Published Articles

Elephant Jokes (Memoir)

The Oldie – April 2025

In the early sixties I was in my teens and went for a job interview. I was edgy about the questions they would fire at me and had an image of being confronted by a panel of interrogators like the scene in the Peter Sellers 1962 film ‘Only Two Can Play.’ Sellers’ character had cause for concern as the panel’s chairman turned out to be the husband of his mistress. No such problems for the eighteen-year-old me, but still daunting.

As it turned out, I was to be interviewed by one middle aged chap, on meeting him again in later years, I realised that at the time he must have only been in his late twenties! I sat outside his office while he finished a phone call. I was expecting to pick up some interesting snippets about the company or their contracts, but his conversation finished like this-

‘I’ve got a new one for you, Brian – How do you know if there’s an elephant in the pub?’

After a pause ‘OK I’ll tell you-

Because its bike is outside.’ Followed by laughter.

I was shocked to hear this captain of industry enjoying the latest craze for elephant jokes. It actually made me feel on a par and more relaxed by the time I was called in.

Around 1963 Elephant Jokes peppered our conversations, their absurdity and slick delivery appealing to us rebellious youths.

Question- How do you get four elephants into a mini?

Answer – Two in the front and two in the back.

The silliness didn’t stop there.

Question- How many giraffes can you get in a mini?

Answer – None it’s full of elephants.

There’s more-

Question- How do you get an elephant on top of an oak tree?

Answer- Stand it on an acorn and wait fifty years.

The craze that swept the western world was born in the USA. Lyle Becker as an eighteen-year-old whiz kid had founded a trading card company and was later credited with producing cards bearing the first elephant jokes. These cracks were picked up by newspapers and magazines and became part of sixties life.

However, the style of humour developed leaving the elephants plodding behind. What’s yellow and dangerous?

Answer – Shark infested custard.

I told that one to my interviewer, he liked it, but I didn’t get the job.

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Highwayman Dick Turpin, A Fugitive in Deepest Kent (History)

Bygone Kent; magazine

The Kent village of Pratts Bottom sits astride Rushmore Hill – the old coach road from London to Hastings. Tucked away from the busy A21 it enjoys a peaceful setting and was an attractive place to hide-out in times gone by.

Pratts Bottom features fine Kent architecture -clean lines of white weather boarded cottages, brick and flint houses, a village green, a hall and an inn. It is thought that the strange name of ‘Pratts Bottom’ meant, the land at the bottom of the valley owned by Pratt. There was a landowner named John Pratt but there are also records of it being called ‘Sprats Bottom’ in the 1700s.

The village inn, the Bull’s Head, was a coaching inn and has served the villagers since around 1575, with two stables, (large enough to house a team of six horses.) coach house and stable yard. In the dining room are pictures which romanticise the exploits of Dick Turpin the highwayman.

So, what is thought to be the connection between this village in Kent and the notorious Essex robber? –

Richard Turpin’s life is cloaked in legend and has featured in literature and film confusing fact and fiction. Notably, ‘Rookwood,’ a novel by William Harrison Ainsworth, published 100 years after Turpin’s death. He was portrayed as a ‘Gentleman of the Road.’ His vicious treatment of victims rules out this myth and alas he did not have a horse named ‘Black Bess.’

His short and violent life began on 21 September 1705 at Hempstead, near Saffron Waldon, Essex, and his father, John Turpin was a small holder and inn keeper. Dick became an apprentice butcher and when trained started his own business. The unruly boy took the cheaper option of stealing sheep and cattle instead of buying his meat. While out rustling he narrowly escaped capture and had to leave town in a hurry.

He was not a lone robber as often portrayed, but joined the Essex Gang (Often referred to as the Gregory Gang after Its leader.) who attacked isolated farmhouses. They tortured the occupants, notably the women, to reveal their Jewellery and money.

There are reports that Turpin was operating south of the Thames in 1735 when a farmer in Charlton was robbed by him. Around this time a reward of £50, a considerable sum then, was offered for his capture.

Turpin’s notoriety grew, as did the reward, the prize for his capture was increased to £100. The money captured public interest and he was traced to a hideout in Epping Forest by a local gamekeeper. Turpin shot the man and escaped, adding murder to his crimes.

It may have been the increased public interest in him that made Turpin flee the long distance to Kent. At that time Bromley Common, south of the town of Bromley, was a desolate area and the haunt of smugglers from the south coast selling contraband, footpads and highwaymen attacking the stage coaches and foot travellers. An ideal place for Turpin to scavenge a living.

It is claimed that he stayed at Pear Tree Cottage in Pratts Bottom and was a regular at the Bulls Head Inn, just a few doors down. The Cottage is in excellent repair and still in use today.

His idyllic bolt hole proved unsafe, his pursuers caught up and it is rumoured that he made his escape through a tunnel that joined Pear Tree Cottage to the cellar of the Bulls Head. The tunnel was possibly bricked up, as there is no longer a free access to the pub’s beer cellar. He left the south and a year later turned up in York. The legendary 24-hour horse ride was a myth.

He continued his life of crime but using a new name, John Palmer, his wife’s surname. It is recorded that he was married, but must not have seen much of her as he spent a lot of time running away. He concealed his identity until he was arrested for threatening to kill an inn landlord. While imprisoned in York Castle he was identified by his old school master and charged with his crimes. He was executed by hanging on 7 April 1739, at the age of 33.

Pratts Bottom has not forgotten Dick Turpin, he is commemorated in the children’s playground across the lane from the Bulls Head, where a mock stage coach and grazing horse are overlooked by the figure of Turpin holding a pistol.

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Beadle’s About Orpington (Famous Local People)

Life in Orpington (Luna Creative Media Ltd)

Orpington boy Jeremy Beadle, the entertainer, was born on 12 April 1948, and would have been 75 this year but sadly died of pneumonia aged 59. Before show business, he worked locally including on the production line at Tip Top Bakery.

As an infant he had suffered poor health; he was born a ’blue’ baby and had Poland syndrome which left him with a stunted arm. Before he was two years old, he had endured several operations.

He lived with his mother and grandmother, who was an ex-Tiller girl, in Blythe Hill, St Pauls Cray. He didn’t know his father and in later life could see no point in meeting him.

Jeremy believed that schools were like factories, they mass-produced people all to the same pattern. He was an unruly boy when he attended Midfield Road Junior School and was regularly caned, but it was a surprise to his teachers when he failed the eleven plus exam because their tests showed that he was above average intelligence.

He moved on to Orpington Secondary Modern School in Charterhouse Road. Later at the age of 15, his incessant bad behaviour and constant need for a ‘lark’ resulted in his expulsion from Orpington County Secondary Boy’s School. Formal education did not suit him, so he embarked on a varied and exceptional life using his ability and intellect to succeed and also to dodge work.

While working at the Morphy Richards electrical appliances factory, (the Nugent Shopping Centre stands on the site today), Jeremy annoyed his workmates by repeatedly hiding and swapping around their clothes in the locker room, all part of Jeremy’s outlandish behaviour. Payback came when they interrupted his end of shift shower and dragged him naked onto the factory floor to greet the arriving all-female night shift.

He was sacked but his workmates pleaded to have him reinstated, claiming that they had played a part in exposing him. It turned out to be a waste of effort as Jeremy was soon sacked again for bad timekeeping.

It was his lifetime’s interest in trivia and snippets of odd information that introduced him to writing for TV. He sent questions to Bob Monkhouse for the programme, ‘Celebrity Squares’. His talent for entertaining was soon spotted by the programme makers and he became involved in production and appeared in front of the cameras.

He had a generous nature and throughout his life helped raise an estimated £100 million for charities. In 2001 he was awarded an MBE for his work.

Jeremy was married to Susan, he had two daughters and a step son and daughter. His headstone bears the inscription,’ Writer, Presenter, Curator of Oddities.’

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The King of the Cowboys (Memoir)

Evergreen Magazine; This England Publishers.

‘A four-legged friend, a four-legged friend,’ the singing cowboy’s voice came from the old wireless on most Saturday mornings. It was ‘Children’s Choice,’ the Light Programme’s request show for 1950s kids, introduced by ‘Uncle Mac. I was up from my bed to turn on the chunky wireless and warm up the valves in time for the 9-o-clock start. Still swathed in dressing gown and clutching a bowl of the latest ‘snap, crackle, and pop,’ cereal, I’d settle in front of the cold black leaded fire grate and listen to songs rarely played on grown up programmes- ‘Nellie the Elephant,’ ‘The Laughing Policeman,’ ‘The Teddy Bears Picnic,’ and ‘The Runaway Train,’ but Roy Rogers, the King of the Cowboys soon became a favourite.

In the afternoon, with my nine-year-old pals, I would take off to the, ‘Children’s Matinee,’ at the Ritz Cinema, just walking distance from our homes in Anfield, Liverpool. Even then we called it the ‘flea pit’, it was four-pence to get in (that’s less than 2p in today’s money) it was so popular that sometimes we would have to sit on the front row, heads bent back to see the screen properly. No wonder I failed the eye test at school and was given wire framed NHS ‘goggles’ to wear.

The main feature was always a cowboy film and our favourites were Roy Rogers and his magnificent horse ‘Trigger.’ Our gang’s collective dream was to grow up as quickly as possible, go to America and ride the wide-open spaces on a golden stallion, like Roy did.

So, imagine our excitement when the news broke that Roy was coming to Liverpool! The cowboy from California was riding into our home town.

Following the news came an uneasy feeling. We’d grown up to realise that not everything would automatically come our way. We’d been taught that, ‘money didn’t grow on trees.’ Our cash strapped parents had to pick and choose what the weekly wage was spent on. Billy Smart’s Circus had come to town and left unseen by most of us. But this was Roy Rogers and he might never come again!

In the meantime, there were gunfights with our cap-guns on the bombsite next door to our house, where once three houses had stood until the Blitz of 1941 when a direct hit had killed the occupants. The site had been levelled and by the 50s resembled the dustbowls of Oklahoma, an ideal playground for us kids.

We got on with things, we’d sit in a circle with our piles of American comics, each about a foot high (30cm to the youngsters) and swap the ones we’d read with our friends. A full colour was worth two black and whites. Then I started to wonder what Roy would actually do on the stage, it was a far cry from chasing outlaws and the gunfights on the films.

Then Dad came home from work one night and stood smiling in his bib and brace overalls. He handed me tickets for the Roy Rogers Show at the Empire Theatre! My parents were both keen to take me, Roy’s popularity must have rubbed off. Roy’s wife, Dale Evans was coming. Shame that Bullet, the wonder dog had to stay at home on the ranch but at least Trigger the horse would be there.

Each day leading up to the show seemed like a week to a nine-year-old, then the Liverpool Echo reported that Roy had arrived and was staying in the luxurious Adelphi Hotel, and to prove it there was a photograph of Roy leading Trigger up the stairs inside the hotel!

The next news wasn’t good. Roy and Dale were tucked up in their hotel beds suffering from the flu. Influenza was the scourge of the 1950s, when epidemics killed hundreds of people across the UK. The King of the Cowboys had flu, but could he still do the show?

There was no talk of cancellation, so on the night, armed with my six-shooter, minus the caps that had been banned by my folks, we passed the box office and entered the Empire Theatre for the first time.

The theatre stalls looked like a box of frogs had been opened. Kids were everywhere and the noise shrieked from floor to the roof where it was joined by more from the circle. Every kid had a six gun, so I was pleased that I had mine. Even without the caps there was a satisfying click of metal on metal when the trigger was pulled. Multiplied a few thousand times and the result was a heck of a shootout.

Voices roared as the lights were dimmed, the curtains swished and on stage ran the King. My mother nudged me as if my attention may have wandered. He seemed to glow at centre stage. White cowboy shirt and pants, Stetson and boots with spurs on. When he spoke, he called us ‘liddle pardners,’ and asked if we’d brought our guns. He was left in no doubt about that. Then Dale Evans, the complete cowgirl, romped onto the stage and grabbed the hearts of a thousand little boys.

Soon Dale set up posts around the stage and a lasso spun in the air above Roy’s head. It snaked across the stage to capture each post then Roy towed them to his feet. Our excitement grew when Roy unslung his matching six guns. We gaped and gasped as Dale threw balls in the air, the guns roared and the balls were blown to pieces. Smoke surrounded the guns and soon the tang of gunpowder reached us in the stalls. There was no health and safety concerns then but I’m still not sure whether the shots were real or a stunt.

To calm us down he strummed on his guitar and sang his songs, our favourite, ‘A Four-Legged Friend,’ dedicated to Trigger, followed by a new one to us, ‘The Kid with the Rip in his Pants.’ Chuckles went around the theatre because there probably wasn’t a kid there who didn’t have stitches repairing his school shorts.

Roy left the stage without a word while Dale smiled and chatted. It wasn’t until we heard a clumping sound on the boards that we realised what was happening. Then Triggers regal head appeared from the wings. The crowd went wild, Triggers welcome was as enthusiastic as any rock stars.

Roy had more tricks for us. Trigger, the best-behaved horse in the world, took the applause with equine dignity. Then Roy told us that his faithful friend could count and then stooped before his mighty steed.

‘Trigger, count four,’ he ordered.

No gunshots now, the place was as silent as Boot Hill. Trigger raised a heavy hoof and then it clomped down on the boards. ‘One’. His eye glinted in the stage lights.

Lift- clomp.

‘Two,’ said Roy.

Then, ‘Three and Four,’ and a mountainous applause.

‘That horse can count better than some of these kids,’ I heard my mother say.

Roy did several more counting acts which drew a huge applause. Then with Roy’s help Trigger faced the audience and took a bow. With a grin, Roy hefted himself high into the saddle. Trigger’s hooves stuttered backwards a bit until Roy took control and rode a lap of honour around the stage. With hand held high he rode off into the wings.

When Roy returned alone, it was time for a chat. He and Dale were a caring couple and had a form of ten commandments for the ‘liddle pardners.’ At this point Roy reminded us to clean our teeth every day and demonstrated with his finger. He told us to obey our parents and not to skip Sunday School. In front of me an older boy greeted this with a snort that would have been a credit to Trigger.

Too soon the curtains closed and the lights revealed a mass of ‘liddle pardners’ bolting for the exits.

Out in the side street we crowded the stage door, but Roy did not appear. Then someone shouted, ‘Look,’ and we turned to see a classy horse box, lit up inside, pass down the street. Trigger had his back to us but we waved anyway. He didn’t wave back.

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Tenderfoot at Horseshoe Falls (Memoir)

Evergreen Magazine; This England Publishers.

‘What are you boys doing here?’ An old man blocked the tow path. He wore a tweed hat with the brim pulled down and held a stick slightly raised.

‘We’re camping over there.’ I pointed across the canal to our tents where wood smoke spiced the evening air.

Our adventure had come to a halt. We’d been charging around exploring the old man’s side of the canal and skimming stones. It looked like we’d annoyed him.

‘Who’s in charge?’

Two of our scouts stepped forward.

‘Come with me,’ he ordered. We all trooped off behind him.

It was the first night of our 1955 Summer Camp in Wales. We were the 5th Anfield, Liverpool, cubs and scouts and very excited about our holiday in the wild. This set back and the approaching night made me think of home and I felt the first pangs of the dreaded ‘home sickness’.

‘Bungalow’, another cub pulled a face. He lived in a prefab that his mother called, ‘her bungalow’. So poor Bill became known as, ‘Bungalow Bill’.

The man stopped by a house-boat and pointed his stick at a dinghy moored behind it.

‘I’ve got this dinghy here doing nothing, I thought you boys could make good use of it.’

‘Wow.’ ‘Yes sir.’ ‘Thank you.’ The surprise and relief that we weren’t in trouble set us all talking at once. Willing hands scrabbled at the awning as we helped him pull it off.

Kenny Everett (no relation) took charge and rowed us across the silver surface. The oars plopped and swished, we dangled our hands over the side until they became numb with cold. The birds called out from the overhanging trees and when the light failed, we did a clumsy turn, bumping the bank a few times, then headed back.

‘Is rowing hard work, Kenny?’ Bungalow, asked.

‘Yes but I don’t mind. I need to get fit for the army next year. He was eighteen and due his call-up papers for National Service.

There was lots of excitement for us cubs. Our first night under canvas started with a lot of joking and squabbling but once the torches went out we fell asleep.

Earlier we had carpeted the tent with a tarpaulin and as sleeping bags were unheard of, we had folded our blankets in half and fixed the bottom and one side with blanket pins. These worked like safety pins but were bigger, about four inches long.

The day had been a dream for us tenderfoots. It started with loading a furniture removal van outside Skip’s house. Tents, tables and chairs, cooking gear and food supplies and our own sausage shaped kit bags. Mine was stuffed with all the things my mother thought I needed; clean clothes, enamel mug and plates, cutlery, Lifebuoy soap, a round red tin of Gibbs Dentifrice toothpaste. Inside this was a hard block which lathered up when scrubbed with a tooth brush. It tasted of peppermint and was good for taking away the taste of burnt breakfast toast. Then there was a tin of Cherry Blossom boot polish, that was clicked open by turning a penny under the lid. This went home in mint condition!

The kit filled half the van and we travelled in the space left, sitting on anything available, including the floor. We managed well without seat belts and air conditioning. When the ramp was pulled up, the top half of the back was open to the fresh air.

Cubs, scouts and officers all piled in except for Skip who drove in his Jowett Javelin, it was black like most cars then. ‘Akela’, his wife travelled with him, she was in charge of us cubs.

Aboard the van the older boys introduced us to communal singing. It started with some scout favourites; Quartermaster’s Store, and Happy Wanderer, then there was one I can only partly recall (perhaps it’s just as well)

Oh you can’t get to Heaven

With a fat girl guide

Cos’ a fat girl guide

Is far too wide.

I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord no more

We chuckled at song after song, without political correctness the repertoire was endless.

A few hours later we were bumped and shaken as the van turned into a field. A tangle of arms and legs clambered over the tail gate before it was dropped. I stood with the other cubs on the grass.

‘Look sheep,’ Bungalow pointed to a herd grazing under trees. He stretched his arms out to his sides and rotated like a top. I did the same, it was a good way to take in the whole field that sloped down to a canal with boats on it, and the tall green hills behind us and Skip’s car parked up with his kit already on the ground.

He marched toward us fastening his beret to an epaulet on his shirt.

‘Come on lads, start unloading.’

Ridge tents were rolled out and hoisted like sails. There were two poles, one at the back the other at the front and the whole thing held by guy ropes fixed to pegs in the ground. There weren’t any frame tents then.

We fought over the mallets to knock the pegs in. Soon one of the boys who had been quicker to grab one, asked if I’d like to have a go. I hit the first peg, it stood for a few seconds and then fell over. When I attacked it with more effort, it split. The ground was like iron. Soon I couldn’t grip the mallet any more, my hands hurt. I ran my fingers over the red blisters. I couldn’t carry on and thought the best thing to do was to pass it over to someone else to have a go. It was all part of learning and growing up.

By late afternoon we’d built a camp with about ten ridge tents and a marquee for dining, food preparation and everything else. One of the leaders had found a freshwater spring and we were instructed to haul water in metal Dixie’s, two boys to a handle. As we set a full one down in the mess tent, I noticed a tiny creature swimming around and told Skip. I wasn’t convinced when he said, ‘It’ll be alright,’ without even looking.

The camp fire crackled with dry branches and twigs. An older boy wielded an axe and stacked the wood in a pile. The axe could only be used by the scouts, cubs were forbidden to even touch it. That was that, we didn’t question the rules.

A metal grill fixed over the fire held the Dixies that Skip had filled with meat and vegetables for the evening meal. That was our diet, meat and two veg’ followed by sticky puddings and custard. Good fare for the outdoors. Everything was cooked over the fire; boiling water for tea and porridge for breakfast, there was no camping Gaz then.

As it grew dark the camp fire attracted us. The place to relax after games of ; tick, kick the can, rounders and wide games for the older boys. This was like kick the can but had no boundaries. The whole of North Wales was on limits.

It was a good time to talk, drink our cocoa and of course, sing. The scouts led the way with songs like-

Bring your sticks of chewing gum and sit upon the floor
And we’ll tell you Bible Stories that you’ve never heard before

Samson was a big strong man who flirted with the girls…

My memory really does fail me here.

Guy Mitchell songs were popular; ‘Sippin Soda’ and ‘Chicka Boom’ along with Frankie Laine’s, ‘Strange Lady In Town.’

The fire created a bubble of warmth and light in the dark field. When there was a lull in the singing one of the scouts would call ‘hush’, and then doing his best Christopher Lee impersonation, would tell a ghost story. This all helped to scare us younger boys who at some point had to leave the fireside and cross the dark field to our tents.

One night Bungalow said, ‘this has been great, we’re all coming back next year aren’t we?’

‘Yes,’ was the chorus and we all cheered. I was sitting next to a senior scout huddled toward the fire. He hadn’t joined in with the rest.

‘You’re coming too aren’t you?’ I asked.

‘I doubt it,’ then he explained. ‘You see, us three may not be able to,’ he motioned to the scouts near him, ‘we’ll probably be in the army by next summer.’

During the silence that followed, I looked at the faces of the three older boys as they stared into the fire. Then one stood and kicked a log sending sparks up into the night like tracer bullets. I realised for the first time that boys who could swim in the canal, wield an axe and go out at night on their own, had worries too.

Kit inspections, washing up our mugs and plates in the canal and all the other things we weren’t used to doing for ourselves, kept us busy but there was still time for days out.

We went to Llangollen on the bus and scrawled our adventures onto post cards to send home to Mum and Dad. On a rainy day we found the cinema and saw ‘Doctor at Sea’ starring Dirk Bogarde and the scouts favourite, the pouting, Bridget Bardot.

The highlight came one sunny morning when we followed Skip along the tow path. The walk went on and on and we became tired, then suddenly the effort was rewarded with our first glimpse of Horseshoe Falls. They were on a lake alongside the canal. The polished surface was cut by the slender curve of the waterfall. The water chortled white to the lower level. Our imaginings of something like Niagara were dashed as the falls were only a few feet high but picturesque. Skip told us that it was not all just for show, they had been designed by Telford to lift the level of the lake to feed our canal!

That first week away from home seemed a long time to us and left an impression that has lasted a lifetime. So much is still with me that whenever I smell wood smoke, the old songs come back to me.

But if you get to Heaven

Before I do

Just dig a hole

And pull me through

I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord

I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord no more.

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David Nobbs – Comedy Writer (Local People)

Petts Wood Gazette

David Nobbs, the creator of The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, died on 9 August 2015, in Ripon Yorkshire. He was 80. A master of comedy writing, David was loved and admired by all who knew him including some prominent peers. Matt Lucas made a brief and fitting tribute. ‘Reginald Perrin and A Bit of a Do were masterpieces. David Nobbs leaves the world a better place.’

The late Peter Cook worked with David at the Footlights Drama Club when they were at Cambridge. To David’s delight, Peter told him later, that he had been his favourite of that talented bunch.

He was a local man, born in a Petts Wood maternity home on 13 March 1935 and lived in the family home at 55 Sevenoaks Road, Orpington. His father was Deputy Head of the City of London School and instilled in his only child a sense of fun and fair play. He would not tutor David himself as, he considered that it would give him an unfair advantage over other boys. His mother taught maths and family strove to give him a good education.

At school age he would plod up The Avenue, then a dirt road, to take the train to Chislehurst where he attended Bickley Hall Prep School. The building blocks of his early education now lay beneath the local housing estates. He watched the commuters in pin striped suits and bowler hats going to their London offices. This daily pageant could well have influenced his later creation of the bizarre, Reginald Perrin.

David continued his education at Marlborough College. Later National Service called him to the Royal Corps of Signals. He became a Morse code receiver and was posted to Denbury Camp in Devon where curious situations occurred which were worthy of a sit-com. An officer explained that there were more bods. on camp than allowed. So David was ordered to take a group to the beach at Torquay daily, to avoid detection. During a glorious summer he carried out his duty with devotion.

Amidst the military chaos, David made decisions about his future. He deliberately failed his exams to be an officer and remained a Signalman. He also decided to become a writer and enrolled on a journalism course.

On demob’ he continued his studies and read classics at Cambridge. His resolve to be a writer hardened and he submitted humorous articles to magazines with some success. His sketches were performed at the ‘Footlights Drama Club’ and the ‘Footlights Revue’ at the Arts Theatre. Torn between his studies and the need to be a writer, he decided to switch to an easier English course. He appreciated his parent’s sacrifice to educate him so he secured a second class degree rather than drop out.

He became a trainee reporter on the Sheffield Star, but dragging around hospitals and courts for stories didn’t satisfy him so he used the evenings in his digs to write his first novel, The Itinerant Lodger, about a man who lived in digs and moved from digs to digs…

The urge to write now consumed him so he made the decision to leave the Star and journalism behind. The popular TV satire, That Was The Week, That Was, reflected David’s sense of humour, so he telephoned the BBC with a sketch. This was his breakthrough and he became a regular contributor. Opportunities followed to write for, The Frost Report and The Two Ronnie’s and many comedians including; Les Dawson, Ken Dodd, Jimmy Tarbuck and Dick Emery.

His first book was published in 1965 and he sold the film rights on the first day. He wrote further novels, and in 1975, The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, brought him success and he adapted it for the TV series.

David married Mary, a divorced woman with three children and moved to Herefordshire. When their marriage broke up in 1992, he moved to Harrogate to live with Susan, who had one daughter. He married Susan in 1998.

As well as his television successes, he has over twenty books to his credit and was the president of the Writers Guild of Great Britain for four years. He was affected so deeply by the death of his mother in 1995, that he wrote the moving novel, Going Gently. The experience also inspired him to become a Humanist. He leaves his wife, Susan and four step-children, eight step-grandchildren and two step- grand-grand children… and the world a better place.

ooo

For Those in Peril (History)

Bromley District Talking News (Audio)

The distress signal, SOS was introduced 110 years ago, yet some still speculate as to what the initials stand for. The popular beliefs that it is, ‘Save Our Souls’, or ’Save Our Ship’, are not correct nor are any of the other creations such as ‘Send Out Succour’ or ‘Save Our Sailors’. The answer is more interesting, the fact is that SOS stands for nothing at all.
SOS became the preferred code because it could be easily transmitted in Morse by operators under pressure; three dots, followed by three dashes and then another three dots. A sequence that is easy to remember and has saved lives under extraordinary circumstances.

However, the letters alone have often been used. SOS scrawled in snow on a mountainside has alerted pilots to people stranded below, and similarly scraped in the sand of a deserted beach have drawn attention to shipwreck survivors. It is also helpful under search conditions that, SOS is an ‘Ambigram’, that is, it can be read the same when viewed right side up or upside down.

At an international conference in 1906, when Morse was the main form of communication for the military and seafarers, the British Marconi Society and the German Company, Telefunk, established SOS as the International Distress Signal. It was formally introduced on 1 July 1908.

Other distress signals in use at the time were rejected; UK used CQD and Germany SOE, while Italy preferred SSSDDD. At the time, the latter was dismissed for being too long, but I have just noticed that it is the quickest one to type on a computer keyboard, not helpful in 1906 when they were tapping Morse keys.

It was almost a year after introduction that SOS first proved its worth. On 10 June 1909 the Cunard liner SS Slavonia was sinking off the Azores, the SS Batavia and SS Prinzess Irene received her SOS call and raced to the stricken craft. They rescued all on board, and recovered some of the cargo. The English survivors returned to the UK by an oblique route, finally arriving in Liverpool, aboard the ill-fated Lusitania.

It was later the same year that the SS Arapahoe became the first US ship to use the SOS signal, when stranded off the coast of North Carolina. Wireless operator T. D. Haubner sent the signal which resulted in a successful rescue. A few months later back at sea, the SS Arapahoe received an SOS call from the SS Iroquois. Radio Officer Haubner therefore has the distinction of being involved in the first two incidents of the use of SOS in America, the first as the sender and the second as the receiver.

As with all new things it took some time for SOS to be accepted by all the telegraphers. Even as late as 1912, when the Titanic was in distress, Marconi men, Jack Phillips and Harold Bride, used the familiar CQD signal to call for help. As a last resort, they tried SOS and joked that they may never get the chance to use it again. In Phillips’ case, this was sadly true.

Communication by Morse code lasted a surprisingly long time but in 1999 it was replaced by the Global Maritime Distress and Safety System (GMDSS), a satellite-based system for sending distress signals at sea. There will not be as much use for SOS in future but dots and dashes will not disappear completely, they will continue to be used by; small vessels, amateur radio operators and some sections of the armed services.

Almost anyone aboard a ship can send a distress signal using GMDSS. When the appropriate button is pressed a message containing the vessel’s identification number and its precise location is automatically prepared and sent via satellite. There is no need for a skilled operator.

SOS has been with us throughout our lives and the dots and dashes are easily remembered. This was fortunate for army veteran, Tim Robinson, who slipped on a rocky beach near Bridport, Dorset in January 2017. He was alone with a broken leg, and without a mobile phone. On that dark winters afternoon, all he was carrying were his keys. He spent hours crawling back toward his holiday home, pausing regularly to signal, SOS with his keyring torch. Eventually his wife spotted his distress signal and called the lifeboat. Although he endured considerable pain he was saved by the 109-year-old distress signal.