1969 – a year of great happenings

A lot of things happened in 1969:

The Beatles made their last live appearance — on a rooftop;

They also released their 11th studio album — Abbey Road;

Brian Jones quit the Rolling Stones and less than a month later was found dead in his swimming pool;

Michael Caine starred in the British film The Italian Job;

Rupert Murdoch bought The News of the World and later in the year relaunched The Sun as a tabloid;

Man landed on the Moon;

Charles was invested as Prince of Wales at Caernarfon (two Welsh Nationalists blew themselves up while planting a bomb in Abergele).

The Kray twins went down for life for murder;

Monty Python’s Flying Circus was launched;

My brother Nigel got married and borrowed 7s6d off me to pay for the licenceb

and

I was given the right to vote but couldn’t use it until the next year.

Not all of these meant a lot to me at the time – except for getting the right to vote. It meant I needed to complete my studies into which party was worthy of my vote.

The one thing that kept cropping up was the slogan:

“from each according to ability; for each according to need”

It is said to be a Communist philosophy and was generally attributed to Karl Marx in the late 19th century but was given, not necessarily in the same words but with the same principles, by others interested in the plight of the working people.

It can actually be traced back in varying forms and in various societies at least 2,000 years.

In fact in Acts 2: 44-45 and Acts 4: 32-35 it is clear that those who followed Jesus and studied his teachings sold all their property and possessions and gave it for the use of the group, doling out funds to feed and clothe followers as needed.

This certainly sounds like a socialist society — nowadays they’d be dismissed as a group of hippies or old crusties — but it was not the first.

It appears wherever there were people there were groups working together to help each other.

At the same time there were those who didn’t necessarily care about others but just wanted to use their work to benefit themselves.

The thing I had to decide was — which came first: the socialist chicken or the capitalist golden egg.

Call me an optimist but I felt sure that when the first of the homo sapiens abandoned the trees and grouped together they worked to help each other.

Hunters hunted; others collected berries and fruits; then there were those who planted the seeds and grew them on.

The earliest form of a co-operative society.

I couldn’t cram the whole of humankind into my periods of study set between work and home.

I did concentrate on conditions for workers in the 19th century and the early 20th century and realised that when they got together to form working men’s associations and unions they were harking back to the dawn of history.

That was when I clicked to the fact that the Tory Party were too keen to maintain the status quo and the Liberals didn’t really have any idea.

I had ruled out any form of Welsh nationalism long before because we are stronger as a whole.

I had already realised that the strength of the working people lay in unity and that it was the unions that made us strong.

I also came to my own understanding that there was only one party that embodied the principles I believed in.

Also Labour had been the governing party for the vast majority of my teens.

When my first chance came to vote for my chosen party in June 1970 I voted for the Labour Party candidate John Evans, hoping that finally the Conservative hold on the West Flintshire Parliamentary seat would be lost.

The seat had been held for many years by Sir Nigel Birch but he had stood down and the new candidate was Anthony Meyer.

Unfortunately my first real step into the world of politics was not a resounding success. The Tories won again with an increased majority.

Was I downhearted?

No.

Did I lose faith in Labour?

No.

Having come to Labour through socialism and a study of the history of the working people my belief has only been strengthened over the years by defeats as well as victories.

I did not join Labour because of family tradition (I never really knew my parents’ real political persuasion) but because of the principles I held dear.

Through the good times and the bad I have always believed in the rights of the working people and in the main (there have been blips) the party has followed that course.

Mind you my opinion of Tory MPs might not have been advanced by my one and only close contact with Nigel Birch.

It happened in late 1969 when many organisations held their annual dinner dances.

The local NFU had invited a Labour minister of state to be their guest of honour. Memory is hazy but I believe it was Fred Peart.

Brian Barratt, the editor, suggested that I should attend.

I actually hired a dinner suit for the occasion.

It was my first ever formal dinner dance and I was surrounded by all the other penguins in dinner jackets and dickie bows and their more brightly attired partners.

I was seated opposite Nigel Birch who did not appear to have a very high opinion of local reporters. Seated next to me was a white-haired gentleman who was the only guest NOT wearing a DJ.

He was dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit, double-breasted, with a white shirt, displaying plain gold cuff-links, and a dark blue tie.

He actually made the other men present appear badly-dressed.

During the meal he was very affable and even asked if I would like to share a bottle of a good red wine with him.

Meanwhile Nigel Birch was getting gradually drunk directly opposite me.

By the time Mr Peart got up to speak the Tory MP had got into his stride and started barracking the speaker and banging his fist on the table.

Clearly nobody wanted to say anything to the local MP – except for my dinner companion who looked across the table and quietly said: “Nigel, do be quiet and try not to be such a boor.”

Nigel Birch immediately stopped and slumped into his seat like a naughty little boy who had been told off by nanny.

I was astonished that this quietly-spoken man could silence a Tory MP so easily.

He had introduced himself to me as Lloyd and at the time I remember commenting that my grandfather’s surname was Lloyd.

I later discovered he was Lloyd Tyrell-Kenyon, 5th Baron Kenyon, and a hereditary peer.

What I did recognise was that he was a gentleman of the old school. Whereas Birch was an indicator of what the Tories were to become.

Lord Kenyon’s gentlemanly behaviour was not enough to outweigh my already growing dislike of Tories like Birch.

I have stood by my socialist principles ever since.

The Song of the Classes

by Ernest Jones

Chartist leader and poet, 1819-1869; sentenced in 1848 to two years’ imprisonment.

We plow and sow — we’re so very, very low

That we delve in the dirty clay,

‘Till we bless the plain — with the golden grain,

And the vale with the fragrant hay.

Our place we know — we’re so very low,

‘Tis down at the landlord’s feet:

We’re not too low — the bread to grow,

But too low the bread to eat.

Down, down we go — we’re so very, very low

To the hell of the deep sunk mines,

But we gather the proudest gems that glow

Where the crown of a despot shines,

And whenever he lacks — upon our backs

Fresh loads he deigns to lay:

We’re far too low to vote the tax,

But not too low to pay.

We’re low — we’re low — mere rabble we know

But at our plastic power

The mould at the lordling’s feet will grow

Into palace and church and tower —

Then prostrate fall — in the rich man’s hall,

And cringe at the rich man’s door:

We’re not too low to build the wall,

But too low to tread the floor.

We’re low — we’re low — we’re very, very low,

Yet from our fingers glide

The silken flow — and the robes that glow

Round the limbs of the sons of pride.

And what we get — and what we give —

We know, and we know our share:

We’re not too low the cloth to weave

But too low the cloth to wear.

We’re low — we’re low — we’re very, very low,

And yet when the trumpets ring,

The thrust of a poor man’s arm will go

Through the heart of the proudest king.

We’re low — we’re low — our place we know

We’re only the rank and file,

We’re not too low to kill the foe,

But too low to touch the spoil.

September 1, 1939

by WH Auden

I sit in one of the dives

On Fifty-second Street

Uncertain and afraid

As the clever hopes expire

Of a low dishonest decade:

Waves of anger and fear

Circulate over the bright

And the darkened lands of the earth,

Obsessing our private lives;

The unmentionable odour of death

Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can

Unearth the whole offence

From Luther until now

That has driven a culture mad,

Find what occurred at Linz

What huge imago made

A psychopathic god:

I and the public know

What all schoolchildren learn,

Those to whom evil is done

Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew

All that a speech can say

About Democracy,

And what dictators do,

The elderly rubbish they talk

To an apathetic grave;

Analysed all in his book,

The enlightenment driven away,

The habit forming pain,

Mismanagement and grief;

We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air

Where blind skyscrapers use

Their full height to proclaim

The strength of Collective Man,

Each language pours its pain

Competitive excuse:

But who can live for long

In an euphoric dream;

Out of the mirror they stare,

Imperialism’s face

And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar

Cling to their average day:

The lights must never go out,

The music must always play,

All the conventions conspire

To make this fort assume

The furniture of home;

Lest we should see where we are,

Lost in a haunted wood,

Children afraid of the night

Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash

Important Persons shout

Is not so crude as our wish:

What mad Nijinsky wrote

About Diaghilev

Is true of the normal heart;

For the error bred in the bone

Of each woman and each man

Craves what it cannot have,

Not universal love

But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark

Into the ethical lufe

The dense commuters come,

Repeating their morning vow;

“I will be true to the wife,

I’ll concentrate more on my work,”

And helpless governors wake

To resume their compulsory game:

Who can release them now,

Who can reach the deaf,

Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice

To undo the folded lie,

The romantic lie in the brain

Of the sensual man-in-the-street

And the lie of Authority

Whose buildings grope the sky;

There is no such thing as the State

And no-one exists alone;

Hunger allows no choice

To the citizen or the police;

We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night

Our world in stupor lies;

Yet, dotted everywhere,

Ironic points of light

Flash out wherever the Just

Exchange their messages:

May I, composed like them

Of Eros and of dust,

Beleaguered by the same

Negation and despair,

Show an affirming flame.

Candy Man

by Roald Dahl

Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew

Cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two

The candy man, the candy man can

The candy man can ’cause he mixes it with love

And makes the world taste good

Who can take a rainbow, wrap it in a sigh

Soak it in the sun and make a strawberry-lemon pie

The candy man?

The candy man, the candy man can

The candy man can ’cause he mixes it with love

And makes the world taste good

Willy Wonka makes everything he bakes

Satisfying and delicious

Talk about your childhood wishes

You can even eat the dishes

Who can take tomorrow, dip it in a dream

Separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream

The candy man, Willy Wonka can, the candy man can

The candy man can ’cause he mixes it with love

And makes the world taste good

And the world tastes good

Cause the candy man thinks it should

Changing places — changing faces

There was more in changing my place of work to Rhyl from Holywell than just being able to have a lie-in or go home for lunch.

Obviously I was working with new people and they were ones I could learn a lot from.

I was also meeting new people and old friends when it came to newsgathering.

Having grown up in Rhyl and living at the heart of the seaside town I also knew many people from local businesses and had old schoolfriends.

In fact some of the people I had been at school with were still there in the upper sixth. As were a couple of former girlfriends who were in the lower sixth.

One story I covered was the retirement presentation made to the deputy headmaster, Harold Davies. I accompanied the photographer, Glyn, to get the details and the names of those present.

I had known Harry Davies well during my time at the Grammar School, not just as a good chemistry teacher but also as the man who mainly dealt with misbehaving pupils.

If you were late for school you were sent to see the deputy head; if you were unruly in class or during break you were sent to see the deputy head; if you were caught smoking on school premises you were sent to see the deputy head.

I cannot count the number of times I stood outside Harry’s door, often with two or three other miscreants, waiting to be called in and dealt with.

Every time was the same.

Mr D: “What have you been up to?”

ME: “I’m sorry sir, I missed my alarm.”

or

ME: “I’m sorry sir I forgot to bring my history/maths/biology/RE homework this morning.”

or

ME: “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t realise I had lost my cap while cycling to school.”

Mr D: “Well, I’ll let you off this time but don’t do it again or I will have to deal with you seriously. Now off you go.”

I really liked Harry.

On this day he was presented with a gift by the headmaster, Mr Ron Davies, on behalf of the staff, and a rose bowl on behalf of the pupils by the head boy (a schoolfriend of mine who also sailed with the Rhyl Yacht Club) and the head girl (a former girlfriend who I had not treated very well when we split up).

Back at the office I suggested to Glyn that we should use the picture of the head boy and girl. Mainly because the focus was on Harry and the head boy and girl leaving Ron Davies off to one side.

A petty bit of revenge but I still enjoyed it.

Other friends had left school and were working locally. They included the Parker boys, Louis and Jimmy, who were both working for the family amusement business.

These people were all useful contacts and I would often pick up snippets which proved worthwhile.

My weekly rounds spread a bit further than they had in Holywell, which was really just a small market town in those days.

I would call at the police station and the fire station to get details of any weekend incidents; religious leaders for church news; undertakers to check on upcoming funerals; and the various senior schools.

I enjoyed going back to my old school and talking to my former headmaster on equal terms. More than this, however, was having a chat with my old sports master Berwyn “Bubs” Evans to get details of matches played by the school at county level or higher. He would also pass on details of the girls sports teams from Miss Pat Roberts.

It was just as well I stayed on friendly terms with Bubs because he used to get tickets for the Five Nations Rugby games (no Italy in those days) and quite often earmarked a ticket for me and got me a seat on the local rugby club coach down to Cardiff.

I covered other stories as well, of course, including magistrates and council meetings.

There was an abundance of councils holding meetings which needed coverage.

The county council was out of my league at that point. I did accompany a more senior reporter to meetings of the rural district council and Rhyl urban district council.

I was more often assigned the parish council meetings which normally began at 7.30pm and ended when the more senior councillors were ready to go home to their Horlicks and bed. I am sure we would have been there until midnight if the average age had been 45 instead of 65.

I learned a lot from Brian, Bill, Elwyn and Denise. Regarding the photographic side of newspapers Glyn taught me plenty, not just about setting up a shot but also the technical side of developing and printing.

The only reason I did not give Trixie Vorderman a mention in my learning curve was because I never really worked with her.

She was a friendly person but I didn’t really know how long she had been there or even if she was any more experienced than myself.

She left not long after I moved back to Rhyl. There were rumours about her running off to join the circus but I never really found out where she went.

Years later my path was to cross that of her younger sister Carol but that lies in the future.

Trixie was a bright, bubbly person and I’m sorry I did not get to know her better.

There were more transient colleagues over the years. The most fleeting lasted less than a day but, again, that is a tale still to be told.

Contemplating Hell

by Bertolt Brecht

Contemplating Hell, as I once heard it,

My brother Shelley found it to be a place

Much like the city of London, I,

Who do not live in London, but in Los Angeles,

Find, contemplating Hell, that it

Must be even more like Los Angeles.

Also in Hell,

I do not doubt it, there exist these opulent gardens

With flowers as large as trees, wilting, of course,

Very quickly, if they are not watered with very expensive water.

And fruit markets

With great heaps of fruit, which nonetheless

Possess neither scent nor taste. And endless trains of autos,

Lighter than their own shadows, swifter than

Foolish thoughts, shimmering vehicles, in which

Rosy people, coming from nowhere, go nowhere.

And houses, designed for happiness, standing empty,

Even when inhabited.

Even the houses in Hell are not all ugly.

But concern about being thrown into the street

Consumes the inhabitants of the villas no less

Than the inhabitants of the barracks.

The Builders

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All are architects of Fate,

Working in these walls of Time;

Some with massive deeds and great,

Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;

Each thing in its place is best;

And what seems but idle show

Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,

Time is with materials filled;

Our to-days and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;

Leave no yawning gaps between;

Think not, because no man sees,

Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,

Builders wrought with greatest care

Each minute and unseen part;

For the Gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,

Both the unseen and the seen;

Make the house, where Gods may dwell,

Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,

Standing in these walls of Time,

Broken stairways, where the feet

Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure,

With a firm and ample base;

And ascending and secure

Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain

To those turrets, where the eye

Sees the world as one vast plain,

And one boundless reach of sky.

What Kind of Times are these

by Adrienne Rich

There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled

this is not a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own way of making people disappear.

I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light — ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it’s necessary to talk about trees.

The Newspaper

by Penina Moise

To a Venetian coin, the first Gazetta For its generic title became debtor

Whither excursive Fancy tends thy Flight?

Like Eastern Caliph masking thee at night,

By Vezier memory attended still,

Thou pertly pryest in each domicil.

Woe! to the Caitiff then who in his cups,

Unconscious with sublimity he sups,

Shall vow in Bacchanalian truth or fun

Thou art not kindred to the glorious sun!

I fear thee not, clandestine ambulator!

Thou most sophistical and specious traitor

To Truth and Reason, those imperial twins

Whose Empire with thy Martyrdom begins.

What is thy drift in brandishing a flag,

Whose motto is a metamorphosed rag!

As by those motley streaks of white and jet,

I trace that aboriginal Gazette,

The British prototype of ’65

From which all modern journals we derive.

At first confined to faction’s revelations,

Mere politics, or plodding speculations.

Now to a semi-cyclopedia risen

Which the assembled arts, delight to dizen.

Its grand mosaic ground work ever graced

With polished gems of miscellaneous taste.

Philosophy his portico regains

In columns where profoundest science reigns.

While in relief a neighbouring sphere discloses

Clio’s with Nature’s kind exotic roses.

A curious melange of mental food

In fragments thus promiscuously strewed;

Rising Aeronauts,and sinking funds,

Fearful phenomena of stars or suns.

Men in the stocks, uneasy as old Kent,

Others appalled by fluctuating rent.

New ministers to preach, and spirit lamps,

Foreign intelligences from Court and Camps

Don-Pedro and a fresh supply of leeches

A ball that blackens, and a wash that bleaches,

Here, Hymen’s herald to the world declares

When love Triumphant at his shrine appears.

There, tenderness bereaved, its tribute brings

And Hope’s crushed odours on Death’s altar flings.

Advertisements of various commodities,

And anecdotes of Irish whims and oddities.

Bills of mortality, and Board of Health,

A fine green turtle – and a miser’s wealth.

The prices current – a cheap hasty pudding,

Detected fallacies – and falcon-hooding,

Arrivals and departures – births and deaths,

A dreadful Storm – and artificial wreaths,

One fugitive escapes the Cotton pod,

In terror of the Supervisor’s rod.

Another dreading critic castigation,

Flies from the fields of rich imagination.

Thus from discordant interests Genius hurled

The elements that form this typic world.

All watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace

By Richard Brautigan

I like to think (and

the sooner the better!)

of a cybernetic meadow

where mammals and

computers

live together in mutually

programming harmony

like pure water

touching clear sky.

I like to think

(right now, please!)

of a cybernetic forest

filled with pines

and electronics

where deer stroll peacefully

past computers

as if they were flowers

with spinning blossoms.

I like to think

(it has to be!)

of a cybernetic ecology

where we are free of our labors

and joined back to nature,

returned to our mammal

brothers and sisters,

and all watched over

by machines of loving grace.