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Part of the pleasure in spending your later years near where you grew up....is bumping into friends from 60 years and more ago.......\i constantly do this in Bulwell.....old school pals from the 50s a

I listen to "Always" and I'm thinking of fabulous Mrs WW, from happy courting days to the sweetest honeymoon, through all the years, all the sunsets, all the sunrises, all the hard times, near disaste

Moved into our new home today,,now sat quietly apart from a little jig when the music of Dr Hook gets too much to sit still, The site seems to have got back to its friendly ways,,so I'm back,,

I like to think both @phil....

Not often Cliff Ton......i like to go incognito...:)

although believe it or not...a lady stepped in front of me this morning in Bulwell market asking for a dance of  course i obliged........as it was a cousin i'd not seen for quite a time...

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One for @carnie.....thought Billy might cheer you up.......if you still not well gel..........

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Soz for not posting lately. It has been a long couple of years but I have been watching silently in the wings............Just making sure you all behave.  Hubbs birthday is on the 13th Oct and i'm not sure what we will be doing so we will have to linger  longer deciding about the coming meetup, as usual it will be a late decision.:)

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5 hours ago, carni said:

Soz for not posting lately. It has been a long couple of years but I have been watching silently in the wings............Just making sure you all behave.  Hubbs birthday is on the 13th Oct and i'm not sure what we will be doing so we will have to linger  longer deciding about the coming meetup, as usual it will be a late decision.:)

I do hope we will see you at the meetup carni but if you don't make it look after your selves and him indoors.

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Carni, I really hope we‘ll see you both at the meet up but will

understand if you can’t come.x

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58 years ago. Packed a change of clothes, "transistor" and some money, week at Butlins with 3 mates.

 

 

I had my 1st car, pal had a Ford 5cwt van. We went everywhere man. We camped in the van on Liverpool seafront and went to the old cavern next day but dint go in. Skint. 

 

A black 1946 knackered english car ain't really that cool. 

Then in a few short years we got a bit older and all settled down, waiting for the Internet and Nottstalgia to come along.

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Elizabethan Serenade was mentioned in a  thread somewhere recently. That piece along with others were part of the soundtrack of my childhood, thanks to the 'always-on' radio at home.

The following was another memory, a perfect example of a 'sound picture' which captured my imagination. 

Others were-

Sleepy Lagoon,

Knightsbridge March,

Roses from the South.

All accompanied by their own various vivid 'picture show' in my mind. Marvelous things radios.

And this one, workdays in the mornings. Calling all workers.

 

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9 hours ago, Willow wilson said:

That piece along with others were part of the soundtrack of my childhood, thanks to the 'always-on' radio at home.

Willow, they, along with many others, can be accessed via this link on YT. Dip yer bread in

I remember the name Ronald Binge, no disrespect to his family but it sounds like someone from The Goon Show, he wrote many classic light entertainment pieces including Elizabethan Serenade and Sailing By (the Shipping Forecast)

Hucknall's own Eric Coates was famous for By The Sleepy Lagoon and The Dambusters March among many others.

Not forgetting the late Chulla's favourite The Devil's Gallop by Charles Williams.

 

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Listening to the Coronation Scot reminded me of the poem The Night Mail by W H Auden. Very much to the rhythm of a train.

 

This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,

Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.

In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.


Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.


Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:

Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

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Night Mail, brilliant poem I remember from my schooldays. Thanks for the reminder. 

This has triggered another memory from the 50s radio days, that being a story by a popular raconteur of the day about the sounds that trains make. He gave a 2 or 3 minute narrative using words and voiced sound effects representing wheels on rails (for example;  diddly dee...diddly dee....diddly dee) and steam sounds etc. This mesmerised me as a child, can anyone remember it or perhaps throw any light on who the narrator was or what it was called?

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Willow, I believe his name was Reginald Gardiner and he is on you tube  with his sounds. I am sorry but I don't seem to remember how to add him to my post. My husband and myself still sing the Diddley Dee sounds occasionally, 'it's  not the same with our super duper trains these days though'.

 

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When I was a kid we had that record, on a 45 rpm EP.

 

As an 8-9 year old, it fascinated me, although even then I thought Reginald Gardiner must've been an odd, eccentric old man.

 

 

 

If someone made this recording today, they'd probably be arrested and locked up.

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Just had a listen to the above C.T., do you reckon the guy was on Prozac or Diazipan or summat similar? A man after my own heart.

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What surprised me is that I heard it today for the first time in 50+ years, and yet as soon as it started I knew all the words and sounds - everything came back as though I'd been listening to it frequently in the intervening years.

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CT. Certain memories which are made when one’s brain is young do last a lifetime.  But memories made with one’s older brain aren’t so good!

I know the words to all the songs I loved as a teenager but I’m not so good at remembering things now…

I wonder what I’m doing tomorrow ….. :) 

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22 hours ago, Oztalgian said:

Listening to the Coronation Scot reminded me of the poem The Night Mail by W H Auden. Very much to the rhythm of a train.

 

This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,

Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.

In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.


Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.


Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:

Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?


 

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