Examples of the Companion Book Club

It was my Grandmother’s fault, really.  She loved a book, and passed on that love of books to me.  I think from the time that I could cruise around the living room in her cottage, I could spy the lovely patterns on the dust covers of the books on the glass-doored bookcase.   Not for me, then, books, aged one.  No, the black cat held more interest; Maxine, my cousin would hold one end, and I would hold the other.  I think the screams of all three of us put paid to further exploration of the cat-as-a-long-doorstop.  A happy infancy, then….where were we? Ah….those books.

In 1956 or thereabouts, one of the family seems to have bought my grandmother a subscription for 6 months for 30/- (that is £1.50 in your current AngloPeso) to the Companion Book Club.  The Companion Book Club, or CBC as I shall refer to it from now on, had been founded in 1952, with a view to taking the best sellers of a year earlier, and then reprinting them for offer to their members…or subscribers.  Not that innovative an idea when viewed from the other side of the subscription and part-work frenzy of the 1970’s and 1980’s, but for the time, these half-price books met a demand in a post war austerity society.

The books were of good quality, with good boards,  a clear (and to my mind, very pleasing) spine and it was an easy way for people to read current novels, and I suppose, create a library.  The dust covers from 1952 to 1963 all followed the same pattern, with a geometric design, and so far as I can ascertain, the actual boards and spine design only changed towards the end of the 1960’s.  It is said that good design doesn’t age, and there is your proof, I suppose.

None of the novels are what you might call beacons of the mid 50’s novel landscape, though, and the works of Joy Packer, Hammond Innes and Howard Spring are long forgotten.  They aren’t without their charm, though.  Occasionally there were ‘proper’ authors, like W. Somerset Maugham, Alistair MacLean and John Steinbeck – but the majority of the authors are no longer numbered among the literary illuminati.

Odhams Press, the company behind the CBC, maintained a quiet yet steady increase in business by the look of things; after their first year, they had moved to larger premises in  Long Acre in WC2, and after ten years or so, absorbed another company, the Popular Book Company into their fold.  Persistence marketing was conducted in the form of a pamphlet with each order, which told the reader in clipped stentorian tones that they were doing the right thing, saving money and printed a number of accolades of the sort “Marvellous – Mrs A.B., Ealing”.  This pamphlet, The Companion, as it was known, published a list of the forthcoming novels that were in the pipeline for the next 6 months (remember the 30/- earlier for the 6 month subscription?) and carried various short articles about this month’s author or book.  I assume that the back pages of the Daily Express carried adverts for the CBC, which ensured a fresh flow of subscribers.

I’d learnt to read, and books appeared at every visit to my Grandmother.  A smile on her face at my joy at yet another night spent under the covers with a torch makes me think that she knew the way I thought.  For me, the reading was always the reward.  I think she was pleased that I consumed the Enid Blyton nonsense quickly, and when I was 8, I was allowed to read “Fly for your Life” by Larry Forrester.  This was the epitome of a boy’s derring-do book, being the biography of Bob Stanford Tuck, the WW2 RAF ace.  I was hooked.  I consumed anything with a military biography bent, (Montgomery, Bader, The D-Day Landings) and moved swiftly on to the novels that were extant in the bookcase.  I read my Grandmother’s collection in about 6 months.  I wasn’t allowed to have “Zoo quest for a dragon” by David Attenborough on account of the colour plates of African ladies, but everything else was fair game.  My own private library….

Today, the books are worth next to nothing, not being first editions, or indeed, not being published by the original publisher.  This makes them a target for me, and I have, over the years, come to dream of a bookcase containing all these books. The shock of paying 10p at a car boot sale last year for 12 of the things made me realise that the collecting of something has it’s own pleasure, and it matters not that the collection has no value. No, the nostalgia pays the urge to collect, but in this case, you get to read some great examples of the art of the novel, circa 1950.

The CBC fuelled my love of reading, together with the Ladybird imprints and the Sparky and Beano.  Cheers, Nanny, and thanks.  Oh, and thank you, the wise minds behind the CBC, for being instrumental in my literacy.

A year or so ago, the 14 year old decided that a new bed would make the ideal christmas present for her room.   A loft bed, so that she could have her computer and other stuff [*] under it.  Quite the sensible present.  We hunted high and low in our search even to the point of driving all the way to Ikea in snow, the like of which had not been seen since….oh, the previous year maybe.   Ikea kindly told us they were out of stock.  Ask me how I know they have an online stock checker now.

In the grand tradition of shopping, the item you require is always located in the place you initially dismissed as ‘no, they’ll never have it’  – or it will be located at the farthest point to you in your shopping parabola.  I think, if a university wanted to pay me enough money as a research fellow, I could come up with a set of shopping theories,  all of which would be absolutely splendid, but as with all research, it is simply something we inherently knew anyway.

The journey back was fraught (I mentioned the snow, did I? Rasmussen would have blanched. No, really) , and as a ‘let’s exhaust all the possibilities wile we’re out sort of thing’, we called in at our local DIY place, 2 miles from home.  Focus is now defunct, and I think what follows might shine a light on their eventual demise.   There, glittering in all it’s brushed metal glory stood the last loft bed in the country.

I cursed a little bit when I found out that, as it was a display model, we’d have to disassemble it ourselves, and brightened slightly when the price was reduced as it was an ex-display model.  We left a deposit, and made the intrepid journey of oh, 2 miles home, glowing in the knowledge that we had found and located the bed.

Christmas eve dawned crisp and even (actually, floppy and a bit wobbly, to be slightly more honest about it) and we made out way to the DIY store.  We were armed with those Ikea hex-head cranked spanners that everyone has in their draws, and we were grateful for them and for the ubiquity of design as we unbolted the bed.  The bed was nearly down and on the trolley, there were just a few of these pesky screws to undo.  We hadn’t bought a screwdriver, so we asked one of the DIY shop’s staff  – a callow youth – if he could find us a Philips screwdriver.  “Of course” he said, and bounded off as only teenagers can,…

He returned, and related to us apologetically and earnestly that he could find any Phillips, but would a Stanley do instead?

[*] Other stuff.  This turns out to be a rats nest of hair straighteners,  hairdryers, lava lamp leads and as many things that you can plug into a socket, imbued with make up and hairspray residue.  Add to that heady mix, plates, glasses and half eaten bags of crisps (the other half presumably carpet food), and you wonder about what actually makes them the fairer sex?  Tracey Emin? A mere pretender compared to this room….

Before the internet, when landlines ruled the world,  when queueing for the phone box at the end of the road was a social event in itself, and Buzby would inform you that “It’s cheaper after six”, we tended to manage our social lives around the telephone.  Imagine a world without Facebook, or without email and Google.  Those of you who can remember will be nodding sagely, and remembering about how you’d meet new people through the medium of the pub, and friends of friends.  This was proper socialising – you used this interaction with people face to face to find out about them. You’d do this at work, or at play – you maintained a mental list of people you knew who did this or did that, who had a brother that had welding equipment, and you used this knowledge – at work, school or at play.

Now, back then, if you were in a band, you’d advertise for a like minded muso on a notice board at school, or a rehearsal studio or plain just ask around.  If you were serious/pretentious (in this context, the terms are interchangeable), you’d advertise in the back of the New Musical Express or Melody Maker, and some weirdo would turn up….but I digress, and I have yet to write my rant about drummers.   The ad would run something like this :

Bassist required, must be into Ultravox/Psychedlic Furs/Only Ones for gigging band [*].  No Grebos, metal freaks or skinheads need apply.  We’re serious and ready for the big time – are you? call Mark on 01375 123456 (if my Mum answers, hang up).

You get the picture.  We knew a lot of people by reputation, and often, the friend of a friend network would yield the phone number of that person because he was going out with the drummers sisters wife (think about it…) who worked in the same shop as your next door neighbour’s cousin.  Easy, yes?  I think that we held and processed more information about our peers than we do today. The Social Network? No, it is nothing more than a replacement for the queue for the phone box at the end of the road.

I joined a band as a bass player (invited by the keyboard player who was an old schoolmate whose Mum had been a girlfriend of my Dad before I was born – see how this works?) and our stated aim was to become as good as if not better than another local band who had just had a musical difference with this band’s guitarist and said keyboard player. That was your motivation back then, to be as good as if not better than a perceived rival band. A rival band was one you’d been in and got kicked out of, or they’d had press coverage and you hadn’t.  I had a one to one rivalry there straight out of the box, with the bass player of that band. Simple as that.   We went to see them play, and then I realised that I’d seen them years before.  I noted that my rival, such as he was, was older than me, and not to put too fine a point on it, better than I was. In fact, this chap was the best bassist I’d seen in years, he could sing, and there was no competition really, but you have to have something to aim for, right?  We shared the same tin hut to rehearse in and that he stored his bass bin there, and I used it when I couldn’t be bothered to lug my amp about it.  I thought he knew, but I figured I’d be for the high jump if he caught me.  Unabashed, I soldiered on in this band, and I recruited someone I knew who’d had the same piano teacher as me who was into the same stuff and was presently looking for his big break out of the mundane world of hairdressing.  Keeping up at the back?

We played one gig, and imploded in a myriad of autistic differences (similar to artistic differences, but we were unable to articulate them) and the hairdresser went off to be famous, and I went on to join another friend of a bloke who managed a bunch of lads who were into Paul Weller, who needed showing how it was all done.   I played extensively with this bunch – rode in the back of transits, drank a lot of Pils and Brandy, tried to coax the drummer and the bassist take the same drugs at the same time (there is little worse than playing live with a speeding drummer and a stoned bassist) and generally had a lot of fun for a few years.

Fast forward to a few decades later, and I found that this perceived rival of mine had made a comment of a website where copies of his album have been downloaded. Did I mention he was a lot better than me? Well, he achieved the holy grail of a record deal, and now in the present day was both trying to discourage it’s download (you can’t buy the original and no, it wasn’t ever out on CD) and at the same time trying to come to terms with the fact that there were still people out there that liked it.

I emailed him.  Something was bugging me about a misconception I’d had when I was younger.  It occurred to me that I’d not spoken to him because I (yep, me…) had decided he’d not be much interested in talking to someone younger and less talented than him. Especially not someone who had regularly purloined his equipment.  Weird, thinking back on it, but it made sense at the time.

Last sunday, he come over for sunday lunch, and we had a great time, telling stories and reminiscing about the old days.  It was one of those times that an acquaintance becomes the friend you haven’t met yet.

The serious bit – and a lecture to my children.

Just because someone appears to be better at something than you, don’t assume they aren’t an approachable human being.  There is almost certainly a friend there that you haven’t met yet.  Smile and say hello, make their acquaintance – if you don’t, it might take you another 30 years.  As Ian Dury would have it “What a waste”.

Slainche, Kirk.  You really have to self-release that second album, you know. Anyway, the rehearsal studio is booked for a laugh and a bash when you come back to the UK for a holiday….

[*] An utterly meaningless term, which could mean that you are actually gigging, you plan to gig, you may gig if it all works out – the phrase covered the musical situation of a band so well, it is probably one of the biggest muso lies ever told…. that and “no, never heard that before. You think it sounds the same? Well, I never”….

One of the joys of record collecting – or vinyl to those of you that are unable to understand music that doesn’t come on shiny discs – is that some of the sellers of vinyl quite often throw stuff in a ‘bargain bucket’ and you can get three or four LPs for a fiver. A fiver for an armful of vinyl is worth taking a punt on, and quite apart from the fact that the record might be physically dubious, you never know, it might turn out to be worth listening to. You know the sort of mild panic that comes over you when you succumb to the three for two deals – you can never quite figure out what the third one should be?

“Tonight theres going to be a jailbreak, somewhere in this town”.

I don’t watch tv. I like to acquire my entertainment, I think it is fair to say, by taking my custom to a show, and watch it at my leisure, not as a bum-on-seat to be ‘messaged’ at by advertisers. As a result, I have quite a narrow list of things I watch, although I have been working my way through the ‘1001 films you must see before you die’ book and I’ve been enjoying and appreciating work that, let’s face it, Murdoch just wouldn’t give air time to. Perhaps I’ll return to that in another blog, but at the moment I am ‘learning’ film. What else is a boy to do with these hours available to him?

Californication is not for the faint of heart – if you thought you’d like it because it has ‘that bloke from the x-files in it’ then it probably isn’t for you – I am amazed at the irreverence it shows. For an American tv show, anyway – the pandering to the bible belt and the advertising demographic gamut that producers have to run normally means that this kind of innovation gets stifled. Or left to Canada, or the UK.

Look it up, grab the first series wherever you can, and watch some first class writing, and dare I say it, acting. David Duchovny plays a superb and believable character (ok, believable in my dreams) with such swagger and bravado, I wonder if he isn’t wasted on the small screen. Fox Mulder would regard Hank Moody as a phenomena to be investigated as paranormal by his standards in the x files. It is a work of genius and I’ve just learnt that it has been commissioned for a fourth series. That makes me a happy man.

Where has the electric (and acoustic) violin gone in rock? And why has it disappeared?

As it is over 30 years since the fateful winter of ’79 and the cabinet minutes of the time are being made available, I thought I’d drag out possibly the most politically charged album of recent years out and give it a listen with fresh ears. Well, quite jaded ears, really – I’ve been listening to the revelations about James Callaghan’s last days in office.