Chapter 1: A Floater Bobs to the Surface

If the Pennine chain is the backbone of England, then the small town of Biddulph surely lies at the coccyx.

At an average elevation of 200 metres, lying 8 miles north of the smoky industrial, sprawl of the Potteries and four miles east of the chocolate box market towns and villages of the rolling Cheshire Plain, the Biddulph Valley nestles snug between Mow Cop and Lask Edge which tower 150 metres higher on either side.

It is a warm summer evening in 1963. The last day of the school term. Naturally it is raining. Outside, the evening is in black & white. As indeed were the 1950s as far as I recall. As a child born in the mid 50s my perception is that rather like the early scenes of films like “Summer Holiday” - the world transformed into full technicolour in around 1960. This evening, someone has muddled up the reels.

No matter. In the main hall the big lights are on, suffusing the expectant throng of staff, parents & local worthies in a warm amber glow which spills through the windows and onto the rain-washed playground. All ladies present are wearing their ‘Sunday best’ outfits whilst the gentlemen are suited & booted, many of them uncomfortably so. Most of the men have barely had time to change out of overalls or workwear and into the collar, jacket & tie normally reserved for weddings, funerals, a rare visit to a restaurant or, believe it or not, a Saturday shopping trip to Hanley. Many men only possess two outfits. Both involve a necktie.

And my dears, the smell. School dinners have for years been served in this school hall and the whiff of boiled cabbage, liver & onions and lobby* have leeched into the very fabric of the building. Add fresh layers of Old Spice, Swarfega, 4711 Cologne, floor polish, man sweat, moth balls & rarely dry cleaned garments and you have a heady mix. Its enough to stun a heifer.

This is the social event of the school’s academic year. The Kingsfield Road Junior School Annual End of Summer term concert. For weeks, class groups have been coached, cajoled and drilled for their contribution to the end of term celebration: an eclectic mix of ditties & recitations involving coopers from Fife, Spanish sea captains and poor little dicky bird sitting on a bough. One suspects this is probably the same bill as in previous years. Still, saves wear and tear on the old Roneo machine**, eh?

Across the playground in classroom 4a (aka the dressing room), excitement is at fever pitch. Like so many ‘mini-me’s’, the pupils too are in their Sunday best outfits. Unlike their fathers, children have 3 outfits at their disposal: best, school & play clothes. Junior fashion doesn’t exist. You wear what you are given. Mostly hand me downs. Only your underwear is new to you. If you are lucky. Meanwhile, the playground toilets are taking a hammering from all the nervous wees and for miles around, farmyard dogs are on edge from the high pitched squealing & squeaking of the hyped up would-be performers.  Miss Cater, form teacher of year 3 and a ‘nervous nelly’ if ever there was one, is valiantly trying to stem the rising hysteria and, as a result, adding to it, whilst deputy head Mr. Bold is holding forth on the optimum motoring routes through the Dordogne to a not very interested Mr. Rutter who sits reaming his tobacco pipe.

Amid this mayhem, in a corner of the classroom, sits a quiet, lone figure, calmly nursing a cardboard suitcase. Tis I, Julian Alistair Hirst. Pale faced, red lipped and lathered in Brylcreem. From a distance, I appear to be wearing a tuxedo. Close inspection shows that it’s brother Timothy’s hand me down school blazer. The elbows are patched in black leather. On the breast pocket there are loose threads where the Biddulph Grammar School badge (motto: “Sublimora Petamus”) has been snipped off. Some of my hand me downs are so old, I once spent a whole term dressed as a Roundhead. Add a white striped shirt and a clip on bow tie to the ensemble and the illusion works. Distance lends enhancement. Ask any magician.

I am to be the exception to tonight’s production. I am to be the only solo performer. Nervous? Am I buffalo! At the age of seven years, I’m practically a seasoned professional. I’ve been performing since I was three.

Cue: harp going back in time sound effect & shimmering screen as we flashback to 1959.  

I now realise that as a family in the late 50s, we were relatively privileged. The death at an early age of both my paternal grandparents meant that my parents were in a position to buy a brand new, 3 bedroomed, detached house with a big garden front & rear in a nice area. We had a car. We had a TV set. We even had a telephone. A huge Bakelite thing that weighed a ton. Phone number: Biddulph 2046. My dad was a schoolmaster, my mum (also a teacher) stayed at home to care for big brother Tim & me. Dad also travelled the area evenings and weekends working as a popular, semi-professional magician, ventriloquist & Punch & Judy man. He didn’t do the clubs mind. Posh, black tie, society do’s, garden parties, private gardens. His fees were charged in guineas. We had nice food and clothes, toys, bikes, books. Trips to the theatre and hotel holidays were regular occurrences. Anyone familiar with radio sitcoms of the time like “The Marriage Lines” or “The Small, Intricate Life of Gerald C. Potter” will get the general idea.  All this just over 10 years after the end of WW2

In the living room at 66, Conway Road, Knypersley, Biddulph. Mum is doing the housework wearing her ubiquitous apron. I’m helping by polishing a small coffee table. Honestly, I really do remember. The telephone rings. Mother uses both hands to power lift the massive receiver to her ear. It’s Mrs Taylor, head of Kingsfield Primary School. Is mum able to help them out as a supply teacher as they are desperately short staffed? Mother would love to but she’s got me at home. No local nursery school, no childcare.

“That’s alright” says Mrs. Taylor “Julian can come with you”.

And so, at the age of three, I started primary school.

When I say I “started” school at the age of three, what I really mean is that I “attended” school from three. To be honest, I never really got the hang of school. Not that I was unintelligent. I was the only one of my male friend group to pass the 11+ and go to the local grammar school. I was never on the “thick’ table. I just couldn’t really be bothered. I saw school as the best free social club in town which is born out in various school reports. But I was friendly, polite, helpful, respectful and rarely got into trouble so although I probably drove some of the staff mad, I’m sure they saw me as an amiable twerp & let me get away with it.

Meanwhile, at three I sort of messed about at the back of Mum’s classroom doing drawing, plasticine modelling and stuff. At breaks and after school, I enjoyed sitting next to the coal fire in the staff room. The lovely Mrs. Taylor used the room as her office and could be guaranteed to find me an interesting book to peruse while the staff chatted about their day. Best of all were winter days when school was closed due to snow. In the late 50s/early 60s on the edge of the Pennines, this was more frequent than you might think. Mum and I would still go in, walking the couple of miles from home with snow drifts looming above my head and the cold making my ear lobes ache. Once there, I’d be given free reign to wander the classrooms and corridors and play with sandpits, water troughs, velocipedes various and, best of all, the puppet theatre in Mrs. Becketts classroom. I would try to replicate my father’s Punch & Judy show, doing all the voices and even filling in the responses from the non-existent audience. The script I developed in my head then, was pretty much the basis of the script I performed for over 30 years as a professional puppeteer. At lunchtime, I’d be put in charge of the toasting fork in front of the staff room fire while everyone sipped mugs of hot mushroom soup – much appreciated on the trudge home through the snow.

Fast forward to the following spring. I can’t remember exactly what I was doing. A life sized replica of Mow Cop Castle made from macaroni possibly? An emissary arrived at Mum’s classroom door asking if Mrs. Beckett could ‘borrow’ Julian. I duly trotted along and was ushered into her classroom. I remember dusty sun beams, daffodils and catkins in jam jars. I also remember the entire class sitting cross legged on the floor in front of the puppet theatre. They had a look on their faces which I now realise is what’s known as the “go on, entertain us” look. All of a sudden, I felt self-conscious.

“Julian” said Mrs. Beckett “my class has been working very hard today and I think they deserve a treat. I was wondering if you would do your Punch & Judy show for them?”

I felt shy. I felt awkward.

“And when you’ve finished” continued Mrs. Beckett, sensing my mood “this sixpence will be yours” and with a flourish she ‘clicked’ a small silver coin down on her desk.

I was in that booth like a shot. Within minutes I had my audience shouting, laughing and pretty much eating out of my hand. Easiest sixpence ever. And my first ever paid gig. On the way home, Mum let me stop at Mr. Neat’s sweet shop in Gunn Street and blow the lot. I could have bought even more if I’d charged in guineas.

I’ve often said that I learnt my ‘art’ from standing in the wings watching others perform. Not entirely true. From a very early age, our dear Ma, used to enter Tim & me into local ‘eisteddfods’. I know that term is Welsh but whatever the English equivalent, we were entered.

Actually, Stoke-on-Trent adopted a lot of North Wales traditions. In June each year during “Potters Fortnight” the entire pottery industry would shut down and much of the population would take their summer holiday along the North Wales coast. A journey by steam train westwards would chug past miles & miles of caravan holiday parks, funfairs and camp sites. Flint, Prestatyn, Rhyl, Abergele, Colwyn Bay, Llandudno (change at Llandudno Junction); the resorts became more genteel as one travelled further west. We had relatives who had retired to Llandudno & spent many happy times there. At one stage Mum considered applying for a teaching post to be near her Aunt Ethel, but these were only open to fluent Welsh speakers.

As Mum set great store by the ability to speak up & speak out, she would patiently coach us in public speaking prior to each event. My go to piece was “The Browny Hen”.

The Browny Hen

by Irene F. Pawsey

A browny hen sat on her nest

With a hey-ho for the springtime!

Seven brown eggs 'neath her downy breast,

With a hey-ho for the springtime!

A brown hen clucks all day from dawn,

With a hey-ho for the springtime!

She's seven wee chicks as yellow as corn,

With a hey-ho for the springtime!

I never won. This I put down to having lost my front teeth which I then took years to ‘find’. But I’d often be singled out by the judges for my stage presence. I think Mum’s tutelage is why I’m such a stickler for good stage diction. I can’t abide actors who mumble.

Cue harps and shimmer. Back to 1963.

Goodness only knows how, why or who but I am in the “top of the bill” slot. There’d been no audition, no try out. It could have been a disaster. I know I’d practised the routine in front of my bedroom mirror at home but I certainly don’t recall performing to any kind of audience, let alone a couple of hundred adults. What’s more, the entire school have now been crammed into the room. The age range went from 5 to 95!

Standing in the stage right wings – the PE equipment storeroom – I reach into my cardboard case and take out “Jimmy” my Woolworth’s bought plastic moulded ‘cheeky boy’ ventriloquist figure. The heads of vent dolls are not attached to their body. If you don’t support the torso by placing a hand under its bum, the whole thing drops and you end up with the body hanging off your elbow and your forearm sticking out of the neck. This didn’t suit my style given as I am given to gesticulation. They can’t touch you for it. Not if you’ve been affiliated (thank you Ken Dodd). Mum had solved this problem using a short length of knicker elastic and a plastic curtain hook. Brilliant.

I have a sideways view of the stage. It seemed very bright. The hall seemed very dark. Miss Windsor’s class have concluded a stirring rendition of something folksy and are leaving the stage to polite applause.

In that moment, I felt a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach. Rather like one of Jeeves’ famous bracers but in reverse. Butterflies on drugs. It’s both exhilarating and scary at the same time. My confidence is off the scale. I don’t want to go out there. I need to go out there. More than anything.

How I got on stage I know not. Presumably someone announced me but suddenly there I was, in front of a sea of expectant, puzzled faces. Kingsfield Junior has seen many things over time, but a seven year old performing a vent act was certainly not one of them.  Thinking about it, apart from on TV, I doubt anyone had seen a ‘live’ ventriloquist before.

A big deep breath and I was into the patter. I spoke clearly, I projected, I rode the laughs, both Jimmy & I use our body language to react. Just like my dad. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was to be in full control. Before I knew it, I was giving the cue for school music teacher Claris Ditchley to play my closing song:

Now is the Hour

made famous by Gracie Fields

Now is the hour when we must say goodbye

Soon you'll be sailing far across the sea

While you're away, oh, then remember me

When you return, you'll find me waiting here

Sunset glow fades in the west

Night o'er the valley is creeping

Birds cuddle down in their nest

Soon all the world will be sleeping

Now is the hour when we must say goodbye

Soon you'll be sailing far across the sea

While you're away, o, then remember me

When you return, you'll find me waiting here

As the last note fades away there is a brief silence. Then the whole audience erupts. They are clapping, they are cheering, they are whistling. There are even cries for ‘more”. I ignore those. I have no more.

And there, sitting in the middle of the front row, politely clapping but with a huge smile and look of pride that said it all, was my lovely Mum.

Ladies & Gentleman. I had discovered my vocation.

*Lobby is a traditional North Staffordshire stew eaten by poorly paid potters who could not afford freshly prepared food every day. It consists of minced or diced beef or lamb, diced potatoes, onions, carrots, leeks, and root vegetables bulked up with pearl barley and seasoned. Served with slices of white loaf it was always a school meal favourite.

**Once a must-have apparatus for every school/office where document reproduction was required, the Roneo machine has now become obsolete technology. Younger generations might not be familiar with the device and most likely have not even heard of it. But for us older generations, the Roneo machine provided copying technology as photocopiers were yet to be invented.