lJ8MY5g7m5e2CJdKoGhQnVR1bY-6V0lM-VaqGaDim-0qJg7YhvDT4Igyuiwh3rX8Unz/s1600/JBull+super.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6qhgtosD2WGet5p9Jff29QRKCh1nwV46M3QluhWc77eLrJ3fwj0iqn6j0Afi7nZT4Lpl5IL84lJ8MY5g7m5e2CJdKoGhQnVR1bY-6V0lM-VaqGaDim-0qJg7YhvDT4Igyuiwh3rX8Unz/s200/JBull+super.jpg" width="171" /></a><span lang="EN-US">The Yangtse Incident, as it was known, was
murky enough to generate differing accounts of what really happened and
accusations of cover-up from both sides. But one of the first publications to get direct accounts from those involved was <i>John Bull</i>, which sent the Canadian journalist Lawrence Earl to interview any crew members who would be prepared to talk on the ship's return to the UK late in 1949. Earl eventually published a book on the incident from this material and his work was serialised in John Bull in 1950, after this Bullet had been written.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoL4FCRfL4eZemoYYLvXPZpgCYoqqSZDpRdkQb-5obLgVDu0Cw8O6MOVfJ8ly11QL9GWfD-kFc_mi9-lAvsTXlLBUr_VmX7VrAjwdaqt4_v6BglBhthyphenhyphenlgkDtXD5q0hJZro48MGUp4WnPL/s1600/SimonCat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoL4FCRfL4eZemoYYLvXPZpgCYoqqSZDpRdkQb-5obLgVDu0Cw8O6MOVfJ8ly11QL9GWfD-kFc_mi9-lAvsTXlLBUr_VmX7VrAjwdaqt4_v6BglBhthyphenhyphenlgkDtXD5q0hJZro48MGUp4WnPL/s200/SimonCat.jpg" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-US">For public consumption, the story played out as
a <i>Boy’s Own</i> tale of a daring escape from a despicable foreign enemy who
certainly wasn’t playing cricket. An enemy so dastardly that they even injured the ship's cat Simon, who simply took no notice and carried on keeping the rats out of the galley even as shells burst around him, earning the animal equivalent of the Victoria Cross for his efforts. As if that were not enough, this was an enemy fired up
by a fanatical ideology that, by 1949, was considered no less menacing than the one that had been sent
packing only four years before.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wFYCMiQPMxpKV2D1tLav3biEje1s996uf04CDM2EpUjS5dM1Vg5_JBQwevwshtFvX5uTiuxtzUXaF3T5LO0kM3AaTeHAz6cc91OiCvbXkhBfpc6ieSvRqjg2WXVETBe0AhGNNYKHLlRi/s1600/Communist-Party-of-Great-Britain-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wFYCMiQPMxpKV2D1tLav3biEje1s996uf04CDM2EpUjS5dM1Vg5_JBQwevwshtFvX5uTiuxtzUXaF3T5LO0kM3AaTeHAz6cc91OiCvbXkhBfpc6ieSvRqjg2WXVETBe0AhGNNYKHLlRi/s200/Communist-Party-of-Great-Britain-2.jpg" width="157" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US">In Britain there were people who were happy to call themselves communists and the Communist Party of Great Britain (CPGB) even had two members of Parliament. The party had been set up in 1920 following the Third International's pronouncement that communist parties should be established around the world. They played a major role in blocking Oswald Mosley's Blackshirts before the war, and found themselves having to flip from opposition to the conflict following Stalin's pact with Hitler to energetic support for the Allied cause after the German invasion of Russia. During that time communism and the Soviets became a source of friendly fascination for the British and membership of the party peaked at 60,000. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">Once Hitler had been dealt with and as the Iron Curtain began to fall, it was a different story. Although disparate groups of fascist sympathisers were springing up as people interned during the war were released, eventually coalescing as the Union Movement with Mosley at its head, it was the communists who were seen as the real threat to the country. In the General Election of 1950, both communists lost their seats, the CPGB began what would prove to be a terminal decline and the Ship of State sailed on untroubled by the red menace. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1F24VsOO0F0KdFs6DHv2Rp8eMdotdTek2fKjCk9pNi52tmx0aGXju2N8VxSzq08l_wWNYfliuyR1NGCBwxWJaHW1u54TxNAdzNY4CwGhGVJqobzPGoyaDbfho4SgZhgIkMbp1-uXMqwp3/s1600/Communist-Party-of-Great-Britain-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1F24VsOO0F0KdFs6DHv2Rp8eMdotdTek2fKjCk9pNi52tmx0aGXju2N8VxSzq08l_wWNYfliuyR1NGCBwxWJaHW1u54TxNAdzNY4CwGhGVJqobzPGoyaDbfho4SgZhgIkMbp1-uXMqwp3/s320/Communist-Party-of-Great-Britain-3.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Family Corner:</span></b></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">Dad's Bullet here has a lot to do with pleasing the John Bull editorial line. I'm pretty sure he wasn't a communist and also pretty sure he was a Labour man - but what <i>were</i> Dad's politics as far as you recall?</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a> </span></div>
Ian Cowmeadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06051117972041298072noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7132030549093997942.post-34293666291404329142016-04-12T02:53:00.002-07:002016-04-12T02:53:25.142-07:00Gone to the Dogs<style>
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<span style="color: #f1c232;"><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bullet 1671 (1949)</span></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5JZ-RJG4O6y7GsS3EDEHvspzt5ZZ5gsUbfdrG6gqrG1r33d4nKDsXA2wMHp_kWywdF2hDV4kxuOayfanjwBawLOA1eLGqob5UUQ6tSSGppcl8c89VzC02X9G8BGmPWJg-bIjPUkKOnslh/s1600/Bullet1671crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="65" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5JZ-RJG4O6y7GsS3EDEHvspzt5ZZ5gsUbfdrG6gqrG1r33d4nKDsXA2wMHp_kWywdF2hDV4kxuOayfanjwBawLOA1eLGqob5UUQ6tSSGppcl8c89VzC02X9G8BGmPWJg-bIjPUkKOnslh/s320/Bullet1671crop.jpg" width="320" /></a><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">ALL DAD THINKS OF</span></b></div>
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<i><b><u><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Retrieving</span></u><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> fortunes at <u>Dogs</u>! </span></b></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1U-9wyVV30LzyWTRirip3Z3gC8vmJqdkuA35g7y-ixwQT5p-X5U8RqwE3J7vmwWoQPnQWbpSCRNzV5Nxu49KncCT9jTdEiYrwUHZdXfDRkN_0IXzZ_P-ry7aHdKIpSbboHMQ5xFCIjuUx/s1600/gcard12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1U-9wyVV30LzyWTRirip3Z3gC8vmJqdkuA35g7y-ixwQT5p-X5U8RqwE3J7vmwWoQPnQWbpSCRNzV5Nxu49KncCT9jTdEiYrwUHZdXfDRkN_0IXzZ_P-ry7aHdKIpSbboHMQ5xFCIjuUx/s320/gcard12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">On 24 July 1926, a
half-tailed dog called Mistly bounded home ahead of his rivals in pursuit of a
clattering mechanical hare to win the first greyhound race in the UK’s first
greyhound stadium at Belle Vue near Manchester. The site had been chosen partly
because of the popularity of whippet racing in the northern industrial areas.
But it was, in reality, a hybrid, its other ancestor being the aristocratic
pursuit of hare coursing. The dogs at that first meeting of what was to become
the quintessential working-man’s sport were coursers owned by members of the
aristocracy.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMB3P_-uqh4hXw2fL2E-2PUIN883LhwFEo2_4SCVM0m50YS6nIebg5GbjHqQN1eKSEbUJvMktVPvx6-1re3qBMzobKlOvh-dmPG_Ag22u_9vFxZcZU7SN-45m8mk3iveiW89Y383Q4vZEU/s1600/03-The-start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMB3P_-uqh4hXw2fL2E-2PUIN883LhwFEo2_4SCVM0m50YS6nIebg5GbjHqQN1eKSEbUJvMktVPvx6-1re3qBMzobKlOvh-dmPG_Ag22u_9vFxZcZU7SN-45m8mk3iveiW89Y383Q4vZEU/s320/03-The-start.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A crowd of 1,700
attended Belle Vue that day, but within a week, the numbers had swelled to
16,000. New tracks opened across the country and by the 1940s there were 77
licensed venues attracting 50 million punters a year. Lately, there has been a
rapid decline in the sport, although as late as 2008 – the year that the famous
track at Walthamstow closed – greyhounds still accounted for as much as a fifth
of all betting shop turnover. When this Bullet was written, though, Greyhound
racing was having its heyday.</span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIsNSRDpLaYtjDOjbUaslSxQpo9WmfRuCXMmU7dJoRK8Ke7EBcXXcI-Mg2k1uu_edn-RuIvwcVHP1rjld_oUWPDKWt3BGVH2ftk-3xBqL8bW74WtHGvMudyU4yUuOEahyphenhyphen1GO17JyPITQX/s1600/PerryBarr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIsNSRDpLaYtjDOjbUaslSxQpo9WmfRuCXMmU7dJoRK8Ke7EBcXXcI-Mg2k1uu_edn-RuIvwcVHP1rjld_oUWPDKWt3BGVH2ftk-3xBqL8bW74WtHGvMudyU4yUuOEahyphenhyphen1GO17JyPITQX/s200/PerryBarr.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Stadiums were split
between those regulated by The Greyhound Board of Great Britain and independent
venues known as ‘flapping tracks’. In theory, the regulated tracks make
provision for the dogs’ welfare both during and after their racing career. In
practice, campaigners have shown that this is not always guaranteed and the
fate of many dogs over the years, when their age catches up with them or their
home stadium closes, remains unknown. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In Cambridge, Dad may
have been aware of the flapping tracks at Cowper Road and Coldhams Lane, both
of which were operating from 1931. The better-known, and regulated, track at
Cambridge City FC’s Milton Road ground did not open until 1968 and enjoyed only
a brief 15-year run before being closed in 1983. </span><br />
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The Bullet hints that gambling is an obsession that is driven by unrealistic hope. As with buying a lottery ticket, it's the anticipation of what you might do with the jackpot that justifies the outlay, even if there's no likelihood of actually winning. At least with horses, football and dogs the punter can get some edge by studying form. But in the end, as everyone knows, it's the hare that always wins. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnT1GhwaBxagMPoYHCbk6mnUN97UQ5cDqwl9T9swfdgR0abuByLuVtR3XkPAOZzG0iEqNjYA2cI29d9dMv6DE5f4ey92eACPPV7qwpwWZ0UHvLviTA6W4iFv5-AXi3gSFjZc31f2TKAHbr/s1600/GreyhoundLure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnT1GhwaBxagMPoYHCbk6mnUN97UQ5cDqwl9T9swfdgR0abuByLuVtR3XkPAOZzG0iEqNjYA2cI29d9dMv6DE5f4ey92eACPPV7qwpwWZ0UHvLviTA6W4iFv5-AXi3gSFjZc31f2TKAHbr/s320/GreyhoundLure.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Family Corner:</span></b></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Did Dad like a flutter?</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Did Mum like a flutter? (I seem to remember we would always watch the Grand National.)</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Does anyone remember the bookies in the back of the grocery shop in James Street?</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Did anyone in the family ever get a big win on the horses or dogs?</span></div>
Ian Cowmeadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06051117972041298072noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7132030549093997942.post-16936732413568104972016-03-02T07:00:00.001-08:002016-03-02T07:00:05.303-08:00This is not a blog post<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #f1c232;"><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bullet 1682 (1949)</span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNx-vaieMLj1sn3VKBFW8sodjoY76f2_HsNn901sxcRhKhoO3oHs6Ph8rvIb220B5nzAvhsoDoJe7UKdGIj2-PLfNCSMHMZozIjv9kCmhXqhfJEXntJuXAFAuyayrORNrbnzcNd9FzCYt/s1600/Bullet1682crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="76" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNx-vaieMLj1sn3VKBFW8sodjoY76f2_HsNn901sxcRhKhoO3oHs6Ph8rvIb220B5nzAvhsoDoJe7UKdGIj2-PLfNCSMHMZozIjv9kCmhXqhfJEXntJuXAFAuyayrORNrbnzcNd9FzCYt/s200/Bullet1682crop.jpg" width="200" /></a><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">UNDER HIS PICTURE</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Surrealist’s signature
indicates bottom</span></b></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This is the bottom.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The boots were so
heavy that Dali could hardly lift his feet and he had to be bundled onto the
stage with the support of his stumbling assistants. Once there he stood
motionless in the full deep-sea diver suit holding two white Russian wolfhounds
on a leash. Then he tried to begin his lecture on <i>Fantomes paranoiaques
authentiques</i> or, since he was in London, authentic paranoid fantasies.</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixMwJnxLgSt6MS0h8b45AVAE5GTm7Vs0I9do8RQFBuO1F_QmeR0824L7Haa37tqkjSmqw1jVunncH26YSrgsFyy9KCEzK57ILHyD0k77gkFllraGt-JG_bns2hQbNfDK170oUe0EpybyZy/s1600/Surr_Exhibit_Dali_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixMwJnxLgSt6MS0h8b45AVAE5GTm7Vs0I9do8RQFBuO1F_QmeR0824L7Haa37tqkjSmqw1jVunncH26YSrgsFyy9KCEzK57ILHyD0k77gkFllraGt-JG_bns2hQbNfDK170oUe0EpybyZy/s200/Surr_Exhibit_Dali_1.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">When the eccentric Lord
Berners had hired the suit for the show, he had been asked to what depth
exactly the artist was intending to sink. The reply, of course, was that Dali
intended to descend to the level of the subconscious. As it turned out, no one
had thought to include breathing apparatus with the suit and it was only when
the great man started to deliver himself of his thoughts on paranoia that he
realised no one would be able to hear him from behind the glass porthole of his
helmet. Not only that, but he was beginning to suffocate. Luckily, swift action
from Surrealist patron Edward James and a hammer saved Dali from a descent into
the unconscious.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb3KLA2IvyL2B5D0DQo9_AlVnP3SPQ6lBOJXBy2xnDM6iM4OvVjmdHI91E0iJCZ_Dpe1mQolQZH18bT5ItbiH4T6NEccJg4TpYHLcfDEHPgji_fbxKEKXI8motNRzXvip5jJ9XDX10p5Su/s1600/Surr_Bulletin_No4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb3KLA2IvyL2B5D0DQo9_AlVnP3SPQ6lBOJXBy2xnDM6iM4OvVjmdHI91E0iJCZ_Dpe1mQolQZH18bT5ItbiH4T6NEccJg4TpYHLcfDEHPgji_fbxKEKXI8motNRzXvip5jJ9XDX10p5Su/s200/Surr_Bulletin_No4.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The audience that day </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">in June 1936</span>, unaware that the artist was in real danger of expiring before them,
had accompanied the wild thrashings around of Dali and his rescuer
with sustained, enthusiastic applause. For them it was all just the kind of
exciting unexpected thing that these new artists were getting up to. They had
already seen in the halls of the New Burlington Gallery the works of Dali,
Miro, Rene Magritte and Max Ernst among others in the first major UK exhibition
of Surrealist art. In their thousands, they had marvelled at noses growing into
pipes, clocks melting and fur-lined tea cups.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For the man in the
street, the man on the Clapham omnibus and most of <i>John Bull</i>’s readers, though,
good art was art that cleverly reproduced the appearance of recognisable
things. The comment of a reporter on the <i>Sheffield Independent</i> who had been
despatched to the London show summed up this attitude. Praising the technique
of the artists, he went on to say with some regret that most of them could
“obviously do ‘straight’” if they put their minds to it. In fact, he was
only getting the satisfaction of technical virtuosity because of the realism
that had to be there before it could be subverted to become surreal. What he
would have thought of later developments like colour field painting or
performance art can be only be guessed. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2ozuG3EKkPTrHbsDxpIGW2xqshO8m90ycN-IOZNSekBBSblolhNBndLy1nCoguOuZdpPiR5nBLzwiLfCpyJNYRW2dh6l0E3gT7wVzvMvDd2EZDfPI2YPuNG0R12AIlOi9jISzuLs9-Ax/s1600/SurrealFamily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2ozuG3EKkPTrHbsDxpIGW2xqshO8m90ycN-IOZNSekBBSblolhNBndLy1nCoguOuZdpPiR5nBLzwiLfCpyJNYRW2dh6l0E3gT7wVzvMvDd2EZDfPI2YPuNG0R12AIlOi9jISzuLs9-Ax/s320/SurrealFamily.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The reaction of a
large part of the general British public to modern art has always been marked
by contempt and/or derision, fuelled by a deep suspicion of all things
intellectual. There’s a feeling that someone is trying to pull the wool over
our eyes, usually for personal advancement and money. More often than not, this
antipathy is manifested as humour. Tony Hancock's rebel was the best of many comic portrayals of the modern artist and, over the years, a whole genre of newspaper
cartoons has developed with the pretensions of modern art as its target.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/mCbOx1q06-Y/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="216" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mCbOx1q06-Y?feature=player_embedded" width="280"></iframe></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The mockery in this
Bullet revolves around one of the most often expressed put-downs of modern art.
Given the technical competence of the Surrealist painters, the old ‘my 5-year
old could have done that’ won’t wash. So the next most obvious deviation from
notions of good art is that it is impossible to tell what is going on in the
picture, so most normal people would have no idea which way up it should go.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">This is the top.</span></span> </span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Family Corner:</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Did Dad like art?</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">What art did Dad like?</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">What pictures did we have on the walls at Christchurch Street (1940s-1970s)</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Were your artistic achievements and aspirations celebrated and encouraged? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span></span></span> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="background-color: black;"></span> </span></span></span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span> </span></span></span></div>
Ian Cowmeadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06051117972041298072noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7132030549093997942.post-62266128236910554992016-01-27T01:39:00.001-08:002016-01-27T01:44:57.626-08:00Radio Times<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #f1c232;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bullet No.1707 (1949)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrXKtRIMNb7cWhTcHG4mUobjCt3EhfkErWYqIapDO7HYQQX5sMtZqQit9e6rrTIineFEaXkW1WofH1NyvrkoRar-mew767DeYIG_fnEpY8OWaGjNSYqWBkhRT-VzcCGM2J0riL6QX1aKl/s1600/Bullet1707crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="64" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrXKtRIMNb7cWhTcHG4mUobjCt3EhfkErWYqIapDO7HYQQX5sMtZqQit9e6rrTIineFEaXkW1WofH1NyvrkoRar-mew767DeYIG_fnEpY8OWaGjNSYqWBkhRT-VzcCGM2J0riL6QX1aKl/s320/Bullet1707crop.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">More Radio – Less
Activity?</span></b></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoou-HWB_ijBIR6Owpu0j9xdXAra61WtEoax92XBNaqma35qCW8nYy-OeQAicLGdnbC2usxCO021SBSGMtDYmV0wPBcIeqQ0Je84ClZgCxe0W_LuS8RnM4ud8ZUQH5EqsbhWwhLTunlada/s1600/VERBATIM-OurFriendTheAtom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoou-HWB_ijBIR6Owpu0j9xdXAra61WtEoax92XBNaqma35qCW8nYy-OeQAicLGdnbC2usxCO021SBSGMtDYmV0wPBcIeqQ0Je84ClZgCxe0W_LuS8RnM4ud8ZUQH5EqsbhWwhLTunlada/s200/VERBATIM-OurFriendTheAtom.jpg" width="103" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This is one of many efforts
from the late 40s and early 50s that are coloured by events of the day. Just
two years after Hiroshima, in 1947, the site of a former arms factory at
Sellafield in Cumbria was renamed Windscale and cleared to make way for a new
atomic energy site. A year later, the first large reactor outside the US was
commissioned and BEPO (British Experimental Pile ‘0’) was born. Although it
took until 1956 for the world’s first nuclear power station to open at Calder
Hall in Northumbria, the idea of a zippy new future powered by the atom was
gaining credibility by the time this Bullet was written.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The twist in this one,
though, is that while it nods to this bright new world, it tuts like a
curmudgeon at the corrupting effects of the latest technology on the feckless
Human race, which loves nothing more than finding novel ways to waste time. One
of these ways was the wireless, whose rise had been almost as rapid as that of
nuclear power so that, by 1949, more than 9 million radios were licensed to
British households. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFlv-TDNezuJu1JsvzmxW_wSarGffl9Z_7pd213VfBf3CP8gwNGsg1Q0ooP8tB2UrPRNnr6V23RyFaJYZXdLErwTWYpvZ2T1a0wPwT4EzUJj6oOqkfPbF53jhWQ3mlcloAlW4RrjRbfVDK/s1600/RadioSet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFlv-TDNezuJu1JsvzmxW_wSarGffl9Z_7pd213VfBf3CP8gwNGsg1Q0ooP8tB2UrPRNnr6V23RyFaJYZXdLErwTWYpvZ2T1a0wPwT4EzUJj6oOqkfPbF53jhWQ3mlcloAlW4RrjRbfVDK/s200/RadioSet.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The invasion of those
polished cabinets, with their elegant knobs and dials into the post-war
living rooms of the nation had its roots not just in the development of valves
and speakers for amplifying and revealing radio signals, but also in the notion
of radio broadcasting as entertainment. In the early days of radio
transmission, authorities kept strict control over the use of frequencies - in
the UK, through the office of the Postmaster General. The technology was
regarded as a utilitarian form of communication that was becoming central to
shipping and, increasingly, aircraft operations.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But in 1920, the
Marconi Company caused a sensation by broadcasting from its Chelmsford works
the shrill, quavering tones of Dame Nellie Melba belting out a 30-minute
programme of songs. The broadcast was heard as far away as Madrid, The Hague,
Berlin and Paris, where it was captured on a shellac disc. Its imagination
fired, the public clamoured for more and, despite the opposition of the
authorities and those who felt that the gift of radio waves should not be used
for trivial purposes, permits were reluctantly granted for regular broadcasts.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/YMi16nYUFq0/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="226" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YMi16nYUFq0?feature=player_embedded" width="280"></iframe></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The early stations
were run by Marconi from Chelmsford and London and their output consisted of
music, banter and amusing poetry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These efforts laid the groundwork for what would later become one
element of the BBC’s characteristic style. The other classic BBC ingredient
came from the compromises reached with authorities for whom the primary use for
radio was the dissemination of information, such as shipping forecasts and
kings’ speeches.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglScwxtshOhyj70fjzuu6u8KWDhtZqqlxPjXSU90qgcRWa4l9zriL4HZLfhxuEreDJvdUbUSfvvjwNJEy4PqIPriTLO8TbEb4pPudiw3rDiJTheVP1QywkS6wyJiJQR93-p2smtPg3w-l9/s1600/6e1e43e080023a810f96757e1e539e93.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglScwxtshOhyj70fjzuu6u8KWDhtZqqlxPjXSU90qgcRWa4l9zriL4HZLfhxuEreDJvdUbUSfvvjwNJEy4PqIPriTLO8TbEb4pPudiw3rDiJTheVP1QywkS6wyJiJQR93-p2smtPg3w-l9/s200/6e1e43e080023a810f96757e1e539e93.jpg" width="148" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’m pretty sure Dad
did not really believe that radio would make us a nation of couch potatoes, but
he couldn’t resist the ‘Activity’ pun for his entry. Maybe in 1949 he enjoyed
listening to Tommy Handley gadding about in <i>ITMA</i> or Ted Ray’s domestic comedy
<i>Ray’s a Laugh</i> on the BBC light programme. Perhaps he was as astounded as the
rest of the country when astronomer Fred Hoyle explained the origins of our
planet by coining the phrase 'the Big Bang' on BBC’s Third Programme, or it could be
he enjoyed tapping his feet along to the Billy Cotton Band Show. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And just as with
iPhones and tablets, people must have learned to multitask rather than slumping
into inertia as the radio anaesthetised them. In fact, washing dishes, putting
up shelves, even working out ideas for your Bullets, can all be done while the
radio burbles away in the background. A hundred years hence, we can have our
radio and our activity.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEO0UGcy4inLvjOqnPOr6o0eJLM89lB6Ej7rIycIl1sKlxLekxkG1dMlAc5gb5Uq6RHhaV9_wPCKYKBBVgN4noUhVKSwI480rtYpuESZs6bWiUDmXXvvAYhJ_5vGGyWrFth23Oq0oD_x3v/s1600/john-bull-1949-1940s-uk-wifred-pickles-radio-programmes-7079363.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEO0UGcy4inLvjOqnPOr6o0eJLM89lB6Ej7rIycIl1sKlxLekxkG1dMlAc5gb5Uq6RHhaV9_wPCKYKBBVgN4noUhVKSwI480rtYpuESZs6bWiUDmXXvvAYhJ_5vGGyWrFth23Oq0oD_x3v/s200/john-bull-1949-1940s-uk-wifred-pickles-radio-programmes-7079363.jpg" width="168" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Family Corner:</span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">* Did Dad enjoy the
radio?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">* What programmes did he
like?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">* Can you remember what
radios we had? (I seem to remember a wooden thing that seemed quite big to me,
with a complicated scale of stations.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">* Did you get your own
radios when transistors came in?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">* Were you allowed to
play pop music in the house? (I’m moving forward in time here, to the 60s.)</span></div>
Ian Cowmeadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06051117972041298072noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7132030549093997942.post-29046993412699540472015-12-24T03:26:00.000-08:002015-12-24T03:26:05.796-08:00Secret Santas<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBv1fvAHrUqMeUyHQczKo1aOCMPCa7FFB1paPMbbKQi-UHfCvYy5MGsrDSkKku2uvRFlNzr4sXNSlZOZCostDPrWp78IqyUbPnn7auMzIzapzNSOR5bal0ZP_lA4MVvOAhYuUwpphgLZtY/s1600/DadSanta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBv1fvAHrUqMeUyHQczKo1aOCMPCa7FFB1paPMbbKQi-UHfCvYy5MGsrDSkKku2uvRFlNzr4sXNSlZOZCostDPrWp78IqyUbPnn7auMzIzapzNSOR5bal0ZP_lA4MVvOAhYuUwpphgLZtY/s320/DadSanta.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #bf9000;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bullets 1658 (1948)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">WHEN DAD PLAYED SANTA</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Tiptoed upstairs
expertly!</span></b></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Perhaps it’s a wicked
deception perpetuated down the generations that has left whole populations
traumatised with the memory of how their own parents lied to them. Or it’s a
marvellous story of kindliness; a shining example of the power of fantasy and
imagination to bring a little magic into a cold world. But whether he’s an
irresponsible con or a great white lie, we all come to realise sooner or later
that Father Christmas is not real.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQhFHc0KjrNLyo6hCx7r3H9L0EkNLPwOuV8Bto3X4YVfoGNs2LSJ8sYLm5XeWLYmsLrkOQUSFgN2qeuWNBJdR_9Qbc5PVHaBjhQC-pabqElniQJoaXBjD7YEnvJeby66UgKwMGXgsYhRc/s1600/holly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="74" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQhFHc0KjrNLyo6hCx7r3H9L0EkNLPwOuV8Bto3X4YVfoGNs2LSJ8sYLm5XeWLYmsLrkOQUSFgN2qeuWNBJdR_9Qbc5PVHaBjhQC-pabqElniQJoaXBjD7YEnvJeby66UgKwMGXgsYhRc/s320/holly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In a classic example
of us adults inflicting our own childhood traumas onto our unsuspecting
children, we go to remarkable lengths to keep the fraud alive. Egged on by
commercial interests, we drag the little ones to grottoes haunted by resting
actors in detachable beards, who hand out pound shop toys with jaded jollity.
Unless, of course, we are lucky enough to stumble on a quality performance from
an alumnus of the Ministry of Fun’s <a href="http://www.ministryoffun.net/entertainment-events/santa-elves/" target="_blank">Santa School</a> which has been offered every
year since at least 2005. There’ll be no half-hearted Ho Ho Ho from this
skilled technician, and he’ll have the professionalism to know that he shouldn’t
ask what the little treasure wants for Christmas (because he already has their
letter about that).</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUumzJykw7RQko8yIwGRGagRZkQzBfctCZ2gY2oTgj2Aik2aGm7FCDZ7x8ZRFNS_nzoOlcPzgbYIy1Ed0cS9k9Up9Nr_s06oSNwwGFbXi_eBZLFUACsubyw-gXVLyxiNpC6h58jYYd0OSA/s1600/SearsAd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUumzJykw7RQko8yIwGRGagRZkQzBfctCZ2gY2oTgj2Aik2aGm7FCDZ7x8ZRFNS_nzoOlcPzgbYIy1Ed0cS9k9Up9Nr_s06oSNwwGFbXi_eBZLFUACsubyw-gXVLyxiNpC6h58jYYd0OSA/s320/SearsAd.jpg" width="254" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Even the might of the US security services has been co-opted into the fib. In 1955 a misprinted telephone number in a Sears and Roebuck Christmas ad led to children calling what they thought was a Santa hotline. In reality, they were getting through to an organisation known as the </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Continental Air Defense Command or CONAD which had a mission in those Cold War days to track the movements of Soviet aircraft. In a festive mood, the staff there decided to play along, and they gave their young callers what they said was updated information on Santa's progress from the North Pole to their town. As is the way with the military, CONAD morphed into a different acronym - <a href="http://www.noradsanta.org/" target="_blank">NORAD</a> or </span>The North American Aerospace Defense Command - who continue to provide a Santa tracking service to this day.<br />
<br />
But forming the bedrock of great gestures such as these in the cause of the great myth are the efforts of Fathers (and I suppose mothers) in millions of homes who leave half-eaten carrots, dregs of whisky and sometimes snowy footprints for the amazement of their credulous offspring on Christmas morning. Even when the spell is broken as teenagerhood looms, the evidence of Santa and Rudolph's visit is still left by the tree or the fireplace. It might be met with a shrug and a 'meh' by the gangly child, but they'll learn when they turn adult that this is a story you can never really let go.<br />
<br />
Happy Christmas to all the Rabble and their offsprings<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Family Corner:</b></span><br />
<br />
Did Dad do Santa?<br />
Did you ever catch him at it?<br />
Did they do the extras - like the carrot with a bite out?<br />
When did you find out the awful truth?</div>
Ian Cowmeadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06051117972041298072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7132030549093997942.post-74342969964082969082015-12-11T05:28:00.001-08:002015-12-12T05:28:48.557-08:00Wedded Bliss<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4Z0T8NMiJQmH67vVu5Wkfwx3mqOFkAHqxloKnmJO0_bN7JPhZhyWbxJ5tOUEtsjuat1MiAF3JaKNorTrusoQyeLBnOY2Y-sF0s91VRtG9gj3N70-jfWCtfVbNvAz-5_9drGdX5kQMwlm/s1600/Winner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="51" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4Z0T8NMiJQmH67vVu5Wkfwx3mqOFkAHqxloKnmJO0_bN7JPhZhyWbxJ5tOUEtsjuat1MiAF3JaKNorTrusoQyeLBnOY2Y-sF0s91VRtG9gj3N70-jfWCtfVbNvAz-5_9drGdX5kQMwlm/s320/Winner.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #bf9000;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bullet 1650 (1949)</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A WINNER</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><i><b>WHO PICKED DAD – MA!</b></i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Just before the Second
World War, the agony aunt at the <i>Daily Mirror</i>, Dorothy Dix, imagined what would
happen if Adolf Hitler had married Mae West, and Mussolini had got hitched to
Marlene Dietrich. The conclusion common to both was that great romantic
gestures and fiery temperaments would have to yield to the daily grind if there
were to be any chance of conjugal bliss. Romance and reality did not mix and
she had a word of warning for the dictators – ‘after the rhetoric comes the
rolling pin’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dix was writing at a
time when her working-class readers were finding more opportunities to get a
taste of the glamorous life. Cinemas and dance halls – like the 101 on New York
Street in Leeds, where the nightly seven-piece were advertised as playing
‘sweet and hot’ – provided for the first time places that were both public and
intimate, and where courting could be done away from the family gaze. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhze77EZp9nWu9Yb3_p_sGSTfaS8Fg4XgQWlbzuU5zhzXli9xk7ekz1nBHG2c3vWiHizx0qA6QCf1JUIrRqhiTUN9GKE-I9fE6kczxpn1QX2BYAfnNbEH7ex5pooCh9nGLlUDCs-Vmk6mYG/s1600/A_couple_at_a_British_dance_hall_try_out_jive_steps_in_1945._D23826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhze77EZp9nWu9Yb3_p_sGSTfaS8Fg4XgQWlbzuU5zhzXli9xk7ekz1nBHG2c3vWiHizx0qA6QCf1JUIrRqhiTUN9GKE-I9fE6kczxpn1QX2BYAfnNbEH7ex5pooCh9nGLlUDCs-Vmk6mYG/s320/A_couple_at_a_British_dance_hall_try_out_jive_steps_in_1945._D23826.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bright lights and
smooth talk may have turned young heads, but Dix found her postbag full of letters
from disillusioned new brides. Advising one wife of 8 months in 1939, she
suggested that the husband’s offhand manner was probably due to his having a
hard day at work. To make the marriage successful, the wife should learn to
love him with all his faults. The worst thing she could do was leave because
then she would have to support herself through work and, in a nightmarish twist, she would find that “bosses are just as irritable as husbands – so you may as
well stick to the job you have undertaken”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3CcOwcsEQfiztt4DIMU4D5JMY9CYbuHo5ZEyuzzx7oDnlsMTMMnjXW664FvhwH13joM6etk1h0CK75IekCmziTYY9YiOAe1-mnC1ox3VsJ_rHy1Cf3-3N2nTVwUhJazrRs_rgCFroOmZW/s1600/Womenswork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3CcOwcsEQfiztt4DIMU4D5JMY9CYbuHo5ZEyuzzx7oDnlsMTMMnjXW664FvhwH13joM6etk1h0CK75IekCmziTYY9YiOAe1-mnC1ox3VsJ_rHy1Cf3-3N2nTVwUhJazrRs_rgCFroOmZW/s200/Womenswork.jpg" width="148" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The war and direct
encounters with American culture accelerated the development of affordable
night life. But, although the war saw women occupying male positions - labouring on farms
and milling machine parts for planes and bombs - without the world coming to an
end, their status in relationships and marriage was slow to change.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It could be that this
was more to do with centuries of immovable tradition than active male
oppression. Everybody knows that couples argue, but there existed an ideal of
the harmonious marriage that came about through the forbearance of each party
(but mostly the wife’s, I suspect) of the other’s foibles. It is an ideal that
was celebrated in the ancient ceremony of claiming the Dunmow Flitch. Any couple
who could swear to the satisfaction of a jury that they had not argued in one
year and a day of marriage could claim the flitch of bacon. Originally, the
couple would have to make their oath while kneeling on sharp stones set at the
doorway of the church. The award is still offered, but nowadays you can apply online and <a href="http://www.dunmowflitchtrials.co.uk/files/pdf/dunmow-flitch-trials-application-2016.pdf">applications are open</a>
for 2016.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">By the time this
Bullet was written, a slow evolution in ideas about relationships was taking
place. Between the 1920s and the 1950s, the perceived ingredients of a good marriage shifted subtly. In her book <i>The English in Love</i>, Clare Langhamer
identified a change in what people were looking for by studying thousands of
‘lonely hearts’ ads in publications such as <i>The Matrimonial Post</i>. While in the
1920s, advertisers wanted partners who were “steady and homely”, the 1930s saw
people looking for “loyalty and affection”. By the mid-1950s, the majority were
trying to find “soulmates”.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNhGvXVhDEacNL_4OkP5riulQg6t6VeyJbIxJgI5cOC0JS5DXcr1lZLyVDBSf4t4QntoGEIOK4vlDYCKn0QtuTtmivfB_4jRE0cCO9CO2IMEc098UmUSJ9EDLwN0Ghg_PA5JUrHC0aXh84/s1600/Husbandhalo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNhGvXVhDEacNL_4OkP5riulQg6t6VeyJbIxJgI5cOC0JS5DXcr1lZLyVDBSf4t4QntoGEIOK4vlDYCKn0QtuTtmivfB_4jRE0cCO9CO2IMEc098UmUSJ9EDLwN0Ghg_PA5JUrHC0aXh84/s1600/Husbandhalo.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But who is the
‘winner’ here in Dad’s effort? The most obvious interpretation would be Mum,
because she drew the prize that was Dad. But it could be read as Dad being the
winner because he was ‘picked’ by Mum. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Unusually, all the
Bullets on this scrap are written in capital letters. Some of them are marked
‘KEPT FOR OWN USE’, which implies that the others, including this one, were
written with a certain Mr C R Saville of Newport in mind. Perhaps a mix of domestic bliss and upbeat ambiguity
was the kind of thing that appealed to the agent.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAMNnInJdOs-2yrwhmutY_5KDoW12QPiDE6PwmaYW-sRCywVbvGxVhTUPxGBJ0C5NHMwZ6KC1agnP9eIBtAAs6l6XpOjrMglK6S8F4KU5Tf7ZMO60zadksZ5HANilq9-jM8rDFkK-FfIQ/s1600/CompAgentCrop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAMNnInJdOs-2yrwhmutY_5KDoW12QPiDE6PwmaYW-sRCywVbvGxVhTUPxGBJ0C5NHMwZ6KC1agnP9eIBtAAs6l6XpOjrMglK6S8F4KU5Tf7ZMO60zadksZ5HANilq9-jM8rDFkK-FfIQ/s320/CompAgentCrop.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Family Corner:</span></b></span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I know I've probably been told this before, but how did Mum and Dad meet?</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>As far as any of you were aware (being children and all) what was Dad's take on the roles of men and women?</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>As a general impression (though specifics would be helpful if you can remember any) do you recall Dad as angry, jokey, dull or any other overall characteristic?</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Were there lots of/very few rows?</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Were there lots of/very few signs of affection between Mum and Dad?</li>
</ul>
<br />
Any comments on this subject would be good - and remember that you can just email me if you feel anything you have to say is too personal to our family.<br />
<br />
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</div>
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Ian Cowmeadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06051117972041298072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7132030549093997942.post-91381220706239617812015-11-25T06:07:00.000-08:002015-11-25T06:07:44.640-08:00Coming and Going<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtOt8NOnrF230AF51U_Q1vWGb8bBdwdu0DUFhD9laECLGV6G40RMI7zOJrxi4S_qaExEkhdQQ_ImigQIkyWfCJTms7IOXcC3ZUWtBZHaHe561EsAnW45vv0QKjyJT68Iv8ejxTIFuajbS/s1600/MigrateBullet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtOt8NOnrF230AF51U_Q1vWGb8bBdwdu0DUFhD9laECLGV6G40RMI7zOJrxi4S_qaExEkhdQQ_ImigQIkyWfCJTms7IOXcC3ZUWtBZHaHe561EsAnW45vv0QKjyJT68Iv8ejxTIFuajbS/s200/MigrateBullet.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: #bf9000;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bullet 1649 (1949)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">WHEN WINTER COMES</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">My Grate Suggests
“Migrate”!</span></b></i><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYj8ehgw1hAOeoujVUbk44E3ad8MJbTv8AcZJDpkIe6_3EiJSlBWyisFdBv0AvSTxK6jtKdVrffJU4aQug9o_VAhEVjeWG86Fk52WfLDL79QCKW_RnURpFIZjZwWgtRag7jVxfOfNfdbZb/s1600/FireGrate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYj8ehgw1hAOeoujVUbk44E3ad8MJbTv8AcZJDpkIe6_3EiJSlBWyisFdBv0AvSTxK6jtKdVrffJU4aQug9o_VAhEVjeWG86Fk52WfLDL79QCKW_RnURpFIZjZwWgtRag7jVxfOfNfdbZb/s200/FireGrate.jpg" width="149" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This nifty pun is one
of the more immediate Bullets, because I can imagine that wherever in
Christchurch Street Dad was pondering his solution, a coal fire would have been
in his line of sight. They were laid every morning in winter by Mum shunking
out the clinker and improvising kindling with pages of the <i>Daily Mirror</i> twisted
into loops that looked like boy scout neckerchiefs.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Central heating was unknown in the
Victorian terraces that housed the working classes across the country during
the 1940s and 50s, only really becoming common during the 1970s. With no such
thing as double glazing either, the cold air would insinuate itself through
every misaligned sash or door frame. No wonder so many thought of emigrating.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the immediate
post-war era, it would have been a very easy thing to do. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a crippled economy and decimated
housing supply at home, the British government established a scheme in 1947
offering British citizens a passage to Australia for £10, instead of the nearly
£120 the trip would normally cost. Incredibly, the scheme officially ran until
1982 and over that time more than 1.5 million people took advantage of it. Not
all of these emigrations were successful, though, and a large number returned
to Britain after spending the 2-year minimum in Australia that was a
stipulation of the deal.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For the Australian
government, the Ten Pound Poms answered a problem that had been encapsulated by
the Bullet-like slogan “populate or perish”. In the late 1940s, what this really
meant was ‘populate with white Europeans, otherwise we will be swamped by less
desirable sorts’ - or as immigration minister Arthur Calwell put it "We
have 25 years at most to populate this country before the yellow races are down
on us."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Various pieces of
legislation dating back to the Federation of Australia in 1901 had sought to limit entry into the country. Collectively these acts became known as the White Australia Policy. Attitudes liberalised in
the decades after the war, with the crucial blow to the policy being struck by
Harold Holt’s Migration Act of 1966, which gave access to non-European
immigrants, including refugees fleeing the Vietnam War. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">While the first of the
Ten Pound Poms were embarking on their new adventures, in the year before this
Bullet was written, a ship left Australia bound for Britain via the Caribbean.
When it called at Kingston Jamaica, the SS Empire Windrush took on board 492
passengers who had paid around £28 for the journey as well as several
stowaways. On 22 June1948, she docked at Tilbury and, just as the Ten Pound
Poms were discovering sunshine and wide-open spaces, so the Windrush Generation
were about to come up against grey skies and draughty houses.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvU29XHPueWsp5CXhk5JpB_LDxh0izfB9WDy5fo4ORK5lvhL_x2AWzpIyEjvpRERvjh-JV09ey5tNqpKNu3owYI9kft52WUy3gzNc2J_2XZADg2ZwrK8Dmj7579TQWZbSOIsvnrq4wcfRc/s1600/windrush-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvU29XHPueWsp5CXhk5JpB_LDxh0izfB9WDy5fo4ORK5lvhL_x2AWzpIyEjvpRERvjh-JV09ey5tNqpKNu3owYI9kft52WUy3gzNc2J_2XZADg2ZwrK8Dmj7579TQWZbSOIsvnrq4wcfRc/s320/windrush-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Family Corner:</span></b></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Did anyone else ever see mice run out of the grate some mornings when the fire was being set?</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Did Mum and Dad ever consider emigrating?</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Did anyone in our family know anyone (e.g. a school friend) who became a Ten Pound Pom?</span></div>
Ian Cowmeadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06051117972041298072noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7132030549093997942.post-79404291438628423232015-11-13T06:59:00.000-08:002015-11-13T06:59:22.810-08:00Puffing Billy<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #bf9000;"><span lang="EN-US">Bullet No.1649 (1949)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJSzyNEW8sfwMbxQgW82CGoQfXuwaTaBwxMCRM_qEUbgAW3a0KjLKKIk_fUUBftrn9Kj6NfdKbZZNHzyiHwtoegW9ruFhHMRXDnR08rN5tbZjrrfBeCZSape9uSSG8nrHon-4I8JdErAb/s1600/B1649-puffing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="49" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJSzyNEW8sfwMbxQgW82CGoQfXuwaTaBwxMCRM_qEUbgAW3a0KjLKKIk_fUUBftrn9Kj6NfdKbZZNHzyiHwtoegW9ruFhHMRXDnR08rN5tbZjrrfBeCZSape9uSSG8nrHon-4I8JdErAb/s320/B1649-puffing.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-US">CIGARETTES</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b><span lang="EN-US">Scarce – I’m “puffing less”!</span></b></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Over the last 40 years or so, fags have
gone from harmless comfort and sophisticated accessory to outright poison. Chat
show hosts no longer routinely light up to give their guests a sense of ease, a
visit to pub or cinema doesn’t impregnate our clothes with the odour of
ashtrays and there may even be a decline in kids hunkering behind the bike
sheds to share a crumpled JPS. Rugged lung-filling has been replaced with the
effete sipping of the vapeurs. It is amazing how quickly one of life’s everyday
details is becoming an anachronism.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/7FweG226aiw/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="216" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7FweG226aiw?feature=player_embedded" width="270"></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This Bullet’s reference to the scarcity of
cigarettes is an indication of their luxury status in the immediate post-war
period. Not being essential, tobacco was not rationed<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>.
Ironically, this made it harder to get, the rationing of essentials being based
on supply levels that were limited but guaranteed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbcTl7iW9aXuUfOVeIA6Q0KFgwgo1uP1NPyuasMOT2G3m_6bAwu1FkASn0l1AITVa6upljTB-lXgkzVx4NzV-RRY_Cb58zIlH5-YPZ0mIVoitrQh9MazkHa4TtCcZNix35pAUkLshhYwhI/s1600/CravenA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbcTl7iW9aXuUfOVeIA6Q0KFgwgo1uP1NPyuasMOT2G3m_6bAwu1FkASn0l1AITVa6upljTB-lXgkzVx4NzV-RRY_Cb58zIlH5-YPZ0mIVoitrQh9MazkHa4TtCcZNix35pAUkLshhYwhI/s320/CravenA.jpg" width="223" /></a><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In the 1940s and 50s, smoking was still
promoted as essentially healthful. But while people generally may not have been
aware of the disastrous long-term effects of the habit, there was plenty of
comment on the more superficial symptoms. This Bullet plays on the dual meaning
of “puffing” as the act of drawing on a cigarette, and the shortness of breath
caused by over-indulgence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">That acknowledgement of the unpleasant side
effects of the enjoyment of tobacco was echoed in some of the advertising. The
example here comes from a 1933 copy of John Bull, and its boast that Craven A
cigarettes are made to prevent sore throats is only a backhanded way of
admitting that smoking any other tobacco causes them. That same copy of the
magazine also contains Bullets competition No. 921 with a first prize of £500
plus 100 cigarettes per month for life; an award that may well have turned out
to be spectacularly self-limiting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Family Corner:</span></b></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US">How much and for how long did Dad smoke?</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">What did he smoke?</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">How many of the Rabble smoked?</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">What did Mum think of smoking?</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">And any other smoking related titbits. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtg69NIJ0YnCO5HAq1Kkw5ZKbiu30269RH6UDOUzC9i5Ba64m9iEDg6AMnjjBUHrwvAPdRJzxXHcdp9EVpAibzK2RYgHjzRPmBP_G2GD091_mtnJ_BozOlgxUbLG3MiipA_GWWtiK9Y4S2/s1600/B1649-Fags.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtg69NIJ0YnCO5HAq1Kkw5ZKbiu30269RH6UDOUzC9i5Ba64m9iEDg6AMnjjBUHrwvAPdRJzxXHcdp9EVpAibzK2RYgHjzRPmBP_G2GD091_mtnJ_BozOlgxUbLG3MiipA_GWWtiK9Y4S2/s320/B1649-Fags.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
Ian Cowmeadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06051117972041298072noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7132030549093997942.post-66932064088322039722015-10-20T02:40:00.000-07:002015-10-21T07:50:46.025-07:00Dentists and Drivers<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibWmh99847sINMEkb1hToxJVqzufuooOIl4GTHtkS1roRXFIIXt44UCibq2E7Ek2j21aIu42C23CyGv786zUP38McoNaSd0JI7C0lT26wvx8XtiiGkHsMw2LERAiHzeC3Wjn2JD81AuaCH/s1600/B1644Dentist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibWmh99847sINMEkb1hToxJVqzufuooOIl4GTHtkS1roRXFIIXt44UCibq2E7Ek2j21aIu42C23CyGv786zUP38McoNaSd0JI7C0lT26wvx8XtiiGkHsMw2LERAiHzeC3Wjn2JD81AuaCH/s320/B1644Dentist.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #bf9000;"><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bullet No.1644 (1949)</span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">AT THE DENTIST’S</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Tactlessness – Doors marked “<u>Pull</u>”!</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The waiting room may
have comfy chairs and creased magazines stuffed with celebrities and recipes,
but there’s no getting away from the reality. On the other side of the
intercom, dentists offer a whole suite of cruelties to their hapless clients
involving drills, scrapers, needles and pliers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This is one of the
more accessible Bullets, Bill’s riff being obviously on people arriving at the
dentist not wanting to be inadvertently reminded of what they are about to
endure. I can’t help thinking, though, that in his mind there may have been
another, more direct, relationship between doors and teeth.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/KG5lDSzJW_8/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="216" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KG5lDSzJW_8?feature=player_embedded" width="270"></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dentistry has always
had its amateurs, from the barber surgeons of the 18<sup>th</sup> century to
those who today are <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/society/2015/apr/03/rise-of-diy-dentistry-britons-doing-own-fillings-to-avoid-nhs-bill">priced out of the surgery</a> and into the pound shops for a
DIY filling kit. But the classic home remedy has always been the old string
door slam. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This is one of those
things that makes you wonder if anyone, other than Laurel and Hardy, has ever
actually done it. In fact, it seems to be fairly common, especially among
youngsters wanting to help a wiggly first tooth on its way. Their orthodontic
antics have even become a faintly disturbing YouTube genre with some downright
dangerous variations, including a tooth tied to the back of a car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Family corner:</span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Did Dad like Laurel
and Hardy? </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Is it true that the dentists on Parsonage Street used to
deliberately drill holes in our teeth when we were kids so that they could let
students practice filling them up again (I think Mum told me this)?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">What
toothpaste brands did we use? </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Did any of us have braces?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Send me your comments. </span></span><br />
</div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">
</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMknMgEA7BfRYtzpGgQQq-XgdqcOJYWJMq20TqNf07tmtrkk9TyuPdnuewIJPscMSn_6ceWfwb2dwQqQO_IfTFF-IhXAkj-StXddYiC3yRr0l9k3rx31N9-8Nl8xpxeiQcq9YRgtkvQnj3/s1600/B1644-Crown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="64" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMknMgEA7BfRYtzpGgQQq-XgdqcOJYWJMq20TqNf07tmtrkk9TyuPdnuewIJPscMSn_6ceWfwb2dwQqQO_IfTFF-IhXAkj-StXddYiC3yRr0l9k3rx31N9-8Nl8xpxeiQcq9YRgtkvQnj3/s320/B1644-Crown.jpg" width="320" /></a><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span></b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><b>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><b><span style="color: #bf9000;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bullet No.1644 (1949)</span></span></b></span></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><b><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">ON THE KING’S HIGHWAY</span></b></span></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">
</span>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Licence costs <u>us</u> “Crown”!</span></i></b></span></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">At the time Bill was
thinking this one through, the UK had only recently returned to requiring a
full licence based on a competence test for drivers. The first licences had
been obtainable from 1903 by simply popping along to the Post Office and paying
5 shillings (otherwise known as a Crown), without the need to prove that you
knew how to control a car.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6XgIaJDiEmrfX-v66F5KmT76yuXSDAxBABEjVGttn2H6azlUQHTblniJWkMZJdPgPKr-goN5XcNbRgc24wfJUToxp0GNrA6Xkrq9DxRs8K9vHK4nZDZUbHdklJSily6GARsHr2yOQsqA/s1600/old-driving-licence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6XgIaJDiEmrfX-v66F5KmT76yuXSDAxBABEjVGttn2H6azlUQHTblniJWkMZJdPgPKr-goN5XcNbRgc24wfJUToxp0GNrA6Xkrq9DxRs8K9vHK4nZDZUbHdklJSily6GARsHr2yOQsqA/s200/old-driving-licence.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Given that in the
mid-1890s it was estimated that there were about 15 cars on the roads of
Britain, a figure which had risen to about 800 by the turn of that century,
this was probably not too much of a problem. But by 1934, the chances of
clattering into a fellow motorist had dramatically increased, with 1.5 million
cars on the road. In 1935, the first driving tests were introduced as a
precondition to getting a licence.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Four years later, the
tests were put on hold. Perhaps fearing that apprehensive novices struggling to
double declutch on a wet hill would hold up troop movements around country
lanes, the only licences issued between 1939 and 1946 were provisional,
untested licences. Tests were resumed in 1947, but as Bill’s Bullet suggests,
the cost of a full licence seems to have remained one Crown. </span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Family corner</span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Did we have a
car/cars? </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Could Dad drive/did he ever try to learn? </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">How did we get around the
country?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Send me your comments. </span></span></div>
</span></div>
Ian Cowmeadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06051117972041298072noreply@blogger.com5