You can take the boy out of Wales but you can’t take Wales out of the boy

One sad Welshman far from home

When I joined the team at the Basildon Standard Recorder I believe my editor, Tony Blandford, saw a chance to inject some fresh blood into features about the new town.

What was even better, as far as he was concerned, was that I was not just not from Basildon but I was not even from Essex and, better still, I was not even from England.

I became the Basildon Standard Recorder‘s resident Welshman, highly opinionated; seeing the English descendants of the Anglo Saxons and the Danes as incomers; and forever yearning for the valleys (although that was South Wales and I was raised in the more mountainous North).

The strange thing was that during my time in Wales I was more often taken for English thanks to my early childhood being spent in Buckinghamshire, one of the Home Counties. That is where I had learned to talk and had taken on the somewhat plummier accent of that region.

Of course not all my feature assignments required the Welsh background.

Take, for example, the advance piece I did on the opening of a zoo and ecology centre as a major attraction not just for the people of Basildon but for the wider area as well.

Part of the feature I wrote about an ecology centre and zoo

The whole piece was written as though the photographer and I had gone on safari into the heart of Africa. Considering the zoo was to be home to lions, leopards, chimpanzees, spoonbills and ibis, as well as tropical insects and crocodiles, the safari theme worked well. Of course we played down the fact that there would also be wallabies (Australia) and puma (the Americas) as well as other non-African animals, birds, reptiles and aquatic residents.

Another feature virtually fell into my lap when the RAF set up an exhibition on a plot of green land directly opposite the office.

A crafty bit of trickery before Photoshop came into being had me flying high over Basildon

The display including a jet trainer, genuine not a mock-up, as well as all the general recruiting posters and material, and a flight simulator to give visitors the chance to pilot a plane. The RAF had sent along a squadron leader to head the team in charge of the display.

Not only did he give me the ins and outs of RAF life and training but he also allowed me into the Gnat trainer for our photographer to get a shot of me as a flying ace. Fortunately I could not do any harm as it was a static display and it wouldn’t matter what button I pushed.

On another feature expedition I did actually get to go up in an military plane accompanied by some of the hardest men in the UK Armed Forces – the Parachute Regiment’s crack sky-diving team The Black Knights.

A day out with the sky divers – but that’s not me

It involved a trip to Salisbury Plain and being shown around the training area seeing how the regular members of the Regiment are trained before going into details of the extra training needed to become a sky diver.

At this time, early 70s, skydiving as a sport was still in its infancy and the average newspaper reader did not know how much training and work went into doing an ordinary parachute jump, let alone sky-diving.

Most films showing non-military parachute drops (spies parachuting in to occupied France for instance) made it appear that a couple of static drops was all it took to prepare you for a night drop over unknown landing sites.

This is probably how I was able to get away with writing about parachute packing, practice drops and then what to do when I jumped out of the plane. It was only at the end that I explained how much training was really needed and made it clear that I would never have been allowed to jump after just a day with the team.

I did get to go up in the plane, however, and it really did have just a space where a door would normally be. Because we were going up I had to wear a flying suit like the rest of the team and did have a parachute attached to me in case anything went wrong and I did have to parachute to safety.

There was one feature in which my Welshness was really brought to the fore and it is the closest I possibly came to getting lynched by the readership.

It was March, St David’s Day had just gone and I had just celebrated my first birthday away from home. Tony Blandford saw it as the perfect chance to get a good look at Basildon, warts and all, from an “unbiased” outsider.

The article in which I brutally attacked the Brutal architecture of Basildon

I certainly laid it on thick as I attacked the Brutalism (yes that is the proper architectural name for the style of buildings in Basildon) as I viewed the town centre from the fifth floor flat I now rented from the corporation in Brooke House, the towering apartment block slap bang in the middle of Basildon New Town.

I expressed my longing for the sounds of Welsh voices singing in harmony in a friendly country hostelry in my native Wales, as opposed to the late night caterwauling of drinkers staggering home from the plush velvet and chrome pubs of the new town.

It was a hard-hitting piece and was a centrespread in that week’s Recorder. Right up to the penultimate paragraph I was as brutal with my criticisms of Basildon as the builders had been with their architectural style.

In a bid to put reins on what I was sure would be the gathering lynch mob heading to the office on Friday I said that I was looking for the pros of the town as opposed to all the cons I had already described.

I think my final paragraph saved my life:

Maybe the people – people here are comparable to the nice folk in Wales. So I guess that’s a very big plus. Better to have pleasant inhabitants and a crummy town rather than vice versa. But it’s a pity Basildon hasn’t got both.

My landlords, the Basildon Development Corporation, may not have seen my parting shot as a saving grace but I think I had the majority of the population on my side.

NB: while I was still in Basildon a new block of flats was opened with the different levels each set back in a similar way to Aztec pyramids seen in the jungles of South America. Within weeks of the first residents moved it the development was dubbed “Alcatraz” by the people of Basildon.

I think I make my point.

Love – a many splendour’d thing but very personal

Love is a very personal thing and is not always full of sweet moments.

Three poets can look at love and even if they are close, with similar backgrounds, each will have had a different experience.

If you lose the love of your life, no matter what the reason, it can be painful but the pain can be greater or lesser depending on whether you lost that love because it was taken from you – which can totally destroy your life leaving it without order or meaning – or if you were careless and let that love slip away.

You can even believe your love remains because you do not know it is lost, or because you see love in everything around you.

The great Liverpool poet Adrian Henri is possibly best known for being one of the trio of poets who became known for The Mersey Sound – no not THAT Mersey sound – poets who depending on the rhythm of their words to provide structure rather than the rhythm of strings and drums.

Henri appeared to be cynical yet in this poem he brings love down to the simple things in life – not caviare and champagne rather fish and chips and warm beer.

Love is …

Love is...

Love is feeling cold in the back of vans

Love is a fanclub with only two fans

Love is walking holding paintstained hands

Love is.

Love is fish and chips on winter nights

Love is blankets full of strange delights

Love is when you don't put out the light

Love is

Love is the presents in Christmas shops
Love is when you're feeling Top of the Pops

Love is what happens when the music stops

Love is

Love is white panties lying all forlorn

Love is pink nightdresses still slightly warm

Love is when you have to leave at dawn

Love is

Love is you and love is me

Love is prison and love is free

Love's what's there when you are away from me

Love is...
Adrian Henri

Henri’s fellow Liverpool poet, Roger McGough has a completely different take on love. In some ways he seems selfish and arrogant, which those who know this former member of Scaffold is not the real McGough.

In this relationship – which to many appears to be on the rocks – the same action is seen in different ways, based on which of the protagonists is interpreting it.

I project my voice

You hear me shout

I have an inquiring mind

You are nosy

This style of “conversation” (really two monologues rather than a dialogue) can involve two or more people, although the more people you have the more likely they will form alliances and still end up as two mindsets.

You and I

I explain quietly. You
hear me shouting. You
try a new tack. I
feel old wounds reopen.

You see both sides. I
see your blinkers. I
am placatory. You
sense a new selfishness.
I am a dove. You
recognize the hawk. You
offer an olive branch. I
feel the thorns.

You bleed. I
see crocodile tears. I
withdraw. You
reel from the impact.
Roger McGough

In the third poem we meet Brian Patten, the third part of The Mersey Sound, who differs from his colleagues in as many ways as he is similar.

This time we can see a love that is ending more through neglect than antipathy. The voice of the poet is that of one who has neglected or ignored a love and only now sees the possible ugliness of a life apart which would be just as ugly now as if they stayed together.

This is recognition of what you have lost only when you have lost it.

You cannot repair that which cannot be repaired.

And Nothing Is Ever As You Want It To Be

You lose your love for her and then
It is her who is lost
And then it is both who are lost
And nothing is as perfect as you want it to be.

In a very ordinary world
A most extraordinary pain mingles with the small routines,
The loss seems huge and yet
Nothing can be pinned down or fully explained.

You are afraid
If you ever found the perfect love
It would scald your hands
Rip the skin from your nerves,
Cause havoc with a computered heart.

You lose your love for her and then it is her who is lost
You tried not to hurt and yet
Everything you touched became a wound
You tried to mend what cannot be mended.

You tried, neither foolish or clumsy,
To rescue what cannot be rescued.

You failed,
And now she is elsewhere
And her night and your night
Are both utterly drained.

How easy it would be
If love could be brought home like a lost kitten
Or gathered in like strawberries,
How lovely it would be
But nothing is ever as you want it to be.
Brian Patten

I have had the privilege of seeing these three great poets in performance not once, but twice. The first was in the early 70s and was a chance to hear the poems I had begun to love in the 60s actually spoken by the poets.

The second time was late in the 90s and the performance was as different as it was the same. The three characters I had seen at the Basildon Arts Centre had the same easy relationship when I saw them 15 years later in Lowestoft.

It was the content that changed, the words were the same as they had always used – just in a different order.

I turned down ‘a fortune’ after going undercover

As I have said before a general news reporter has to handle a wide variety of news from golden wedding anniversaries to major fires, even murder. Sometimes feature work might just concentrate on a new attraction opening in town, at others it could be a piece of serious investigative journalism.

An opportunity for the latter came when I found a flyer on the windscreen of my car, which had been parked in a town centre car park backing onto the office. Just about all the cars had a leaflet under their windscreen wipers.

It offered people a chance to work part-time, earning £40 to £70 a week, while still carrying on with the normal day job. This was a time when the average weekly wage for a manual worker, male, was £38 and for a female just over £19.

I took the leaflet into the office and asked my editor, Tony Blandford, what he thought about it and whether or not it would be worth looking into it. He gave me the go ahead.

I spoke to the police first and they said they could see nothing illegal in the information provided but warned anyone thinking about following the lead and making contact would be advised to take legal advice.

A call to the phone number on the leaflet got me through to a man who said he represented Golden Products International. Without telling him what my daytime job was I expressed an interest and was invited to attend a meeting at the Hilton Hotel in London.

On arrival I was met by the man I had spoken to on the phone, he said I should call him Alan, all nice and friendly. I then sat down with others who had also shown interest, there were about 50 of us altogether.

Another young man with the gift of the gab then began the presentation.

We were told Golden Power had been set up just two years previously and the three men who started it had done so well that they were moving on to the international business scene but needed to ensure the UK arm had a good standing which meant people at local, area and district level.

At the end of the day it was a direct sales system which would be built on people buying the product from an area supplier and selling them on for a percentage of the profit. The area supplier got the goods from a district supplier who took a slightly bigger cut and so on up to the top.

It was made clear that most people taking up the offer would start off as local salespeople earning possibly £25 a month until they had built up their clientele but figures were put up on the board (and as quickly wiped off) showing how moving up the sales leader to area, district and above could lead to rewards of five-figure sums per year for those who proved their worth.

It was similar to the Tupperware company which relied on individuals running Tupperware parties and getting supplies from an area manager and so on. This had been going on successfully in the UK since 1960 and had gained a good reputation.

Tupperware from the 1960s and 1970s is still going strong in many UK households

Selling cleaning products would not seem quite so opportunistic as the Tupperware scheme but the attraction to people on a poor wage could be quite tempting.

Just before the meeting ended came the final touch when we were told that anyone who signed on within 24 hours would, on the payment of £850, be given training, over £1000 worth of sales goods (based on sales prices) and a prime sales area.

There was the catch – sign on without getting any proper legal advice and find yourself with a cleaning product people knew nothing about and would take a lot of convincing to swap it for their usual branded product.

There was one final touch when Alan and his colleague asked three or four of us to stay back and, when the others had gone, told us that we had been selected because of our “keen interest” in the scheme, We were told that we could get the very best areas if we signed on immediately and it would only cost us £750.

As the Fleet Street reporters who had been working undercover used to say: “At that point I made my excuses and left.”

Before we ran the story I made a final check with the police and was told there had been reports from their own area and other police districts of similar leafletting schemes, sometimes with a different phone number and a different company name but all basically the same.

When the story was printed we were very careful not to say this was a scam – but after reading the piece anyone who took up the offer would appear to be very gullible.

PS: My expenses for going up to London on a Sunday evening to attend the presentation probably gave my pay packet a bigger boost than I would have had from signing up to sell cleaning products.

NB a company called Golden Power International Ltd was incorporated in 1972 in Hong Kong. That company mainly deals in batteries and chargers and, as far as I am aware, has nothing to do with the cleaning products company referred to in this story.

New town residents were servants of two masters

In the early 1970s Basildon New Town (officially Basildon but as it was just over 20 years old people still added the New Town tag) control was in the hands of two organisations – Basildon Development Corporation and Basildon Urban District Council.

By the time I arrived in 1972 the council was the civil administrator of the district but at the same time the Development Corporation, which had been formed to create the town, was still involved in buying land, building houses and handling the industrial area where new factories were going up as the government gave favourable grants to businesses to move to the newly developed area.

Among the big names opening factories in the first two decades were Marconi, Ford Motor Company, Carreras Tobacco Company and Yardley of London.

The Corporation had begun development at the very end of the 1940s and the first residents moved in to their new corporation homes in 1951 from the less salubrious premises. These people were known as the first generation and when I arrived in the very early 70s their children had grown up and were considered the second generation who had a choice between being corporation tenants or council tenants.

They might have been first generation in the sense of the new town but when it came to Basildon they were very much newcomers as the first generation of old Basildon had been “weekending” there sine the late 19th century and early 20th.

The area was built on London clay which meant it was really not suitable for farming and when the railways opened up the route from London to Southend people started buying plots of land to build weekend chalets along the way, mainly near the stations of Laindon and Pitsea.

After the First World War, however, the land developers starting selling off very small plots of land, big enough for a three-room building and a small garden. These were still meant to be weekend sites but in the 1920s more and more people were finding the need to live there all year round even though there were no made-up roads and no sanitation.

After the Second War plans were put in hand to provide new housing and workplaces for the families bombed out of London.

To obtain land for building houses and industry the Corporation was given the right to enforce Compulsory Purchase Orders if the current owners were unwilling to sell. This meant in the early days owners of these varying-sized temporary dwellings would bargain with the Corporation to get the best price they could, not always what the land was worth, and only if they failed to agree a price would the CPO be brought to bear.

Part of the price might include a flat or house with rent paid to the corporation.

Even by the 1970s there were still pockets of land where the owners had held out against any sale of their land because they wanted to stay. This meant we had regular stories about the “little man” standing firm against “big business” and, as nearly always happens, the big boys tended to win in the end.

One of the many stories we ran about people who had CPOs slapped on their properties by the Basildon Development Corporation

In the early days the only properties for rent were those built by the Corporation. As Basildon grew, however, the Billericay Council which included the New Town in its area, gained permission to change its name to Basildon Urban District Council and as well as handling the civil administration for the area the council also started building houses for rent.

By 1972 the council and corporation both had their housing lists as the young residents grew up, married and needed to move out of their parents’ homes and set up homes for themselves.

Despite two housing lists there were still complaints from those who felt others were leapfrogging others.

One row that broke out was when a second-generation group protested that couples on the corporation housing list were jumping ahead of others when the wife got pregnant.

A row over couples leapfrogging the housing list by starting a family instead of “being prudent”

The normal way onto a housing list was when young couples got married and they moved up the list as houses were allocated and new ones built. The second generation group said young couples should not jump the queue because of pregnancy and should be more prudent especially as there were numerous family planning clinics in the area.

Although it would still be a good few years before Maggie Thatcher brought in her right to buy for council house tenants the corporation had started selling off its housing stock to its sitting tenants.

The prices were set quite reasonably and there was a discount of 20 per cent to 33 per cent which would need to be repaid if the property was sold within five years.

As these sales started it was soon clear that owners wanted to make their homes look different to those of tenants. With this in mind they began to make small changes: building a porch; having a proper fence around their front garden whereas before the boundaries had been defined by step-over wooden boundaries; there were fancy wooden doors; and even the simplest of house names differentiated them from those of their neighbours.

As the corporation sold houses to sitting tenants it would still be a good few years before Thatch

Of course this set my editor off on one of his feature ideas and I was sent to drive around the districts looking for places that had been upgraded in one way or another. If the owners were happy to talk about the changes I would then arrange for the photographer to go round later for a picture.

I felt at times that Tony Blandford leaned towards standing up for the “little man” and homeowners did not come into this category which is why a bit of ribbing was allowed.

Although they were busy selling off houses at cut-price the corporation was also continuing its development plans and continued until almost the end of the 1980s when it was wound up and the housing stock was mostly transferred to the Basildon Council.

Even in the 1970s the development corporation was planning for many years in the future.

Nowadays people no longer call Basildon a new town – it is, after all, 70 years old now and from what I have been told it is as far from the booming new town full of old London families and their children that I moved to in 1972 as that was from the shanty town of the 1920s and 1930s.

Despite the tone of some of the features Tony got me to write, as his resident Welshman in exile, I quite liked the place and the people.

The good, the bad and the downright boring

Living in Burnham-on-Crouch (until my boss could arrange a Corporation flat for me) could be a bit wearisome – it meant early rises and late nights if I had an evening job, council or arts review and a long drive to work to wake me up. The return journey was always in the dark.

During this time I still remained alert during working hours and always checked my copy against what actually appeared in the paper, or I should say papers because a number of my stories were picked up by our big sister newspaper the Evening Echo.

It was interesting to compare the subbing and headline style of our in-office sub for the weekly as compared to those at head office concentrating on the need to meet daily deadlines and ensure readers wanted to buy the newspapers.

Sometimes I preferred the way our sub had handled the copy and headline and at others the head office sub had a better grasp.

Take the story of the young widowed mum who lost her husband when he went out with his mates for the first time in months and ended up dead at the foot of concrete stairs leading up to a dance hall.

Our sub kept my copy pretty well much as it was written and headed it:

Widowed at 18

In this he had concentrated very much on the young widow facing life without her first love – which was a very important part of the story. Yet I had not written so much about her as given her story of her sport-loving husband.

The Evening Echo sub went more on the sporting lad with his cosy home life:

Home-loving

man’s night

of tragedy

The copy had been adjusted (no I don’t mean rewritten) by the sub to give more attention to the dead man and the description of his lifestyle given by his widow, than on the ones left behind.

Another example of the different ways stories are handled involved an 18-year-old who claimed in court that he had turned to crime because he was depressed. He didn’t get any sympathy from the magistrate as highlighted in the Evening Echo‘s headline:

Twaddle! JP raps

‘immature’ youth

Whereas our in-house sub headed it:

Burglar’s

excuse

didn’t

impress

Not exactly an attention-grabbing headline.

Another story, again involving a court case, reversed the methods of the subs, however, with both headings being in the same size font and used as page leads in the respective newspapers.

The basic court story, a man charged with careless driving, was fleshed out with information on previous incidents at the same spot. Some of this had been referred to in the court case but I also checked on statistics from the past five years.

The Echo sub went for:

Court plea as

lights bring

danger boom to

crash junction

The Standard Recorder gave the story as much prominence and grabbed the attention far more with a heading of just three lines and only half the number of words used by his Echo opposite number:

Death road

lights are

slammed

That “Death road” first line was far ounchier/ than the somewhat mundane first two lines “Court plea as lights bring”.

Mind you even in those days I believed I could have made a better job (as many of my old colleagues will attest – I was always cocky) and in this case I would have gone for a bigger, yet shorter, heading:

Death junction

lights slammed

Because I always checked my original against what appeared I was still on my learning curve. In hard news stories I could instantly see if a sub had picked up on any unnecessary verbiage which might shroud the facts.

At the same time in feature work there were pieces where I should not have been quite so clipped in my work.

All in all I provided a wide range of good local stories for my paper and our big sister the Echo. Looking back at my scrap books I am quite amazed at just how much I did write, and I could see my style developing.

Happy days.

Tonight at Noon

(for Charles Mingus and the Clayton Squares)

by Adrian Henri
Tonight at noon
Supermarkets will advertise 3p EXTRA on everything
Tonight at noon
Children from happy families will be sent to live in a home
Elephants will tell each other human jokes
America will declare peace on Russia
World War 1 generals will sell poppies in the streets on November 11th
The first daffodils of Autumn will appear
When the leaves fall upward to the trees

Tonight at noon
Pigeons will hunt cats through city backyards
Hitler will tell us to fight on the beaches and on the landing fields
A tunnel full of water will be built under Liverpool
Pigs will be sighted flying in formation over Woolton
and Nelson will get not only his eye back but his arm as well
White Americans will demonstrate for equal rights
in front of the Black House
and the Monster has just created Dr Frankenstein

Girls in bikinis are moonbathing
Folksongs are being sung by real folk
Artgalleries are closed to people over 21
Poets get their poems in the Top 20
Politicians are elected to insane asylums
There's jobs for everyone and nobody wants them
In back alleys everywhere teenage lovers are kissing in broad daylight
In forgotten graveyards everywhere the dead will quietly bury the living
and
You will tell me you love me
Tonight at noon

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayaam: LXI – XC

LXI
For let Philosopher and Doctor preach
Of what they will, and what they will not - each
Is but one Link in an eternal Chain
That none can slip, nor break, nor over-reach.

LXII
And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to it for help - for it
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

LXIII
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

LXIV
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

LXV
I tell You this - When, starting from the Goal,
Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal
Of Heaven'd Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul.

LXVI
The Vine has struck a fiber: which about
If clings my Being - let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

LXVII
And this I know: whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or Wrath - consume me quite,
One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.

LXVIII
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

LXIX
What! from this helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent us dross-allay'd - 
Sue for a Debt we never did contract;
And cannot answer - Oh the sorry trade!

LXX
Nay, but for terror of his wrathful Face,
I swear I will not call Injustice Grace;
Not one Good Fellow of the Tavern but
Would kick so poor a Coward from the place.
LXXI
Oh, Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestin'd Evil round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?

LXXII
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;
For all the Sin wherever the Face of Man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give - and take!

LXXIII
Listen again. One Evening at the Close
Of Ramazan, ere the better Moon arose,
In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone
With the clay Population round in Rows.

LXXIV
And, strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
And suddenly one more impatient cried -
'Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?'

LXXV
Then said another - 'Surely not in vain
My Substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
Should stamp me back to common Earth again.'

LXXVI
Another said - 'Why, ne'er a peevish Boy,
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;
Shall He that made the vessel in pure Love
And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy?'

LXXVII
None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
'They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?'

LXXVIII
'Why,' said another. 'Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marred in making - Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well.'

LXXIX
Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
'My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by-and-by!'

LXXX
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The Little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, 'Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!'

LXXXI
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,
So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

LXXXII
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare
Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air.
As not a True Believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.

LXXXIII
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong
Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song.

LXXXIV
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore - but was I sober when I swore?
And then, and then came Spring and Rose-in-Hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

LXXXV
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor - well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the Goods they sell.

LXXXVI
Alas that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

LXXXVII
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse - If dimly, yet indeed reveal'd
To which the fainting Traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

LXXXVIII
Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp the sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits - and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

LXXXIX
Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,
The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me - in vain!

XC
And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your Joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made one - turn down an empty Glass!

Jack of all trades – and at times master of many

When it comes to daily regional newspapers and the nationals everyone seems to be a specialist. Court reporters; entertainment reporters; finance journalists; political journalists; science journalists; sports reporters – and even then there can be subdivisions with reporters only dealing with football, or golf, or cricket, hockey, rugby etc. etc.

Life is not so neatly partitioned for those working on weekly newspapers.

A cub reporter or junior journalist is a real jack of all trades and rarely gets to become a master (is there a non-gender specific term for that?) of one.

At least nowadays the juniors are no longer considered better for nothing than getting a mug of tea or coffee for their betters.

Depending on the size of the editorial staff seniors had some leniency on which jobs they covered. School sports day would be passed to a junior while a senior would attend the local football team matches.

On the general news front anybody could be called on to cover a story ranging from council meetings to court reporting and other stories considered as diary jobs. These were things that would be written in the news editor’s diary as they would happen on a specific day and time.

Other diary items might involve feature work ranging from writing pieces about local business or industry in general (sometimes just a “puff” piece to go with advertising), or specific stories about the past glory of an area where attempts are being made to spruce it up after a period of neglect.

There would also be the traditional vox pop when a reporter and photographer would go out on the streets and interview passersby about certain issues: is the council doing a good job; which of the proposed bypasses would be best for the town; or, at election time, which candidate would make the best MP.

On the last one you would naturally have to make sure that comments were fairly shared – not the easiest thing if one of the candidates, especially a sitting MP, is really unpopular in the run up to an election.

Off-diary stories were different. These were the ones involving an incident such as a major road or rail accident; a fire affecting a wide area (similar to the bush fires raging in Greece and America at present); or a missing child.

The bigger the story the more reporters it might need. Someone would take responsibility to liaise with the police and other emergency services, another might be on the scene with a photographer and a third could be digging out background on any people involved – the inhabitants of a burning house; workers at a blazing factory; possible regular travellers on a train involved in a crash.

When I started properly in journalism, as a district officer reporter, I was thrown in at the deep end and often had to cover everything, from court and council to sports, sometimes having to get around three or four football matches, getting a flavour of each one without freezing at the side of the pitch for 90 minutes.

Major incidents would bring in reporters from the head office.

When I moved to the Rhyl Journal I was still very much the junior but, even though I might still have to attend a regional athletics event, I no longer had to do the general sports reporting. Mainly because I think it was soon realised I did not have much interest in football, cricket etc. and there were others who enjoyed these events.

Once I moved to Basildon I was still a general reporter but I had the chance to specialise in such areas as local politics, entertainment and court reporting, which I did find fascinating – possibly a hangover from my schoolboy interest in crime and forensics.

As I moved up to sub-editor, chief sub and finally editor I noticed over the years how weekly news staff were being cut back to the bone and rather than specialising many reporters found themselves expected to cover more and more stories and eventually even being expected by some unscrupulous regional newspaper owners to become a reporter and photographer.

It was always accepted that if a journalist was out and about and something happened they could take pictures of the incident if they had a camera. In the same way a photographer out on a simple assignment might end up writing more than just a caption.

It had, however, always been part of the ethical code that journalists did not normally take photographers and photographers did not write stories.

There was a joke going round for many years that one day they would expect papers to be turned out by one man and his dog. In recent years the dog didn’t get the job.

Poetry: so much more than just words on a page

I love poetry.

I loved poetry since before I loved Shakespeare

I have loved poetry since before I can remember.

It is highly likely my first poem was actually a nursery rhyme.

Maybe “Hickory Dickory Dock” or “Ring a’ring of Roses”.

By the time I reached primary school I was already reading poetry from books on the sheleves at home. Books with beautiful leather covers and gilded edges to the pages and names stamped in gold on the spines: Walter de la Mare, John Masefield, Longfellow, Worsdworth, Keats and Browning.

The only problem was that at school in those days nearly everything was learned by rote. Time after time we repeated our times tables so that we knew them off by heart. The same applied to important history dates and, of course, poetry.

The idea was that we would be able to recite a poem from memory, like a party trick. The problem was all we were taught were the words, not the real meaning behind them and why they were put together in the way that they were.

"Is there anybody there," said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door; 
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote on the door again a second time:
"Is there anybody there?" he said.

Those among us of a certain age, and those who study English poetry, know these as the opening lines of The Listeners, by Walter de la Mare.

I remember more than 60 years ago reciting the whole poem in synchronisation with my fellows.

We knew the poem but poems don’t stop at the end.

Poems ask questions and seek answers.

Who was that Traveller?

What building could be entered if that moonlit door was unlocked?

But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.

We learn a little bit more about the Traveller, his eyes are grey, but is he an old man returning from years abroad, or a young man gone off on a quest having promised to return to his love.

Or had he gone to make his fortune to save the family home, only to return too late as the family and servants are now dead and only their phantoms remain.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:--
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.

Who did he expect to find? A lover? a father – a mother? Certainly someone to whom he had given his word and had kept faith.

Was the house empty because all were dead or had his love been given to another?

Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

I realised that the only way I would ever find out about the Traveller and the phantom listeners was to learn more about poetry.

Certainly in my brief sojourn at the grammar school I learned more about literature, including Shakespeare and poetry, than I had learning to repeat the lines by rote.

As well as the books in the household as I grew up I also added my own choices and one of the first poetry books I bought was The Mersey Poets, Penguin collection of works by Roger McGough, Brian Patten and Adrian Henri.

Oddly enough a few years later I met them when I reviewed their evening of poetry at the Basildon Arts Centre.

That was a night to remember.

In fact it was one of many nights to remember because the Arts Centre did not only provide a stage for local amateur groups but also for musicians, poets and actors of renown.

Remember the swinging 60s? I do – I was there

LSD or acid was the foundation of many a psychedelic image used by pop groups in the 60s and 70s

It has been said: “If you remember the 60s then you weren’t there.”

Those of us who grew up in that swinging decade are looked on as survivors of a period when speed and weed and even acid flooded the clubs and the streets not just in London but out in the sticks as well.

Apparently that scene never really reached Rhyl in North Wales.

A bit of waccy baccy was more than enough for most people in the 60s

There may have been a few who got hold of a bit of Waccy Baccy, Mary Jane, weed or whatever term you cared to use for cannabis, but pills would not hit the North Wales coast for a few years yet.

London was the real centre of the drug scene and, except for the few members of the 60s music scene who knew how to get hold of LSD, heroin or other serious drugs which had been around in America for a lot longer, very few people got involved and even then it was mainly amphetamines, which at that time were quite commonly prescribed for “tired housewives” who felt they didn’t have the energy to keep their houses neat and tidy for when “hubby” came home.

Through over-prescription or theft amphetamines were becoming available on the streets of major cities, especially London, during the 60s and there would be talk of: Bennies, Bombers, Blue Mollies, Purple Hearts and a myriad other names. It was a time when cash-rich youngsters in London wanted to make the best use of the 60 hours that made up their weekends from Friday night to Monday morning. They felt a pill would perk them up.

Pretty pills to perk you up – only if you knew where to get them

Personally I found the thrill of being alive at that time, with the help of a little alcohol, was more than enough to keep you going as you left the dance hall to head off for an all-night party.

In the mid-60s thieves intending to make an extra buck or two would switch from late night raids on offices, for the petty cash, to breaking into chemist shops in the hope of getting their hands on amphetamines. After all you could get 6d a tablet on the streets – that’s less than 3p in modern money.

The price went up in 1964 after new laws came in regarding possession – a purple heart would now cost you 9d, less than 8p.

My father’s shop in Rhyl was broken into one night.

The thief, who was known to the local police although they couldn’t pinch him for this escapade, had gained entry through the fanlight over the front door of the shop – even though we had always believed that the ratchet on this fanlight was rusted and immoveable.

The screech that it made in being forced would have echoed down the street but the family, who were all asleep, did not hear a sound. I felt the most guilty about not hearing it because my bedroom was right over the shop and my bed was positioned right abovethe door and the fanlight.

The cheeky thief (actually my view of him went well beyond cheeky) was out of luck in the shop as, like most chemists, my father kept all the dangerous drugs in a locked, steel-lined cabinet that even Houdini couldn’t have got into without the keys. He did find his way into our kitchen, however, and found a 35mm camera, (my pride and joy) and my mother’s fur coat which had just come back from the cleaners and she had forgotten to take it upstairs.

At least he did not get access to the main part of the house. The kitchen and back passage were separated from the hallway, lounge and stairs by a heavy oak door which was always locked and bolted, as was the door from the shop into the main hall.

As a chemist’s son I was approached more than once by people asking me if I could get my hands on anything. Apparently there was an over-the-counter cough mixture which was supposed to give you a high. I didn’t oblige, however.

I did once play a trick on someone who had kept asking me if I could get hold of purple hearts. The tablet itself was triangular not heart-shaped and were more blue than purple.

I did get a pack of Devon Violet Cachous and cut a few into a triangular shape and smoothed them down. Next time I saw the would-be druggie I asked him if he had ever tried purple hearts. It turned out he hadn’t, so I suggested he try one to see if he could cope and I gave him a cachou and told him I was giving it not selling it.

Next time I saw him he said he wouldn’t be trying them again as he had felt “very odd” after taking the tablet and thought it had an “odd taste”. It appears he had convinced himself he was taking a drug and therefore he felt what he believed were the effects. You’d have to eat a lot of cachous to get a high.

After that I made it clear to anyone who asked that I was a chemist’s son and not a drug dealer. I didn’t campaign against drugs but I didn’t promote them either.

Nowadays the scene has changed in North Wales and the courts quite often have a plethora of drug cases which go far beyond a bit of weed. The reputation of Rhyl is certainly not of the best when it comes to drugs but that doesn’t mean other North Wales towns can sit back playing innocent.

Check out the North Wales news feeds and you’ll see what I mean.

Innocent as Rhyl may have been in the 60s and 70s I didn’t suddenly find myself in a den of iniquity when I moved south to Basildon.

Nowadays the somewhat older new town has a similar reputation to most large conurbations. In May this year the Basildon, Canvey and Southend Echo was reporting the fact that Basildon was at the centre of a major drugs problem with police reporting a 40% increase in drugs possession and drug-selling in the town centre.

Yet when I was there in the early 70s the biggest drugs story I reported on was of four young people found in a flat with one joint and only two of them actually ended up in court. Apparently they had been trying it for the first time and one of the young people said she had one puff and and decided to smoke her own ordinary cigarette instead.

When you look at the current drug scene the idea that the whole of Britain was a druggies’ paradise in the 60s and 70s seems laughable.

Personally I’m quite happy with the drugs my doctor prescribes to help with my diabetes and thyroid problems.

I loved growing up in the 50s and 60s – life was so much more innocent.