Written Ten Years Ago Today

 

Child's Play

A recent Report from The Children's Society in the UK expressed concerns that teenagers are becoming increasingly unhappy with their lives.

Amongst the reasons cited for the disgruntled mindset of the current youth of the country are school, appearance, choice and freedom.

I am the first to accept that we are living in very different times. There are economic undercurrents, Environmental issues, World Unrest, we are up to a NOW!85 album for goodness sake  but when I was a teenager I never had time to even contemplate if I was worried about anything because I, like my peers, was just too busy getting on with things.

From getting up early to going to bed, early, the day was simply packed with activities.

Of course, during school term time there was the effort to get ready which in a household of 5 children was only kept from being chaotic by good adult supervision and a rota for the bathroom and the breakfast table.

We were always well turned out in school uniform, washed and brushed and with clean shoes. This enabled us to follow our Father as he strode off down the street to take on his role of Manager at a bank in the town. We would straggle along before peeling off at the top of the road to the school although on more than one occasion my younger brother just doubled back when out of sight and went home.

We did range about quite freely in our teenage years whereas with the modern phenomena of paranoia around stranger danger and the perception of crime many of todays young adults are driven about everywhere by over indulgent parents.

We stayed for dinner at the canteen. This was not one of these multiple choice affairs which feature in State Schools today and rival a reasonable bistro but with a menu that you could set your calendar by. Monday was fish fingers and chips, Tuesday liver and onions, Wednesday some form of meat in a pie, Thursday cold salad and Friday some other form of meat in some form of gravy. There was dessert  including flapjack, treacle sponge pudding, spotted dick, chocolate sponge and Angel Delight on a strict rotation basis whether or not complimentary to or inducing an adverse reaction when combined with the main course. All washed down with tap water and ,oh yes, pink custard.

As for lessons, well we just stuck to the basics of the three 'R's as they say with a smattering of science, languages, arts, crafts, music and strenuous physical exercise. There was none of the variation found in the current curriculum such as multi faith studies, media studies, citizenship and vague arty-farty subjects for which everyone gets a certificate of merit.

There was a level of mutual respect between the teaching staff and us pupils although it was borne more out of fear and retribution rather than anything enlightened. I do not think that I ever knew the Christian names of any of my teachers in senior school unless bastardised into a nickname or if it was unusually hilarious and capable of being sung or put in an offensive rhyme.

We did have a clear objective in our schooling years whether to go on to a University, Polytechnic or College or go straight into employment. I can appreciate some of the anxiety of the current teenagers about what to do with their lives post-secondary education given the lack of meaningful full time jobs in the UK economy.

As for money in our pockets, well, I only had my pocket money which until I got a paper round was based on one new pence per year of age. This did not go very far other than my monthly comic/magazine, goodies and my flirting with being a smoker, briefly, one rebellious summer.

I was never a saver and shamefully this still applies into my 6th decade on the planet.

In the absence of personal wealth the only option was to make your own entertainment and this we did large.

What was better than having competitive foot running or bike races around the housing estate with your mates or going into battle armed with home made bows and arrows against the kids from the nearby council houses?

The local streams and ponds were teeming with sticklebacks, frogspawn and newts providing endless hours of fun from daybreak to dusk. Just take a net on a stick and a jam jar.

There were trees to climb, gardens and allotments to trespass through, small shops ripe for a five finger discount if in enough of a group to constitute a distraction for the proprietor, things to set alight and wait for the fire brigade, doors to knock on before running off, people to follow at random through the town just to see what they were up to, Bob a Job week once a year with a licence to wash cars and use all of my Father's chrome polish on gleaming bumpers and hub caps, animals to stalk and worry, girls to chase, catch and kiss, small kids to impress with bravado and daring near the railway line, river and on the bridge over the by-pass.

It all now sounds borderline delinquent and illegal but I like to think that all of these things were enacted in the right spirit and with not a malicious thought in our heads. Some friends did get arrested or died though.

Any prowess at sport, in music or in performing arts was hard earned through many hours of practice and sacrifice of time and effort. That was probably why I never did much in any discipline in my teenage years. Todays youth are just waiting around optimistically to be discovered by talent spotters whether singing flatly and nasally under their headphones at the Mall ,on a You Tube video or through posted on Facebook.

I can sense their frustration if by the age of 17 they have not signed to a record label or modelling agency or are not otherwise entrepreneurial millionaires.

Teenagers today are very fashion and image conscious. We were never too concerned about our appearance. Take a look in the family photo album from my mid teens and you will know this to be true. My idea of style was a pair of Lopez jeans, formal shoes, button up shirt and a cardigan. Pretty square you would be entitled to say but I can assure you that I did not stand out as being any different to my contemporaries. My hair style, or lack of it, was a bit of a basin cut, floppy fringe and with the later mature growth of sideburns which, if shaved off after the summer, just left a white stripe down the side of my head.

Perhaps we were innocent and naïve compared with the current crop of teenagers who have multi-media and Wikipedia at their fingertips. Perhaps we were happy to look up in a book or just wait if a question was needed to be answered rather than demanding immediacy. Perhaps we lived in a time of guaranteed employment and a job for life. Perhaps the world did not seem such a scary place because we were not force fed scaremongering news on a 24 hour basis. We did, it should not be forgotten, live under the threat of nuclear world war, civil and social unrest and turmoil but the key factor to maintaining our sanity and off setting those very modern ailments called childhood stress and unhappiness was that we knew how to play and have fun.

Cooking a Kipper

Following on from the last blog I promised to tell you about how to cook the beautiful Fortunes of Whitby Kippers. 

In my haste to savour the salty smokiness I unfortunately used the least complimentary and definitely the most odour producing method- that being the sticking of them under a double grill. 

I was foolish in the extreme by doing this. 

Like a polythene magic fish that used to be found in Christmas Crackers the direct heat of a radiant grill in just a few minutes caused the Kipper to curl up and immolate. 

I did of course eat it but it was a 50/50 trade off between a good nutritious meal and possibly introducing harmful carcinogenic residues into my body. 

The lingering fish smell, not just in the kitchen but throughout the house and well into the next couple of days only, served to remind me of my ridiculous urgency. 

It reminded me of a story from my youth when at a family wedding a raw Kipper was hidden on the engine block of the bride’s Fathers car and on the way home after the celebrations everyone on the vehicle was overcome with travel sickness as it slowly cooked to destruction. 

Luckily we had over-shopped at the Fortunes Kipper Shack and so could try out some of the many methods advocated by the Smoke House owners, fish wives, learned cooks and people of a Scottish origin on the four or so pairs still wrapped up in their Yorkshire Post newsprint in the fridge.

I mention the Scottish connection in that up until the beginning of the First World War there was a massive seasonal migration of around 6000 young girls from North of the Border to the port town fish processing venues in England as they followed the herring fleet to apply their gutting and dressing skills. 

The fish was referred to as “silver darlings” although this could as easily have applied to the flowers of Scotland so far away from home. 

Steaming is a method of less odour production involving the lining of a colander with tin foil and then placing it with Kipper laid out over a pan of boiling water. This is likely to be the healthiest way of cooking with a piping hot meal after about 5 minutes. 

Baking in a tin foil parcel with a knob of butter can help to contain the distinctive Kipper smell although this process can take up to 15 to 20 minutes. 

Most of us will have just taken out the frying pan and washed the Kipper about in melted butter for a few minutes until it looks heated through. This is not recommended in a confined space or if the over-stove extractor is not working. A Kipper can be a good personal treat but yet the rest of the household are forced to participate if only on the basis of smell in these stove top operations. 

In an uncooked state a Kipper has been described as a poor mans smoked salmon. 

The raw fillet can be marinaded in an oil and lemon dressing and then in thin slices laid onto rye bread with an egg yolk. There is, in some cook books, the option of taking the raw fish with vodka or schnapps although this suggests more of an evening starter than a nourishing breakfast after which you would simply get nothing done.

I will not even bother to cover the subject of the microwaving of a Kipper as I find this upsetting and an insult to the spirit of the great fish. The same goes for "boil in the bag".

The highest level of approval for a cooking method is undoubtedly that of using a tall and squat jug. These were probably pretty common in the kitchens of yesteryear but difficult to find, even in antique or reproduction form, nowadays.

The Kipper can either keep or have its head removed before folding the sides inwards to allow insertion into the neck of the vessel. This is with the exception of the tail - the reason for this being clear later. 

Boiling water is then poured into the jug to envelope the Kipper. 

It is here that opinion differs as to the duration of the submersion. Five minutes is a popular timing although one of the founders of the famous Northumberland Craster Kipper smokers recommends at least six minutes. There is agreement that the jug method should never exceed ten minutes. 

After this virtually odourless process it is by the projecting and cool tails that the fish is removed before laying out ready for eating in a light wash of melted butter and with plenty of rounds of white,crusty bread.

My own attempt at worshipping the Fortunes of Whitby Kipper failed miserably at the first hurdle but I am determined to try and try again until I reach that level of perfection that the proud smoked herring demands.

Once a month I have a postal delivery of Whitby Kippers giving me ample opportunity to try out the best method of cooking 

Kipper Ties

I might not ever say those same words in the same order ever again. 

It is a quite unique combination of words perhaps muttered by mere mortals on a very rare occasion.

They were the most apt and explanatory words for what I had to do but nevertheless caused quite a stir amongst my co-workers upon announcing them as the reason for leaving the office this morning.

 “I have to go and deliver some Kippers”. 

I was not being euphemistic, ambiguous or double-entendering  (not sure if that is a real word). 

My late Father had his own phrase about “going to see a man about a horse” which gradually sank in amongst the rest of the family as meaning that he had to leave and do some errand but with no predetermined timescale. 

I had no intention of developing my own euphemism but “I have to go and deliver some kippers” is as good as any and could cover all manner of trips, jaunts and absences from the office or home. 

In fact I was trying to help out my wife’s Australian cousin, who with his wife is on a visit to the UK after some seven or so years of last being here. On his wish list for the 3 week vacation was the purchase of some Kippers- surely everyone knows what these are- wood smoked herring. 

There is a good choice of these on any ice packed fish counter at a supermarket and even in the ordinary seafood display down the delicatessen aisle. It is even possible to buy a rather bland and unappetising boil in the bag version. 

However, the best ever kippers are from a specific source in a magical place. 

I am talking about Fortunes in the North Yorkshire coast town of Whitby. 

I had not actually heard of them before but as far away as Australia they were held with some reverence. They regularly featured on those regional food programmes on TV channels where celebrity chefs or just plain celebrities go in search of good, authentic, honest and artisan products. You know the sort of broadcasts where the presenter wears a safari suit, fancy hat and drives around in a classic motor vehicle decrying the globalisation and anonymity of food production. 

There has been a huge emphasis in the media on provenance of food especially after the controversy and public outcry about horse flesh in lasagne and the re-emergence in the food supply chain of previously condemned and supposedly confiscated meat, fruit and vegetables. 

You cannot get any more authentic and pure than a Fortunes Kipper- no, not a slick marketing slogan from a top-notch advertising agency but my own endorsement having been to the Whitby headquarters just yesterday. 

The use of the term HQ is as far from reality as you can get. 

Fortunes premises comprise of a shack of a shop about 5 metres by 3 metres and leaning against the back of it the smokehouse, another shack. 

We could smell the wonderful aroma of the curing smoke from the bottom of the steep 199 steps that snake up the cliffside from Whitby Town to the ruins of the Abbey. The odour reminds me always of the open log and coal fires of rented cottages during a winter weekend or early springbreak along that part of the Yorkshire coastline, Robin Hoods Bay and Staithes in particular which are not far off equidistant from Whitby to the south and north respectively. 

My Whitby visit was on a beautiful late September day, one after some very mixed and unpredictable weather over the preceding summer months. 

The town, for a Tuesday and out of season was as busy as ever with the main pedestrian flow being along the narrow harbourside streets and up the ladder-like steps. We veered off from the pack following with our noses the smokey air, just visible as a light cloud between the parallel terraced houses of Henrietta Street perched high above the convergence of the River Esk and the North Sea. 

We could not yet see the source of the feast of sight and smell but were pretty close as successive cottages were named along a Kipper theme amongst the usual tributes to Captain Cook and nautical terms. A rather weather beaten sign on the side of a low single storey building could just be seen bearing the Fortunes name and pedigree of time served Kipper smoking. 

A hand written piece of paper in the squat window said that they were not open until1.30pm that day, a tantalising 40 minutes ahead. 

A white smoke, a sort of Papal vote hue, was wisping around the top of a hefty door on the outbuilding and was fine enough to squeeze its way seemingly through the roof and every knot hole, nook and cranny of the timber and brick walls. 

Time dragged by even with the purchase of an ice cream and a welcome sit down on a precariously angled timber bench in a warm sunny spot just around the corner. At last we retraced our steps along the well worn cobbles where you are never far away from the spirits and lost souls of the historic fishing and whaling community from centuries past. 

As a treat the doors to the smoke house were wide open having been emptied of the tarry racks of aromatic Kippers which now stood on a counter in the shack shop. The floor of the smoke house was strewn with part combusted woodchips and its walls caked in a treacle-like residue from over 140 years of production. 

We were first in, a bit like kiddies in a sweet shop and for £3.95 we could have a pair of mellow toned, fine boned Kippers of our very own. 

Six pairs were bought from a recited list of family members to whom had been promised a proper Kipper over the previous few days by our Australian guests. 

Wrapped up they were whisked away back down the narrow street and held close as though freshly found treasure. 

Tomorrow I will tell you about the cooking of them.

Whitsuntide, Hull, 1877

Monday 21^st May 1877 had been widely advertised in Hull as the day of a Whitsuntide Gala. 

It was to be held on fields on the northern edge of the then extent of the city, off Brunswick Avenue and behind Harley Street. 

The Promoter of the event was Mr James Henry Wood, a music hall manager. Amongst the attractions of shooting galleries, striking machines, swing boats, stalls including the popular refreshment of cooked peas and a firework display the most eagerly awaited was the ascent of a hot air balloon by the Aeronaut, a Mr Metcalf. 

The crowd rapidly swelled and the count through the entrance was around 1000 children and 2000 adults. 

For the safe operation of the “aerial monster” a rope and post circle of 40 yards was formed and with Police in attendance in anticipation of trouble from a boisterous and potentially unruly general public.

Although late in the Spring the weather was blustery and not altogether ideal for a balloon launch. 

Mr Metcalf had changed his plans to match the weather forecast and had chosen to bring his 18000 cubic foot balloon rather than the usual 30000 cubic feet specimen.  Nevertheless it represented a large investment for him at a cost of £250 for the India Rubber and oil infused silk cloth construction. 

A special dispensation for the event was the laying onto the site of a 7 inch gas supply pipe under the supervision of the local Gas Company Inspector. This would help to rapidly inflate the balloon and further excite the assembled crowds. 

The original timings were for commencement of inflation at 4pm for a 5pm ascent by Metcalf and an acquaintance, a Mr Whitaker of Hull. There was obviously some discontent in those watching that balloon rides were not being offered on a fare paying basis. 

The wind was still strong at 4pm from the north north east and the ascent was progressively delayed causing yet further disquiet in the crowd. The blustery conditions abated slightly in late afternoon and a new 7.30pm  launch time was decided. 

The flimsy rope cordon had by now disintegrated and large groups of men, boys and young girls were within touching distance of the balloon and basket. Some 30 to 40 men helped to hold the mooring ropes as the gas was pumped in and the balloon started to rise into what was now the dusk. 

There was no real co-ordination on the ground and as a consequence the still present blustery wind led to the balloon being dragged unceremoniously across the field with many hangers-on in tow. The out of control contraption was seen to catch onto a mounted bell at the top of one of the striking machines (boxing game) and this acted as an anchor but also causing a rip in the material of the balloon with a resulting escape of the gas.

The Aeronaut and his passenger were thrown clear.  In a well ventilated open space the gas cloud was not necessarily a problem but what had been overlooked by the Organisers of the Gala was the presence of naked flames in the kiosks serving up the popular hot pea refreshments. 

The gas, highly combustible, saturated the air as the balloon collapsed and there was a mighty flash and explosion described by the spectators as though lightning followed by dense white smoke. 

Many onlookers were engulfed by the flaming debris and the melting India Rubber and oil from the tattered silk formed a sticky residue on the skin and clothing of the  victims causing severe burns and related injuries. 

The scene was apocalyptic as scores of injured, mostly children with severe burns were gathered up and taken to the Infirmary on Prospect Street. about half a mile away.  The medical staff struggled with the influx of the 100 most affected of which 30 were critical. The age range of the afflicted was from just 12 months to 22 years.

The Infirmary Chapel was opened up as an overflow treatment area. Weeping mothers and anxious relatives were not admitted until a list of the injured was posted. 

Sadly a 13 year old girl, Lucy Hanson of Goodwin Street, Hull died of her injuries. Others had life changing burns and it was not until well into the following month that the last was discharged. 

At the subsequent Formal  Enquiry into the tragedy the focus of attention was on the main protagonists of the Organiser, Aeronaut and Gas Inspector. The former was strongly criticised for the continuation of the Gala after the balloon explosion with further entry fees collected until 9pm and the firework display gong ahead as planned.

Other witnesses, including from the Police, mentioned the influence on the tragic events of unruly elements in the crowd. This type of event was cited as being of typical attraction to the rougher population perhaps drunk and disorderly. There was some speculation that wagers had been made that the ascent would not go ahead and that those holding the ropes had tried to manipulate this outcome.

Indeed the catastrophe had attracted even more by way of crowds to the field by way of morbid onlookers. 

Against this was the collection of donations to support the injured and affected families. 

The Jury at the Enquiry came to a verdict of accidental death in the case of the unfortunate Lucy Hanson but with valuable lessons to be learned in separating gas filled balloons from potential ignition sources in such public events. 

A conspiracy to thwart the balloon launch for gambling gain was not proven.