Tomato soup, eh?
Having lunch today I relied on a tin (can) of Heinz Tomato Soup as something easy to both prepare and digest. It occurred to me while guzzling it that, when I was a boy and absent from school with some minor ailment, a tin of the same concoction was usually the go-to lunchtime source of sustenance and comfort. I was also reminded that such occasions were the cue to dig out my father's blue-covered, ten-volume set of The Children's Encyclopaedia and peruse its out-of-date but fascinating content. Either children of the 1920s were each individually a strange mixture of capabilities and deficiencies, or the work had been written to sustain the interest of a broad age range, containing as it did both illustrated nursery rhymes and long, descriptive pieces on abstract ideas like "Liberty" and "Justice".
The entry that fascinated me most was about divers. Predating Jacques Cousteau and the aqualung, the divers depicted were clothed in canvas suits, with lead-weighted boots and spherical brass helmets. Particularly of interest to me, as a budding enthusiast of history and the architecture of the Middle Ages, were photographs of a diver who had essentially saved a Medieval English cathedral from collapse by replacing its decaying foundations with concrete. I surmise, all these years later (after the fog of elapsed time had obscured the details), that the reference was to "Diver Bill" Walker who saved Winchester Cathedral. Employed at Portsmouth dockyard, he was recruited in 1905 to undertake the arduous and dangerous commission. Working every day in pitch darkness for six hours, the underwater project took until 1911 to complete, and thereafter poor Diver Bill survived only until the 'flu epidemic of 1918 took him.
I was fascinated, too, by entries on ancient civilisations accompanied by photographs, in duotone, of corresponding architectural marvels and the looted artefacts residing in Western Museums, as well as bright, gravure illustrations of colourful insects and tropical birds.
The encyclopaedia was edited by Arthur Mee and was very successful, published originally as a partwork in 1910 and reprinted in bound sets until the 1960s (which late date rather surprised me). I don't know about the later editions but that in my father's possession obviously held Empire and Christianity as the gold standards of civilisation, taking a relatively benign but definitely imperious stance toward the cultures of other lands (unless they formed a stage on the path of progress toward Protestant British exceptionalism). It was translated for publication in several European countries (and even in China) and was published in the USA under the title of The Book of Knowledge.
Though charcoal-making was an industry that had become largely extinct in my home region, it's no particular surprise that my mother continued to use a relic phrase from its lexicon, given the earlier extent of the activity before its product was superseded by coke in the 19th Century. I thought it might be worth relaying a few words on the process itself, in particular to clarify the role of the "motte peg".
Charcoal had been an essential material required for the smelting and forging of metals and in the making of glass, providing the necessary increased heat in its combustion that could not otherwise be achieved.
Usually, a flat area was prepared on which to place the wood for processing. This was referred to as a pit stead, which might be situated in an elevated place. The motte peg, a large wooden pole, was placed centrally in the area in an upright position. The wood to be made into charcoal would be arranged around the motte peg and stacked up to ten feet in height. This wood was harvested from local coppices when of a certain age and seasoned before burning commenced. The pile (or clamp) would be topped with bracken and the whole then covered with earth, ash, or sod to seal the combustion from the atmosphere. Using a hole drilled through the top of the motte peg, it would be drawn out of the pile and the resulting space filled with burning charcoals, coals or wood, which would in turn then be covered. An air space was left around the exterior base of the mound, drawing enough air into the burn, but not so much as to facilitate total combustion and the ruination of the product. Left to burn for several days (but closely monitored), the mound would then be dowsed to cool the resulting charcoal. Modern archaeologists have discovered that the process, probably through its residues, leaves a distinctive magnetic signature in the ground that can help identify such sites by geophysical survey.
Charcoal burners were often solitary itinerants and held in some suspicion and awe by society. As might be supposed, in the earliest days of such magical technologies, folklore tapped into the process and its materials, and this continued even into modern times where the late American author Russell Hoban wove charcoal burning into the mythology and narrative of his post-apocalyptic fantasy Riddley Walker.
Blue Peter is Britain's longest running children's TV programme and is still broadcast today, after a run of an astonishing 64 years. It was and is broadcast to an audience of children over a broad age range. It includes films of its presenters on location in faraway cultures, the explanation of matters of science, history, or lifestyle—or even feats of the presenters' derring-do. Notable for the latter was 1960s-1970s presenter John Noakes who, in the course of his duties, scaled Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square (unharnessed) with workers maintaining the monument, and held (at the time) the record for highest civilian sky-dive, undertaken with the Parachute Regiment's Red Devils display team. The guy was "ledge" (legendary). Nor was he insured by the BBC for such duties. Facing similar hazards, his co-presenter, Valerie Singleton, came a cropper racing a power boat up the river Thames when it unexpectedly struck driftwood and disintegrated, throwing her, shaken and stunned, into the river. The show also had makes and bakes, pet care, occasional illustrated serials, various guests with a variety of accomplishments, and annual charity drives for special causes both national and international. One of its early producers was Biddy Baxter, a formidable woman who had firm ideas on the show's content and was unafraid to tackle difficult subject matter such as the Holocaust.
Early television for younger wains (kids) included a 1960s BBC TV strand entitled Watch with Mother. It included several programme titles, which I recall as Andy Pandy, The Woodentops, Tales of the Riverbank, Bill and Ben (the Flowerpot Men), and Rag, Tag and Bobtail. Some were first broadcast in the 1950s, repeating into the 1960s, while different titles were broadcast in later years. Much (but by no means all) voice work for the BBC was undertaken by Peter Hawkins, later famed for voicing the alien Daleks in the popular TV serial Doctor Who. It was Hawkins who voiced the puppet characters Bill and Ben, in a basically indecipherable babble of his own devising. As with more recent examples of babbling in infants' TV, there was, at the time, much parental criticism.
"Professor" Stanley Unwin was a middle-aged family man who devised his own nonsense-speech to entertain his children. Working at the BBC, Unwin's amicable professional relationship with a producer, who found his babble entertaining, put him in front of TV cameras and, for many years afterwards, his nonsense provided Unwin with spots and cameos in TV variety and comedy shows, and even in movies. Unwin's ability to improvise his gobbledygook (eg in answer to unpredictable audience questions) was quite impressive.
Brits had or continue to have a curious interest in various eccentric, low-key or niche activities. I used to tune in every week to watch the BBC's long-running rural competition of sheepdog trialling, One Man and his Dog. I found it fascinating that such communication could be developed between a human and another animal species, and it appealed to my preference for rurally inclined pursuits. With the USA not being especially renowned for sheep farming so much as cattle farming, I wonder whether America has (or had) anything similar as entertainment?
Something which might be of passing interest is that the current (fifth) Earl of Wharncliffe is actually an American from Portland ME, who inherited the title in the middle-1980s. Anecdotally, he worked in the construction industry, looked around his inheritance when he came into the title and, fairly promptly, decided to go back home to his previous occupation (there being little beside the title itself to inherit). He obviously retains the earldom which, presumably, will be inherited by his son in due course (should he decide to accept it).
Though I doubt he uses it much in the US, the Earl's full name is Richard Alan Montagu Montagu-Stuart-Wortley. Yes, that's two Montagus but, to be fair, one of them is hyphenated. But, my, how these aristocratic names get juggled! Quite how the running order of the hyphenated components is decided is a mystery since they appear to be endlessly rearranged over the generations. The Montagu-Stuart-Wortley-Mackenzies are amongst the few multi-barrelled noble names with four constituents (but where, exactly, did Mackenzie go from the above-mentioned Rick's elongated moniker [name]? It's a puzzle, alright). Add to all that a tendency to recycle forenames, and inherited titles become too confusing for words.
Well, it's all about merging dynasties and the consolidation of estates through marriage, I suppose. Another historical, aristocratic family of my home county is that of Wentworth. Again, reading about the family line and its various branches is confusing because of repeating, reorganised and reconfigured nomenclature. There were two, rival, branches of the family into the bargain: the Stainborough branch and the Wentworth Woodhouse branch.
Think it can't be any more complicated? Of course it can! As an ennobled individual made his way up the league table, he would be known by various titles. For example, Thomas Wentworth (1583-1641) was knighted in 1611 (so, Sir Thomas Wentworth), in 1628 he became Viscount Wentworth and, in 1640 he was made Earl of Strafford, the first of that title. His honours were later taken from him, but his son, William, received them by a new grant, so making him the First Earl of Strafford, too (Parliament subsequently reversed the attainder against his father, and so he then became the Second Earl of Strafford. I don't know if that made things easier to follow, or harder). Thomas' daughter, Anne, married Edward Watson, the Second Baron Rockingham (great title!) and so the Rockingham title made its way into the family, eventually becoming a marquessate (a peerage) rather than baronetcy (surprisingly not a peerage, making the holder only an elevated commoner—like a knight, but able to pass the title on to hereditary successors—unlike a knight).
Any historically significant noble, therefore, will be referred to in text by whatever title he held at the point in time being referenced. That means, for example, that you might read of Baron Cecil of Essendon and the Viscount Cranborne, potentially without realising that they are both one person: Robert Cecil, later Earl of Salisbury and discoverer of the Gunpowder Plot.
Phew! At least you don't have this kind of claptrap to deal with in American history!
Broadcasting occasionally on the BBC since 2014, stand-up Alfie Moore has an unusual day job for a comedian: he's a police officer. To his everlasting credit he was born in Sheffield, later migrating to another northern steel town—Scunthorpe—where he took up his duties in defence of the law-abiding general public. Scunthorpe, like many industrial towns, has had a rough ride over the last few decades and, not helped by the sound of its name, is generally (and to some extent unfairly) held in Britain as unfortunate (and unkind) comedic shorthand for a complete dump inhabited by unsophisticated people.
The format of his broadcast performances, drawing on his experiences as an officer of the law, has Moore taking his audience through a genuine policing situation, questioning their reactions as the scenario develops while gently illuminating them in aspects of British policing and law. He does this with a dry and pseudo-cynical humour that lampoons senior officers, other forces (especially London's Metropolitan Police) and the perpetrators of crime. All the same, it's insightful and (to me at least) rather amusing. He must be worth a dozen PR campaigns to the police force.
A quotation from a recent broadcast:
"You know, when I watched Miami Vice as a kid—Crockett and Tubbs driving around in that open-top Ferrari—I thought 'one day, that'll be me'... And here I am in Scunthorpe sniffing letter boxes."
I was prompted to mention Moore because the theme of a recent show was a vehicle stop in the course of his duty. So often, news from the USA tells horrifying stories of official slaughter in vehicle stops that have gone badly wrong, and the contrast with Moore's narrative is pronounced (having said that, most US officers probably conduct themselves politely in their public interactions. Quite likely they sometimes have to deal with extremely ornery people and do so with superhuman patience).
Dad had worked in the steel industry
in the early part of his career. He was a founder of the Don and Porter Motor Club, established
for the enjoyment of himself and his colleagues at that time, and the club was named after the two rivers in their working locale.
"Motoring" was, I think, a very British concept. Unlike the US, where I suspect car ownership, immediately post-war, was
widespread, the UK took longer to achieve saturation. As a schoolboy in the 1960s, I was unusual in that my father ran a car: many
of my classmates' parents didn't. Few of our neighbours had a car. Those people who did, often found "motoring" to be
recreational and a focus for socialisation. Going for a "run" in the car was a common way of spending a Sunday afternoon.
Motoring was not just driving—the practical movement of people from A to B—nor racing or any other hectic, competitive enterprise,
but driving solely for the pleasure of it and perhaps, along the way, discovering something about one's surroundings. It's quite difficult to
capture the nuances of it now, its time has gone, and I think one has to be over a certain age to "get it".
I was listening to the "steam wireless" one day, when I chanced upon a programme that reaffirmed what I would recognise as a British value (if such things even exist). The broadcast had, as its subject, a man's obsession with something commonplace and inconsequential: public benches, such as those found in parks and at beauty spots, either with a view or just as a place to briefly rest. These facilities he reviews and publishes on his themed Instagram page. It's so bloke-ish and it's so British (the small-scale-ness of it, particularly). Being a small country, there is nothing in our environment that's spectacularly large. The highest British peak is Scotland's Ben Nevis, at a mere 4.4 thousand feet. Snowdon, in Wales, is an even more modest 3.5 thousand feet. England can only muster 3.2 thousand feet at Scafell Pike. These are not globally impressive peaks (for comparison, Mont Blanc, in the European Alps, is over 15.7 thousand feet; Mount McKinley/Denali, in Alaska, is over 20 thousand feet). Our largest natural lake is Scotland's Loch Lomond, at 22 miles by 5 miles. England's largest, Lake Windermere, is 11 miles by one mile, while Bala Lake, in Wales, only 3.5 miles by half a mile (again, for comparison, Lake Geneva is 45 miles by nine miles while Lake Superior, of course, is 350 x 160 miles). Even so, with only modest natural treasures of any sort, we have them in profusion so that, despite the density of our population, we have (at the moment) a great abundance and concentration of natural beauty and historical interest.
This modesty invests our art as well. Where the cinema of other countries has historically made pictures of grandeur and great spectacle, with large-scale vistas or themes, many truly excellent British pictures are of the heroics in small achievements. When great issues of the human condition are considered in the arts it's often through small exemplars.
In that respect, I am very British. I tend to eschew the showy and grandiloquent and embrace the smaller, humbler treasures and pleasures as, apparently, does the bench-fancier. What's really good about his story is that Rate This Bench has not only elicited worldwide interest, but that it is has done so with such positivity: An Italian English Language class use it as a practical learning tool and a D&T teacher from Atlanta GA was inspired by it to set a competition for his students to make the best bench. From small acorns do tall oaks grow.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m000n5dm
I think I can pinpoint my first conscious perception of a difference between British English and American English. I'm certain it would have been in the opening titles of Diana Rigg's second series of The Avengers, announcing "THE AVENGERS IN COLOR" (1967). With the insecurity of an eight-year-old, I immediately thought I had been mis-spelling the word when writing "colour". Even more perplexing was the fact that ITV didn't commence colour broadcasting in the UK until nearly two years later. Not that that made any difference in our household: my parents didn't buy a colour TV set until after I left for art school in 1977!
The following is a slightly unkind, though—sadly—somewhat accurate satire on the supposed meanness of Yorkshire folk:
'Ear all, see all, say nowt; |
Which is to say:
Hear all, see all, say nothing; |
I'm sure we're not all that mean!
By the way, when the calendar says first of August, it's officially Yorkshire Day, when we're duty bound to wear a flat 'at, walk our whippet, wear a white rose in a buttonhole and down a pint of John Smith's bitter while singing "On Ilkley Moor baht 'at". Eee, by gum!