Squeal Pig ...

Malc White sends the following intriguing piece of intelligence: "Just a quick note to report that the Cheeserollers pub in Shurdington is now selling a cider called Squealy Pig. Now I don't know if Squeal Pig as used by Mr Parry (and referring to Woodpecker Cider if I remember correctly[may well have been: or otherwise GL cider? Ed.]) is an original or whether it's a local term for cider but it struck me as a coincidence that a pub which was used by diggers occasionally is selling a cider described so eloquently by one of them."

Strange indeed, and best illustrated by a photo of JP clasping a glass, most probably of Squeal(y) Pig, at the 2009 reunion picnic, courtesy of Terry Courtney. Also in view, Dr Phillpotts & Andrew Powell.

Pub lore

Ferris on drink: "Given that the Air Balloon was the social centre for the Crickley diggers, it is surprising how little reminiscence there is on Crickley Hill Man's blog about the place. I suppose it's another case of 'if you were really there you won't remember'. Between 1972, my first year at Crickley, and 1983, my last short stay, the Balloon changed out of all recognition: from a small, run-down but homely pub filled with drinking locals to the much larger, day-tripper meal-and-a-dry-white-wine-or-spritzer clientele of today. The original pub was in fact so small that the only way for all the diggers to be accommodated was for most people to stay in the beer garden all evening, even when it was sometimes cold or rainy. The original, outside pub toilets for many years were home to successive families of nesting swallows. Maybe the sole remaining original interior feature today is the curved window seat in the front bar.

One particular visit to the Air Balloon sticks in my mind and followed John Boden and myself borrowing two bicycles from someone at Ullenwood one evening in perhaps 1974 and cycling to visit Great Witcombe Roman villa - we were very much archaeo-nerds at the time. The cycle back was exhausting, on a warm evening, after a hard day's work on the hill, and up that killer of a hill from the direction of Gloucester. When we finally reached the Air Balloon we headed straight for the bar and each had to rapidly order and quickly drink two or three pints of lemonade and lime to rehydrate before we could start on the GL cider. I haven't ridden a bike since.

As John Boden recalls, visits were only ever made to other pubs on very rare occasions, primarily because the Air Balloon was the only pub within walking distance of Ullenwood. On Thursday, as has been mentioned elsewhere on the blog, drinking took place at the Imperial Beer Gardens on Cheltenham Promenade and sometimes on Thursday evenings in The Cotswold in town. An evening visit by car to the White [you mean Golden. Ed.] Heart was, as John recalls, a great treat. I first went there as a passenger in Clive Anderson's splendid red MG sports car-this was in Clive's louche bachelor days-and was much taken with the excellent scrumpy cider and the general rusticity of the place at the time-there was no bar as such, simply barrels of beer and cider on the ground from which customers were served. I expect it's a little grander today."

While we're on Air Balloon memories, do I not recall that there was a very decent governor there in 1976 and 1977 who later fell from grace? I seem to recall he had a fling with one of the diggers (was her name Sandy?) and we all thought he was very nice. Later, it transpired he got bored with the locals one night and lost his job after discharging a shotgun into the ceiling of the pub in an effort to bring a lock-in to an end. This was at a time when the Gloucestershire Police would occasionally lie in wait up the road and look out for car headlights leaving the Balloon at hours later than legitimate and then pounce on the offenders. Hence, I seem to recall being told that they weren't far away and intervened rather swiftly. I think we were told the story when we arrived for the 1978 season and wondered what had happened to the nice bloke who used to run the pub.

I think it's conceivable that I may have attended the odd lock-in myself. Obviously only for the purposes of research, you understand. I think on one or two occasions the police may have joined us for a drink. Surely not? I'm damn sure Chipper joined us for a drink because he more or less lived in the Air Balloon.

It now seems mildly ludicrous, given the ubiquity of the mobile phone, that the Air Balloon porch contained the nearest and only payphone to which 100 plus diggers had access. There was no accessible phone at Ullenwood (though doubtless Lofty had one that could have been called upon by negotiation and in a genuine emergency). If you wanted to make a phone call you had to walk down to the Air Balloon armed with a liberal quantity of 2p pieces.

Many a digger, like me, found out their exam results, hanging on the end of that ancient payphone, desperately hoping the supply 2p bits would last long enough for the phone call home that boded either triumph or disappointment. I remember John Parry kindly bought me a tot or two of Southern Comfort to celebrate my A-level results. At lunchtime on a digging day, as well. What were we thinking, John?

Dr Ferris reminisces ...

Iain writes to say "Your recent posting of a picture of Simon Mercer on your blog was most welcome. His first appearance, I think. Simon was a good friend when we were at the Institute of Archaeology and over a couple of seasons at Crickley. He had a really surreal sense of humour and was a very kind and generous man. Simon seemed very shy on first meeting him, but, as I'm sure Crickley Hill Man remembers, he soon came out of himself after a few pints of cider. Previous mention has been made on the blog of the Institute digging song 'Four and Twenty Diggers', also sung at Crickley, and you may recall that Simon's verse ran as follows: 'Four and twenty diggers came down from Gordon Square, and when the dig was over they wondered who'd been there. Simon Mercer he was there, late for work again, we're glad the sale of cider stops at half past ten.' 

 

As to the tale of Crickley Hill Man's teenage fall from grace under the tutelage of Simon, Dave Southwood and Robert Roberts, painted as the story of a sentimental education tainted by evil mentors, I think the seeds of your descent into a life of fun, drinking and romance were probably sown long before your first appearance on the hill."  Steady on Dr Ferris or you'll be hearing from my solicitors ...

CHM's first supervisor: Mr Simon Mercer

Crickley Hill Man was a sixteen year old choirboy with an engaging mop of golden curls when he was placed under the benevolent eye of Simon Mercer, one of the London Institute of Archaeology contingent at Crickley.  Mr Mercer, whose photograph appears above, courtesy of Mr John Boden, taught me how to use a trowel, what to do with a catbasher, what to do with a Killaspray, and advised me on matters of the heart. He also showed me the way to the Air Balloon and once there allowed me to buy him a pint of GL cider.  He also introduced me to a man called Southwood and another man called Robert Roberts.  All innocence lost, my hair began to fall out almost immediately and I never sang "Oh for the wings of a dove" again.  What I was taught to sing instead cannot be published on a family blog ...

Look behind you, Ros!

Dr Ferris is staying at the Albergo Parker tonight and he spotted this rather fetching cameo in the Phillpotts archive.  We wonder why Dr Cleal is protectively clutching a full large jar of Nescafe in the middle of the night?  Why, too, does she appear utterly unaware that Crickley Hill Man is draped around her?  Crickley Hill Man, on the other hand, seems quite pleased with the state of affairs, as evidenced by the dreamy far-away look in his eyes.  Were it not for the fact that this is a 1980-effort from the Chronicler's camera one might be forgiven for thinking that someone had done a clever Photoshop job with two completely different pictures ... and then again, maybe it's a still from a rehearsal of 'Captain Lash'?

A much coveted oolitic limestone trophy ...

Dr Phillpotts's 1980 caption reads: "Julian Parker looks on as John Parry presents the piece of limestone to Mike Taylor as Personality of the Year".  Hmm... well I suppose it made sense to make trophies out of limestone, as it wasn't exactly in short supply.   

There are some details in this shot that bring back certain memories.  Not only do I still appear to have some hair to go with the beard in this photograph, but I am wearing evening dress: the wing collar and the bow-tie can just about be made out.  I now recall buying the dinner jacket, and other necessary items, at the Cheltenham Oxfam Shop.  I rather think I was accompanied by Jane Dineen or Ros Cleal, or both, on this particular shopping expedition. We swapped a pair of trousers, that were obviously far too big for me, from one hanger, which bore a jacket that fitted me, for the trousers belonging to an entirely different suit, which had a jacket that was far too small for me.  The resulting ensemble, plus dress shirt and bow-tie was acquired for £5.  I can only hope that a strangely-shaped customer with narrow shoulders, pigeon chest and an enormous waist came along and bought the curious combination dinner suit that was left behind after this feat of leger-de-main.

Mike Taylor, even indoors, is wearing his astonishingly long knitted scarf, a better view of which, on site, is to be found in the top photo here.  Mr Parry, meanwhile, is sporting a black shirt with extravagant cuffs and pearl buttons gleaming in the dim light.  I expect it was one of those evenings when John, with a broad grin, verging on a leer, had announced "I'm going to make myself pretty!".

Behind us is the ill-fated and long-suffering Ullenwood piano. Its debilitated state is hinted at by one or two keys that lie depressed unable to spring back into position.  The piano sustained ever greater damage down the years and, I see, from examining Dr Phillpotts's definitive history of the Below Average White Band, that it never featured as an instrument after the 1980 season.

But what I really want to know is why there are two bottles of GL cider, on top of the piano, conjoined by a pair of underpants or knickers, which bears what looks suspiciously like a representation of Donald Duck on the front ...

There was no "Collated" button on the Savage Gestetner duplicating machine ...

In these days of image scanning and digital printing one forgets that it is only a very few years since the time when there was no easy simple and quick method of duplication: photocopiers did not exist, let alone digital photocopiers.  For an account of the history of duplicating machines, see here or a linked list of duplicating processes, here. 

Nowadays, no-one thinks anything of pressing a few buttons to specify number of copies, single-sided, double-sided, collated and stapled.  People even get slightly exasperated at having to feed the copier with paper, toner and staples.  Press the button, and off to the pub while the print run chugs through.

Well, it wasn't always like that, as Dr Ferris recalls:

"Crickley Hill Man has recently posted some excellent abstracts of information from one of the interim reports on the excavations put out in the early 1970s. I recall that during the 1973 season Richard Savage asked for volunteers to assist in collating and stapling one of the runs of interim reports one evening at Ullenwood - probably the 1972 interim you have been abstracting. A number of us volunteered for this task, not realising quite how long it would take and that we would be missing out on the chance of even last orders in the Air Balloon. 

Richard had the individual printed sheets laid out in huge piles on tables in the lecture room at the end of the mess hall and we had to move around the table picking up single sheets in page number order until we had a full report for passing to Richard for stapling, and then we had to start our circling route again and again and again and again until the hundreds of sheets had been totally cleared off the tabletops. It took about four hours and we were each rewarded with a free copy of the bound report. This struck me as really exciting at the time and I didn't regret missing out on all those undrunk pints of GL cider. So maybe Crickley Hill Man's copy of the interim when dusted for fingerprints will reveal the imprint of the Ferris dabs or those of Dave Butler who I think also volunteered for this Herculean task."

The report was available at the time from Richard at a cost of 25p plus 5p postage.  If we ignore the postage, a free copy of the report meant that Iain and Dave were remunerated in kind at the equivalent of a princely rate of 5¼ pence per hour.  Or slightly more than a 1973 first class postcard stamp, which was then 3½ pence.  Luxury beyond the dreams of avarice.  

Happy New Year!

An accident in a wheelbarrow race ...

Iain Ferris's piece here on the Sports Days has got Dave Butler reminiscing:

"Yes, Iain, I remember it well! The welly wanging sports, I think, were fixed in that you gave me "No wang" for my competition winning wang, as my left toe was 3mm over the wang start line. As for the wheel barrow racing, what can I say, again fixed! I was given a rather large American lass to 'wheel' and she came a cropper at the bend near the rampart entrance.

Also I was exhausted after 3 yards so it may be just as well she exited the barrow at an angle of 270 degrees to the horizontal. I, meanwhile, was recovering from heat stroke with a well timed slug of GL cider which miraculously appeared in the nick of time. Funny how these things happen, eh? Happy days!"

Plainly, we could have done with an electronic eye for the line calls, but it hadn't been invented yet. Presumably, Dave's co-competitor was recorded as given out LBW (Lost By Wheelbarrower) by the umpire? Good that the medicine bottle of GL was to hand in Dave's hour of need. I see from my web researches that it is still made but is quite hard to come by: some says that GL stands for "Gloucester Lager".

Life at Ullenwood 2: Dr Ferris writes ...

Like Crickley Hill Man, I thought I would also set down some memories of living at Ullenwood while digging at Crickley. Certainly the camp was very much as remembered by Crickley Hill Man even in the earlier seasons-I first dug at Crickley in either 1971 or 1972. There was also a private house, next to the mess hall and kitchen, lived in by Lofty, the exiled Hungarian coach driver for Swanbrook Coaches and Mrs Lofty his wife, whose real name we never knew. Beyond this was a large tarmacked area known, for obvious reasons, as the football pitch, and to the side of that a few Nissen huts dubbed 'the married quarters'. The most curiously monickered buildings were The Ablutions, the washrooms and toilets, but I cannot recall if there was a sign on the doors designating them this way or if the name originally came from Richard Savage. The mess hall or dining room was the hub of the camp, with book readers and letter writers spilling out of the mess hall to sit on the steps in the better evening weather. Dinner served at 7 o'clock was always somewhat of a stampede, though there were always inevitably seconds available. I cannot recall a season when the food wasn't really good, though those diggers who on a couple of mornings had their breakfasts cooked by John Boden and myself in order to give the hard-pressed cooks a sleep-in may beg to differ. In those pre-mobile phone days Ullenwood was amazingly quiet and restful, generally until after the Air Balloon had shut. There was no TV and record players or cassette decks only tended to be brought out on party nights-on two or three Wednesday nights every season. I do remember though many of us being gripped by certain dramatic news stories listened to on transistor radios whenever we could, these being the fall of Saigon in 1973 and the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974. After dinner, if we weren't on chores, we would go the Air Balloon or attend one of the evening lectures and then race down to the Air Balloon for last orders. I particularly remember Richard Savage's marvellous lectures on the Irish sagas which had a huge influence on me. Kenneth Jackson's Celtic Miscellany, recommended by Richard, is still a favourite book of mine. Getting back from the Air Balloon could either be by the simple direct route or on some evenings it would involve walking up Crickley Hill and along the scarp through the woods. In the dark this could be quite time-consuming, particularly when we stopped off to sit on top of one of the barrows near the top of Greenway Lane to drink cider take-outs- Gold Label, GL -and tell ghost stories. For a couple of seasons I was a member of the terribly-named Below Average White Band whose regular drink-fuelled late night performances of improvised 'sound sculptures' on 'found' instruments such as an old piano frame, a kettle with a rubber hosepipe attached and some biscuit tins and empty cider bottles gave GBH of the earhole to many more sober diggers back in the mess hall. Other members of the band included Chris Philpotts and John Boden but I cannot remember who else might have performed with this sadly not-missed floating collective of troubadours. Update: definitive history from Dr Phillpotts now posted here. About 20 people "performed" one way and another over the years.