Conquering Snowdon

 

2014

“Got everything?” I asked Danny. I had been looking forward to this trip ever since my old Post Office buddy had sorted it and informed me whilst I was walking over that bridge in Teignmouth a month or so back. Taking my car, I picked him up and he came out of his house with four bags, plus a bag full of food. “Marie has packed us a load of sandwiches, biscuits, chocolate bars and a flask of coffee” Dan said. We were only going for two nights but this didn't really surprise me. Danny likes to be organised! Or to be more precise, Marie likes Dan to be organised! I’d sussed that out after we'd been on a couple of bike rides earlier in the summer. Puncture outfit, rain mac, bottles of water, sweets, pump, an ordnance survey map! We were only going to Stanion three miles away. And I have to say, we had one of our famous arguments, over which way to go whilst studying the said map over a pint in the Green Dragon at Brigstock. We ended up carrying our bikes over a ploughed field! Anyway, much to Danny’s surprise, or he would say, not, all I've got for the trip to North Wales is a couple of bottles of Lucozade and a change of clothes. Travel light that's me.

Danny is one of those blokes you often find yourself shaking your head at. We’d set off and half an hour later as we are belting along the A14 he exclaims; “Oh no! I've forgotten my shoes!”
Unbelievable. “Well it's too late to turn back now”, he tells me he's got a pair of sandals and a pair of trainers - and 'they'll have to do'. Too true.

Thing is, ever since we planned this trip to climb up Mount Snowdon he's been advising and warning me; “You've got to get yourself a proper pair of walking boots”. Which I did. Mind you this is normal for Dan. Having known him for so long, worked with him for years at the Post Office and been drinking buddies for years, I'm well aware of his idiosyncrasies. The guy cracks me up.

With all day to get to Llanberis which is the town at the bottom of Snowdon we took our time, had a short stop at a roadside cafe on the M54 where we had our picnic and then rolled into Llangollen for a longer break and to take the opportunity to explore this idyllic town just over the border from England. I called in here once a few years ago and was telling Dan what I remembered about it, the river, steam railway, beautiful little place and saying that it would be a good place for him and Marie to visit. He agreed. They like traipsing around the countryside and walking over hills and discovering new towns.

The River Dee flows right through Llangollen and this stretch is perfect for rafting, rocks and rapids making it a terrific course for enthusiasts. As luck would have it, we were having a pint overlooking the river from a pub balcony when two rafts came bobbling down. First one with about eight people on board made light work of it, weaving through with great style. The second raft was having problems, became stuck on some rocks just up stream. “This looks interesting” I said to Dan.

They managed to free themselves and then lo and behold, became wedged between two big boulders right below us as we stood over them enjoying our beer. They struggled to get free and then next second, they were off again and the raft tipped right over, dumping all the occupants into the fast flowing river. Before we could do or say anything, the rafters bobbed up from under the water and were swept along in the current right under the road bridge and away. Amazing. Great fun! We really thought they were up the creek for a moment! It did look a scary moment though and I have to admit, there was no way I was going to dive in to help. Can’t bloody swim anyway so I wouldn't have been much cop.

After the excitement and drama we set off for our next pit stop which was Betsy Co-ed, just a short distance from our destination. My cellphone had gone tits up, the screen was blank and I couldn't open the damn thing. Taking the opportunity for another coffee out of Dan's flask, another cheese roll and a biscuit I asked the girls at the reception desk of the hotel we had parked in, if they had the wit to open up a mobile phone. It was subsequently passed around the boys in the kitchen and then with the help of a knife we managed to prise the thing open so I could re-set my sim card. What a performance though.

We finally arrived at the Glyn Afon Hotel in Llanberis just before tea time, sorted our rooms out and then went for something to eat and a pint and to discuss the plan for the next day’s adventure on climbing up this mountain that was dominating the skyline. And the more I looked at it, the more I thought, Jesus, bollocks to this! These thoughts weren't helped by a number of people casting doubt over our intentions. Nobody appeared to believe we could make it to the top and back again! Ye of little faith I thought whilst thinking they could be right!

Now I'm not one of these people that think 'right, I'll bloody show you'. Couldn't give a toss what people think actually. Doubts had been sewn and I was trying to figure an alternative way of dealing with this!
Get the train up! Yes, that would be easier and settle for walking down. Trouble was, we couldn't be sure of getting a ticket for the train. We would have to wait and see.

We then went in search of a pub or hotel to see if we could find one with Sky Sports; we were hoping they might have the England v Uruguay World Cup match on. The Royal Victoria Hotel looked a very grand place, was busy, there was a television on the wall, but no football match. Weighing things up, Danny took the bull by the horns and to the astonishment of the locals surrounding the bar, asked the barman loudly; “Excuse me, you not putting the England game on?” The response was probably expected up here in North Wales!

“What? England?” Many stopped drinking and looked at the two of us. The barman then made Dan’s jaw drop; “Get out! your barred!”
Well I could see the twinkle in his eye, he was only taking the piss. Danny looked at me in disbelief. “You must know what the Welsh are like Dan” I said, trying not to laugh. He wouldn’t forget it.

The television station was duly switched on and we sat down in front of the television to enjoy the match best we could. The only ones in there that wanted England to win!

Next door a Welsh choir was rehearsing which was distracting, good as they were. But to our dismay, during a break in their warbling, most of the choir came through to the bar, carrying their beer with them. The door was right by where we were sitting watching the football.

They saw us sitting there, eyes glued to the match, glanced up at the television, saw that Uruguay were beating England, and promptly all started laughing and smiling like Cheshire Cats!
Danny looked at them dumbfounded; “Twisted bloody lot the Welsh, what’s the matter with them?” he moaned. I loved it. Funny as hell I thought! 

After the game, which England lost 2-1 to the delight of our hosts, we retreated to our own hotel for a more peaceful drink. A quiet Guest House on the road out of Llanberris, the Glyn Afon was ideally situated for sightseeing and very comfortable. Danny had picked a good one, and surprisingly, the people here were very nice, even if they did appear to ignore us and talk in Welsh. Danny thought they were ignorant. I told him that as far as I was aware, everyone up here in North Wales talked in their native tongue, particularly around these parts. He was having none of it. “They hear us speaking in English and deliberately communicate in Welsh so we don’t have a clue what they are saying. They’re probably talking about us!”

Didn’t bother me in the slightest but Dan was wound up about it!

One thing that was pleasant was the congeniality of the two young barmaids. Polite, efficient, friendly, everything that the barmaid in our local, The Rock, back home in Corby wasn’t! I’ll spare her name but she was slow, unattractive, disinterested, bottom line, she was a waste of space! Thankfully the Landlord, Big Gordon realised this too and soon jettisoned her! Well, to be served by two young attractive women who really enjoy their work, talk to you in English, laugh at Danny’s jokes...the contrast couldn’t have been any more different!

We made an early start to tackle Snowdon, still unsure whether to walk up the mountain and get the train back or the other way round. I had a great view of Snowdon from my room and the more I looked at it the more doubtful I felt about achieving our goal! 

Discussing this as we set off we had only gone around fifty yards before we started moaning. A road we were crossing suddenly assumed rush hour proportions! Four, five, six cars..seven...“Christ Almighty! were these cars waiting for us to come out of the hotel? Where the hell have they come from!” It was only a small village yet suddenly it looked like it was on a major thoroughfare through the heart of Wales! Must have stood there for over five minutes.

“You couldn’t make it up!” I said to Dan. He agreed.
To be honest, as soon as we realised we’d only just left our hotel and we were moaning like hell, we both started laughing!

We made our way to the station at the base of the mountain, the train was warming up to make the ascent and we looked at each other and said “bollocks to it”. The ticket cost £27 which seemed a bit much but as the train took an hour to to get to the top of Snowdon it did appear to be the right option, £27 or not. Surprising too. A single coach, single track. At times I wondered if it was going to make it as it groaned away. This was the best way to discover Snowdon I figured! Great scenery, breathtaking. Had to be the best option and surely easier to walk down rather than up and there was no way I could have managed doing both. We were lucky that it was a lovely warm day as well, heaven knows what it must be like if the weather was grim.

The train eventually arrived at the summit, and we were pleasantly surprised to find a cafe and a shop here as well. We both bought a couple of souvenirs, a mug, postcard, cup of coffee, had a photo taken. There was still a short way to go and it looked a bit hairy, having to climb around twenty steps on the side of the mountain to get to the pinnacle. You don’t realise how high you are till you reach this point. The valleys below seemed miles away. We asked a girl who appeared from nowhere to take a couple of photos of us having a breather. Felt real good.

The walk back down was harder than expected, a good five and half mile trek. If we were feeling the heat we were to be constantly amazed by hikers coming the other way. Younger than us Ok but to be carrying a baby on their back? Older people marching up the mountain past us? They must be on steroids was all we could conclude! Even someone striding past walking their dog! There was me and Dan stumbling down, having to sit and rest our legs, have a swig of water. We were knackered!
It was fun though following the train track as best we could. At least by doing that we knew we were going in the right direction! Three hours it took us!

The weather was kind all the same, too hot to be truthful and we took regular pitstops. One at an enterprising cafe around half way up which again, was somewhat surprising. I mean how do they get their wares up here? Obviously by the train I assumed. There wasn't much on offer, you couldn’t get steak and chips for instance, or a chicken curry. A ham sandwich was arguably the best snack along with a Mars Bar. Plus a cup of tea which was welcome.

A rest at the hotel to recuperate was required after our trek before going out to celebrate our achievement. This last night was also spent admiring the landscape of Llanberis. Really is a lovely little place with lakes and mountains all around.

Heading back home next day it was agreed that while we were in North Wales we might as well go and take in the village with the longest name in Great Britain, if not the world,Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. There’s a knack in learning how to say this and I’ve tried a couple of times but its too much of a tongue twister for me!

Situated on the Menai Straits, Anglesey it was only a twenty minute drive or thereabouts from Llanberis. Most definitely a tourist attraction and if for no other reason it’s well worth a visit just to have your photograph taken alongside the ridiculously long name. That accomplished we headed for home through the Welsh countryside and back to Corby, sidetracking briefly for a beer somewhere near Telford. Memorable also for Dan buying a crap CD by an apparently local country and western singer off a market stall. Which he insisted on playing in the car. Bloody rubbish it was, and Dan did admit ‘it a waste of a fiver!’

The Boys Are Back In Town.

 

The 1966 Rising Sons

The Boys Are Back In Town

No, not Thin Lizzy, but the Rising Sons, back after 56 years. Pete Buckby, Jim Gaffney, John Hemmings and Dewi Toleman will be rolling back the years and strutting their stuff this coming Saturday at The Corby Cons Club on April 23rd. Also appearing will be Dewi’s sister Ros, who nowadays resides in Swindon, as guest vocalist. Dewi returned to these shores last week from Australia where he has been for over 50 years. John lives Bedford way and Jim in Wimbledon. Pete, after a career touring the world latterly with the famed Canned Rock, returned to his roots in Corby some 30 years ago and can often be found, along with his wife Sue, sharing a Coca Cola in The Cons lounge. Dewi’s return to Blighty was the inspiration for the band, who in their prime, supported Otis Redding no less, to get together for probably one final swan song. Promises to be a great night full of nostalgia and the chance to meet old friends. A limited amount of tickets are still available at £5 each with the proceeds going to Lakelands Hospice and the ‘Charity Pot’, an organisation raising money to provide defibrillators for every club and pub in the town. Make sure you ‘Baby Boomers’ don’t miss out on this one off treat as The Sons recall their halcyon days playing many numbers from their set list from way back which included hits from The Hollies, Beatles, Beach Boys, Impressions, Dusty Springfield. And to cap it all, the Cons have a wide range and great selection of ales and wine. What more could you ask for? Apart from chicken or scampi in the basket, which went out of vogue when I was still a smile in my old man’s wotsits.. no, not really, but you get my drift.

See you all there!

Rising Sons

September 1966, The Rising Sons share the bill with Memphis legend Otis.

A night of nostalgia is beckoning with the long anticipated reunion of The Rising Sons at the Corby Cons Club on April 23rd. Not the Ry Cooder, Taj Mahal California based version of the band, but the Corby based quartet of Pete Buckby, Dewi Toleman, John Hemmings and Jim Gaffney along with special guest Ros Menham.  As it happens, both versions of the Sons operated around the same period of the mid 1960s and, ironically enough, both are having reunions in 2022. Ry and Taj getting together for the first time in 57 years to record an album, ‘Get On Board: The Songs Of Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee’, and Pete and the boys reuniting after the same time span to relive and revive their memories from when they were a regular support act around the country to such stars of the day like Otis Redding, The Yardbirds and The Hollies. 

Whilst Ry Cooders’ Rising Sons were a blues based outfit as reflected by their tribute to Brownie McGhee and Sonny Terry, Corby’s Rising Sons were a harmony and soul group, one of the best, their career only cut short when members left to go to university. Belonging to the second wave of Corby Rock, they had followed the successful careers of the likes of the Size Seven, The Crusaders and The Midnighters, leaving an indelible mark on the local scene and far afield. 

For those who thronged to the dances and venues back in those halcyon days of the 1960s, the Festival Hall, Crow’s Nest, Nellie’s Bin, The Welfare, this night at the Cons Club in Cottingham Road on April 23rd will be one of pure unadulterated nostalgia. Tickets are priced at £5 with all proceeds going to the fund of the Lakelands Hospice and also the ‘Charity Pot’, an organisation raising money to provide defibrillators for every club and pub in the town. 

Steel Memories of the Counterfeit Stones

 

Posted By: Nick Dagger Corby, The Willow Arts Centre Saturday November 20th 04

After a fitful night in the Peterborough Travel Inn we set off at midday for Corby. It had been absolutely freezing in Spalding and although not quite Monkey balls weather this morning, it was still taters.

We've played Corby twice in the past, once in the Nags Head in August 96 and then the Festival Hall in Spring '98. Both gigs were very different and I didn't remember too much about the town. I knew the history of the place and that it had been a major steel town heavily populated by Scots who'd been brought down to run the mill. With the closure of the works in 81 the usual problems arose that such total upheaval brings.

It's the buildings. They're grey, decaying corpses. I visited East Germany in the early seventies and that was a country that specialised in soulless architecture but this was Northamptonshire. To my mind the greatest sin you can perpetrate on any civilisation is dull erection. We found the Willow Arts Centre. A square leperous building standing majestically opposite the precinct.

As we were led through endless corridors, Des the manager profusely apologised for the lack of heating. The boilers were not working. It was the second coldest day of the year and with 7 hours till show time, it looked pretty grim. Des, bless him had found a large dressing room and with two blow heaters was doing his best to make life comfortable for us. They'd freshly mopped the floor and combined with the hot air from the fan heaters, we had our very own weather system.

I was surprised to be told that this was indeed the Festival Hall but I hadn't recognised it. Two years ago the Council closed the venue and it was due for demolition but local protests prevented its demise and it has been taken over and run by volunteers. With lots of enthusiasm and private finance, the venue has been temporarily reprieved.

We had a substantial lunch in the Theatre's lounge bar. Certainly very big on portions, the takers of the, "all day breakfast" , soon found themselves staring at a heart attack on a plate. There was very little to see in the precinct other than the usual household names and so the rest of the day was spent in our temperate dressing room.

The main concert hall was freezing but alive with busy helpers building the stage, setting up lights, labelling seats. Eventually the hall heating arrived in the form of two Tristar engines. These giant calor gas heaters can heat a hall very quickly but they can also send the inhabitants into a stupor. So that was what we faced. Asthma in the dressing room, pneumonia in the corridors and gas poisoning on stage.

Actually there was one boiler working and it managed to get on stage and plant her rancid gob onto mine. It was worse than any "Bush Tucker Trial."
" I'm not a celebrity get [me] out of here!"

The audience was rowdy, a large number of whom went absolutely potty. It may have been the Calor Gas but we all came off stage with a slightly strange grin.

Pizza was munched and beer drunk in the lounge bar after the show and we finally set off for home at about 12:30.

Bye Bye Corby, Corby Bye Bye....

Nick Dagger (from Geezer to wheezer)

Atchooo

The Rising Sons Reunion

 The Sons Rise Again

For those of you too young to know, and for those who have a memory as long as I have, back in the mid 1960s one of the most popular local bands and arguably the finest of that era was an outfit called The Rising Sons. A harmony based group their repertoire was largely culled from the Beatles, Hollies and Beach Boys plus a sprinkling of soul from the likes of Otis Redding, Wilson Pickett and The Impressions. 

The recognised line up of the Sons was Pete Buckby on drums and vocals,  Jim Gaffney guitar and vocals, .John Hemmings guitar and vocals and Dewi Toleman on Bass guitar and vocals.  On April 23rd this esteemed line up are reforming for a reunion at the Con Club in Cottingham Road, Corby. The first time they will have played together in 55 years! Since 1967, the fabled ‘Summer of Love’.

The Sons were formed in 1964 and cut their teeth playing gigs at local venues which included ‘Nellie’s Bin’ and the Crows Nest, slowly building up a reputation with their renditions of Beach Boys, Beatles and Hollies hits, as DJ Bip Wetherell, who’s own career includes vocalist and keyboard player with local bands Friction, The Rhubarb Tree, Granite and later the Tornados, recalled all so well on his Corby Radio Show in 1998: 

“I remember the first time I heard ‘Good Vibrations’ on Radio Caroline and like many others, it knocked me out. Such intricate and magnificent harmonising! A week later my band Friction was on the same bill as the Rising Sons at Corby Civic Centre and they came on and floored everyone with their rendition of Brian Wilson’s masterpiece! They peed me off! They were brilliant. Made me feel like jackin’ it in there and then!!” 

Dewi Toleman was the only Sons member with previous experience having started his career in the 1950s with a band called The Vikings and he later formed The Electrons with whom they gained prestigious bookings supporting world famous stars The Ronettes and Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders. 

Dewi recalled those halcyon days of the mid 1960s with the Rising Sons for a feature in the local magazine The Pilot when home from Australia in 1999.

“We played all the usual chart stuff like the Beatles’ ‘I Feel Fine’, the Hollies’ ‘Look Thru’ Any Window’. We also indulged a little by playing obscure stuff like Little Anthony and the Imperials’ ‘On the Outside Looking In”, The Impressions’ ‘Sad Girl and Boy’, Astro Gilberto’s ‘Girl From Ipenema’. I’m obviously biased but I believe the Sons of that later era were close to being the best band that Corby or the surrounding area ever produced.” 

The band soon progressed from playing local dances to appear, like The Electrons before them, as support to many of the top names in the business. 

Pete Buckby; “By late 65’ we were playing more and more out of town at  American Air Bases and Corn Exchanges in the region where all the big names were playing. The Stones played at Wisbech Corn Exchange believe it or not. We played with The Yardbirds (Heart Full of Soul) and The Ivy League (Funny How Love Can Be) at the Peterborough Corn Exchange. The Overlanders (Michelle), The Tornados (Telstar) and Alan Price Set at Ramsey Gaiety Ballroom. Spencer Davis at Banbury Winter Gardens. The Kinks at Grantham, Pinkerton’s Assorted Colours (Mirror Mirror) at Kettering Granada. We supported The Fortunes (You’ve Got Your Troubles, Here It Comes Again) and after the gig their manager Reg Calvert who was also founder of the pirate ship Radio Caroline, tried to get Dewi to join them. 

Most exciting of all was undoubtedly with Otis Redding at Boston Gliderdrome, a fantastic venue with a revolving stage and sky high ceiling with thousands of fairy lights. Otis was brilliant, sadly it was just a year before his fatal plane crash in Wisconsin. I was only sixteen at the time and playing with these people who I was a big fan of was unbelievable.” 

Thrilled with the band’s progress, Pete was thus disappointed when his suggestion about going full time was greeted with less enthusiasm by the rest of the band.

“The Otis Redding gig went really well and I was buzzing. I brought up the suggestion about us going full time because I felt we had something going and thought it was time, either to make a go of it, or leave it. The response sadly was negative. I could see it took them by surprise. Dewi was keen but both John and Jim were planning to go to university and I could hardly blame them.”

Pete’s ambition had been to become a full time professional musician. Even if his dream was met with cynicism from a school master. 

“I remember being asked what I wanted to do when I left school and when I told him ‘I want to be a drummer’ he replied in that most patronising tone that school teachers have, ‘you can’t be a drummer, there’s no jobs like that’, intimating that I should consider a career in the steelworks or something like everyone else.”  

The Rising Sons duly announced their retirement to a disbelieving Corby public in 1967 with a farewell gig at the Strathclyde Hotel which was reported by a distraught Alex Gordon in his Corby Leader column, with the headline, ‘Another nail hammered into the coffin of Corby Rock.’

After the break up, Dewi Toleman was soon in demand to step in at short notice for a number of bands, including The Midnighters and The Size Seven in Cambridge when bassist Alan Black was unavailable the night Celtic played Inter Milan in the European Cup Final which was being shown on television!

Dewi emigrated to Australia in 1967 and continued to play, joining Oz rock and roll outfit, American Graffitti. Over the years he has since played in numerous Oz bands, including some time with fellow ex Corby patriots Pat and John Casey of the Midnighters.

Pete meanwhile, whilst waiting for a call, became a trainee chef at the Hunting Lodge in Cottingham “earning £3.50 a week” and also harboured thoughts of joining the Merchant Navy. It was while contemplating a life on the ocean wave he received a phone call from New Formula singer Mick Harper telling him about an opportunity to audition for a Sheffield band called The Endeavours which would earn him around £19 a week. A life changing moment it was. Pete was successful and achieved his goal of becoming a full time professional drummer for over 20 years with The Endeavours who later morphed into Canned Rock and became one of the hottest bands around in the 1970s and 80s. Which is another story for another time.

Two years after this reunion was originally planned, all going well, covid wise, Dewi will be home for a couple of months to meet up with sister Ros who incidentally will be making a guest appearance on vocals, visit his birthplace of Llanberis, and to renew acquaintances with many of his old friends from the 1960s. And to perform once again those classic numbers with the boys in The Rising Sons. 

Mailman Bring Me No More Blues ... 1978.

With a good friend, a driver from the Northampton Office, 'Timmy Trauma' we called him. He was so laid back, he'd fall over. Used to crack me up. Great character.

 1978 

The year was kicked off with a trip to Chelsea to see Liverpool play in the F.A.Cup Third Round. I had by now traded in my 1600E for a Hillman Minx. Loved the car, it was lovely to drive, only trouble was, it was a complete rust box! Which I didn’t realise until I had to change a headlamp. The casing caved in, I was distraught. When would I ever get a decent car? If the rust was bad enough when I went down to London with Pat, Dennis and Knocker it would prove to be its final journey. Blue smoke belched out of the exhaust when we were on the M1 and an emergency stop was called for at Newport Pagnell Services. A gallon of oil was poured in and away we went. We got as far as Toddington Services near Luton and another gallon of oil was purchased to try and coax the car to get us to Chelsea on time. We did make it, parked up, and by the end of the game we wished we hadn’t bothered. Liverpool lost 4-2! Miserable day it was turning out to be. It was with resignation we traipsed home, with the help of more gallons of oil, defeated and dejected. We limped home, I parked the Minx in the car park by the garages across the road from our house and there the Minx stayed until it made its final journey to Seaton Scrapyard. 

An ignominious beginning to 1978 it was but by the end of the year life had changed in so many ways it was hard to believe. We didn’t have any preconceived ideas or thoughts of how things were going to develop but twelve months later we had a baby, a new car, I had changed my job, we were married, we had moved. A busy year.

I was getting more disillusioned and worried about what the future had in store for us, fears brought on by the impending birth of our first child in May. Was I going to be stuck in the Tubeworks for the rest of my days? Although what I didn’t realise, or took much notice of, was the rumours beginning to circulate about the closure of Corby Steelworks. Then one day out of the blue whilst sitting having a coffee prior to getting ready to go to work on backshift, brother in law Bill called in to collect my pools coupon. Bill was an agent, a job he had taken up since he had been in the Post Office for five years. He caught me feeling really pissed off. “Do you fancy a job in the Post Office?” he asked. I’d never give it a thought. A postman! Bill was full of it, he was very much like me, bit of a rambler, had had numerous jobs until he became a postie. That alone made me think. If Bill was loving it, there must be something in it. He extolled the virtues of the job. ‘You start at five which is a bit of a drag but you soon get used to it, once you’re out there’s nobody on your shoulder, checking on you or anything, you’re out in the fresh air, you’re on your own.. nobody bothers you.. ‘ that immediately grabbed my attention. And then ‘You’re finished virtually every day by 11 0’clock.’ 

Only downsides were that it was a six day week, money wasn’t great and you needed a job on the side to supplement your wages, taxi work, bar work,  door work, Christ I’d been doing this for yonks as it was.  Seemed like a way out for me. I asked Bill, or Willie as I was soon to discover they all called him, to get me an application form. It was to change my life and I have Bill to thank for that. It was a move I would never regret.

Long before Boris's initiative, many people thought I was working from home. Carly posing alongside the '600' whilst I took a break before heading off to Avon for another collection.

Walking into the Rockingham Road Sorting Office was like stepping back in time. The Post Office back then appeared almost Victorian. This could have been 1878 instead of 1978. Amusing and amazing at the same time. 

I was here along with two other guys for an initiative test, better described as an ‘idiot test’. To fail, I was assured, was almost an impossibility. Example; Three trees blowing in the wind - one blowing in the opposite direction to the other two. Tick which one you think is the odd one. Fuck me. An infant couldn’t get that one wrong!

As it turned out, whoever obtained the most marks, gained in seniority. Which was explained rather quaintly when Mick Scott asked Bob Lochore the union man on how it was that I and the other recruit Ian Turner were ahead of him on the list. “Is it something to do with that idiot test?” Mick asked. “Yes, it was” Said Bob, “You came last!”  

Another nice surprise was finding my old mate Dick working there. That helped me to ease in to the ways and whims of the Royal Mail. Turns out Dick had started in the September before me. 

The first week was spent in doors, shuffling through a cardboard box of postcards, each one with the address of every dwelling and factory unit in the town and surrounding villages. Postman Alec Grieg was our tutor. A quiet spoken, mild mannered articulate Scotsman, unusual in a town of belligerent Jocks! The cards were to be sorted into the appropriate pigeon holes and we had to reach a standard of around 500 cards every quarter of an hour before we were considered qualified. Three days of boring torturous monotony ensued. The task was done in the relative peace and quiet of the sorting office following the second delivery. ‘Relative’ that is until the afternoon when PHG George Downs interrupted our concentration barking out orders army style – “head down, keep sorting, don’t talk and sort at the same time!” George was very much old school, and a right piss taker. Christ, this really was like being in the bloody army. I half expected to see three stripes on George’s arm! Alec enjoyed the crack, seen and must have heard it a thousand times! PHG was another quirk synonymous with the Royal Mail. They loved their abbreviations! PHG stood for Postman Higher Grade, indicating a slightly more serious role in the office, and a slightly Higher wage. The PHG worked in a cage like room which resembled a prison cell where the Special Delivery Mail and other high security items were distributed to the postmen. No one, but no one, was allowed entry! The PHG was also the officer in charge when no other higher authority was available. Mainly on the afternoon shift. 

Head of operations in the Post Office was still the Postmaster back then. A figurehead with status equal to that of magistrate, police inspector, an upstanding pillar of the community. Respected. Corby’s Postmaster was Mr. Sidey who walked around the office, which he only rarely deigned to inspect, with an air of self importance and no intention of acknowledging or talking to anyone, looking down his long nose. Basically, a snob.

When he did appear, he revelled in a hush suddenly descending in the office from the postmen sorting the mail. I found it amusing. This was like a red rag to a bull to me. 

The Sorting Office was full of characters and preoccupied with quirks right out of a comic book. Timetables and working hours were based on the running of the railways. Why some rounds in the office started at 5.03 and finished at 12.25 was to the layman, absurd, and a complete mystery. It was a tradition harking back to the days of W.H. Auden’s ‘Night Mail’. To gain employment in the Post Office, one either had to have a military background, ex army, navy apparently, or know someone already working there, family being a bonus. Which is how I got in!

Sidey’s two generals, or Inspectors as they were called were Frank Tansey and Bernard Lenton. They were a sideshow themselves. Frank had a harelip which left him with a lisp. He was a stickler for the rules and was intent on not letting anyone away with anything. Signing on five minutes late one morning and thinking I'd got away with it by scrawling 5am, Frank came up behind me half an hour later and asked accusingly over my shoulder; 'what time did you get here this morning?' 'Five o'clock Frank' I said as sincerely as I could. 'No you didn't!' came the riposte, 'It was five past five! next time make sure you sign on at the right time you get here!' Rudy hell I thought to myself. And I sneaked a look at the timesheet afterwards and sure enough, Frank had marked me down in red ink as late. He must have relished it! Christ almighty I thought to myself. 

Frank was also in charge of, amongst other things, dealing with such things as the post bikes. I was told that on the Westfields round I was on, I should have a bike and went to ask Frank if this was right. "I'll get you one tomorrow' he said grumpily. He did. Next morning, cycling up Rockingham Road on this contraption, it was a real struggle. Just as I was nearing the top of the hill, the pedals snapped and my bollocks hit the crossbar causing me no end of pain. Counting them first, I wheeled the bike back to the office, raging. "That bike is a heap of shite!" I yelled at Frank. He looked up at me from his desk, "you get an extra 48p a week maintenance on that bike" he replied, dismissingly. I wasn't having that. I repeated "the bike is a heap of crap, my nuts are aching!" and told him what he could do with it! Unbelievable. I reckoned the thing had been sitting in the basement rusting away for years. Frank thought I was a soft shite. No way!

His partner in crime, Bernard Lenton, travelled from Kettering on a moped and looked for all the world like a resistance man in the war. Bernard was the one to make announcements, which were generally received with much joy and mickey taking. 'Lend me your ears gentleman, bags of hush chaps’, Bernard would bellow. Everybody cracked up every time! If the weather was bad, snow or fog or something, Bernard would announce 'due to the adverse weather conditions gentlemen, book half an hour overtime'. Cheering, whistling and singing would instantaneously burst out. 'For he's a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow…’ Bernard would never see the joke at all, and shuffle back into his office bemused. Frank would be sitting there, face as long as a fiddle, 'bloody barmy, the lot of em''. 

The two were figures of fun but both well liked for their peculiar ways. Bernard also sorted the uniforms out for the new starts. Measuring you up was like a scene out of the Army Game. Inside leg, waist, size of head for the hat. All done swiftly. When the uniforms arrived, often three times too big, it was no use complaining. Bernard actually said; 'it's a bit like the army, you'll grow into it!' As for the hat, well, that swivelled all the way round my head! Hopeless. 

One thing I learned early on was everybody had their role to play which was assigned to what ever delivery you were on. Nothing happened until the van arrived from Kettering with the mail. Then it was all hands on deck. Bernard shouting in military style, 'Bag dragger inners!' Half a dozen postmen would rush out of the door to help the driver unload hundreds of sacks of mail, and drag them into the office. Next would be a group who’s task was of opening the bags and tipping them onto a sorting table. 'Bag tipper uppers!' The bundles of mail were then transported around the racks of pigeon holes where the other postmen waited eagerly to sort the letters into their appropriate rounds. Another group of posties were allocated the packet frames, bags hooked onto a big framework of all the rounds. 

Not everything went to plan all the time. If the Kettering van was late, rumours would start flying around, usually by Ray Moffatt, a short stocky character with a limp, and a bizarre sense of humour; 'train derailment at Coventry', 'pile up on the motorway'. This was Ray's little joke, making sure it was just in earshot of those who were prone to panic. He liked to wind people up. Ken Scott who was nicknamed the Barber on account of him looking like a barbershop singer, Cliff Binley, called CB, an obvious Post office abbreviation, would bite every time. 'Did you hear that?' Ken would say, worried to death. 'We won't get out till half seven!’ 

One morning when the Kettering mail van was twenty minutes late, panic reached fever pitch. Backing onto the dock, a dozen posties darted to the door to drag the mailbags in. I was standing by the packet frame sorting through the packets, using my initiative I thought. It seemed there were plenty of posties getting the mail in. Bernard came over, ranting; 'you should be on bag dragging in!’. Oblivious to the fact that half the postmen were getting in each others way as they unloaded the van. 'There's plenty of guys doing it Bernard' I said. He froze, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Panic stricken he retorted, pointing over towards the door, 'it's your job! You should be over there on the bag dragging in!' This was obviously a spanner in the works as far as he was concerned. This wasn't in the book. 'I thought I'd use my loaf Bernard and get stuck in sorting these packets out', I explained. I thought he was going to have a seizure. Not wanting to be the cause of a heart attack, I shrugged my shoulders and did as I was told. The relief on Bernard was palpable. Amazing. 

Whilst it was mayhem in the office, one guy would be leaning on his brush surveying the chaos around him. Tim the cleaner. Brigstock born and bred. Nothing seemed to touch him. Or his brush! The crack with Tim was always the same. 'How yer feelin' Tim?' 'Mondayish mate', 'Tuesdayish'. If he wasn't leaning on his brush he was in the locker room studying the horse racing page in the newspaper. Tim always had the knack of looking as if he was hard done by. 'Not enough hours in the day mate', 'don't get paid enough mate'. Tim had Frank and Bernard sized up. They couldn't faze him. Or get him to do anything! Brilliant.

A peculiarity those days was everyone greeting each other by the names of their rounds! Bill Leggett delivered the Ripley Walk round, sorted his mail alongside Bernard Pridmore, a gentleman in the true word from Harringworth, old school, could have been a postman back in the days of Victoria! 'Morning Ripley' Bernard would say. 'Morning High Street' Bill would reply. Crazy. Alongside the pair of them was the court jester, Willie Easton. Taking the Michael out of everyone, making out he was in love with Davy MacMurray, a wee man, a giggling former steward in the Merchant Navy. 'Oh Davy!' Willie would sigh, cuddling up to him. 'Willie!' Davy would respond. Tansey was totally immune to any semblance of a sense of humour. Bollocking Willie all the time, Willie would respond by making out he was bursting into tears, 'Frank, you're always picking on me' whist wiping his eyes with his hankie. This was a madhouse I concluded!

My first winter working for the Royal Mail was during the worst winter for years! Snow a foot deep as I trudged along Tanfields Road. Feeling utterly miserable, snow misting my eyes, hands like blocks of ice, I was walking back down Tanfields towards Westfields Road when I heard a voice cry out, “hey, Postie!” in a rich Glaswegian brogue. Fuck me I thought. Turning around I saw an old woman standing by her gate, some 50 yards or so back. “Christ almighty” I’m thinking, “have I put a card through the wrong door or something!”, “Can’t she put it through her neighbours door herself for fuck's sake!” I walked back, cursing, calling her everything under my breath. “Here, postie” she said. She handed me a envelope. “Happy Christmas”. Inside was a fiver! My first Christmas tip! And my last as it happened, but there you go. I was dumbstruck. “Thank you” I said, feeling totally humbled. She was standing there in the snow, shivering. “Merry Christmas to you too’ I replied, feeling absolutely guilty after what I’d been calling her. Felt terrible. What a lovely old lady!

Old habits die hard. Opening the box on top of Snowdon in 2014

When St Cecilia leapt up and down

 

It was fifty years ago today, Sergeant Pepper learned the band to play...

Well not quite, it wasn't 50 years ago today, and it wasn't Sergeant Pepper either. No it was over 50 years ago that St Cecilia became the only band from Corby to have a hit record in the country's Top Twenty Best Selling Records when it entered the charts in June 1971. 

St Cecilia began life in the inauspicious surroundings of the Corby Boys School where auditions had been arranged following the demise of The Rhubarb Tree. 

Guitarist John Proctor: “Bip Wetherell, Ricky Moss and Keith Hancock were the instigators. Initially the band was a seven-piece with Norrie McMullen on baritone sax and a guy called Rab McLintock, Steve Holmes from Kettering on drums, Keith Hancock on bass and Les Smith on vocals. After several weeks of rehearsal, we had our first outing at Stamford YMCA where we were paid the princely sum of £15. Bip soon decided he wanted to play more jazzy type material and left to form the jazz/rock fusion band Granite. Norrie and Rab McLintock soon followed Bip through the exit door, whilst Steve Holmes concluded that he preferred ‘an ordinary life’ and wanted to work in a factory! Graham Smith, the drummer with Natural Gas, came in and finally that was the official line-up that would gain chart success and notoriety!” 

The song that catapulted the boys to fame was the inspiration and genius of Keith Hancock. With admiral modesty he told the story behind the composition of Leap Up and Down and how it changed their lives during an interview for Alive In the Dead of Night published in 2008. "I was watching the Keith Richards documentary recently and something he came out with resonated with me. How true I thought to myself. The co-writer of a hundred Rolling Stone hits with Mick Jagger expressed his opinion that 'the songs are all up there, pointing to the sky, up in the stratosphere just waiting to be plucked out. You just have to be ready for it!' Such a moment came when I was on holiday with Les Smith in Norfolk."

"We met some French girls and the phrase ‘Leap up and down, wave your knickers in the air’ came into my head (maybe I was being optimistic!) For some reason it must have lingered in the back of my mind. A week later, back at work in the Plug Mill office, I phoned Ricky Moss (who was clerking in the Blast Furnaces office on the other side of the Works) and I said to him: ‘This morning I’m going to write a song that will be a hit record - it’s called Leap Up And Down!’ Ricky laughed at me, but, nevertheless, a couple of hours later I phoned to tell him that the song was ready. It was a few days before the rest of the band got to hear it, and then we started featuring it in our stage act. It got such a good reception from the fans that we quickly decided to make a demo of it at Derek Tompkins’ Beck Studio, in Wellingborough.” 

The recording session went very smoothly and resulted in St Cecilia exiting the studio with a product that they felt certain would be snapped up by some enterprising record company. It had a great bass line. The next step was to send the demo to various record companies - however, because of its lyrical content, they all seemed reluctant to take it on. 

John Proctor: "Jonathan King heard the song and, recognising the potential appeal of its humour, decided that he could make it into a hit record. He subsequently arranged a recording session for us at the Marquee Martin Studios, in London’s Wardour Street, where we re-recorded our song. Surprisingly, King informed us that he didn’t care for the bass line. Although Keith Hancock didn’t agree with him - he changed it all the same. It changed the sound altogether. Jonathan King secured a deal for us with Polydor Records and three weeks later we were summoned to their offices to hear the finished product. We were distraught. It sounded awful when compared to the original demo.” 

For all their misgivings St Cecilia received a boost when Peter Jones reviewed Leap Up And Down in his ‘New Singles’ page in the Record Mirror. ‘This is blatantly commercial and could easily make it. Pretty straightforward stuff, at a breakneck tempo, and the frequent use of the word ‘knickers’ is no hardship. Could click.’ 

John Proctor: “Unfortunately, it labelled us as a sort of dirty picture postcard band. Although Polydor released the record in April 1971, it was a struggle to get airtime on the radio. The lyrics appear tame now - but back then they caused us a problem”. 

Jonathan King promoted the record relentlessly. "When I first heard the song it made me sit up - so I guessed it would have the same effect on others. It was ghastly, but different.’

King’s views were not shared by the BBC. DJ Tony Blackburn refused to play a song about knickers on his Radio One show. Thanks to Tony the band were denied the opportunity to make an appearance on the major pop show of the time, Top of the Pops. It therefore came as a surprise when Jimmy Young decided to give it a spin and thanks to JY the song eventually entered the charts on June 19th of that year. 

Keith Hancock and Ricky Moss, encouraged by the success of 'knickers' got down to writing more songs whilst on the road and went back to Beck Studios on several occasions to record demos. Keith: “I had a couple of songs - another saucy number called The Village Bicycle. Ricky had a novelty number called He’s A Collector and John had written a skiffle-style song called Don’t Want Women, Don’t Want Wine. 

We decided that John’s number would make an ideal choice for the lucrative Christmas market and we recorded at Polydor Studios - complete with clinking glasses and a singalong party atmosphere. Ricky’s song He’s A Collector was chosen as the ‘B’ side and was recorded at Beck Studios in Wellingborough. A release date was tentatively set for mid-November but, unfortunately, Polydor had other priorities and our ‘Christmas single’ was delayed until January 21st! ‘Wine’ made the ‘breakers’ on the week of release. The NME reported: ‘With all due respect, many people were attracted to their recent hit by the ‘forbidden fruit’ aspect of its lyric. Auntie BBC shouldn’t have anything to frown about with this new one. It is however, a tremendously happy affair which looks set for healthy sales.’ 

Sadly, in spite of the encouraging exposure in the music press, ‘Wine’ evaporated as soon as it hit the air waves.

John: “Ricky and I were still writing and decided that the next single needed to be another controversial one. We came up with a ditty which we felt could be an anthem for the fast-growing women’s liberation movement. The song was called C’Mon Ma, Burn Your Bra! and, as John Peel pointed out when he reviewed the disc in the music press, it established us as an ‘underwear’ group rather than an underground group!” 

Valentine’s Day 1972 saw St Cecilia back in town after a year of touring on the back of the success and notoriety of their debut single. Booking agent Dougie Martell forewarned their fans that this was indeed “a rare appearance on home territory, the only chance Corby people will have of seeing their heroes this year.” 

Keith Hancock; “We travelled the length and breadth of the country on the back of Knickers, playing one-nighters all over the country.”

Controversy followed the band around. During a performance of Leap Up And Down, Wave Your Knickers In the Air at a Hunt Ball in Tiverton, Devon, a woman in the hall did just that - whipped off her pants and waved them in the air. The Daily Mirror dropped everything to report: 'Sporty types roared with approval, but not all were amused. Local councillor Bill Jones complained: “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life! This quite attractive lady of about twenty-four took off her knickers. My wife and I will think twice about going to a Hunt Ball again.” 

Dougie Martell promoter and St Cecilia 'roadie' has clear memories of life on the road with the band;

“St Cecilia only received two per cent of the royalties for the records that were written by Keith Hancock and Ricky Moss. Leap Up And Down, with its original full brass section was a great production. Jonathan King decided - in his words, to ‘desimplify it’ - but it sounded crap compared to the original acetate. Because the lyrics were a bit lewd, the BBC refused to give it airplay and, in a roundabout way, gave the band all the publicity it required. 

The follow up wasn’t as controversial as Leap Up And Down but everybody thought C’Mon Ma was going to be a smash, but despite our optimism, it did nothing to raise a few eyebrows. The band spent a day on a photo shoot in London’s Carnaby Street accompanied by two well-known ladies, brunette Della Mancini and blonde Brandy de Franck, who predictably waved their bras in the air! A copy of C’Mon Ma, Burn Your Bra! was also sent to Germaine Greer, one of the leading protagonists of Women’s Lib. 

St Cecilia rode their luck but they were constantly at each others throats. Same old story, get a bunch of lads together, on the road and cooped up in a van for months on end and you're bound to get trouble. It's only human nature, you're bound to get on each other's nerves! Me and fellow 'roadie' Jim Smith were always having to separate various members in punch ups. 

With hindsight one problem the band had was that they lacked what you would call stage craft, for want of a better term. They never introduced themselves or hardly talked at all on stage. Me and Jim took it upon ourselves to introduce them. 'Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Corby, ST CECILIA!!!”

Happy days and great memories.