Post by Matt James on Apr 16, 2009 12:47:31 GMT
DISCONNECTED JOTTINGS OF AN Ex-WAG
Having survived the “trauma” of the Aptitude Tests where I managed to guess that “No the bicycle chain should not be attached to the front wheel” and that “the smoke from the train should be flowing backwards along the body of the train” I was told to report for duty on Monday 15 January 1959 at Pinfold St entrance of the old Head Post Office fronting onto Victoria Sq Birmingham. I was then 15 years and 3 months.
After what I now know to be the usual procedures of signing the Official Secrets Act, being read the Riot Act by Wilf Cox and Sid the PHG [he who always had the last bit of a fag stuck to his bottom lip], going down to the Uniform Stores to be measured up and being issued with a brass buckled belt/telegram pouch and armband. I was taken into the Telegraph Room and told to sit up the corner nearest to the counter. So I sat and made myself as small as I could.
The first thing that happened after that was I was issued with my meal vouchers, blue in colour to denote I could have “free meals” in the canteen. I was then relieved of a penny [£sd] as my contribution towards the Boot Polish and Brasso Fund, given a locker key and shown where the locker room was. [more of that magical room later]. I think I also joined the “Record Club” at the same time. We each paid something per week and a 45 rpm record was bought for the Youth Club - located behind the canteen. At the time I never did find out who got to actually choose the records.
So there I sat watching the world go by, as people were called to the grill that fronted the counter and sent on their ways with little buff envelopes. Some of the people moaned and some smiled and said “bit of bodge” as they wandered out. Really big boys would come in and backchat the men behind the counter and seemingly get away with things I would not dream of saying to my parents. I did notice that these same boys also took a long time to deliver their telegrams – little did I know they were being sent to some mysterious land called “Lawley St Goods” Eventually a huge shadow loomed over me and this gruff voice said “You don't mind the language do you son”?. To which I managed to stammer “No Sir”, which brought the response “Just call me Mr Nutt”. For the first week I always went out with another lad, so he could show me the ropes and any dodges he thought necessary. Invariably these were the same dodges he had failed to get away with!
Well, I eventually got my chance to go out and deliver real telegrams, having been tested with “Service Telegrams” or SU [Service Unpaid], destined for some very strange little rooms within the Head Office. Luckily I went with one of the other boys in the beginning, because the place seemed like a rabbit warren with steps up and down and places where I told never to go in to! I only found some of the really small rooms when we were moving out in 1971. The rules when travelling on lifts was explained to me. We could ride up and must always walk down – and watch out for any postmen coming out of the Postman's Branch as they were likely to give you a clip round the ears if you started to cheek them. Some of them did not need the excuse of being cheeked before you got clipped!
Delivering real telegrams was great, you had the chance to get out in the fresh air and there was always an even chance that you might be able to chat up the receptionists – although I must admit almost everyone I saw seemed older and bigger than me – and it took some time before I found my chat up lines etc etc. I also soon found out where “Lawley St Goods” was. It was a long way and woe betide you if it took longer than 45 minutes. Personally I liked going to Snow Hill Station best as the Telegraph Office was right down the bottom of platform 10, and you could get back to Victoria Sq by a slightly longer and quieter route rather than the direct one along Colmore Row.
Things like finding out who the men [PHG's] were behind the counter was also a bit frightening. Mr Nutt [Joe] he was big but very fair, Mr Beesley(?) [George}always laugh at his jokes or you went to Lawley St and Mr Price [Barry] no apparent sense of humour as you always went to Lawley St! These seemed to be the regulars, although the one to worry about was the old guy called Sid [he with a stub of a fag attached to his bottom lip]. Correction, the one to really worry about was someone called Percy [who came later], now he really was crazy and rumoured to be a boxer, he finally found fame – and TV notoriety - as the Traffic Warden in Bromsgove.
Sid – he of the stub of fag- was the one who inspected you before you started duty, this included checking the brass buckle, the belt itself, the pouch and your shoes all had to be cleaned, and beware if you turned up wearing brown shoes! I only did that silly trick once and was promptly sent home to change, and then had 3 hours pay stopped into the bargain! Just before I started the Inspector of Messengers, Mr Bert Hewlett, had retired and thereafter mostly we had people on a temporary basis, until Mr Alf Britton became our boss. A really great bloke, someone you could look up to – in more ways than one as he was well over 6 foot tall. At the time he was the youngest AI in the country and somebody's far seeing choice as a manager, as he ended up as Chief in the LSO and always had time for you. He trick was to always call you by your initials, how he remembered nearly 200 names I never did find out. But it worked.
Shoes were issued, and once you had broken them in they were OK, as we were growing lads we had a new pair issued every six months or so. Those that did not grow so fast could, it was rumoured, find a ready market for the shoes with the rowdy guys from the Postman's Branch. You could also buy blue shirts with two collars, from the Uniform Stores at reasonable prices, well reasonable if you could get you Mom and Dad to cough up the money. My starting wage was £3.17.6d, for which I worked 49 hours [gross] and 45 hours [net]. You was not paid for your meal breaks.
The above covers, more or less, my first few weeks as a Wag at Birmingham GPO. Now I'm not saying I have a good memory, as I'm describing events nearly 50 years ago. I did not realise, until other events overtook me, that some things are seared into you memory, be it the long or short term type. To which most of those reading this will instantly empathise with the short term problems.
And so I settled down to a fairly easy life, livened by trips to the locker room. The windows of the locker room were of reeded opaque glass, but they also looked out over Pinfold St, and just by co-incidence also were level with the changing rooms of a very posh shop in New St called Chanel Strange the number of drooling wags that seemed to hang about by those windows! This was where Dave Griffiths threw my uniform cap out of the window – the peak got broken in the process and cost me ten bob plus a skin [form P18] into the bargain.
“Skins” and “Majors” were the bane of my life and I started looking for places to work that kept me out of the spotlight. The place I [and everyone else] fancied was the RLB, out housed in Clay Lane Sheldon. Sometimes we had to go there, either as a relief or most times to collect and official leather pouch. I can't remember the guys name, but he always seemed lonely and never inclined to pass the time of day. The same went with the Wag at King Edward House. This was an outhoused unit that seemed to manufacture blueprints for the whole country. I was eventually asked [told ?] to go to Fordrough Lane [this place contained Factory, Supplies and Test Sections].
I ended up in Test Section, along with Colin Powis and a blonde lad called - I think Robert. The place I did not like being lent to was Supplies. I'm left handed and the first job of each morning a was to open the post and then date stamp everything – it was here that I learnt that I'm not The PHG [Mr Nicholson] was a terror and was known to break telephones if he was really upset. Among the other jobs of distributing and collection internal post , we also had to take telexes to the typists on the top floor, you can tell how young I was I was still uncertain about girls so I was always reluctant to go up there. One day we were clearing out a cupboard full of old papers and came across a telex that had not been cancelled. This was duly entered into the Telex Book and taken to the typists. About a week later Mr Nicholson erupted, this telex had been doing the rounds nationwide asking so a part that no longer existed! This time receiver and handset got broken.
The Factory section was also one to avoid, especially as a relief as you always got the longest round to do. The PHG was OK, after a fashion, step out of line and he squeezed you head! His name was Mr Mann – I don't think anyone knew his first name - and I think he was part of the family dynasty that included the future Inspector of Hockley {Reg] and his wife Ruby became head of Typists when we were at Royal Mail St. You might think I'm name dropping a lot, but one of the things always impressed upon us wags, was that we were the future AI's and Inspectors. What none of us realised at the time, was that this was the start of a net working system that followed most of us all the time we worked for the GPO – The Post Office – Consignia - Royal Mail et al, no matter what rank/grade we ended up as. Those above and below looked after us, and dug many of us out of scrapes, we in turn knew so many that there was always “someone” you knew who knew “someone else”, if you wanted a favour done quickly.
I eventually ended up at Cable and Wireless in Gt. Charles St. Whether this had anything to do with bagging one of the lads from Test Section inside a parcel Bag, and dumping him on a big goods lift I'll never know, but my move happened shortly afterwards! Cable and Wireless was the overseas part of Telegrams, we covered the same area as for Inland Telegrams, B1 – 5 - and were still available for Sundays, Bank Holidays, and even once for Christmas Day telegram deliveries. The guys who “whipped” us out seemed a bit more relaxed than the PHG's at Pinfold St, partly I suppose because they were also Senior Telegraphists whose speed of typing was really amazing. I think we also had to make them tea on a regular basis. Whoever was detailed for this also managed to miss a turn on delivery, so it seemed a fair swop. Which, to my now cynical eye, also suggests it was an “unofficial” job.
One day I had to go back over to Pinfold St, on some job, and was collared by Barry Price – note I had progressed enough to think of them as having first names – and ended up seeing Mr Britton. Did I ever think of applying for motor cycle delivery he asked? I must admit I was a bit stunned – gob smacked had not yet entered our lexicon - and Sid huffed and puffed on his stub and chimed in with his few words of encouragement. A few weeks later, after the usual form filling and medicals, I was released from Cable and Wireless and told to report to Garrison Lane Stores Dept. Here were 5 other hopefuls, intent upon obtaining a motorcycle licence as we could then buy our own bikes! For the life of me I can only remember one other of the group, and this was Colin Powis. [Colin and me seemed to be destined to work with each other for years to come, even being promoted to AI on the same day]. Our first few days was spent being crammed into the back of a 50cf Morris Minor, and while one of the more experienced of us rode the one Bantam, off we went to Sutton Park. One by one we went off down one of the quieter roads and round a corner and back to the group. I must presume I was not paying attention because when it was my turn I started off OK went round the corner and promptly fell off when trying to turn round. I finally deduced that the clutch had to be pulled in when attempting this manoeuvre – something I have kept quiet about all these years. Eventually we were all issued with Bantams and drove out to Sutton Park and eventually were allowed to drive around north and east Birmingham.
Having passed our tests, we all did first time of asking, I was sent off to a TDC [Telegram Delivery Centre], along with Colin I went to ETDC in Yew Tree Lane Yardley. The build is – or was the last time I looked – still standing and is now the local sub Post Office. Here I met Ray Raybone, and another guy called Allan – whose liking for cream cakes from Charlie Bragg's on the corner led him to marry one of the girls who worked there - and one of the Duty Telegraphists was Mrs B [Beeston]. So I entered this strange fraternity of motorcyclists, some of them were very hairy [scary] guys and as you only saw some of them on Sundays it was difficult to get to know them. To name but a few I did get to know: Dave Griffiths, Kenny Allan [KHA], Freddie Cook, Alan Brown, Ted Watkins, Flash Gordon, Dickie Dark, Gordon Turner, Steve Taylor, Barry Gould, Jimmy [Silas] Knight, Johnny Freeman, Allan Ladd, Charlie Richmond, Ian Black, Freddie Oliver, Geoff Bird, Robin[?] Day, Davie Jones [the nose] and Colin Powis [of course].
The main and important characters in our lives as motorcyclists were the two mechanics who serviced the bikes. Bob was the main man and it was always my aim to get into [and to keep in] his good books. That way you had a better chance of having a shorter card needle fitted – speed always speed - and even the chance of a new bike when the time came for issue. I seemed stuck with UXV 123 – don't be amazed at my memory just look again at the letters! However once elevated to preferred position it was Oh so easy to fall back, especially if you had failed to clean the bike and oil and grease it before their next visit. For some reason I felt like a yo-yo at times alternating between going like the wind and walking up hills.
Sometimes I was loaned to NETDC [Erdington], this TDC was located on the corner of Woodlands Farm Rd in the ground floor of an old house. The upper floor was the residence of the then Head Postmaster, so there was this perpetual reminder “not to make any noise” in a house with bare floorboards. Which reminds me when I was foot slogging around Birmingham I was 'chosen' to be the Telegram Duty Messenger for Birmingham Races [now Bromford estate]. To say I was disappointed at the speed the horses ran at is an understatement. No tips [cash or horses] and I have never been to a racecourse since. Having to cycle from the Racecourse to Woodlands Farm Rd was almost all uphill, the going back down happened to fast to remember, so that was one “bit of bodge” I avoided like the plague thereafter. I did not spend too much time loaned to NETDC, because round about the time I was getting to know the area, ETDC was abruptly close down and we moved lock, stock and bike to SETDC [Sparkhill]. The last time I looked that building is still there although this one had been turned into a doctors surgery.
I spent almost the remainder of my time as a wag at SETDC, and to start with we were kept to our original areas, but over time we gradually got to know the other part and it was nothing on Sundays to cover both areas in one go. I think our PHG came over with us, but as he lived in Burney Lane [Ward End] he eventually retired and I think we ended up with Happy Hayward. At this time he had not [at least we did not know] any bad habits of reading materiel, so he was there for a quiet life and as it normally happens we were also happy for a quiet life and I think we all rubbed along together. I do remember we had an impressive selection of private motorbikes, ranging from a James 150cc Superquiet [with a great big expansion box in lieu of a silencer exhaust], Triumph Tiger Cub 200cc, a Scott Flying Squirrel [went like that stuff of a hot shovel], a Brough, a BSA Road Rocket, numerous Bantams and my 250 cc BSA – with a chain so stretched that it was always falling off at traffic lights.
One of our first jobs each day was to travel in convoy down to Camp Hill DO [Walford Rd] to refuel. This journey always seemed to be made during rush hours and the final bit down to the junction of Walford Rd and the Stratford Rd was made in single file. At that time there was a policeman on point duty and if you was close enough to the front of the line you could see him wince as we came into view. The trick was not to all turn right at the same time. One day we must have caught for the same policeman all the week, and he became very emphatic [and dramatic] with his hand signals. He indicated to the next one in line to come towards him and pointed directly down to his boot as to where to stop. I still can't remember who it was but his front wheel came to a stop on top of the policeman's boot! After that we were not allowed to travel down in convoy, but had to go down as and when necessary.
I eventually turned 18 and was earmarked to go up to being a postman. This involved being retrained in sorting etc, none of which anyone was looking forward to, as this – you may have guessed – meant going back to the bottom of the heap. For a few months after I was 18, I actually achieved the dizzy heights of Senior Messenger. This meant that you was able to attend for duty before 0600 and work after 2000.
The early duty meant coming in by 0530 cleaning the “Dash Pots” in the Telegraph Branch. These pots were used to dampen the back of the telegraph tape and consisted of a reservoir with a big brass wheel over the middle. Over the day the water became very sticky indeed, with all kinds of sludge and muck in the bottom. After that the Telegrams for the Markets [Fish Meat and Vegetable] had to be taken out and you then messed about doing errands for the Insp of Messengers or the PHG's, I finally discovered who picked that weeks record – sorry about the really duff ones chaps! You had an early dinner and had to open the Youth Club no later than 1100. The responsibilities of the Senior Wag was to make sure everything was tidy and clean before and after and to brush and cover the Snooker Tables after everyone had gone. The biggest problem was making sure no one had swiped any of the records and than none got scratched! The late duty meant that you had every chance of having to deliver local telegrams coming in after everyone else had gone home. Luckily telegrams outside B1 to 5 were delivered by postmen drivers, but Lawley St had finally came back to haunt me.
I finally left the small cosy world of being a Wag in November 1961. Having had my Postmen Training at Bellis St Ladywood, and being branded a “lazy youth” by some old codger who was seeing his days out in a cushy number, I was just in time for Christmas Pressure in the LSO.
ps I wasn't really lazy, just too tired to spend every day standing at the letter fittings as by this time I really had discovered girls.
David Delderfield
Having survived the “trauma” of the Aptitude Tests where I managed to guess that “No the bicycle chain should not be attached to the front wheel” and that “the smoke from the train should be flowing backwards along the body of the train” I was told to report for duty on Monday 15 January 1959 at Pinfold St entrance of the old Head Post Office fronting onto Victoria Sq Birmingham. I was then 15 years and 3 months.
After what I now know to be the usual procedures of signing the Official Secrets Act, being read the Riot Act by Wilf Cox and Sid the PHG [he who always had the last bit of a fag stuck to his bottom lip], going down to the Uniform Stores to be measured up and being issued with a brass buckled belt/telegram pouch and armband. I was taken into the Telegraph Room and told to sit up the corner nearest to the counter. So I sat and made myself as small as I could.
The first thing that happened after that was I was issued with my meal vouchers, blue in colour to denote I could have “free meals” in the canteen. I was then relieved of a penny [£sd] as my contribution towards the Boot Polish and Brasso Fund, given a locker key and shown where the locker room was. [more of that magical room later]. I think I also joined the “Record Club” at the same time. We each paid something per week and a 45 rpm record was bought for the Youth Club - located behind the canteen. At the time I never did find out who got to actually choose the records.
So there I sat watching the world go by, as people were called to the grill that fronted the counter and sent on their ways with little buff envelopes. Some of the people moaned and some smiled and said “bit of bodge” as they wandered out. Really big boys would come in and backchat the men behind the counter and seemingly get away with things I would not dream of saying to my parents. I did notice that these same boys also took a long time to deliver their telegrams – little did I know they were being sent to some mysterious land called “Lawley St Goods” Eventually a huge shadow loomed over me and this gruff voice said “You don't mind the language do you son”?. To which I managed to stammer “No Sir”, which brought the response “Just call me Mr Nutt”. For the first week I always went out with another lad, so he could show me the ropes and any dodges he thought necessary. Invariably these were the same dodges he had failed to get away with!
Well, I eventually got my chance to go out and deliver real telegrams, having been tested with “Service Telegrams” or SU [Service Unpaid], destined for some very strange little rooms within the Head Office. Luckily I went with one of the other boys in the beginning, because the place seemed like a rabbit warren with steps up and down and places where I told never to go in to! I only found some of the really small rooms when we were moving out in 1971. The rules when travelling on lifts was explained to me. We could ride up and must always walk down – and watch out for any postmen coming out of the Postman's Branch as they were likely to give you a clip round the ears if you started to cheek them. Some of them did not need the excuse of being cheeked before you got clipped!
Delivering real telegrams was great, you had the chance to get out in the fresh air and there was always an even chance that you might be able to chat up the receptionists – although I must admit almost everyone I saw seemed older and bigger than me – and it took some time before I found my chat up lines etc etc. I also soon found out where “Lawley St Goods” was. It was a long way and woe betide you if it took longer than 45 minutes. Personally I liked going to Snow Hill Station best as the Telegraph Office was right down the bottom of platform 10, and you could get back to Victoria Sq by a slightly longer and quieter route rather than the direct one along Colmore Row.
Things like finding out who the men [PHG's] were behind the counter was also a bit frightening. Mr Nutt [Joe] he was big but very fair, Mr Beesley(?) [George}always laugh at his jokes or you went to Lawley St and Mr Price [Barry] no apparent sense of humour as you always went to Lawley St! These seemed to be the regulars, although the one to worry about was the old guy called Sid [he with a stub of a fag attached to his bottom lip]. Correction, the one to really worry about was someone called Percy [who came later], now he really was crazy and rumoured to be a boxer, he finally found fame – and TV notoriety - as the Traffic Warden in Bromsgove.
Sid – he of the stub of fag- was the one who inspected you before you started duty, this included checking the brass buckle, the belt itself, the pouch and your shoes all had to be cleaned, and beware if you turned up wearing brown shoes! I only did that silly trick once and was promptly sent home to change, and then had 3 hours pay stopped into the bargain! Just before I started the Inspector of Messengers, Mr Bert Hewlett, had retired and thereafter mostly we had people on a temporary basis, until Mr Alf Britton became our boss. A really great bloke, someone you could look up to – in more ways than one as he was well over 6 foot tall. At the time he was the youngest AI in the country and somebody's far seeing choice as a manager, as he ended up as Chief in the LSO and always had time for you. He trick was to always call you by your initials, how he remembered nearly 200 names I never did find out. But it worked.
Shoes were issued, and once you had broken them in they were OK, as we were growing lads we had a new pair issued every six months or so. Those that did not grow so fast could, it was rumoured, find a ready market for the shoes with the rowdy guys from the Postman's Branch. You could also buy blue shirts with two collars, from the Uniform Stores at reasonable prices, well reasonable if you could get you Mom and Dad to cough up the money. My starting wage was £3.17.6d, for which I worked 49 hours [gross] and 45 hours [net]. You was not paid for your meal breaks.
The above covers, more or less, my first few weeks as a Wag at Birmingham GPO. Now I'm not saying I have a good memory, as I'm describing events nearly 50 years ago. I did not realise, until other events overtook me, that some things are seared into you memory, be it the long or short term type. To which most of those reading this will instantly empathise with the short term problems.
And so I settled down to a fairly easy life, livened by trips to the locker room. The windows of the locker room were of reeded opaque glass, but they also looked out over Pinfold St, and just by co-incidence also were level with the changing rooms of a very posh shop in New St called Chanel Strange the number of drooling wags that seemed to hang about by those windows! This was where Dave Griffiths threw my uniform cap out of the window – the peak got broken in the process and cost me ten bob plus a skin [form P18] into the bargain.
“Skins” and “Majors” were the bane of my life and I started looking for places to work that kept me out of the spotlight. The place I [and everyone else] fancied was the RLB, out housed in Clay Lane Sheldon. Sometimes we had to go there, either as a relief or most times to collect and official leather pouch. I can't remember the guys name, but he always seemed lonely and never inclined to pass the time of day. The same went with the Wag at King Edward House. This was an outhoused unit that seemed to manufacture blueprints for the whole country. I was eventually asked [told ?] to go to Fordrough Lane [this place contained Factory, Supplies and Test Sections].
I ended up in Test Section, along with Colin Powis and a blonde lad called - I think Robert. The place I did not like being lent to was Supplies. I'm left handed and the first job of each morning a was to open the post and then date stamp everything – it was here that I learnt that I'm not The PHG [Mr Nicholson] was a terror and was known to break telephones if he was really upset. Among the other jobs of distributing and collection internal post , we also had to take telexes to the typists on the top floor, you can tell how young I was I was still uncertain about girls so I was always reluctant to go up there. One day we were clearing out a cupboard full of old papers and came across a telex that had not been cancelled. This was duly entered into the Telex Book and taken to the typists. About a week later Mr Nicholson erupted, this telex had been doing the rounds nationwide asking so a part that no longer existed! This time receiver and handset got broken.
The Factory section was also one to avoid, especially as a relief as you always got the longest round to do. The PHG was OK, after a fashion, step out of line and he squeezed you head! His name was Mr Mann – I don't think anyone knew his first name - and I think he was part of the family dynasty that included the future Inspector of Hockley {Reg] and his wife Ruby became head of Typists when we were at Royal Mail St. You might think I'm name dropping a lot, but one of the things always impressed upon us wags, was that we were the future AI's and Inspectors. What none of us realised at the time, was that this was the start of a net working system that followed most of us all the time we worked for the GPO – The Post Office – Consignia - Royal Mail et al, no matter what rank/grade we ended up as. Those above and below looked after us, and dug many of us out of scrapes, we in turn knew so many that there was always “someone” you knew who knew “someone else”, if you wanted a favour done quickly.
I eventually ended up at Cable and Wireless in Gt. Charles St. Whether this had anything to do with bagging one of the lads from Test Section inside a parcel Bag, and dumping him on a big goods lift I'll never know, but my move happened shortly afterwards! Cable and Wireless was the overseas part of Telegrams, we covered the same area as for Inland Telegrams, B1 – 5 - and were still available for Sundays, Bank Holidays, and even once for Christmas Day telegram deliveries. The guys who “whipped” us out seemed a bit more relaxed than the PHG's at Pinfold St, partly I suppose because they were also Senior Telegraphists whose speed of typing was really amazing. I think we also had to make them tea on a regular basis. Whoever was detailed for this also managed to miss a turn on delivery, so it seemed a fair swop. Which, to my now cynical eye, also suggests it was an “unofficial” job.
One day I had to go back over to Pinfold St, on some job, and was collared by Barry Price – note I had progressed enough to think of them as having first names – and ended up seeing Mr Britton. Did I ever think of applying for motor cycle delivery he asked? I must admit I was a bit stunned – gob smacked had not yet entered our lexicon - and Sid huffed and puffed on his stub and chimed in with his few words of encouragement. A few weeks later, after the usual form filling and medicals, I was released from Cable and Wireless and told to report to Garrison Lane Stores Dept. Here were 5 other hopefuls, intent upon obtaining a motorcycle licence as we could then buy our own bikes! For the life of me I can only remember one other of the group, and this was Colin Powis. [Colin and me seemed to be destined to work with each other for years to come, even being promoted to AI on the same day]. Our first few days was spent being crammed into the back of a 50cf Morris Minor, and while one of the more experienced of us rode the one Bantam, off we went to Sutton Park. One by one we went off down one of the quieter roads and round a corner and back to the group. I must presume I was not paying attention because when it was my turn I started off OK went round the corner and promptly fell off when trying to turn round. I finally deduced that the clutch had to be pulled in when attempting this manoeuvre – something I have kept quiet about all these years. Eventually we were all issued with Bantams and drove out to Sutton Park and eventually were allowed to drive around north and east Birmingham.
Having passed our tests, we all did first time of asking, I was sent off to a TDC [Telegram Delivery Centre], along with Colin I went to ETDC in Yew Tree Lane Yardley. The build is – or was the last time I looked – still standing and is now the local sub Post Office. Here I met Ray Raybone, and another guy called Allan – whose liking for cream cakes from Charlie Bragg's on the corner led him to marry one of the girls who worked there - and one of the Duty Telegraphists was Mrs B [Beeston]. So I entered this strange fraternity of motorcyclists, some of them were very hairy [scary] guys and as you only saw some of them on Sundays it was difficult to get to know them. To name but a few I did get to know: Dave Griffiths, Kenny Allan [KHA], Freddie Cook, Alan Brown, Ted Watkins, Flash Gordon, Dickie Dark, Gordon Turner, Steve Taylor, Barry Gould, Jimmy [Silas] Knight, Johnny Freeman, Allan Ladd, Charlie Richmond, Ian Black, Freddie Oliver, Geoff Bird, Robin[?] Day, Davie Jones [the nose] and Colin Powis [of course].
The main and important characters in our lives as motorcyclists were the two mechanics who serviced the bikes. Bob was the main man and it was always my aim to get into [and to keep in] his good books. That way you had a better chance of having a shorter card needle fitted – speed always speed - and even the chance of a new bike when the time came for issue. I seemed stuck with UXV 123 – don't be amazed at my memory just look again at the letters! However once elevated to preferred position it was Oh so easy to fall back, especially if you had failed to clean the bike and oil and grease it before their next visit. For some reason I felt like a yo-yo at times alternating between going like the wind and walking up hills.
Sometimes I was loaned to NETDC [Erdington], this TDC was located on the corner of Woodlands Farm Rd in the ground floor of an old house. The upper floor was the residence of the then Head Postmaster, so there was this perpetual reminder “not to make any noise” in a house with bare floorboards. Which reminds me when I was foot slogging around Birmingham I was 'chosen' to be the Telegram Duty Messenger for Birmingham Races [now Bromford estate]. To say I was disappointed at the speed the horses ran at is an understatement. No tips [cash or horses] and I have never been to a racecourse since. Having to cycle from the Racecourse to Woodlands Farm Rd was almost all uphill, the going back down happened to fast to remember, so that was one “bit of bodge” I avoided like the plague thereafter. I did not spend too much time loaned to NETDC, because round about the time I was getting to know the area, ETDC was abruptly close down and we moved lock, stock and bike to SETDC [Sparkhill]. The last time I looked that building is still there although this one had been turned into a doctors surgery.
I spent almost the remainder of my time as a wag at SETDC, and to start with we were kept to our original areas, but over time we gradually got to know the other part and it was nothing on Sundays to cover both areas in one go. I think our PHG came over with us, but as he lived in Burney Lane [Ward End] he eventually retired and I think we ended up with Happy Hayward. At this time he had not [at least we did not know] any bad habits of reading materiel, so he was there for a quiet life and as it normally happens we were also happy for a quiet life and I think we all rubbed along together. I do remember we had an impressive selection of private motorbikes, ranging from a James 150cc Superquiet [with a great big expansion box in lieu of a silencer exhaust], Triumph Tiger Cub 200cc, a Scott Flying Squirrel [went like that stuff of a hot shovel], a Brough, a BSA Road Rocket, numerous Bantams and my 250 cc BSA – with a chain so stretched that it was always falling off at traffic lights.
One of our first jobs each day was to travel in convoy down to Camp Hill DO [Walford Rd] to refuel. This journey always seemed to be made during rush hours and the final bit down to the junction of Walford Rd and the Stratford Rd was made in single file. At that time there was a policeman on point duty and if you was close enough to the front of the line you could see him wince as we came into view. The trick was not to all turn right at the same time. One day we must have caught for the same policeman all the week, and he became very emphatic [and dramatic] with his hand signals. He indicated to the next one in line to come towards him and pointed directly down to his boot as to where to stop. I still can't remember who it was but his front wheel came to a stop on top of the policeman's boot! After that we were not allowed to travel down in convoy, but had to go down as and when necessary.
I eventually turned 18 and was earmarked to go up to being a postman. This involved being retrained in sorting etc, none of which anyone was looking forward to, as this – you may have guessed – meant going back to the bottom of the heap. For a few months after I was 18, I actually achieved the dizzy heights of Senior Messenger. This meant that you was able to attend for duty before 0600 and work after 2000.
The early duty meant coming in by 0530 cleaning the “Dash Pots” in the Telegraph Branch. These pots were used to dampen the back of the telegraph tape and consisted of a reservoir with a big brass wheel over the middle. Over the day the water became very sticky indeed, with all kinds of sludge and muck in the bottom. After that the Telegrams for the Markets [Fish Meat and Vegetable] had to be taken out and you then messed about doing errands for the Insp of Messengers or the PHG's, I finally discovered who picked that weeks record – sorry about the really duff ones chaps! You had an early dinner and had to open the Youth Club no later than 1100. The responsibilities of the Senior Wag was to make sure everything was tidy and clean before and after and to brush and cover the Snooker Tables after everyone had gone. The biggest problem was making sure no one had swiped any of the records and than none got scratched! The late duty meant that you had every chance of having to deliver local telegrams coming in after everyone else had gone home. Luckily telegrams outside B1 to 5 were delivered by postmen drivers, but Lawley St had finally came back to haunt me.
I finally left the small cosy world of being a Wag in November 1961. Having had my Postmen Training at Bellis St Ladywood, and being branded a “lazy youth” by some old codger who was seeing his days out in a cushy number, I was just in time for Christmas Pressure in the LSO.
ps I wasn't really lazy, just too tired to spend every day standing at the letter fittings as by this time I really had discovered girls.
David Delderfield