That Was The Year, That Was

Good-bye 2016. I know it wasn't really your fault, but you will be remembered as something of an Annus Ridiculus!

In the first part of an unfortunate year, fans of Blackpool Football Club had to look on in horror as the discredited owners of our proud club oversaw a second successive relegation, this time back to the bottom division a mere six seasons after winning promotion to the Premier League. What a falling off was there! And what a seemingly self-serving agenda by the Oystons, who appear to have profited hugely in the process on the back of the honest endeavours of others.

Then in mid-year along came Cameron's Cock-Up, aka the Brexit Referendum. Hindsight is pointless unless one benefits from the lessons it can bestow and our political masters have proved themselves reluctant learners in that respect over decades (from poll-tax to Iraq wars to austerity measures and beyond). A less well thought out 'plan' it would be hard to imagine. You couldn't make it up.

Then there was Assad with the Russians in tow, bringing Syria to the brink of complete destruction in the name of all that is Holy (or should that be Oily?) with his vicious civil offensive that perpetrated war crimes on those who opposed him. Large parts of the country were decimated, chemical weapons featured in the offensive and millions of Syrians were made refugees in the face of state-led genocide. It beggars belief that Assad was partly educated in England and has a British wife. Crap.

Finally, to Trump the lot, the USA only went and elected a lying, misogynistic racist billionaire to the highest post in the land (despite his polling a minority of the popular vote). Good luck with that one, America. The sun sets on you (as D.H. Lawrence once said).

Sadly, there is a common thread of cynical motivation in all of the above. One can only hope that 2017 isn't similarly tainted, but it seems like a faint hope on this New Year's Eve.

On a positive note, how about some 'best of year' accolades?

The best book I read all year: Unknown Soldiers by Vaino Linna. Originally written in 1954, this novel has just been published in translation (from the Finnish) by Penguin Modern Classics and is utterly brilliant in its unromantic portrayal of the true nature of warfare as fought out on the border between Finland and Russia in World War II.

The best record I heard all year: Distance Inbetween by The Coral. Their first album of new material in six years saw the Wirral five-piece come roaring back at the top of their form with another moody psychedelic masterpiece - I even bought it on vinyl for maximum audio effect.

The best movie I saw all year: The Big Short, directed by Adam McKay (and starring Bale, Carrell, Gosling and Pitt). A gripping, fast-paced black comedy that revealed the 2008 Financial Crisis for what it was, the result of unprincipled greedy-bastard chicanery as practised shamelessly by some of our major financial institutions.

The best theatre I saw all year: surprisingly, Andrew Green QC interrogating Karl Oyston under oath in the first of Valeri Belokon's court cases against the owners of Blackpool FC. I haven't had so much football-related fun since Blackpool went 3 up against Birmingham in the 2012 play-off semi-final.

Returning finally to the negatives, in a year of so many shocks to the system I retain one abiding image: of boatload after boatload of desperate migrants coming to grief trying to cross the Mediterranean in search of refuge in Europe. Their harrowing plight prompted the following, my final poem of 2016...

Fish Food
A pair of unsuspecting fashionistas,
Aegean sisters with their matching
laptops and flip-flops,
were the first to see those five brown bodies
rolling in the surf -
not sporting, but decomposing it transpired,
dead in the water for days.

They were just the first of many.

All deaths are shocking,
but the migrants kept on flocking
on southern shores,
fleeing from some unspeakable hell,
risking all
to pay the ferryman for treacherous passage,
hoping for a better world across the waves,
a safer European home.

So the little boats kept on coming,
criminally unseaworthy and overloaded,
kept on rocking, then capsizing,
until their pitiful cargoes were beached
bedraggled and ungainly in the foam,
more like refuse than refugees,
lungs burst, life and hopes quite drowned.

What a terrible toll.
Five thousand dead
in the Med this year,
all deserving better
of their short span on earth
than to end up as fish food.

Thanks for reading. Welcome to the New Year, S ;-)

2016..The year past....

  Hello all and Season's Greetings. This week's theme is " That was the year that was ". 2016 didn't seem a very exciting year for me. I had no trip abroad and no great adventure. However generally I got out walking twice a week ( weather permitting ). Now that I've given my diary a cursory glance it appears that, laterally at least, I did have many tiny adventures. So for example I give you this copy of 3rd. February 2016.

               Woke to a reasonable morning - no rain or wind !
                After breakfast I packed a rucksack and left at 10.30am in lovely sunshine. Drove to Wyresdale Lake and set off by 11am. Walked by the lake - continued along 'Long Lane' and then another lane towards Fell End Farm. It was quite warm on this lane in the sunshine. There was a ford to cross, but a footbridge. I had a cuppa at the usual seat ( dedicated to Keith Thomas Witherington ). Then I took the footpath fromhere to the trig point on Nicky Nook, Met a few people all enjoying the sun and warmer day. Needed a hat and gloves on as chilly and breezy up there. Strolled back to the car and into 'The Apple Store' for soup and a cake. home by 3.30 and heavy rain came on . Unpacked and to Morrisons for shopping and petrol. Uploaded video and photos. Light meal and bath. Watched a little TV.

    Now to you that may not sound like a very exciting day, but straight away it evokes memories not written down.
   I started the walk from the car park adjacent to the cafe on Wyresdale estate. Now this house and surroundings featured in " Country House Rescue " some time ago and hence the cafe and indeed 'Glamping' facilities. The track follows the lakeside and is bounded by rhododendrons . Later a metalled lane winds down through ancient oaks and ash trees. ( here I stop and like to touch the trees, feeling their ancient bark ). The fact that I walked on lanes,  was due to the extremely wet weather we had experienced previously, and the fields were sodden and flooded. It was warm in that lane and I met two other ladies doing as I was but in the opposite direction and we exchanged pleasantries. The ford was very high and a warning cone had been set to one side to keep drivers to the shallower water. The seat of preference is carved with bees and their Latin name, so Keith must have been fond of bees. It sits in a sheltered spot where tits and finches gather in the copse. The track up Nicky Nook from there is not so steep and has a more gentle incline following the land- rover track where the farmer takes food up to his sheep. It was rather cold on the summit..but worth the view of the bay , the lakes, woods, fields..and the busy M6. ( the hum of traffic is heard for much of this walk ). The descent of the hill has been 'improved ' , but caked my boots with thick claggy clay so that I had to wash them in the burn at the bottom of the hill. The walk to the car park at 'The Apple Store' is through oak woodlands with many small birds flitting around. The cafe is very warm, with log burner and radiators, serving wholesome food in a friendly atmosphere. I take a video camera and still camera with me on all my walks so that I can capture my " Days Out " so that when I am unable to walk to these places I have wonderful memories to look back on .
   So I did have a good year that was and my diary and my DVDs testify to that
.
   The poem this week was written on a scrap of paper and found in my pack...it's about those ancient trees....

                         Mighty tree

   Will you recall my touch long after I'm gone ?
   I caressed your rough bark and ran my fingers across your leaves.
   Will you remember the feel of my fingertips throughout the years ?
   Please remember me deep in the heart of you.
   Take me with you through the years.
   I'll remember you.


 I wish all readers a Happy and Fulfilling 2017  Thanks for reading, Kath

2016 is almost over: Getting ready to exhale.

Almost everyone died this year. Many of the people who slipped away were talented musicians, actors and comedians.  Many were still young. However, in Blackpool there is one diminutive lady who just keeps on going.  My Mum had a nasty brush with a thrombosis three weeks ago. She is 96 and despite the specialists who shook their heads, she has once again defied medical opinion. They say her kidneys are remarkable. Her spirit and sense of fun is unshakeable. Her capacity for love is boundless. And she has renewed incentive - a telegram from Her  (or His) Majesty.  

I will miss the phenomenon that was David Bowie.  I will ‘Listen without prejudice’ to George Michael in my car.  I will laugh at re-runs of The Royale Family and Victoria Wood. I will remember Muhammed Ali, who floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee. But I will remember most the joy on my Mum’s face at Christingle and her delight in sharing our Christmas. I will treasure the comedy of seeing her small frame completely obscuring the television screen, as she wrestled to adjust her hearing aid, while trying to read the text. 

I will miss all the others but I get to keep Mum a little while longer.  For 2017 I hope that you will keep the ones that you love close to your heart.  Love keeps us strong.

This is a 'found poem' in tribute to the ultimate performer, singer, song writer who died on 10^th January 2016. I hope to see his next incarnation.

 

 

 

This is the beginning.

A Black Star turning supernova.

It’s a Space Oddity, oddly befitting of

The Man Who Sold The World,  

The Man Who fell To Earth,

sending shockwaves through our culture.

David Bowie brought Changes.

He worked hard, like A lad Insane,

getting down with

The Diamond Dogs,

making it Hunky Dory for the rest of us.

Ziggy Stardust and his Spiders from Mars

were our Pin Ups.

Bowie became the Buddah of Surburbia

and when Scary Monsters threatened,

he made us feel like Young Americans.

He told us that we could be Heroes.

He said, “Let’s Dance,”

so we put on our red shoes and danced the blues.

He was the Glass Spider,

in Black Tie, hidden deep in the White Noise,

in two Tin Machines.  

We followed him from Station to Station,

Dancing in The Street.

He Never Let Me Down,

though I was an Earthling.

Ashes to ashes,

Funk to funky.

Bowie is on A Reality Tour

And back on Stage … The Next Day.

 

Enjoy the rest of 2016.  Thanks for reading and for all your support. Adele 

Years May Come, Years May Go

Years may come, years may go and 2016, not over yet, hasn’t had a dull moment.  World politics, celebrity deaths, and the Great British Bake Off have made headlines and filled social media, bringing out the best and the worst in people. This is society.

A mish-mash of loud, persuasive opinions from educated yet ill-mannered, rude people filled our TV screens for months. Has everyone voted for whatever, now? Is it safe to come out of hiding?

I have been saddened at the passing of so many talented people. At least their work remains with us and will continue to bring joy.

I bake. Not as much as I would like to as time doesn’t allow, but I can rustle up an acceptable Victoria sponge, cup-cakes, biscuits and recently my perfect, sherry soaked Christmas cake. The Great British Bake Off is of no interest to me at all. Sorry to offend. I’m sure Mary Berry is a lovely lady who won’t mind in the least that it’s not to my taste.

On a personal level, this year brought joy when, on the 1st July, our granddaughter made an early arrival. Overwhelmed with emotion, my first sight of her was through tears I couldn’t hold back, looking into her incubator. Perfect and beautiful. Tiny fingers and tiny toes, though not a tiny baby, she weighed over six pounds. My son opened the ‘port-hole’ for me to touch her. Gently, I stroked her velvety, warm skin. I touched her hand and felt her finger pressing mine.

         “I’m Nanna Pam,” I whispered. “I love you.”
     We are thankful for the care and dedication of everyone in the SCBU. They are a remarkable      team who looked after our granddaughter and her parents. She’s a gorgeous baby, nearly six months old with a beautiful smile.
      

I was delighted to meet John Lodge of the Moody Blues. He’s a very friendly, down-to earth person. I’m incredibly lucky. Not everyone gets to meet their favourite rock star.

      

It’s been wonderful to have long weekends and breaks, Liverpool, Shropshire and the Peak District as well as longer holidays relaxing in Dumfries & Galloway. I’m always thankful for the opportunity and look forward to more visits next year.

      

Christmas has been a lovely family time. It really began in early December when we enjoyed the visit of family we don’t get to see as often as we’d like. It was so good to catch up in person with each other’s lives. The last few days have been filled with those who are nearby, just popping in or having a meal, those special moments, making memories, sharing laughter, of being together and remembering friends and family who passed away.

      

A poem for Christmas time:

    
     From Our Happy Home by Louisa May Alcott

From our happy home

Through the world we roam

One week in all the year,

Making winter spring

With the joy we bring

For Christmas-tide is here. 

Now the eastern star

Shines from afar

To light the poorest home;

Hearts warmer grow,

Gifts freely flow,

For Christmas-tide has come. 

Now gay trees rise

Before young eyes,

Abloom with tempting cheer;

Blithe voices sing,

And blithe bells ring,

For Christmas-tide is here. 

Oh, happy chime,

Oh, blessed time,

That draws us all so near!

‘Welcome, dear day,’

All creatures say,

For Christmas-tide is here. 

If you have a minute or two before the New Year arrives, go on YouTube and listen to The Irish Rovers singing ‘Years May Come, Years May Go’ or Herman’s Hermits if you prefer. 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

Curtains and Other Problems

When my eldest son was about fourteen there was a fashion for boys’ hair that was commonly known as ‘curtains.'  I admit it was a fashion I wasn’t particularly fond of, but remembering my own teenage hair (styles and colours) I wasn’t too bothered when Joe’s hair was grown into the fashionable style.  If I remember rightly (and actually, I was the family hairdresser at the time, so must have had a hand in this) it meant a fringe, parted into two fairly thick curtains, framing the face.  The back of the head was shaved short and there was a weird pudding basin effect when viewed from the side. 

Something I’m sure I got from my mum was a pretty laissez faire attitude to teenage attire and style.  I’ve always loved people who dressed a little way out (my husband’s all year round shorts obsession bears this out), and I used to go out of my way to dress my children in clothes that nobody else had, mostly designed and sewn or knitted by myself.  This lasted until they were about eleven when they began to show signs of gentle rebellion.  I was wise enough to know that what they desired most was to fit in with their friends and peers, so Joe’s jacket with the hand appliqued Dennis the Menace on the back, or Laurey’s coat made out of a remnant of padded flowery curtain material just didn’t cut it any more when their mates were in Adidas and Nike. 

I look back to my own teenage years where my best friend and I were desperate to be different.  Living in London this was pretty difficult: everyone was different in London.  We bought tiny kilts and wore them with skinny rib jumpers, tap shoes and stripey tights.  We strutted up and down Wood Green High Road and basked in the comments and compliments.  Even at the time, I was sure they were directed more at her as a tall, slim, long legged burgeoning beauty, rather than the short, stocky friend, but I comforted myself with the thought that I was generally the instigator of any particular fashion experiment.  When we ventured into town on the tube we didn’t get a second glance, there were far more interesting sights.

Anyway, back to Joe and his curtains.  At about this time a note came home from school, informing us in no uncertain terms that this particular hairstyle would no longer be tolerated.  It didn’t explain why.  Between us, his dad and I agreed that it was a ridiculous rule, but, as an act of solidarity with authority, we told Joe to brush his hair to one side whilst he was at school, and threw the letter in the bin.  Shortly after this we heard that a few boys had been put to work in isolation for continuing to sport the curtains hairstyle.  Despite being an ex teacher, married to an ex teacher (albeit one who defied the rules of tie wearing for thirty odd years) I have never understood the rules applying to kids’ hairstyles.  I agree it’s preferable for pupils to look presentable, but surely that’s subjective anyway?  And to be isolated for the curtains style struck me as quite pointless.   This view was backed up a year or so later when short, shaved hair became the rage.  Lo and behold, this was also deemed inappropriate and those sporting the style were once again doomed to work in isolation.  This went on throughout my son’s high school years – basically, whatever was in fashion was against the rules.  

Curtains and a Flat Top

Amongst other things I once spent an increasingly frustrated and annoyed thirty minutes going over the yellow stitching on my son’s shoes with a black felt tip pen, to avoid him being excluded.  I’m all for rules, so long as they are sensible and meaningful.  In my mind coloured stitching was something that really didn’t merit worrying about.  But then I am the teacher who has been reprimanded twice  for wearing inappropriate clothing.  Personally, I thought the yellow flying suit with cartoon characters was fine for infants PE, and the red ski pants matched perfectly the vermillion in the multicoloured mohair jumper. To be warned by a member of the School Fashion Police, herself wearing a beige blouse, green pleated crimplene skirt, a pair of flat pumps and an expression of disdain simply added insult to injury.

There was another story about curtains that I debated telling here.  It involved the husband, a square bay window, a curtain rail, a screwdriver, some screws, two large curtains and a hammer.  But that’s another story.  Suffice to say, the husband, the curtains and the rail ended up through the smashed window, the table he was standing on lost a leg and a divorce was only avoided by his firm promise to get a man in…..  I’ll save the full version for another day.

Apologies...it was 'curtains' for this week's poem due to illness.

Thanks for reading      Jill

Curtains (for Curtains)

Curtains. Yes, I don't like them. Always hanging around. They might keep in the heat and keep out the sound but I've gradually banished them from nearly every room in my house and replaced them with blinds (either Venetian or Roller). I prefer the look, the clean lines. Plus... 8 out of 10 cats don't climb blinds. Curtains, now - that's another matter...

Talking of cats, 2016 meant curtains for Dennis E Williams, prodigious doyen of kitty literature, from whose pen flowed such much-loved classics as: A Streetcat Named Isaiah (recently plagiarised and turned into 'Bob - the movie'), Small Cat Warnings, Sweet Purr Of Youth, Our Puss Descending, Cat On A Tottenham Roof, The Class A Moggie, Two Cats At Play etc etc

Mr Williams (Dennis E) to his friend, was reportedly working on a departure from feline-themed writings when he was snatched untimely from this world. His final novel-in-progress, Diary Of A Bi-Polar Bear, will be completed by his estate agent and published posthumously by Some Random House in 2017.

However, forget mortality and be of good cheer. Christmas is almost upon us once again, light in our darkness. So eat, drink and make truly merry with your kith and kin because... no, stop right there and let the moment last.

To finish off this nonsense, a bit of seasonal verse...

The Night Before Christmas (Savage Festive Revamp)
'Twas the night before Christmas,
When all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even the Grouse...
But I'd heard him exclaim
'Ere he slumped to the floor,
'Merry Christmas to all
And here's one for the Moor(e).'

         (after Clement Clarke Moore, to whom, apologies)

Thanks for reading. Peace and Joy, S ;-)

Curtains - I 've looked at them from both sides now,

As many of you know, I was a ballroom dancer.  Not much use for curtains in my chosen art.  You need a spacious wooden, or even flagged floor (ie Matlock Bath) but no curtains open to show you to your audience.  They sit around you, often on all four sides, so you perform, aware that you can always be seen by someone.  Adjudicators in a ballroom dancing competition, stand along any one of those sides.  You cannot ever show a bad angle, a limp wrist, miss a pointed toe or an extended neck.  Someone will see you.  There is no place to hide.

Away from the ballroom, I loved to go to the ballet or the theatre.  Always thrilled by the wonderful curtains, with their promise of excitement.  The Nutcracker has always been my favourite ballet.  The combination of fun and Christmas and the wonderful music of Tchaikovsky, is an absolute joy.  I took my daughter to see it when she was little.  I hate ballets where beautiful characters die.

I love our local Grand Theatre and wish that my reduced income would allow more than a few visits a year but hey ho.  I have been very lucky. I sing with Musica Lirica Opera chorus and in 2014 performed on the Grand Theatre stage. Two years earlier, as one of a group of creative writers invited to commemorate the Centenary of some of Blackpool's magnificent heritage buildings, I was fortunate to have a backstage tour. 

The Grand is a national treasure: One of the few remaining Matcham designed theatres. The Gaiety in The Isle of Mann is another.  Matcham used a cantilever system in his theatres, eliminating the central pillars that obscured the view of the stage. I find it extraordinary to think that many years ago, the Grand Theatre in my home town was ear-marked for demolition, to be replaced by a Littlewoods store. Local people rallied round and formed a protest group.  They saved the theatre by a combination of sheer determination and donations. The Friends of The Grand are a credit to our town. But for their efforts, those beautiful turquoise velvet curtains may never have risen again.

My own performance at The Grand was a one-night stand, in a short tour of The Merry Widow that also included performances at Settle Theatre and Lancaster Grand.  It is so exciting to stand behind a stage curtain as the music begins and see all the people in the audience. I am never nervous. Performance runs through my veins like oxygen. It is exhilarating.  This year we have done it again.  Our 'Steam Punk' styled Die Fledermaus has shown at Settle, Thornton Little Theatre and Kendal Town Hall.  I aim to behind the curtain when it rises at The Charter Theatre, Preston on 13th January. Perhaps I will see your face when it does.

 

The poem was written for the Walls Have Voices project although not selected for the final publication.

A Grand Embarkation

With precious tickets tight in hand,

Come congregation to the fishbowl foyer,

They climb the gilded staircase, to the circle bar.

Glass clinks on glass, punctuating conversation

Until, summoned by a distant bell

They flow and filter into Matcham’s cantilever shelves.

Some shuffle, rise and fidget,

Slipping sleeves from shoulders,
Mumbling, couching, scrunching cellophane.
They sit: arranged like luscious chocolates,
In four layers of an ornate treasure chest.

Beyond the dulling safety curtain,

Black brick walls echo whispered cues and calls.
Steel taps syncopate on stone,
Sending shivers of anticipation down spinal stairways,
Rigging ropes pulled taut by muscled arms.
Drop the backdrop from the dusty rafters.
 
House lights go down in crystal chandeliers.
A hush goes up: A gasp in unison
As ghostly hand ascends from glowing pit,
The baton poised for down-stroke.  
Currents of warm melody flow like melting ice-cream.
 
Eyes fix on full moon light,
Centred on a turquoise velvet sea.
A cacophony of kettle drums Crescendo
as the overture concludes, audience and players 
embark on a thrilling voyage into imagination.

Thanks for reading.  Have a lovely Christmas.  See you in 2017.  Adele  

Curtains - Hang Them Straight

 The Christmas tree is up. This year I’ve chosen our ‘pre-lit’ one, out of the three we have. I quickly realised how dimly lit it is and ended up patiently winding a set of lights through the branches to achieve an acceptable effect.  The exercise served to remind me that we were going to buy a new tree and brighter lights this year and that we’d kept the three trees in case either of our offspring, now living in their own homes, might want one.  Of course, they don’t. They have beautifully decorated well-lit trees. I can’t get this one quite right and I know I’ll spend the duration of its presence rearranging baubles, messing with the branches and twiddling the bead garlands. My family will humour me and share knowing looks, like my sister and I used to do with our dad. I take after my dad when it comes to perfectionism.

Dad might have had OCD, had it been invented in his day. Everything was ‘just so’ everywhere from the pub cellar, his office, his side of the bedroom. On his desk, pens were lined up in size order and the accounts ledgers that stayed on top were neatly piled with the largest underneath and the smallest on top. Each night, he emptied his pockets on to his chest of drawers, loose coins stacked in order, wallet next to his keys and wristwatch placed in the box bearing the jeweller’s name. His obsession with our curtains was far beyond his usual neatness and attention to detail and has been the subject of many a family tale, resulting in much laughter.

They had to hang straight and be gathered evenly. They had to over-lap at an exact point when closed and be symmetrical when open. Normal stuff that everyone does? Not Dad. He was way over the top. My sister and I have families who think we exaggerate things about our upbringing for their amusement. We don’t need to. We introduce them to a grandfather they were born too late to know, a witty, down-to-earth, hard-working man who loved us beyond measure. He would have loved his grandchildren with all of his generous heart.

Dad was old before his time. Years of running pubs took its toll and he suffered with arthritis and a bad back from heaving barrels and lugging crates of bottles up from the cellar. His pain or discomfort did not distract him from seeing to the curtains. Refusing offers of help, he would struggle to stand up from his armchair then shuffle across the sitting room just to straighten an edge of fabric or check the over-lap that didn’t look quite right in his eye-line. We’ve even stood there, in the window, putting the curtains how they should be, according to his instruction. That wasn’t usually good enough and he’d moan in a light-hearted way, insisting that he’d better do it himself.

  My sister and I didn’t dare to make eye contact at his funeral when the curtains closed across his coffin. We both expected to see his hands slip through to straighten the dark red velvet.

I don’t have curtains, but I’m fussy about which way my vertical blinds are turned.  I’ll have another tweak with the bead garlands on the Christmas Tree in a minute. What a pain they are. I can’t understand is how everything that was wrapped and packed properly last January could have become such a jumble? Maybe it wasn’t me who put it away?

My photo shows the bedroom window of an hotel where I stayed with my husband this autumn. It’s one of Dad’s pubs from my childhood and we happened to be staying in what was my parent’s bedroom. Not the same curtains, but I’m sure my dad would have stood at that window, surveying night-time on the street before pulling them across and straightening the drape.

A short poem for the father I love and miss so much.

 

Remember the curtains of gold

Draping over the window sill?

I really miss those days of old

And wish you could touch them, still.

 

A Merry Christmas to everyone and thanks for reading, Pam xx

A Cynical look at Adverts

Many years ago, when I was fresh out of Art College, the proud owner of a BA in Graphic Design and full of youthful enthusiasm I was offered a job in a well known London advertising agency.  Thrilled, I trotted along on my first day, dreaming of such big names as Cadbury’s, Sony and Kelloggs.

I made the tea, bought cakes, fetched files and was let loose with a huge pack of Letraset and a dummy box to lay out the words, ‘A BETTER BISCUIT’ in the specified font.  Not just once, but ten times, with varying distances between the words.  I could cope with that, I decided, as I knew everybody had to start at the bottom and soon things would start to pick up.   I would build up to those big accounts, like Unilever and Schweppes.  The following day was very similar, except I had to fill the soap dispenser and lay out the words, ‘ MORE FOR YOUR MONEY.’  I can’t remember what it referred to, so as an advert it obviously didn’t cut it.  Either that or it never even reached the production stage.

Fast forward a few months and things had moved on.  I was no longer filling the soap dispenser or fetching files, although I still found myself making brews and placing Letraset on dummy biscuit boxes.  At about this time I was asked to play a very junior part in an advertising campaign for cigarettes.  In fact I think my role was still mainly one of tea maker and provider of correct Letraset fonts.  I had never smoked (apart from a few attempts at the age of sixteen – once when I was babysitting, and it left me feeling so sick and dizzy that I feared I wouldn’t be able to climb the stairs if the children woke up, and a couple of times in the woods with my best friend, which resulted in us both in a similar debilitating state) so I wasn’t really best placed to extol the virtues of these particular cigarettes.  It was the early ‘70s, most of my friends smoked and cigarettes were advertised profusely on TV and bill boards – the main message being that smoking was the height of sophistication, and a prerequisite to being ‘cool’.  I was happy to remain ‘uncool’ if the alternative was to feel sick every time I tried to act sophisticated.

The campaign trundled on with texts and fonts being tweaked on a daily basis.  Free packs of cigarettes were regularly delivered to the agency, where staff fell on them greedily.  Eventually, the campaign was completed and ready to be launched.  The event would involve the agency, minor celebrities, canapes, Champagne and, of course, as many cigarettes as the guests could smoke.  I can’t say that this launch was a lightbulb moment for me – I think I was too in awe of the celebrities, and too blinded by smoke to take much more in - but I do think it was certainly the catalyst for my subsequent feelings about smoking and about advertising in general.

I began to think about the whole moral aspect of promoting goods that actually weren’t ‘good’ at all, but were decidedly ‘bad’ for us: not only cigarettes  but also the huge amounts of sugary and processed foods that were being pushed, children’s toys that suddenly became not just an option but a necessity.  The whole essence of advertising gradually started to make me uneasy.  It wasn’t just the cheap coffee and the sugary biscuits that began to leave a nasty taste in my mouth.

By the time the advert went out there were the first whisperings that maybe smoking wasn’t such a good thing after all.  It was OK to be cool, but not if it left you gasping for breath, attached to an oxygen cylinder, or worst of all, knocking on Heaven’s door.  With a sigh of relief, I left behind the Letraset, the dummy boxes and the false promises and moved on to develop my creativity elsewhere. 

These days I love the advert breaks - they mean I can dash to the kitchen for a ‘decent’ cup of coffee.

 

Researching for this post I came across this advert from the fifties.  It's good to see things have moved on...

 

 'Simples' by Jill Reidy 

(aided by Rio Alcantara Caminero, who researched adverts and suggested alternative lines)

OK……..

Let’s 'Work Rest and Play'

Till we’re bloated and sick

Let’s Get 'Tangoed'

And hyper and ruin our teeth

Let’s order the chicken

That’s 'Finger Lickin’ Good'

As you eat it, whatever you do

Don’t dwell on its sources

Let’s think 'What’s the Worst That Can Happen?'

Well, Doctor Pepper, how long have you got?

Let’s Plaster on make up

'Cos 'We’re Worth It'

But what if we’re not?

Let’s feed our kids Frosties

'They’re GR-R-R-reat'

For tantrums and sulks

Or 'Snap Crackle Pop'

Full of air and high hopes

And you know

'You’re Not You When You’re Hungry'

Who are you?

'Only Smarties Have the Answer'

Really?

Where are you?

'The Happy World of Haribo'

Climbing the walls

'Everyone’s a Fruit and Nutcase'

Let them 'Taste the Rainbow'

Till they’re trying to jump it

Then we’ll sit back and relax

'Put the OO in Typhoo”

'Have a Break, Have a Kit Kat'

And dream 'It Could be You'

After all, little woman….

'Calm down dear, it’s only a commercial'

Thanks for reading,      Jill