The Club Trip

THE CLUB TRIP

Another great Tale from Eric Sanderson

Annual seaside trips for children (as well as members & committee men) were often provided by local Working Men’s Clubs and one such was East End Park WMC where one of my friend’s father was a member & able to obtain tickets for a few of us to enjoy this annual treat.
It usually kicked off by meeting up at the club where light refreshment (not the alcoholic variety – at least not for the children) was served up followed by a short coach journey to the railway station to embark on a privately hired train .
One year, it was the turn of Blackpool ,so along with a few other friends , off we trotted, dressed in our best outfits , full of high spirits, a few shillings in our pocket and a determination to have a great day.
I was wearing my first long trousered suit which in fact had been my father’s demob suit, appropriately modified ( a somewhat loose definition) for a 13 year old boy.
It was a tweedy, maroon & white dogtooth check affair with a large lapelled, double breasted jacket & what seemed like 36inch bell bottomed trousers. Essential attire for a black market spiv or bookies runner but hardly the sort of clobber which was going to make the girls swoon, especially as the sleeves came down to my knuckles and the trousers were long enough to leave a swept trail behind me. Cool it wasn’t.
Tony ,on the other hand had a smart ,bottle green, gabardine single breasted suit , cut in a fashionable style which made him a dashing figure and the envy of the rest of us.
Arriving at Blackpool in mid torrential downpour ,meant a damp start for our sojourn along the promenade, so we swiftly headed for the glittering attractions of the amusement arcades ,those palaces of lost dreams & small fortunes, in order to dry out a little.
Playing these addictive machines quickly relieved us of a substantial part of our meagre resources and, as the sun had made one of it’s infrequent appearance at Blackpool, these emporia were abandoned for the much cheaper pastime of beach football
Now, running about in a damp, tweedy ,double breasted suit on the beach in the (briefly) hot sun is not the most comfortable of activities so, we headed for an early start to the club funded lunch (fish & chips I think) at a pre booked café which we four hungry young men quickly devoured ,but the vinegar drenched soggy mess proved to be less than appetising. Afterwards, a joint decision was made that we would invest a little of our pocket money in a traditional Blackpool treat – a plate of oysters from Robert’s Oyster Bar, just north of the Tower , deciding that our shared purchase could just about afford the smallest portion of three ,costing half-a-crown which would allow one each because I was none too keen to start with.
I have to admit that right from the beginning, they didn’t look too appetising to me, in fact well past their sell by date but, inexperienced as we were in the matter of such tantalising delicacies, took the plunge anyway.
The stall holder assured us that the offputting sickly green colour was normal for fresh oysters .“Fresh when “, we queried. “Don’t be so b****y cheeky” retorted the man. Strange isn’t it that in those days, a perfectly reasonable question from young people was often regarded as insolence. However, remaining sceptical, we proceeded anyway, the honour of the first pick going to Tony as he was the keenest and anxious to show us how it was done, claiming to have sampled oysters before. Struggling from the start as he tried to swallow the oyster whole , his first few attempts were regurgitated onto the rain sodden pavement. Too expensive to waste, it was wiped off to try again , still without success.
After chewing the poor animal (which we were informed was still alive) for about 15 mins , he finally managed to get it down, declaring it to be quite tasty, in the style of old army socks, if a little rubbery.
The rest of us were, by this time, feeling rather less enthusiastic but, undeterred & full of bravado, Tony decided to have a second bight of the oyster – so to speak.
The performance was a little more proficient than his first attempt and, being determined to perfect the technique and anxious not to waste the investment, he battled on. As he worked his way through the plate, the oysters looked to me to take on an even more bilious appearance which made me feel that I’d made one of my better decisions in refraining from taking part in the feast but at least, his third & last oyster slithered down his gullet as though he were a professional oyster slurper.
Three oysters later, Tony proclaimed the rest of us “weedy” for resisting the temptation so, off we sauntered towards the Pleasure Beach , calling in on one or two of the sideshows , like the Bearded Lady, which adorned the promenade in those days.
A few stomach heaving rides later on the pleasure beach’s most famous attractions, & Tony began to take on a greenish hue, not dissimilar to his plate of recently devoured oysters. Before long, his digestive system rebelled & the oysters began to make the return journey, finishing up once again on the rain sodden pavement.
I must say, I seem to recollect that they looked considerably more appetising than when Tony had first consumed them but no amount of encouragement would persuade him to scoop it up and have another crack at one of Blackpool’s famed gourmet treats. Neither did the regurgitated “oyster sauce “covering his lapels & trouser fronts provide any enhancement to his brand new, bottle green gaberdine suit.
For many years afterwards, the mere mention of oysters was sufficient to bring on a cold sweat , remembering our first encounter with the famous mollusc and the tragic consequences for Tony’s new suit.

Another holiday tale, involving seafood, occurred some years later when a few of us were holidaying in the Isle of Man.
One of our group, who shall remain nameless to avoid everlasting embarrassment, decided to buy his father a pair of the famous Manx kippers as a gift from the I.O.M.
Our mode of transport to the Isle of Man was the Steam Packet Ferryboat on which it was usual that much of the luggage was placed on deck .
For the return journey, our friend had decided to pack the newspaper wrapped parcel of kippers inside his suitcase for safe keeping but (maybe you’re ahead of me here) this turned out to be a catastrophic decision .
Firstly, it was a stormy crossing ,raining heavily and the on deck luggage was thoroughly soaked by the time we arrived back at Fleetwood.
Secondly, his suitcase, which was a flimsy cardboard affair , collapsed completely on pickup, having quickly becoming totally waterlogged with rainwater & seaspray penetrating both his suitcase and the parcel of kippers. This had allowed an aromatic and golden brown liquor of oak smoked kippers to penetrate all his best clothing and staining it a nasty yellow shade into the bargain.
Strangely, he was not very well amused when the rest of us thought this to be a huge belly laugh and taunted him on the train journey back to Leeds for smelling like a dodgy fishmonger but, if I recollect accurately, his father was so touched by the gesture and it’s consequences, that he happily replaced his wardrobe in full.

Annual holidays in Blackpool was the norm for a few years for our regular group, often meeting up with others from our district, usually in one of the few Tetley pubs like the Huntsman, the Criterion or The Ardwick. The most popular accommodation was the “boarding house” providing bed , breakfast & evening meal. Our favoured venue was one about halfway between the central pier & pleasure beach. In the mid fifties, this would cost us £7 for the week and that was regarded as slightly above average but for this, a very reasonable standard of comfort was assured
Doubling this up to £1/day for spending (including the odd pint or two or three) meant that a splendid holiday could be had for £14/15 – about the price of a round of drinks today.

Wonderful stuff Eric. Oh that we could return to those days!

Last month’s pc Eric was right again – Oakwood Clock at the start of the Soldier’s fields’

How about this month’s pic Groan or cheer it was an iconic East Leeds seat of sport and learning.

My Night Walk Folly

My Night Walk Folly
By Pete Wood

I’m going back a few years now as will be apparent from the number of pubs named here which are alas no more. It was at a time when I revelled on my Saturday nights in taking a bus from my home in Woodlesford – on the east fringes of Leeds – into the city centre. Once in the city centre I would have a drink in one or other of my favourite pubs and then set off to walk all the five miles back home calling in most if not all of the pubs on the way. I would start on bottles and make my way up to points as I got nearer to home.

I would always call in at The Adelphi just across Leeds Bridge, when there was a jazz band playing in the upstairs room I had to drag myself away for I was tempted to stay in there all night but ‘the way home was long and steep and I had miles to go before I sleep’. Next up would be The Crown Hotel on Crown Point Road then The Mulberry. Sometimes I would call in The Bankfield at the bottom of South Accomm, always the lively Wellington on Hunslet Road, sometimes The Red Lion but invariably I would always finish up in the Crooked Billet opposite the Stourton traffic lights where for many years Renee Johnson played the piano. I had to finish up in the Crooked Billet even through the last pub on my route should have been The John O’Gaunt at the top of the hill but the distance between The Billet and The John O’Guants entailed a twenty minute walk and I couldn’t spare twenty minutes of prime boozing time nearing last orders.
. (I wouldn’t like you to think I had a pint in all of those pubs all of the time or I would never have got up the John O’Gaunt’s Hill at all – I hardly drink at all now but those were my halcyon days). After being chucked out of The Crooked Billet I would roll up the three miles remaining to home in a pleasant alcoholic haze.
.
These weekly forays suited me very well and I had many a good night in this fashion. Then one balmy Saturday evening in mid-summer I got a little bit too ambitious. I was having my city centre drink in the old Railway pub which was close to the bridge on Marsh Lane and a pub we frequented greatly in our iconic ‘Market District Boys Club’ days. Sitting there in ‘The Railway’ that particular Saturday night I thought to myself, what if I walked home Whitkirk way instead of through Stourton for a change? This was my first mistake: I didn’t appreciate just how far that was going to be. The Stourton way home was about five miles but through Whitkirk, Selby Road Bullerthorpe Lane etc. would have been nearer to eight miles
.
So, off I set up Railway Street heading for York Road. This was my second mistake as it took me well out of my way and lost valuable boozing time. Eventually I made it to ‘The White Horse’ but was disappointed to find it far quieter than it had been in the good old days. On to ‘The Dog and Gun’ then; risking life and limb crossing the manically busy York Road. By the time it was already quarter past ten. I’m running out of time I thought, it’s quarter past ten and I’ve only had three pints, better miss out ‘The Whitebeck’ and make straight for ‘The Irwin Arms’. This was my third mistake, the place was a real mad house, and I had a job trying to get served at all. Anyway, I found a quiet back room and lining another three pints up (as it was nearing eleven o’clock) I proceeded to make up for lost time and managed to get ‘well oiled’. Now at one point, I had to leave those lovely pints on the table unattended while I visited the men’s room. Was that my fourth mistake? Did someone slip something into my pints? I don’t know but anyway I had no choice, when you have to go you have to go! And you can’t carry three pints with you into the toilets can you?

Upon leaving ‘The Irwin’ I perceived there were at the time: two pizza places and two fish shops within a hundred yards, so I ‘filled my boots’ while contemplating my route home. It was now near to midnight; when the evening had been young I had initially envisaged my route home would be by way of walking home up Selby Road and the down Bullerthorpe Lane, now at this late juncture and me in my present state that route seemed an awful long way round – at least five or six miles would be still left to complete. On the other hand if I should cut straight through the Temple Newsam House Estate that would definitely cut out a mile or two. This was my fifth mistake; I hadn’t appreciated how dark that route was going to be. By the time I reached the last lamp, which was at the end of the street where Billy Bremner used to live – it was absolutely pitch black, I could hardly see my hand in front of my face.

Ten minutes later saw me stumbling through the cars parked in the car park of Temple Newsam House, which at that time of night is a haven for courting couples, who have no wish to be disturbed. My stumbling intrusions onto car bonnets etc. in the utter darkness brought many shouts of derision and much switching on and off of headlights; obviously they were taking me to be some perverted ‘Peeping Tom’, or perhaps the Temple Newsam ghost. Extracting myself from this potentially sticky situation it dawned upon me, that as there would likely be security guards on duty around the Temple Newsam House itself I’d better give the house a wide birth to the south or I might be taken for a burglar. This was my sixth mistake as I nearly decapitated myself on an unseen climbing wire, strung head high across the rose garden. While tottering down the hill to the east of the mansion and trying to stem the flow of blood from my forehead it came even to my befuddled mind that walking through a wood, after midnight, in total darkness, was not all that of a fantastic idea, there was the touch of the Gothic horrors about it all. It was at that point, my foot struck something solid and picking it up I saw it to be a nicely shaped wooden stake. In my present state I interpreted this as a sign from God that I was about to meet vampires but here was something with which to defend myself. (See what I mean about the possibility of my drink in ‘The Irwin’ being spiked?)

Somewhat fortified by the thought that I had a weapon to fend off the supernatural I pressed on into the woods but now with a growing awareness of my ludicrous situation: many a time I had read horror stories of folk being caught out in a wood miles from anywhere after midnight and thought, ‘a likely story’ and that anyone who was daft enough to put themselves into such a situation surely deserved all that was coming to them. Yet here was I in that very same ridiculous position and with blood pouring out of my forehead to boot: vampires like blood don’t they! Anyway, I pressed on, I could just make out my pale jeans making a good pace in the darkness. Occasionally I had to beat a tattoo on my thighs with the stake to send those who would make crackling noises in the bushes, scurrying on their way.

It’s a good job I was at least familiar with the layout of the terrain by day or I would have been hopelessly lost by now. I finally reached the brow of the hill where I could look back at Temple Newsam House in the west and forward to the ribbon of a pathway in front of me. The moon had made an appearance and gave the whole panorama a magical effect. It was quite uplifting after the gloom of the woods. I suddenly felt high as a kite and got this idea into my head I could fly (there must have been something in that drink). I became aware of a dream that I quite often have in which I flap my wings and I can take off. I thought this is it; this is the occasion I have been dreaming about all my life, now is the time I’m really going to fly! With that I ran down the hill and launched myself into the air. This was my seventh mistake; after I’d picked myself up I was coherent enough not to make a second attempt.

Eventually, I reached the road and the earthly dangers of a country road without a footpath and cars racing towards me on main beam, completely blinding me. No doubt the drivers themselves would be a bit startled too to see this wild looking bloke wandering about Bullerthorpe lane in the middle of the night with a stake in his hand, blood pouring from the wound in the forehead and now covered in dust from the flying incident.

Presently the lights of Swillington hove into view and I felt a great sense of elation – sort of akin to climbing Everest – well perhaps not quite that. Next morning when I awoke it took awhile to piece together, why I had a cut head and why there was a wooden stake at the side of the bed – but I had this over-riding feeling that I’d had a B…. GOOD NIGHT!

Last Month’s pic was of course Leeds Central High School for boys and Ralph Thoresby School for girls.

How about this month’s pic? ‘Lance corporal’ tram passing what Leeds edifice on the right?

The laxative Joke

And

East Leeds Lads on Holiday in Devon

By Eric Allen

The Laxative Chewing Gum. An amusing little tale (well to me anyway – possibly not to those it affected) was instigated by me in the 1950s. Beech Nut chewing gum could be bought out of vending machines located outside shops usually on street corners. On this occasion the machine in question was outside a shop in Fewston Avenue.

To recap: there had been an intense sales drive to advertise BONO  MINT laxative chewing gum and samples of this product had been pushed through the doors of local households. On the day in question my mates, Bernard, Pete and I were off to the Market District Boy’s Club – Bernard and Pete to play football and I was to play my game, rugby. Before setting off I took a packet of Beech Nut chewing gum and swapped the contents for BONO MINT laxative chewing gum. On the way to the club I offered a piece each to Bernard and Pete, who both, innocently, accepted. Of course I had carefully positioned a piece of the proper Beech Nut gum in the packet for myself.

After the game we met back at the club where I was advised that Bernard had been taken short during the match and had to make a hasty retreat off the pitch. It did not seem to affect Pete until later that night when we were coming back late at night from dancing at Pudsey baths. Pete had to quickly get off the bus and get behind a hedge. He caught the next bus but unfortunately the same thing happened again and as this was now the last bus he had to walk all the way home (on his own). Unfortunately it was still affecting him while serving at St Hilda’s Church the following morning. Fortunately the incident did not affect our friendship and we embarked on a holiday in Devon.

The Holiday in Devon It would have been around 1956/57 when Pete and I decided to have a week’s camping holiday in glorious Devon. We were in our mid teens and this was going to be an adventure. Our route was to be by steam train from Leeds to Bristol where we would change trains for Barnstaple, another train to Bideford and finally a bus to Clovelly, which was to be our ultimate destination. There we had arranged to camp at the delightfully named ‘Wrinkleberry Farm’. The site had already been recced by Pete’s mother and father as being a suitable spot for us.

We allegedly carried everything we would need for the week on our backs, including two small tents, one for sleeping and one for stores. In addition, we had with us, or thought we had with us, a Primus stove for cooking. We got off to a bad start by falling out over whether or not we should risk dumping ourselves and all this gear in a first class carriage; which looked much more attractive than those afforded by our third class tickets and were

full anyway. Somewhere along the way, it dawned upon us, with a sickening impact, that we had forgotten the Primus stove; it was still sitting on our kitchen table at home. This was a major blow for two growing lads for it meant no hot food unless we bought out, this was a ‘double whammy’ as take-a-ways were as rare as rocking horse dung in Clovelly and anyway our financial resources, being young lads, was very limited. We decided, after debate, that our best course of action would be to buy another stove and this we did at Barnstaple. Now, whether we couldn’t afford a proper Primus stove or whether we just could not locate one in Barnstaple I can’t now recall but we finished up buying a Butane stove instead. The Butane stove was a small blue affair; the canister, which contained the gas, came separate from the base of the stove. To start the thing one needed to locate the canister onto the stove and push into position by forcing it onto a spike and securing it with two clips. That in turn pierced the canister and allowed the gas to be released in a controlled manner for igniting and cooking. Unfortunately, the first time we tried to use it we managed to spike the thing but did not have it located properly. This caused it to take to the air like a flying saucer propelled by the escaping gas and emitting a smell like rotting vegetation as it flew. By the time we retrieved the canister it was empty. So that was it, as we didn’t have access to another canister in outback Clovelly, so we were back to square one again without a means of cooking.

Happily, Wrinkleberry was a great place to camp and Clovelly itself, in my perception, one of the most beautiful villages in England. Of course we had probable been indoctrinated by Pete’s mother and father, who made pilgrimages to spend their holidays there almost every year. That was in the days when a Ford eight had to meander through countless town and city centers (before motorways) and an overnight break in Bristol on the way down, which meant four days of the holiday were lost already in the travel.

Pete’s house in Leeds was a shrine to Clovelly; there were pictures of the place on almost every wall and a Devon pixie doorknocker. For those not lucky enough to have visited Clovelly when it was a living village rather than a virtual museum it can best be described as one long, narrow, cobbled street which reached from a car park at the top to the quay far below. Motorised transport was not allowed in the street: it was far too steep and narrow anyway. All goods, including: milk deliveries, groceries and even the dustbin collection and funerals were carried out by means of donkeys pulling sleds. At that time, the whole village was under the ownership of Lady Hamilton, who lived at Clovelly Court, a grand house out of bounds to the rank and file.

We must have been fit at the time for we would be up and down that street from Wrinkleberry to swim by the quay, three or four times a day – all four or five hundred feet drop of it. I certainly wouldn’t like to have to tackle it even once a week today! One day we looked back from our swimming in the quay to see all our clothes floating on the water, the tide had come in and we hadn’t noticed; the salt water ruined my new watch. About the third day a most amazing thing happened; we were lazing about on the big pebbles by the sea, like a couple of great porpoises, probably thinking what we would have for dinner. We were still without the stove – One day as I was laid on my stomach on the beach looking up the winding street, I gasped: ‘Your Lill and Bill are coming down the hill!’ We called our parents by their first names, they said we were cheeky b’s but I think they liked it really. I suppose we were a bit avant-garde for the fifties. Anyway, I remember Pete saying, ‘Come off it. How can they be? They’re at home three hundred miles away!’ It was a bit like in The Hitchhiker’s guide to the Galaxy when the main protagonist who is on a distant isolated planet sees his old aunt walking down the road towards him. However, in his case he was hallucinating – I wasn’t – it was Pete’s Lill and Bill. They had made the three hundred mile plus journey, all the way from Leeds, to bring us the Primus stove. Well, that and the fact they didn’t need much of an excuse to have an extra holiday in Clovelley at the best of times. Thereafter, for a few days, we slept in our tent and Lill and Bill slept in the van alongside us at Wrinkleberry Farm. And we were able to cook on the Primus stove; in fact, I suppose we had the advantage of Lill doing most of the cooking for us too.

The week proceeded idyllically and sunny for the next few days, we had a memorable trip to Lundy Island on the old Waverley paddle steamer, which would arrive from Ilfracombe and anchor out in the bay where the local fishermen would row the folk who were
going to make the trip out to join it. I admired the lifestyle of those old Clovelley fishermen. Many of them had been born and bred in Clovelley and worked the fishing boats as lads before getting ‘wanderlust’ and joining the Royal Navy or perhaps the merchant navy and going off to see the world. Finally they would return to finish their days back in Clovelley, pottering about in their boats, setting a few lobster pots, making few bob rowing holidaymakers around the bay etcetera but mostly just to sit around smoking on the harbour wall chewing the fat with their old mates. What a lovely way to spend a life! I believe the old Waverley, which incidentally made the trip to Dunkirk to bring the lads back, is still plying its trade among the Scottish Islands even at the time of writing. Lundy, a windswept rock in the Bristol Channel was at the time home to a few lighthouse keepers and a puffin colony. I recall a steep climb to an old stone church, a post office making good profit out of selling the island’s own puffin stamps and a having a picnic. A good day was had by all.

About Thursday the weather changed and it started to rain and I mean rain, ‘stair-rod time’. Now, there is not much to do in Clovelley in heavy rain so good old Lill and Bill said they would take us on to Newquay in the van, where there were chances of a few more foul weather attractions. So, off we bumped to Newquay in the back of that seatless, Jowett, Bradford van. We still intended to camp but the rain was no better in Newquay: probably worse if anything. We paid an old farmer for a campsite but it quickly turned into a river and we had to abandon the idea of camping altogether and seek ‘bed and breakfast’ accommodation. We were boarded the first night by a nice lady who then passed us onto her daughter for the rest of the week. Both houses were located on a bend in the road into Newquay near to where a circus was being held. Neither of us has been able to pin point the exact location of these two houses on subsequent visits to Newquay.

Then followed the longest train journey home either of us can remember. First the train went to Plymouth, were we were delayed and had to make a change of trains. Eventually we arrived in Bristol where we had to spend a cold night on the station platform as our train did not leave until the next morning. That night spent on a cold seat was memorable in that it was so cold and miserable. Ironically, as we were told later, our carriages were standing alongside the platform unlocked where we would have been welcome to spend a warmer, more comfortable night than on the station bench. We arrived home in the afternoon of the next day. It was seventeen hours after our departure from Newquay by time we saw the grimy old face of Leeds Corn Exchange, which always confirmed our holidays were well and truly over. But what an adventure it had been!

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Great tale Eric. I remember it well – especially the laxatives!!!

Last months pic? St James Infirmary (Jimmies) Taken from Becket Street Cemetery
Now for this months’ Remember these two Schools?
.Beasts in the top school belles in the lower school

THE TEDDY BOY ERA

Another great tale by Eric Sanderson

These tales from Old East Leeds have ranged over a huge range of reminiscences from characters, schools, iconic buildings, football teams, cinemas, pubs, and many other topics. However, the “Teddy Boy” era seems to have been bypassed so here’s one or two recollections that might spark off a few memories.

“Teddy Boys” were by no means exclusive to East Leeds but it did have it’s fair share of dedicated followers of the fashion. So this is not a solely East Leeds yarn but even so, Teddy Boy activities were readily to be found in the district and many will have their own reminiscences of that brief period and who knows, maybe even have participated
During the Teddy Boy era of the 1950’s , the most noticeable and visible aspect was the extreme form of dress which had somehow come to be associated with the Edwardian finery of the 20‘s/30‘s.
In reality, the Teddy Boy styles of those days only vaguely resembled true Edwardian finery which were resplendent and characterised by their bell bottomed trousers and wide lapelled, double breasted jackets made from loud check patterned cloths such as Prince of Wales checks and shiny shoes . The Windsor necktie knot was a creature of that period, invented, if grubby rumour is to have any houseroom, by the then Prince of Wales & later Edward the 8th.

The Teddy Boy fashions probably owed more to Victorian & even Regency extravagance in their choice of colour, materials and adornment and although it certainly wasn’t confined to , or even predominantly an East Leeds practice, there were sufficient exponents of the art to make it memorable. But there was also an implicit darker side to the practice in that, rightly or wrongly, a widely held belief was that such dress heralded an association with the more unsociable side of behaviour, such as gang membership, violence, a much broader & anarchic freedom of activity & expression as well as a dissociation with the general courtesies and values of the day . In fact there were many establishments which barred entry to those wearing the Teddy Boy outfit, presumably because of the associated, real or not, notoriety. These included cinemas, many dance halls as well as many pubs.
The fashion didn’t seem to cross the boundary to girls though they did evolve a generally more racy style.

Be that as it may , it brought a new meaning to style and fashion, as well as a major boost to the textile industry, as well as some colourful characters who appeared to have no inhibitions in disporting their new, and expensive attire.

Close to where I lived, one fellow possessed several suits, all of a similar pattern but in a variety of lurid colours. Pea green, bright red are two colours I particularly remember and all had jacket lengths down to the knees fashioned in what I think was called “full drape“. Strange and funny to many eyes but this character had a somewhat fearsome reputation and it didn’t pay to be anything but complimentary to him. The obligatory black velvet collar, pocket trim and sleeve cuffs set this off ( although that was often marred by a dusting of dandruff on the collar) and required at least double the material to that of an ordinary jacket to make, hence an old friend in the trade telling of the boost this fashion gave to the textile industry and regret at it’s passing.
On the other hand, the trousers were often skin tight from the knee downwards and must have been troublesome to get into (and out of). The trousers were often held up by a belt fashioned from studs or the like and with a huge buckle,( often said to double up as a knuckle duster).What made the trousers seem even skinnier were the huge, aircraft carrier sized and invariably suede, thick soled shoes known widely as “brothel creepers” (wherever did that name come from?).
An uncle of mine once possessed a truly awesome pair of these shoes with crepe soles about 1½ inches thick and on one occasion, unknown to him, my Grandfather thought they might look a bit natty and decided to borrow them. Dressed in his very traditional 3 piece worsted suit, off he trotted in his borrowed brothel creepers to his local but just couldn’t understand why he was such a figure of fun among his contemporaries.
Also, around that time, one or two of the schoolmasters used to wear them. But we always believed there was a practical reason for this, so that they could creep up, unsuspected, to clip you around the ear. So that at least is one explanation for “creepers”. The other part is still a mystery.
The whole was rounded off by a frilly white shirt and a bootlace or slim jim tie , a narrow, usually black ,strip of material , secured by a fancy toggle type fastener.
The hair was an important part of the appearance with a well oiled Tony Curtis quiff, brushed up at the side into a “ducks arse” at the back being the most popular. The Boston, was brushed straight back with a straight line clean cut termination across and above a shaved neck.

Another local revelled in his powder blue version, blue suede brothel creepers and brocade waistcoat. This character was however an easy going soul who didn’t mind a little bit of ribbing over his outlandish choice of wardrobe and who now occasionally attends the Edmund House reunions.

There were quite a few similar fashionista’s in the district and many more who sported less elaborate versions of the style but there’s little doubt that such flamboyance was a game changer in men’s fashion from which men became more adventurous , never to look back to the plain, tight fitting three piece bum freezer suits. No longer was fashion the exclusive province of the ladies, but such freedom also has it’s downside. The license to dress as casually as you like has lead to a higher level of scruffiness from some who think that neglecting your appearance is the same thing. It isn’t.

It became a comic sight though, when the fancy suit was downgraded from best to working clothes and the local coalman turned up humping sacks of coal dressed in a vivid purple, velvet trimmed jacket, stained with coal dust and the knees ripped out of his skin tight drainpipes .

Nor was everyone impressed by the fashion. A friend, who was far from the full blown “Ted” approached a girl at a popular dance hall. He nonetheless affected what he thought was the laid back , cool, Fonze style mannerisms when asking if she fancied a dance with him. After eyeing him critically for what seemed like an age, he received a crushing rebuff & his coolness was badly damaged when the girl said “get lost, you sickly looking t**t !!.
It took some time for him to regain his composure & confidence. Nor did it do his reputation much good either, and he was occasionally reminded of this episode when he became a little cocky.
This lad also occasionally attends the reunions.

Although gang violence was a rarity within East Leeds, on occasion but fortunately quite rarely, groups of lads from outside, notably Hunslet, would foray into the district and stories of gang fights and occasional stabbings weren’t unknown, usually at dances or the York Road fair.

These styles lasted only a fleeting time , to be superceded by the “Italian Look” (I think) but many will remember it vividly and be able to recall other memorable or outlandish examples of this fashion genre and opinions as to it’s association with groups or behaviour

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A Great tale to brighten up February for us, Erc.

Last month’s picture was of course the residue of the Star Cinema York Road

of fond memories

This month’s you may find a little more difficult but I bet all East Leedsers will have been in there at some time or another.

ALISTAIR’S TALE

ALISTAIR’S TALE
Alistair is a true Scot who now lives in America but in the late 1940s/early 50s we had the honour of having him as part of our little East Leeds gang.

Exile from Fife to East Leeds
And
An introduction to cricket
By Alistair Duckworth.

When I came to Leeds at the age of 10 in 1946, it was to enter a very different world from the Fife of my childhood. In chauvinistic Scotland, the English were the auld enemy. At school in Cellardyke my friends and I compelled a new pupil from England to forsake his allegiances. We made him admit that the thistle was better than the rose, that Wallace and Bruce were the true heroes of history, that Bannockburn was the greatest victory of all time, and that the saltire of St Andrew was a superior banner to the red cross of St George. We even made him agree, against all evidence, that the Scottish football team was better than the English team and–incredibly!– that Wullie Waddell was a better outside right than Stanley Matthews. When one day my mother casually told me that we would soon be leaving for England (so that my father, on leaving the Royal Navy, could find employment in Leeds), I was horrified, believing it would now be my turn to give up my most fervent beliefs.

Of course, nothing of the sort occurred. In Leeds I learned that though the Scots were aggressive towards the English, the reverse was not true. Coming from cold, bleak Anstruther, where fights were common in the schoolyard, to warm and friendly Leeds where fights, as I recall, were nonexistent, was a revelation. My father was from Leeds, and I had visited the city at an earlier age, even attending St Hilda’s school (Mrs Duckworth’s class). But the change was great nevertheless—from a Presbyterian kirk to a high Anglican church, from John Knox and Calvinistic austerity to Pusey and Anglo Catholic ritual, from fishing village to industrial city, from bracing ozone to pea-soup fogs, from the “taws” as an instrument of punishment to the cane.

In Leeds, I was introduced to fascinating new games that changed with the seasons: conkers, top-spinning and marbles (another kind of taws) for boys; jacks and rope-skipping accompanied by songs for the girls. I encountered boys with amazing skills. “Bools” in Fife had been a mild affair played on a concrete surface with vividly coloured glass marbles. Taws at St Hilda’s was played on a dirt surface with stone-hard, dirty-white marbles that had little aesthetic appeal. But in the knuckles of Harold Sedgwick, the game was played at a level of skill that had to be seen to be believed. Rather than rest the marble on the middle joint of the index finger and propel it with his thumb nail, Harold (in a way I could never repeat) lodged the marble between the knuckle of his thumb and the point of his index finger. He could then propel it with astonishing speed and accuracy at the target marble, which would be sent into the middle distance far beyond the circle drawn in the dirt. Harold’s marble, meanwhile, would stay, rapidly spinning on its axis, in the spot once occupied by his opponent’s marble.

Leeds at that time was a dirty city with more than a passing resemblance to Dickens’s infernal Coketown in Hard Times. Born in rural Fife, I at first missed grass, trees and fields. Stone-slab pavements and tarmac or cobbled roads seemed to cover the earth everywhere. From the soot-covered windows of our red-brick house I saw a Lowry landscape of chimneys belching out smoke and carcinogenic particles. The actuaries put the early 60’s as an average life expectancy for men. Soon, however, I found that fields existed, only minutes from St Hilda’s church. To the east Snake Land had two football pitches, a bowling green and tennis courts. And to the south was the village of Knostrop, which time seemed to have passed by. At the bottom of the hill leading from Cross Green Lane, and close to the River Aire, the hamlet was, I believe, a part of the Temple Newsam estate. Its Jacobean hall was still precariously in existence and inhabited by a man named Benn.

Looking back on the place, I see Knostrop as a cross between Cold Comfort Farm and a Grimm’s Fairy Tale landscape (it had a “humbug house”). But I enjoyed going down to this other, rural, world. In the autumn we gathered chestnuts to pickle into conkers. We also played rugby in the pond field next to the old hall. Jack, Benn’s dog, would accompany us. He was the wicket-keeper when we played cricket and the goalkeeper when we played football. But he disapproved of rugby. The ball was the wrong shape, and he was left with nothing to do. Jack is long dead, and so is Knostrop, swallowed up by industry and business parks. But it has an enduring existence in the published memories, written and collected by Peter Wood, an old friend at St Hilda’s School.

An Introduction to Cricket

When I came to Leeds, I was introduced to cricket, a game not often played in Fife and never with the skill and enthusiasm displayed by my new friends in the summer of 1947. When we had time, we played with stumps and a proper cricket ball (but not pads) on a grass pitch at Snake Lane. More usually we played in the streets (still mostly free of traffic) with a tennis ball or a solid composition-rubber ball. If a box or similar object were to hand, it would serve as a make-shift wicket; if not, a man-hole in the tarmac would do just as well. Someone would supply a bat, sides would be selected, and the match was on. On Sundays we played outside St Hilda’s church both before and after Sunday School. I was surprised by the lack of bickering over “out” decisions. A catch was obvious, of course, but appeals for lbw, if credible, would be accepted by the batsman without demur, and if he were beaten by a ball that passed over the manhole within the imagined dimensions of the stumps, batsman, bowler, wicket-keeper and fielders would generally concur that it was an out. A basic fairness prevailed.

Cricket was a topic of much interest in my father’s family, particularly to my Auntie Alice, who followed the fortunes of Yorkshire and England throughout a long life, at first on radio, later on TV. From my father and my aunt I soon acquired a strange new vocabulary; I learned about cover point, long on, and silly mid-off, about off drives, hooks and late cuts, about yorkers, googlies and chinamen, about in-swingers and out-swingers. I came to understand the importance of the weather in determining whether the pitch at Headingley would be favorable to batsmen or bowlers on a given day, and if to the latter, whether it would be best to use fast, medium-fast, or slow bowlers. If slow bowlers, the question would then be debated whether to use an off-spinner or, much more dangerously, a leg-spinner.

But it was not only the terminology of cricket that made it fascinating to me. The history of cricket was also a common topic of conversation. The Duckworth adults knew about the great players of the past stretching back to W. G. Grace and Jack Hobbs, and held strong opinions about the best opening partership (Hobbs and Sutcliffe), the best all-rounder (Wilfred Rhodes, a Yorkshireman, of course), and the best fast bowler (grudgingly conceded to be the Australian Lindwall). They told me about England’s controversial (“bodyline”) tour of Australia in 1932-33, in which the fast bowler Harold Larwood had aimed “bouncers” at the bodies and heads of the Australian batsmen. In an attempt to disarm persistent Australian criticism of England’s tactics, the MCC banned bodyline bowling and called on Larwood to apologise. Larwood refused on the grounds that he had been told to bowl in this way by the team’s captain, Jardine. Jardine, in common with all captains of England until Len Hutton, was a gentleman amateur, whereas the working-class Larwood was a professional. In consequence of his refusal to apologise, I was told, Larwood was never picked for England again. For my father, uncles and aunts, this was a deplorable action on the part of the establishment.

In the late summer of 2009 the Enland XI won the test match over the Aussies at the Oval and by so doing regained the Ashes. Living in Boston, Massachusetts, I was only able to follow the state of play on my lap-top. Even so the thrill of England’s victory was palpable. I was taken back to England’s Ashes victory in 2003, which my wife and I followed on TV while living in London (my wife was in Trafalgar Square when the England team, featuring a very drunk Freddie Flintoff, appeared on the top-deck of an open double-decker bus). Even more evocatively, I recalled an earlier series, the tour of the Australians in 1948. At that time I was a fervent fan of Yorkshire and England. Len Hutton, master of the cover drive, was my hero. And when matches against Yorkshire were not at issue, I could also enthuse about Cyril Washbrook of Lancashire (who opened with Hutton), Bill Edrich of Essex who came in number three, and the dashing Denis Compton of Middlesex, who came in number four.

When my aunt Alice asked my cousin Peter and me if we would like to go to see the Australians at Headingley, I was ecstatic. That summer the Aussies had a formidable cast of players: the legendary batsman Donald Bradman, who had played in the bodyline tests, the charismatic all-rounder Keith Miller, the fast bowler Lindwall. We went on the fourth day and were allowed to sit on the grass next to the boundary opposite the pavilion. Australia’s first innings’ tail was quickly dismissed in the morning, and then Hutton and Washbrook opened England’s second innings. They made an excellent 129 for the first wicket. By the fifth morning, whenYardley declared at 365 for 8 wickets, Australia were left with what seemed to be an impossible target of 404 runs for victory. But Bradman and Morris made a very fast and record-breaking partnership of 301, and Australia won the test, with Bradman scoring 178 not out at the end. I did not see Bradman bat, but he was in the field on the fourth day, not far from where we were sitting, and as captain he could be heard directing the fielders where to position themselves.

In the final test at the Oval, Bradman needed only 4 runs to end his career with an average of 100 per test match innings; ironically, he was bowled out for a duck. No subsequent batsman, however, has come anywhere close to his Test Match batting average.

A great tale, Alistair – thanks for letting us use it.

Did you guess last month’s picture? I know many of you did. It was of course the remaining front façade of York Road Baths and Library

Now for this month’s pic – a power house for boy meets girl – especially on Sunday nights in the 1950s

2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

4,329 films were submitted to the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. This blog had 14,000 views in 2012. If each view were a film, this blog would power 3 Film Festivals

Click here to see the complete report.

THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY

THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY

Another great tale from Audrey Sanderson

Formally:  Audrey Tyres Ellerby Lane School

1947-57

Now living in Australia

She’s a star

Many, many British films and television shows have been shown throughout the world over and over again.  Some are splendid costume dramas, some are send ups of classic’s courtesy of the Carry On crew.  Lot’s of movies with fine acting, spectacular scenery but I think above all the British sense of humour and ability to laugh at themselves is the most popular of all.

Ordinary stories of families going about their day to day lives have made marvellous entertainment for the rest of the world.  When Albert Steptoe and his son Harold was first shown on T.V. I thought we were going to have to call for an ambulance for my Dad.  He laughed so much he went purple in the face and couldn’t breath.  Who would have thought a story about a rag and bone man could be so funny?  Many years and a thousand movies later the humorous shows are still being produced.

Constantly being repeated on Australian T.V. are episodes of Hyacinth Bucket (Bouquet) and her misfit family and Frank Spencer’s many exploits.  I think my family fits somewhere in-between those two T.V. shows.

I had recently become engaged to be married.  As in most families about 20 years elapses with each generation.  One stage it’s all weddings, then lots of babies.  Big excitement over leaving school and getting the first job and before you know it more weddings again.  Mum and Dad came from large families so we went to plenty of weddings as all the cousins took the matrimonial path.  The man I was engaged to was an only child but had plenty of cousins around the same age as him so it was inevitable engagements and weddings would be in abundance.   No big parties for getting engaged in East End Park back in the 60s.  As I have said before it’s a long time since I lived in England and maybe people do make a big fuss and have all the trimmings of cards, presents, parties now as they do here in Australia.  Big events like weddings etc. are more like a Hollywood production with wedding planners, entertainers, everyone on the planet invited instead of a family gathering with your nearest and dearest.  Our engagement party consisted of myself and the intended, his Mum & Dad.  My parents, my two brothers and their wives, the best lace table cloth, best china, all squashed round the table in our tiny house in Charlton Place.  Once you were seated you didn’t move, there was no place to move to.  Not so for the engagement party two weeks later of a cousin from my futures in-laws family.

My own family tried to out do all our relatives when it came to weddings.  My future in-laws did the same I soon found out.  I only knew a few members of his family and had never met Aunty Madge and Uncle Wilf or their son and daughter.  My soon to be mother-in-law was a Hyacinth Bucket type.  Her husband was the kindest man, quiet spoken and gave in to her all the time.  Every time she left the house she wore a hat, leather gloves, matching shoes and handbag and a coloured chiffon scarf round her neck tucked into her coat and fastened it with a brooch at the throat.  Except on the occasions where she wanted to Lord it over someone and then out came the fur coat.  Not only how she dressed but how she spoke changed too.  We are all aware Yorkshire people clip the endings of words, notorious for not pronouncing aitches and any word with the letters U or OO in them are the brunt of many a joke.    I still don’t sound aitches or t’s at the end of words when I speak.   Annie felt inferior with her accent, unfortunately she put aitches where there shouldn’t have been one and sounded like a bad comedian doing an impersonation of the Queen with the high pitched voice she used.  Frequently in this mode she mispronounced words too. No matter how many times you told her the right pronunciation she insisted she was right and you wasn’t.  I used to get embarrassed but after a couple of years it didn’t bother me at all.  I couldn’t forget it though and even now if I hear the word obituary I always think Orbit-uri. A privet hedge she called a pivot hedge, ravenous became ravishing, champagne was shampagni.  Sean Connery  had just made the first James Bond movie Dr. No.  She got well and truly mad because people laughed at her when she called him SEEN.  Everybody else was wrong why couldn’t they see she was right and listen to her?

My fiancé had a flash car.  I think it was called a Ford Capri.  It was a turquoise colour, large and more trouble than you can poke a stick at.  He was totally useless as a mechanic, probably didn’t know how to put petrol in it either.  Back then the man at the garage filled the car, checked the oil, water, put air in the tyres and washed the windscreen while you sat in the car.  You payed him from the car seat and waited ’til he brought back your change and green shield stamps.  It was a very nice looking car, his pride and joy and his mother’s delight.  He’d bought the car just before he’d met me.  She asked if I could drive the first time I met her.  I said I knew how to but hadn’t got a licence.  She grabbed hold of me ” You must never drive that car!  Promise me you won’t drive it!  I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to it.”  I should have been warned then shouldn’t I?  Just like Hyacinth’s Sheridan, Annie’s son could do nothing wrong either.

Comes the day of his cousins engagement party our next door neighbour came knocking on the door.  She’d had a phone call from Audrey’s boy friend.  The car had broken down so he would be picking me up on the Vespa scooter he still owned.  Great!  I’d made myself a new dress for this party.  Annie’s instructions ” We’ve got to wear our best bib and tucker as there will be lots of people who we’ve never met.”  Namely the girls parents and her family.  I was a skinny 7 stone nothing in them days, dress to impress frocks were skin tight and just above the knee.  Although the middle of November this dress was a sleeveless green velvet with a high neck.  In my simple mind I’d thought I would be lovely and warm in the car with the heater going full blast.  Annie of course would be wearing the fur coat and his Dad in his best charcoal grey 3 piece suit.  Too late to change the dress so had to hoist the skirt up practically to my waist to get on the back of the Vespa.  I wore a thick wool coat trying to tuck it round my knees, a headscarf on my head and froze as we drove to the Gipton estate.  His Mum & Dad had had to travel on two buses to get there.  There was no way Annie would miss showing off the fur coat.

Madge and Wilf’s semi detached council house was very nice and near The Oak Tree pub I think it was called.  Quite a number of people were packed into the sitting room, some perched on chair arms, leaning on the sideboard, leaning on the backs of the lounge suite anywhere they could find a space.  Madge flitting in and out of the kitchen with large oval plates filled with tiny triangle sandwiches.  She gave them to the nearest person and told them to help themselves and pass the plate to the next one.  Back she went to the kitchen for more plates calling out to her son and daughter to help her.  Uncle Wilf was supposed to be handing out the drinks.  He did more talking and drinking than looking after the guests.  Being new to this family I didn’t know anyone and tried vainly to remember who was a family member and which ones had married into it.  I couldn’t work out who the girl’s parent were.  Hadn’t I listened properly when I’d been introduced to a sea of new faces?  Please don’t let me get the parents mixed up.  The young ones would think it great laugh, the older ones would never forget and remind me of it every time they had a family gathering.  I whispered to Annie asking which ones were the girls parents.  She whispered back ” They’re not here.  Madge told me the father is an alcoholic and spends his time in The Oak Tree.  His brother is the barman and they say he’s tea-total  but I find that hard to believe.  I don’t think this is going to be a marriage made in heaven marrying a girl who comes from a family like that.”  Charming,  I’m here not knowing a soul and she’s pulling the family through to pieces with the ring barely out of the box and the intending marriage doomed before it’s got to the planning stage.  I felt like warning the girl what she was letting herself in for before the ring got too comfortable on her finger.  Then I thought maybe she knew already if she agreed to have an engagement party to which her parents hadn’t been invited.  All too much for me to understand how other families sorted out their problems so I sat there and smiled.

Annie had taken off the fur coat of course, sat next to me on the couch she kept urging me to show off my engagement ring.  Mine was a solitaire diamond on a gold band.  Shirley, the newly engaged girl’s ring had 3 small diamonds on a gold band.  I wouldn’t have cared if her ring had been the size of a hens egg or one out of a christmas cracker it was her engagement party so let her enjoy herself.  Annie was a large bosomed lady with a small waist.  She never wore tight clothes and leaned more to the Queen mother look.   Her dress was navy blue with three quarter sleeves.  Very plain but very nice fine wool material.  She wore her 3 rows pearl necklace with pearl drop earrings, a gold watch on her wrist, wedding ring, engagement and eternity ring on her third finger.  There we all were being extra polite to each other, making small talk, saying how nice everything was and how Madge had gone to a lot of trouble making all the food.  Tray after tray of sandwiches, sausage rolls, wedges of pork pie, cubes of cheese, lots of food.  With a flourish Madge came back into the room with an enormous glass bowl of trifle.  Struggling with the weight of it asking someone to clear a space on the long coffee table in the middle of the room.  We were squashed in so tightly on the couch I had no idea how we were going to be able to serve ourselves as Madge was urging us to do.  Small glass dishes and spoons were distributed and still no one made a move to be first to disturb the pattern on top of the trifle.  Suddenly Madge’s voice from the kitchen yelling for Wilf to help her.  A glass halfway to his lips he took no notice.  Her voice wasn’t friendly as once more she yelled Wilf’s name.  Wilf’s brother said he’d better go and see what she wanted before she got mad at him.  Wilf still didn’t make a move until the booming voice yelled ” Wilf! Get yourself in here this minute.”  All the men started laughing with calls of ‘ Her Majesty’s voice, Now your for it, Watch out for the rolling pin.’  Everything in the sitting room went quiet.  Loud murmuring from the kitchen, lots of voices.  Annie told her husband to go and see what was going on.  He’d been perched on the arm of the couch and stood up.  The couch was on the far side of the room there was no way for him to get to the kitchen door without standing on dozens of feet so he sat down again.  The voices on the other side of the door were getting louder.  No one knew what to do.  A young man nearest to the outside door said he would go down the outside path round to the back door.  An icy blast as he went out and another young man said he’d go too as they might need a hand.  Seconds later the kitchen door opened and Mage’s voice clear as a bell ” No, no, don’t go in there.  There’s no more room in there you’ll stand on someones feet.”  All eyes were fixed on the kitchen door as it opened and closed then opened again.  A new male voice said ” It’s all right.  I just want to say hello to everyone.”  Panic in Madge’s voice ” Wilf! for God sake do something.  Don’t let him go in there.”  Not a sound from the sitting room as the kitchen door opened once more and in stepped a man wearing a long gaberdine raincoat.  He had a big beaming smile and said “Hello everyone I’m Shirley’s father”  Annie nudged me and whispered ” He’s the future in-law.”  O God that’s all we need.  Another man came behind him trying to get hold of his arm and pull him back to the kitchen ” Come on Bill, time to go home, we’ll say hello another day.”

Bill not having any of it shook off his hand ” No it’s right,  They look like nice people.  It’s lovely and warm in here isn’t it?” he said to the nearest lady to him.  She smiled and nodded, he moved on to the next lady ” I’m Bill, Shirley’s Dad pleased to meet you ” and stuck out his hand.  You knew damn well refusing to shake his hand would have caused a fight so she shook hands with him.  He came toward us who were sat on the couch.  Now unsteady on his feet the heat of the room affecting his boozy balance I felt for sure he was going to fall on top of someone.  Thank goodness he had to negotiate two arm chairs and get passed the coffee table before he reached us.  Still with the beaming smile he shook hands with the ladies sitting in the arm chairs and those on the arms of the chairs.  By now he was opposite us on the other side of the coffee table.  If only Annie hadn’t started tut tutting and saying he was disgusting turning up in that state he wouldn’t have turned round to look at us.  I don’t think he actually heard what she said because he still had the beaming smile on his face.  He looked directly at Annie, his smile got wider ” Don’t tell me.  This lovely lady here is the Grandma.”  She nearly burst a blood vessel.  In her best royal tone ” I,  you stupid drunken idiot am THE AUNT    Not, the Grandmother.”  He started swaying.  O No, he’s going to fall backwards onto those ladies in the chairs or forward onto the coffee table.  He swayed a bit then righted himself. Annie bristled with indignation at being thought old enough to have a 25 year old grand son.  He leaned forward hand outstretched toward her ” I’m very pleased to meet you Grandma.”  I dug her in the ribs ” For God sake shake his hand before there’s a fight.’  She barely let him touch her finger tips.  Any minute I thought he was going to topple over.  He kept his balance and started to stand upright again.  Most unfortunately when he’d lent forward to shake her hand his raincoat had also dipped forward.  He’d managed to stand on the hem of his coat.  In his rapid movement to remain erect causing the neck at the back of the coat to smack him on the back of his head and pitch him forward.  It was like watching a train wreck.  You know it’s going to happen and there’s not a thing you can do to stop it.  Arms outstretched trying to save himself he hit the bowl of trifle full pelt.   I have never seen custard, jelly, cream and soggy cake travel so far, so fast and cover so many people.  It didn’t miss anyone. It hit me full in the face.  I could feel it seeping through my dress.  Couldn’t see a thing, custard and cream sliding down my glasses.  Still wedged in by Annie one side and another large lady on the other I could feel her struggling to stand up and heard her call him a bloody drunken old fool who should be ashamed of himself.  I managed to get my glasses off at the same time Madge came in from the kitchen.  She stood stock still, took one look and started screaming.  The man who had tried to get Bill to leave grabbed hold of his raincoat and dragged him out through the kitchen.  We could hear him yelling as he was dragged outside ” Nice to have met you all.  You’re all nice people ” as the back door slammed with a loud bang.  The place erupted.  Most of the women were in tears.  The men were fighting mad charging off outside threatening to beat him to a pulp.  Madge still screaming and everyone trying to remove custard, cream or jelly from clothes and out of their hair.  I eventually managed to wriggle to the edge of the couch holding the hem of my brand new dress and emptying everything that was still on it back into the large glass bowl.  I couldn’t stand up and let it all fall onto the carpet.  My shoes were the only things that had missed out getting decorated.  Annie hadn’t faired much better than me.  The front of her dress was covered in a fast melting gooey mess but all she was worried about was her pearls.  Someone offered to rinse them under the tap and she called them bloody idiots as well.  Absolutely everyone knows genuine pearls are not cleaned by submerging them in water she informed the young man in her best hoity toity manner.  Boy was she mad.  Lots of people tried to help her but she gave them a look that would have frozen hell over as men tried using their very clean white hankies  to mop up her chest.  As I said she was very well endowed so they all backed off.  Some one took me into the kitchen and tried cleaning my dress.  All I wanted to do was go home.  I did borrow a couple of towels to place under the dress so the wet material wasn’t touching me but that was about all anyone could do.  I had to go home on the back of the Vespa in my soggy dress which by then was starting to smell sickly sweet.  I was freezing cold and couldn’t get into the house fast enough as soon as we stopped outside. Mr. Scooter driver with a smart car in for repair again was peeved because he didn’t get a good night kiss.  The mood I was in I could have cheerfully punched him in the head.  Nothing like giving the neighbours something to talk about I banged the door shut and nearly woke up the entire street.  My mother of course was waiting.  She started yelling at me for banging the door.  I told her to shut up and took off my coat.  ” What the hell have you been up to your frocks wet through?”  I unzipped it and pulled off the two wet towels.  She nearly had a pink fit.  God knows what she was thinking and I didn’t care.  I got into my nightgown and dressing gown and got Dad’s bottle of rum.  I hate rum but Dad didn’t like scotch.  Mum thought all liqueur was was the way to ruin.  I drank a small glass neat as mum said I was on the road to becoming an alcoholic.  One small glass of rum was the best thing that had happened to me all night.  Guess which dessert I get asked to make the most when we have large parties?  People rave about it but I just cannot eat trifles.  I’ve made thousands and every time while making them I see that green velvet dress and feel it soggy cold and clinging to my skin.

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Great tale as ever, Audrey.

Last month’s mystery picture was of course the old Coop building on Pontefract Lane near to the bridge.

Now for this month’s picture. I tried to take the picture from the other side of the road but it was too busy to get across.

Computer Games V Mucky Knees

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Am I an old fool to believe it was more fun to play out and come home with mucky knees than to stay indoors and play computer games?

COMPUTER GAMES V MUCKY KNEES

By Pete Wood.

Way back in the 1940s the door of our house opened onto Jaw Bone Yard, a spacious earth compacted area complete with stables, sheds and dens. It was a magical world brimming with all the possibilities for adventure. When I was about four years old my mother opened that back door and shoed my out to join six other kids already into their adventures. All she said was ‘Go play’. And from that day my life began.               

 

JAWBONE YARD: was the heart of old Knostrop and the centre of our activities. Seven houses backed onto that yard and out of the houses came seven kids, augmented by the lads and lasses from the ‘ABC’ houses, the Hall, the Lodge and sometimes too; our friends who joined in the fun from ‘The Top’; which were the streets which sat at the top of Knostrop Hill.  This was the gang and didn’t we have a ball! We played every game under the sun in that yard: cricket, rounders, kick-out can, speedway bowlers (hoops) and all the general schoolyard games.  The lads and the lasses all mucked in together. We played football with a tennis ball – you were lucky if you could get hold of even a tennis ball while the war was in progress, for just about everything being produced by the nation was to going support the war effort – so proper footballs were out of the question. The positive side to this was: it certainly taught us how to control a ball. Some of the lads became so proficient that they could ‘keepy-uppy’ with a tennis ball. Harold Sedgwick could even keep it up on his ankle! This all made it that, much easier when we finally did progress to play with proper footballs. Was life less dangerous for us than for modern day kids? Well, the Germans regularly bombed us by night and we had to walk the lonely lanes in complete blackness due to ‘The Blackout’ but we had a freedom that seems to be denied to today’s kids and life seemed to be blissfully happy.

We, who played in that yard, were fortunate in that one of the dads, who worked on the land at the time, would find balls that had been lost down drains and had ultimately found their way onto the land. He would bring them home and leave them in a grate where we would find them. Mind you a ball had a short lifespan with us, especially when we were hitting out at cricket. Balls would fly into the long grass in the adjacent field and become lost. You were out if caught one handed off a wall or if you hit the ball onto a house roof. In the case of hitting it onto a roof the culprit would be the one to climb onto the roof and retrieve it.  The ball would usually be lodged in one of the gutters so you had to climb up onto the roof, via a coal house, then it would be necessary for you to lean perilously over the edge in order to reach it. Like kids all over we were oblivious to the danger. It pleasantly amazes me that trivial incidents can still be brought to mind after half a century and a lifetime of other more important experiences have elapsed. For instance Keith Gale, a participant in our games, can bring to mind an incident, which occurred when we were playing cricket in the yard. On this occasion Gordon (Oscar) Brown was batting – we could never get him out he was like a limpet. Ball after ball he would just play a dead bat: ‘podging’ as we called it. On this particular day Gordon must have had a rush of blood to the head for he smote a ball mightily, it bounced first on a house roof and then onto a coalhouse roof, finally to be caught one handed by Peter Whitehead. By our rules we believed this to have been have been out, but good old Gordon wouldn’t budge, he stood his ground claiming that as the ball had bounced twice this did not constitute being out! The beautiful thing about this little tale is: that although Keith had been out and about for over fifty years carving out a life for himself, with all the toils and tribulations entailed that most trivial of incidents had not been erased from his memory.

Oh the games we played in that yard: there was one particularly daft game that we played where one of us would stand facing the stable wall and the rest would choose a film star’s name without letting on what it was. We would form a line across the yard about thirty yards back and the one facing the wall would shout something like, ‘VeronicaLake take two giant strides’ or perhaps, ‘three fairy footsteps.’ Then the person who had chosen that particular name had to execute the ordered manoeuvre without being seen. Should the one calling the shots turn and catch one of us in the process of moving then the name of the culprit would be shouted and they would be out. The first person to reach wall without being seen won.

At one time we had an old wooden wheelbarrow, we would take in turns to sit in the barrow with our eyes closed while some other member of the gang would spin it around and then set off in a series of changing directions. The idea was for the one having the ride to try and guess where they were. In the middle of the yard there stood a huge wooden shed, it had three large gates at the front to accommodate flat four wheeled carts. We would use the gates as the goals in winter or the central palings as the wickets in summer. We could shelter inside the shed when it rained and perhaps play with the large wooden boxes which were intended to transport the vegetable produce to market; cabbages, cauliflowers and especially rhubarb. The boxes could be fashioned into all manner of constructions, houses, cars, whatever we fancied at the moment.  Pauline (now Mrs Rushfirth) and  one of the gang, remembers a particular night when the bombs were dropping and the ack-ack guns from further down Knostrop were making the windows shake in the little cottages, and how her mam ran out to the shelter, which was across the yard and ran straight into a parked black car which was unseen in the dark. The shock was so great she thought she had been hit and shouted out, ’They’ve got me! They’ve got me!’  In the morning after an air raid we would hunt for shrapnel from the shell casing. Mam said to me, ‘Don’t go picking up anything nasty.’ I thought from her description she meant something like dog droppings but she really meant the ant-personnel mines the Germans were dropping.

Pauline remembers that big shed that bisected yard too and another game we played called ‘Escape’. Someone would stand on top of the granary steps with a torch or a bike lamp, shining it on the shed gates and moving it backward and forward and we would try to escape in the dark bits. Pauline recalls it as: quite frightening. We had obviously been brain-washed by watching prisoner of war films. .

There was another shed in the yard too, one in which sacks were stored – I believe the sacks must have been filled with soot for when we climbed about in there we’d get ourselves ‘black bright’. On other occasions we played whip and top, conkers, hula-hoop. We had phases when we played with potato guns, catapults or sped around the yard with bowlers in impromptu speedway races. We had dens everywhere, sometimes in the bushes where we could pull off the ‘green stick’ branches to make weapons. One type could be hollowed out for to use as a blowpipe while another ‘springier’ type could be fashioned into the bow for bow and arrows. Sheltering from the rain under a den’s green foliage is among   the sweetest experiences life has to offer. We all had nick names and virtually usad a language of our own. Now I’m told The Scout Movement has banned nick names as they may lead to bullying. Corr!

We were a bit light on girls but the ones we had were great, Pat and Pauline from the yard, Brenda and very occasionally, Lizzie, from the ABCs. Later there was Rita from the ‘New Hall Lodge’ all the rest were lads but the girls all mucked in and pulled their weight especially when we were collecting wood for the bonfires. You could tell which were the girls: they were the ones who practised their pirouettes when there was a lull in the game and did ‘crabs’ up against the wall with their frocks tucked in. Girls wore frocks or gym slips (no trousers or jeans) and we wore short pants ‘long ‘uns came along when we were about twelve but my mam said lads in long trousers looked like little old men hence she kept me in short pants to an embarrassing fourteen.

At one particular time everyone seemed to be wearing wooden clogs – I think they may have been an attempt to offset the problem of shoes wearing out too fast, or was it that being made out of wood they did not attract clothing coupons? Whatever, the idea was a fad and went out within a few weeks. Then of course there were the bikes, Denis Harrison had a bike on ‘fixed wheel’, it was unforgiving, if you put you feet on the ground before the bike had properly stopped it would punish you by trapping the back of your legs with its pedals; that was really painful. There was another bike which had a bell as big as a teapot and yet another, a butcher’s bike, which had you scared for the basket bit didn’t turn straightaway when you turned the handlebars giving the impression you were not going to make a corner. Peter Whitehead later organised ‘East Leeds Wheelers’ a proper cycling club. Meetings were held in a little building where the dustbins were usually kept. Membership to this club was quite exclusive and mainly taken up by a more ‘up market’ class of cyclist than us ‘yardies’, who rode ‘drop handlebar’ bikes and mostly lived at ‘the top’.

THE ABC HOUSES: As an alternative to playing in the yard we would often join the gang from the ABC Houses on their patch, they had lots of places on their doorstep to explore. There were two plantations; which we unsurprisingly called; the first wood and the second wood, the ‘Red Hills’- which were in fact red shale slag heaps from anold mine. This shale could be seen forming a good hardcore base for paths and minor roads throughout the district, tagging them as ‘Red Roads’ due to their colour.   The old mine itself: ‘Dam Pit’ was located between the two woods and would find us messing about dangerously in the brick filled shaft. Wagons from the pit would be left shunted onto a branch line allowing us to climb all over them. The lads from the ABC Houses always seemed to be more agile than us ‘yardies’ they could shin up the trees in the plantation like monkeys. We were allowed to cut down the dead trees for our bonfires but all we had to do it with was that which we called a ‘hunting knife’ so you can imagine it was a long job and oh those calluses.

SCHOOL: Now, alas, in my seventies, I pass our local primary school on the way to collect my morning paper. The surrounding roads are absolutely clogged with the cars of mums taking their kids to school (Chelsea Tractors) some of the kids seem to be at least nine or ten; they’ll be back again to take them home at 3.00.

With deference to busy working mams, who I know have to drop off their kids before going to their own place of work, I still have to hark back to, what happened to walking to school and giving kids space to learn responsibility for their own safety. I know there are a lot more cars around today and ‘strangers’ (there were always ‘strangers) but I recall that our mams took us to school on the first day at five years old and after that we were on our own and getting to grips with the world of lonely rural roads and busy crossings for ourselves and it made us responsible and street wise long before we were ten!

SCHOOLYARD GAMES: Once we had started school we were introduced to a host of new games either played in the schoolyard itself at playtime or immediately outside the school gates before school started. The staple diet for the boys was always going to be football, played twenty odd a side with a tennis ball and coats for goalposts. In summer cricket took over, the wickets being chalk marks on the wall and three or four balls on the go at once. The whistle for the end of playtime always seemed to blow when it was your turn to bat. I spoke to an old school mate at a reunion recently, he recalled playing football in that old school yard (we called it the field) and how a workman who had been mending the road outside the railings had come over with a whimsical look in his eye and said to him very sincerely: ‘Do you know lad, these are the happiest days of your life’. The old schoolmate said he’d remembered those words all through the years and he thought the old guy was just about right.
As alternatives to football and cricket and to suit the seasons, more individual games would be played. Ice on the ground meant a giant slide and everyone having a go, in the process causing the road to become like glass and a hazard to any unwary pedestrian.   At Whitsuntide, the girls, mainly, would play whip and top: colouring the tops with chalks, so they would make pretty pattern as they spun around. In the autumn it would be conker time and bruised knuckles all round for each time you missed your opponents conker you tended to hit your own knuckles (no namby-pamby ‘elf and safety then)  Each player kept a score of how many other conkers his conker had broken. For example, if your conker broke a conker that had, say already broken two itself, then you added his two to your score as well. Lads would try to make conkers harder by baking them or pickling them in vinegar. Sometimes they had become tiny hard things like the kernel of a walnut but provided they hadn’t broken away from the string hole they were considered to be still ‘live’. When a crack occurred the shout would go out, ‘It’s laughing!’ Last year’s conkers were like iron and would not be played against if recognised: ‘It’s a laggie I’m not playing against that!’ would be the cry.
Another game was played with cigarette cards or the big bus tickets of the day, which all had a sequential number on the back. In this game a lad would take a ‘wadge’ of cards or tickets of roughly the same thickness in each hand, and another lad would take a similar number in his hand and ‘bank’ on one or the other of his opponent hands. Then the bottom card or ticket would be turned over in each hand; if the lad had banked correctly on the wadge with the highest number he would win his opponents cards. If he had banked on the lower number then he would have to surrender his. As school bags were a ‘no – no’ in those old Victorian primary schools a lad’s pockets might well be bulging obscenely with his winnings.
Marbles or ‘taws’, as we called them, was another favourite game. There were several different types of marble: ‘allies’ (coloured marbles), ‘milkies’ (opaque marbles) ‘bottle washers’ (clear glass) and ‘stonkers’, which were made out of stone. Some lads had become real experts and had calloused knuckles to prove it. These experts would have a favourite marble, which they always used when playing – normally it would not be a pretty one but rather a gnarled old thing that gave give a good grip. Should they loose they would surrender any of their stock of marbles rather than give up their ‘player’. I recall some were so expert they could hit an opponent’s taw at three paces, firing from the knee.  The rules of the taw game we played were as follows: two lads would play with a marble each – more could play if required. A small hole was excavated in the earth and called the ‘knack’, the idea was to take it in turns to try and hit the other lad’s marble. After a hit, it was still necessary for the opponent’s marble to be not a ‘needer’; a ‘needer’ meant the opponent’s marble still ‘needed’ to be hit more than two shoe lengths away from the hole. Big shoes were an asset if you wanted it to be a ‘needer’, smaller shoes were better if you didn’t want it so. To complete the game it was then only necessary to roll your marble into the hole. If it missed then the other lad had a chance to ‘un-needer’ himself.
The girls had their own playground at our school (St Hilda’s) it was a concrete affair in an elevated position above our ‘dirt’ field.  From this lofty position they would carry out their skipping games: pitch, patch, pepper etc. Or dance around singing traditional schoolyard songs like: ‘The wind and the rain and the hail blows high, the snow comes travelling from the sky. She is handsome she is pretty she is the belle of the golden city; she goes a courting one, two three: pray can you tell me who it can be?’ Then they would shout some lad’s name, say: Tommy Johnson says he loves her.’ Then they would let out a great scream, silly beggars and then continue, ‘All the boys are fighting for her’ and so on.  The lad in question would probably be playing football in the field below and would blush to the roots of his hair but secretly be pleased – alas it was never I.  Sometimes, to the annoyance of the girls we would sing along with a much ruder version of the song.

 

AFTER SCHOOL: In the evenings after school we would be out again even in the dark nights of winter – no computer games for us. I think our absolute favourite game was one we just called ‘chasing’. We could play ‘chasing’ in all seasons; it was fun whether it was the light or the dark nights. To play the game; first a couple of sides were picked by the old ‘dip-dip-dip’ method, then one team would run off and after a prescribed period the other team would run after them and try to catch them before they could return to base. In the process of this game we covered miles and miles, over fields through woods, haystacks, rhubarb sheds. We had the lot at Knostrop. The area we covered was so vast that when I consider the game now it astounds me how we ever managed to locate individuals who had run and hidden often several miles away and sometimes in the dark too, but amazingly, we did.  When the game was over we would congregate around one of the gas lamps and talk. Sometimes there would be road works and a night watchman – perhaps we would sit with him for a while around his coke brazier watching the blue red flames and choking on the fumes. Maybe we’d tell a few yarns and then accompany the watchman while he checked his lamps.  Pauline remembers being scalded when one of the lads, tried to jump the brazier and knocked the boiling water from the big iron kettle all over her legs, causing here to miss school for a while. When we would finally come home in our frocks or short pants, happy but tired out by our games, it was then time to have our mams sit us down and wash our ‘mucky knees’ .

Which would I prefer – a computer game or my mucky knees back?

NO CONTEST

Alex had last month’s mystery building correct. It was of course The Parkie’s House on East End Park. Now for this month’s mystery building. What did we  better remember this building as? look out for another Audrey special next month.

The Leeds Shopping Centre in the ’20s and ’30s,Rugby and the Cinemas.By Stan Pickles.

For this month’s tale Stan Pickles takes us back even further than usual to the 1020s/30s. Stan who has contributed massively to our East Leeds memories is, alas, no longer with us but the good news was he lived to be a hundred and his great memories of Leeds will live on even longer in these pages. Maybe Stan’s tales may appeal more directly to the pre-computer literate generation. Perhaps if you know someone who would appreciate a trawl through the 1920s/30s you could print it off for them?

The Leeds Shopping Centre in the ‘20s and ‘30s,
Rugby and the Cinemas.
By Stan Pickles
What a difference there is in the Leeds scene today from the lovely atmosphere of yesteryear. Then the shops were all household names and readily come to mind: Walker’s and Geldard’s next door to each other at the top of Kirkgate fitted out all the families for years: Geldard’s for ladies and children’s wear and Walker’s for dads and their lads. They were busy all year round and full to capacity for the annual Whitsuntide ritual. Walker’s with their trade name ‘REKLAW’ also supplied overalls and aprons for all trades. I got my printer’s apron there. Around the corner in Call Lane was King’s footwear shop where you could get a good pair of shoes or boots for eight shillings (40p).
Ho! Those tailor’s shops: Thirty Shilling Tailors, Fifty Shilling Tailors, John Colliers, Burtons of course. Half a dozen are still hanging on with a new image. As I passed through the centre on my way to work many were the times I called at Braham’s Pork Shop on Duncan Street for a sixpenny pork sandwich for lunch, or across the way for a quarter of Wraggs famous polony. That shop was noted for its pork pies sausages and polony. Many were the times I called in there after the rugby game at Headingley for half a pound of best polony for Mam and Dad’s tea with cakes and Yorkshire Relish.
Rawcliffe’s, the school outfitters, also on Duncan Street did a roaring trade in special school jackets, ties, caps all with the many distinctive school badges. There were also: Woolworth’s, Marks and Spencer’s (still there) and so many other big stores such as Lewis’s Schofield’s and the rest.
In the days before the wars there was no one-way traffic systems and Briggate and City Square in particular were choc-a-bloc with traffic doing its best to force a way through and the drivers in these rough conditions trying to control their tempers. Of course there was not the quantity of traffic there is today and the one-way systems have been a great help
The Leeds Market held pride of place for shopping. The whole atmosphere around the stalls and the open market filled with its stallholder characters. It was an entertainment in itself to see: Jimmy Rhodes juggling with baskets of crockery and dinner sets. Ringing them like bells and gradually knocking them down to give away prices in front of big interested audiences was enough to fill a stranger with admiration. There was another chap filling a carrier with soap and washing powder, quoting prices all the time and then saying , ‘Come on give me a couple of bob (10p) for the lot.’ and putting an extra bar of soap in the bag as you passed the money over.
These clever salesmen could hold an audience for ages with their sales patter. Then there was the couple who sold sweets and chocolate bars who would fill a large bag with mixed confectionary, then the lady would take them around the audience and sell them at half the price. The patter went something like this, ‘Why pay fancy prices in the shops for their electric lighting and their gaily coloured bags and the smile of the girl behind the counter?’ There was a fellow selling hair clippers who had a bare patch at the back of his head where he had demonstrated his goods’
The final hour on Saturday night was a good time for bargains. Big bunches of bananas going for sixpence (2 and a half p). Fruit – almost given away.
How many of the past newly-married couples still living remember Wigfall’s and Jay’s furniture stores with the famous slogan: Yours today – four years to pay?’ Yes, things have certainly altered a lot from those far off days of yore.
Joe Dixon, the market bobby would keep things in order while in the entrance, Woodbine Lizzie asked, ‘Give us a cig, cock.’ Joe Dixon, incidentally, played for Leeds Rugby League in the 1923 Cup Final at Wakefield when Leeds beat Hull 28-3.
The highlight of my Leeds games was when I went to Wakefield in 1923 to see that Leeds and Hull in the Rugby League Cup Final. I was only eleven years old but by now knew what it was all about. How I had looked forward to it, catching the Wakefield tramcar at the Corn Exchange and travelling the long ride to the Bull Ring. The old Chantry Bridge was choc-a-block with people on their way to Belle View. I was delighted to see Leeds win the cup and Jim Bacon holding it aloft. After the match we got back to Leeds and waited on Boar Lane to see the victorious Leeds team come home in an open coach to huge cheering crowds all the way to the Griffin Hotel, where thee was a reception and the players came out onto the balcony. I was a very happy youngster.
It gives a sense of history that almost 90 years after that 1923 final we still find ourselves walking over Chantry Bridge to that grand old Belle View Stadium (now the Rapid Solicitor’s Stadium and soon to be something quite different altogether)
At Headingley we always stood behind the posts at the St Michael’s Lane end. And apart from my later years when I got a stand ticket that was my favourite spot. How times have changes, though. Now ninety percent go by car and the streets around the ground are packed every Sunday when there is a match. Going back to a time between the wars it was a common sight to see rows of private bus companies like, Wallace Arnold and Heaps, that had bussed loads from all over the north parked tail to tail. It was a regular occurrence to see 30,000 in the ground on big match days
Going to the Pictures
Starting in the early twenties after I had graduated through my ‘penny rush’ days at the Easy Road Picture House I ventured further afield with cinema visits all over the city My earliest memories were of stars like, Douglas Fairbanks (the acrobatic one), Mary Pickford (the world’s sweetheart), Charlie Chaplin (the little tramp) who introduced Jackie Coogan as ‘the kid’, Lon Chaney (the man with 1,000 faces), Tom Mix and William S. Hart (the first cowboy stars). Richard Bartholomew and Alice Terry were probably the biggest attractions in the twenties. Rudolph Valentino (he was the sheik) riding off over the desert with his dancing slave girl, Oh that Vilma Banky! The big silent films of the time were: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, The Gold Rush, The Black Pirate, The Sea Hawk, Blood and Sand, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Way down East and that great epic, The Ten Commandments. To add to the drama and effect there was a pianist who did a good job giving atmosphere to the occasion. Now and again a singer would be engaged to give extra entertainment. For the film, The Volga Boatman at the Coliseum half a dozen singers were engaged to pull a rope across the front of the screen chanting the boatman’s song, ‘Ho’er, Heave Ho’ pretending to be pulling a barge as in the film provided a very effective overture before the film started. By this time I was a fanatic and interested in anything about films. I bought the weekly magazine: The Picture Show, two pence every week, which was full of interesting topics and pictures of the big films, the big stars and all the latest gossip. By the time the ‘talkies’ arrived in 1928 singing and dancing films were all the rage; The Broadway Melody, Hollywood Revue, On With the Sow. Desert Song, Rio Rita, Gold Diggers and the first talking and singing film: The Singing Fool with Al Jolson drew big crowds at Briggate’s Rialto Picture House.
The thirties carried on with new stars arriving on the scene, child star, Shirley Temple was the biggest sensation of them all. As for the men: nobody could match Clark Gable who went to the top with films like: It Happened One Night, Mutiny on the Bounty, San Francisco and finishing the thirties with the Masterpiece: Gone With the Wind. Gangster films were very popular: The Big House, Up the River, Fugitive from the Chain Gang and Public Enemy Number One, made stars of: James Cagney, Edward G. Robinson, Paul Muni, Humphrey Bogart, and many more.
I saw lots of films, going at least twice a week. Night school didn’t help but on one of the nights our lesson on practical work was broken to go across Cookridge Street to the Art School (I hated it) for the 8 p.m.–9 p.m. session. I could not stand drawing letter characters as it was of no use to my trade and a waste of time (My old
school teacher, Mr Archie Gordon, once called me, sarcastically of course, ‘Our lightening artist’). Anyway I thought it was a better idea to stay at the back of the group and nip into the Coliseum for the last show. It came off until I had been absent
three times, then I was found out and had to pay a visit to the Head, Mr Bottomley, who was very sympathetic to my cause but asked me to play the game, so that was that.
The biggest night in the history of Leeds cinema was the opening of the luxurious theatre: The Paramount, Briggate, in February 1932. The Smiling Lieutenant featuring Maurice Chevalier was the big film followed by a wonderful stage show. A friend and I went straight from work but couldn’t get near the place for the huge crowds never mind getting in. However we were successful on the Thursday evening. I will always remember it was like entering a royal palace and the wonderful show on stage, I had never seen anything like it.
The opening of the Shaftsbury a few years earlier in 1928 offered really good stage shows. I think it was the only cinema to have double seats for young couples. It was my favourite cinema and held many happy memories. I took my future wife on our first date to the Shaftsbury and I remember the film: The Barrett’s of Wimpole Street (1935). Going back even earlier still to 1923 – The Princess Cinema opened in Pontefract Lane. After being quite happy visiting the ‘bug hutches’ like: The Easy Road, The Victoria, The Premier and then The Regent you can imagine how we felt going into a lovely new picture house. The seats were all very comfortable and the cinema itself was kept spotless. The price of admission was: 3d, 6d, and 9d. Wednesday night was ‘jazz night’. When the lights went up the audience were invited to join in a sing-song following a bouncing ball on a song sheet on the screen while a small orchestra played the popular tunes of the day: I Like Ice Cream, Toy Drum Major, California Moon and Constantinople were songs I recall. Oh and those serials in fifteen episodes with…to be continued next week finishing at the most exciting part and holding you in suspense until the next week. I remember them well: Bride 13, Hidden Dangers, The Masked Rider, Fantomas, Houdini and the most famous and evil of them all Dr. Fu Manchu, who terrified everyone with his torture chamber and the evil deeds, carried out on his adversaries. Pearl White was always in danger, fighting him in films like, The Ebony Block and The Perils of Pauline.
In the thirties I was on the ‘Big Five’ mailing list, a little booklet of monthly programmes at: The Majestic, The Scala, The Coliseum, The Assembly Rooms and The Parkfield in Jack Lane, Hunslet. On Saturday nights you had to book early to be sure of getting in. Yes, cinema going was the main entertainment before the war. Unfortunately, people lost interest after World War Two. Those lovely cinemas were closed and many turned into ‘bingo halls’. I rarely go to the pictures now- a- days but those grand golden days of the cinema hold a special memory for me.

Thanks for those great memories. Stan.
The central Leeds cinema I remember were: The Odeon (previously The Paramount), The ABC (previously The Ritz)the Tower, The Assembly Rooms, The Gourmont – Cookridge Street (previously the Coliseum), The Scala and Majestic who always showed the same film for some reason and The News Theatre and Tattler near City Square. And our local cinemas: The Picture House (Easy Road), The Princess, Star, Shaftsbury, Regent, Hillcrest and in Hunslet: The Premier, Strand and Regal – all within walking distance and many more just a tram ride away. I’m sure you, our readers will remember many more.

Right, out last picture was of course The Market District Boys Club. Eric got it right how many more? And what about this months picture? All East Leedsers should recognise this one.

STRICTLY – COME DANCING

After the City Centre pubs what better than the dance halls. And who better to paint the picture than, Eric Sanderson.

 

 

 

 

                              STRICTLY – COME DANCING

By Eric Sanderson

 

 

 

 

                                  

 

Dancing and dance halls were a popular pastime , and for our group, the late fifties was the zenith of our interest. Obviously, this pastime wasn’t confined to East Leeds or it’s community but several  East Leeds groups seemed to attend these places at the same time around then , switching allegiance from place to place as their popularity and fashion changed. They were also good opportunities to meet & interact with groups from other localities and many new friends were made that way.

           

Saturday night was the favoured time when, with a few bob in your pocket and dressed in best bib and tucker, we sallied forth for a few pints to build our dutch courage and join the “Fishing Fleet” , that is, trawling for a suitable girl with whom to spend the evening in soft embrace and perhaps acquire a  “date” for another day.

 

I don’t think that any of us were really interested in the dancing itself as almost nobody chooses to dance unless slightly drunk, or insane, or both , do they? Nor did “Dancing in the Rain” create much inspiration to any of us yet we were firm believers that you should try everything once – except maybe country dancing and drinking Bentleys Yorkshire Bitter (BYB). No, it was the opportunity to meet the girl of your dreams that was the big attraction and here’s a few of the favoured venues that somehow managed to provide the glitz and glamour which drew us, week after week, like bees around the honey pot.

 

But first of all, it was usual to call at the pub in order to down the obligatory few pints of Tetley Bitter and acquire the requisite bravado & confidence . At the time, none of the dancehalls served or would allow alcohol on the premises, for very good reasons. The pubs had a closing time of 10pm and you were refused permission to enter the dancehall after 10 so it was a fine judgement to time your entrance so as to maximise drinking time but still make the dance. But in addition to timing, any overt signs of inebriation would prohibit your entrance  and so stopped your enjoyment of the last couple of hours, the dances usually finishing at the stroke of midnight. 

Our preferred choice of pub was the Guildford Hotel in the Headrow. At the time it was a  rather up market hostelry and we particularly liked “The Merryboys Bar” which had an appealing atmosphere in which to enjoy our couple of pints.

 

The first venue I ever frequented was Mark Altman’s where the resident band was led by Charlie Marcus , a Danny deVito lookalike who also played the trumpet. I recall this as a somewhat boring establishment and lacking the atmosphere that appealed to younger revellers of the time. Although well appointed, it’s appeal was to the more serious dancers and I believe it closed down in the late 50’s with Charlie Marcus transferring his band to the SCALA ,which was above the cinema in Albion Street.

 

This was altogether a more appealing  place to younger people, the entrance being up a wide and sweeping marble staircase into a brightly lit, large and roomy dance floor. There was a small “bar” just off to the right which sold well watered soft drinks in plastic cups at exorbitant prices.

An abundance of tuxedoed minders patrolled throughout to ensure the rules were obeyed and to quell any trouble which only very occasionally arose.

One the these rules was that only traditional ballroom dancing, waltzes, foxtrots & the like were permitted. No jiving/BeBop or Rock’n’Roll , which was becoming very popular with the youth of the day but anyone caught out was very quickly ejected, (although how you could jive to The Blue Danube I never could fathom). I think this was because that type of music & dance was somehow seen in those days as undermining the moral values of the time                    FORBIDDEN

 

 

The security men were also on the lookout for any sign of drunken or rowdy behaviour and I was once thrown out simply because I was said to be slurring my words, which is unlikely because I was never a big drinker, unlike some of my compatriots who were drinkers of Corinthian standard.

Nonetheless, many a good Saturday evening was had at the Scala.

 

Probably the most popular dance hall at the time was the MECCA, located about midway in the arcade which runs from Vicar Lane to Briggate.

Jimmy Saville was the manager there around this time and was just as outrageous as he was in later life. I remember once seeing him with his hair dyed into a Union Jack Pattern. It’s not uncommon today to see brightly dyed hair of all colours but in those days, it was really breaking new ground.

The Mecca also used to allow a limited amount of modern dancing which is probably why it proved so popular, along with it’s mezzanine which enabled you to have a birds eye view of the floor and select your next “victim”.

 

The MAJESTIC , located at the western end of City Square was probably the most up market venue, it was certainly the most expensive entrance charge. If memory serves me correctly, this opened around 1958/9 ,replacing the cinema after it closed. Again, no alcohol was served or allowed and it was a generally very well run establishment with plush surroundings, lighting effects and a resident band.

 

We transferred our patronage for a short while to the Capitol , located in Meanwood.

There was two reasons for this. The first was the Beckett Arms, located nearby which was one the few pubs in Leeds which at the time had live music. Mind you, it was a jazz band but, any port in a storm. Thankfully, for me at least,  jazz , like boogie woogie,  it got what it deserved and almost vanished from the scene

The second was yet another pub, the Myrtle which , unusually, used to sell a strong draught cider so you only needed a couple of pints to get into the right frame of mind.

An incident which is still vivid involved one of our group who’d perhaps over indulged in the high voltage cider. He’d managed to befriend a new girl and was sitting down with her in the seats which ran around the dance floor, when he was overcome by the gastric challenge of the near toxic cider and threw up all down the front of his new girlfriend’s ball gown.

It brought a rapid conclusion to a beautiful friendship and resulted in him being quickly ejected , the whole incident, I’m now ashamed to admit, causing much hilarity for the rest of us.

In retrospect, it’s not much of a surprise that success rate with the girls was fairly limited and that they weren’t impressed by the lurching around and sweet aroma of stale booze and fags. And it can’t have been easy coping with clumsy footed boys who most likely looked more like dancing bears than silky gigolos. Girls did seem to learn the art of dancing much quicker & more competently but, as Ginger Rogers said, “I had to do everything Fred Astaire did but I had to do it backwards”, so it’s no surprise really.

 

Sometimes, we would leave the Capitol early as there was a late night chippy just a few hundred yards down the road which always tasted so good after a few pints.

We’d then make our back into town and call at yet another late night chippy for another portion.

So Saturdays in those days were pretty close to being paradise , a game of footy, a few drinks with good friends and listening to a live band, the chance of a dance with a gorgeous girl and a double portion of fish and chips. Happy days.

 

The STARLIGHT ROOF was very popular around that time. It was located behind the Shaftsbury Cinema and catered mainly for young people, playing popular music and allowing modern dancing.

Although I never witnessed any trouble, it did acquire a reputation for such with a regular police presence and experiencing several  serious incidents, possibly because of the proximity of a nearby notorious pub and a couple of estates which were no strangers to such behaviour. I believe it had to close in the early 60’s because of falling attendance and it’s reputation for violence.

 

Some Public Swimming Baths closed during the winter months and converted the main pool into a dance floor by placing a sprung maple floor on to beams laid across the empty pool.

York Road Baths never did this but Armley, Bramley & Pudsey did, and possibly others, but they were very popular, well attended and we certainly enjoyed a good few Saturday nights at those places.

 

On one occasion, before going to Armley Baths, we were enjoying our pre dance drinks in the Maltshovel , a nearby pub. One of our friends possessed a prodigious appetite for the amber nectar but what’s more, he could pour it down his gullet as though it were an open drain. He decided to challenge anyone in the pub to drink a pint faster than he could, the bet being for Half-a-Crown (2s/6d). He had a few challengers but we knew just how good he was and he easily  saw off the competition, making himself a few bob into the bargain. Over the space of about 10 minutes ( about 20 seconds actual drinking time) he’d consumed more than my ration for the whole evening but, he was an extremely accomplished drinker.

Oddly enough, this didn’t seem to affect the rest of his evening’s drinking and he was one of the very few people I’ve seen who could properly demolish a Yard-of-Ale !.

 

Fairgrounds were often places where exponents of modern dancing could practice their skills, usually on the decking surrounding one of the fast moving rides where loud and popular music was played continuously.

There was one particular couple whose names I forget but they were really good at it, attracting many onlookers. I believe they both came from east Leeds (or Hunslet) and went on to take part and succeed in National competition. The girl I think later married a prominent Leeds Rugby player.

 

I had a friend who played both the fiddle and banjo ( although not at the same time) in an Irish Folk Band which frequently provided the entertainment at Irish weddings where many of the guests were enthusiastic if somewhat well oiled dancers. As the night wore on and the guests became slightly more refreshed, the band members would often have a bet between themselves as to who would throw the first punch  and he claims one or the other of them would usually prove to be correct. He further said that when the ruckus erupted, they would either just turn the sound up and play through it or, would play a sad song called the Ballad of Willie McBride which was, Arnie said, guaranteed to bring a tear to even a glass eye,  put a quick finish to the fisticuffs and let the dancing recommence peacefully.

 

 

 

                                               

 

Office and Works annual dances were another opportunity to enjoy a swirl around the floor among friends. Unfortunately, there was very often someone (usually a young man)  who’d imbibed rather more than was sensible and would take the opportunity to get something off his chest to his boss.

One young fellow of my acquaintance managed to do this every year. At any other time, he was an extremely pleasant guy, – tall, good looking, a very good footballer and semi professional cricketer, liked by everyone.

But on Office Party Night, he would turn up, looking very elegant  in his tuxedo but slightly the worse for wear. He would always then make a beeline for the then Chief Engineer, who was his boss, and proceed to slag him off for some reason or another. The next day, as always, he was stricken with remorse but he was lucky because the then Chief Engineer was good humoured, very forgiving and had the great sense to see it was just the drink speaking in a harmless bit of banter. 

 

There were many other venues where you could enjoy a dance, if that was your interest, such as Church Halls , nightclubs , Community Halls and even some working men’s clubs  but none of those featured in our particular group’s scope of rendezvous and in fact, we gradually fell away from the traditional Saturday night dance , as did most of the groups that we knew, and graduated to more of a regular drinking pastime – notably at the “Slip” or the White Horse in York Road just below the Shaftsbury cinema. By this time, both of these venues featured decent resident musicians, playing the type of music more appropriate to the youth of the day.

So the dancehalls of Leeds had to learn to manage without support and custom of a bunch of clumsy young men, none of whom could be said to possess 1% of the dancing skills of a John Travolta,  but they were probably better places for it, where the serious dancers could waltz away the evening without having people with two left feet constantly crashing into them.

But do such places exist nowadays.

 

Finally, a tip once received from a successful exponent of the art – always go for the girl with the face of a Saint – a Saint Bernard that is – and your chances of success are multiplied tenfold.

 

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Those were the days Eric. Oh if only we could relive them.

 

Last month’s mystery building. Eric and Audrey got it right it was the Friends Adults Chapel on Pontefract Lane – just lower down than the old Princess Cinema  (now a fish and chip shop) And the name of  the side street was; Hall Place.

 

Now how about this building for September – sent in by Dave Carncross.