Derek at 50

Derek as 007

If you're new to this blog, please click here to find out why the diaries of a local government officer called Derek have become so popular.

This week's installment begins in 1981 - the year of Charles and Diana, inner city riots and New Romantics. Apart from a brief entry about the virtues of bringing back capital punishment (presumably for rioters rather than New Romantics), Derek has very little to say about current affairs. However, he isn't completely cut-off from the cultural zeitgeist:

'I bought Brenda a record yesterday: the theme music by Vengalis (sic) from the film "Chariots of Fire". Marvellous music it is - the sort that fills one with heroic visions and deep thoughts that bring tears. We like it very much.'

Like the other volumes of Derek's diary, this one is largely a chronicle of the internecine squabbles within his local Mormon church, with frequent references to admonishments and expulsions. I had no idea that the Mormon church were so pedantic. Given the efforts that they put into converting people, I'd naively assumed that abstinence from alcohol and a liking for the Osmonds would be enough to guarantee liftetime membership of the Mormons. I was wrong.

One of the curious things about Derek's diaries is how normal and mundane they can seem until suddenly, without any warning, he'll casually mention that he is stocking up on tinned food because he is expecting the End Times. This seems to be the prism through which Derek views the world. When some local boys vandalise a playground, it is sign of Satan's growing power:

'When it comes to having an evil brood of children, Mr Supter's two adopted children must surely take the prize. They fulfill to the letter the Apostle Paul's prophecy about children in the last days being "disobedient to parents and without natural affection".'

Derek and Brenda also hold some unconventional views about the age of the Earth - one of the books I inherited from Derek's library asserts that dinosaurs and humans coexisted a few thousand years ago. When Brenda decides to do an environmental studies course, this leads to some lively exchanges with her lecturer:

'Brenda attended her class last night. Much of it is based on the theory of evolution, and that really gets up her nose; but she does not let it pass unchallenged. Her lecturers will come to dread her arrival before the course is over. One of them was expounding the theory of tectonic plates, and asserted that the British Isles were not only moving but also sinking. Brenda asked whether it was not the time to drop anchor!'

Brenda in the 1950s

I was also intrigued by this anecdote from Derek's church:

'This evening has not been an easy one. At seven o'clock I met with Jennifer Griffin at the chapel, and introduced her to the science of psycho-cybernetics. Slowly but surely she is beginning to change for the better.'

During the last few months I've been gradually building a picture of Derek's life. I now know where he grew up, how he fell in love with Brenda and left the Midlands to enjoy a new life in the West Country, but there was one thing that kept nagging. On the strength of Derek's diary entries, he enjoyed a good relationship with his son and they enjoyed many activities together, but I couldn't help feeling that something was missing. Today I found the answer:

'Richard is, despite his handicap, a witty lad who comes out with some priceless remarks on many occasions. Last Saturday morning, he came into our bedroom and had his usual preoccupation with death. As we discussed the matter, I pointed upwards and told him that he was too young to go up there. Quick as a flash he said "Up on the moon?" Later in the same discussion he said, "I want to go up where Jesus are." You and me both, son!

Sometimes we go a little mad and, hand in hand, leave the house by the back door and walk down the street to the front door and there ring the bell persistently until Brenda or her mother answers. We did this on Satuday morning in our slippers. As we were walking down the pavement, he burst out laughing, and when I queried the matter said "Look at my feet". I did, and they were slipperless. I looked back up the street; and there the slippers were sitting in the middle of the pavement like a couple of orphans.

Though he demands much patience, one cannot imagine life without him. He is a joy and delight in so many respects. We love him dearly. We have been well-blessed in that his health is not the problem that it was. Even so, his life is a precarious one. We thank the Lord for him from day to day.'

When Derek wrote this entry, Richard has just celebrated his 20th birthday.

The volume ends with fleeting references to the Falklands Conflict, before finishing with this brief paragraph:

'Today Brenda and I celebrate 25 years of married life together, which in these cynical times is a real achievement! This weekend the whole family are coming down to celebrate the event; ironically I shall not be there; I shall be at the Priesthood meeting in Manchester.

And what shall I say of those years now past? Have they been a blissful ecstacy? By no means. Each one of them has been a test and a trial. Were it not for the testimony of the Gospel and the sacred covenants made at the altar of the temple, I am sure that our marriage would have failed. I thank God that despite the difficulties of the past, we do live in peace together and enjoy many things together.'

After reading this, I picked up a volume from 1955 and was touched by this passage:

'This evening Brenda and I lay in the churchyard and muttered to each other. She has had her hair done and looks wonderful. I am not going back. I am going to set up a home - with an open door - and I am going to marry the girl. I have an eternity in which to live with Brenda.'

Jolly Queer

I suppose that the day will come when I'll stop being amused by crass inuendoes, but until then, I shall continue to enjoy these unintentionally homoerotic books:









I wonder which of today's words or phrases will attract sniggers in a hundred years' time? Will a word we commonly use, like robust, come to mean something terribly rude?

The future is in our hands.

Ordinary People?

My wife and sons have gone to Essex for two weeks - an eccentric choice, but thankfully inexpensive - so I shall be able to devote more time to exploring the Derek archives.

In the meantime, here's a selection of some of the photos that I've come across during the last few days:

I found this in an album of Victorian photos from Liverpool. She certainly has a Mona Lisa smile, but I'm not sure about the weird gloves.

It's hard to judge the character of people from photographs when slow shutter speeds forced them to adopt a hard stare. Perhaps his face relaxed into a warm smile as soon as the flash went, or maybe he's just a tough bastard. Sherlock Holmes would probably say something along the lines of "Although he dresses like a gentleman, I see from his countenance and the thin layer of dried mud on the bottom of his shoes, that he is a member of the labouring classes."

The classic late-Victorian outfit, with the exaggerated thin waist. My wife's great-grandfather grew up in Glasgow at the end of the nineteenth century and told her that he remembered seeing women in the back streets urinating where they stood. At first glance, he would see a respectable-looking lady dressed like the woman above, then he would notice a stream of urine emerging from their feet. Understandably, the women became very agitated and shooed the boy away.

I'll leave the Glasgow jokes to someone else.

I'm not sure if this is a gay couple, a Victorian "Little and Large" stage act, or the first example of a confusing Facebook profile pic.

He's an commanding-looking chap. It's strange how impressive moustaches could be in those days. I couldn't help contrasting him with someone who appeared in last Satuday's Guardian Weekend magazine:

That's progress for you.

It's spooky to think that she's lived a whole life and died of old age, particularly as there's something very contemporary about her face. Perhaps that's because children weren't as good at maintaining a serious, Victorian expression.

I can't think of anything pithy or slightly amusing to say about this. It's just three people with some hay. But I like it.

This is an odd picture. The print is the same size as the negative and I had to enlarge it. I'm not sure if the woman is pulling something out or putting it in, but she seems quite happy either way.

This is from the good old days, when people would dress up to talk to horses.

Finally, a press photograph from 25th February, 1961:

On the back, a caption reads: Prime Minister addresses Young Conservatives. As you can see, the term "Young Conservative" is an oxymoron. They can't wait to be 50 and live in Chalfont St Giles, regularly popping into town to visit their club, perhaps with the odd visit to Madam de Sade's for some corrective therapy (just like Nanny).

On the subject of photos, I must post a link to this post of "boring" (but curiously compelling) snapshots at Brett's excellent blog Branches and Rain, which also contains this wonderful post about the time he didn't die.

Cutting Edge?

Technology appears to be developing even more quickly than I'd thought possible. Only the other day, I saw a poster in the local chemist that read: "Transfer your memories to DVD". Why would I want to do that? It seems like a high-risk strategy. On the other hand, if I could purge some of the most embarrassing experiences of my life onto a small plastic disk, I'd definitely consider it.

At work, I've just finished a trial of what is supposed to the the most advanced, cutting edge, state of the art (insert extra cliches here) voice recognition software. The program's selling point is that it adapts to the individual user's voice, becoming attuned to the subtle nuances of accent and timbre until eventually, it is word-perfect.

The program promised to revolutionise my department, speeding up data entry to the point where we could put twice as many books on sale every day, so I was very keen on the idea. I installed the software and started reading passages from different novels into a microphone, so that the program could become accustomed to my dulcet tones.

As the software also had a possible practical application in the warehouse, it was decided that someone from downstairs would come and join us.

I don't know who chose our new guinea pig. He speaks in a sort of animal-like grunt and is known as "Bear" by the lads in the warehouse (in fairness, the poor man has two teeth missing and the left side of his face bears a scar from dental surgery). It seemed an eccentric choice, but perhaps someone thought that this would be a true test of the software.

The trial began. I started reading out a stream of book details: "John Le Carre. Tab. The Spy Who came in From the Cold. Tab. Hodder and Stoughton. Tab..."

Unfortunately the software seemed to suffer from some form of Tourettes. In addition to failing to understand my BBC accent, it came up with bizarre phrases like Angry Hookers, Drug Kill and Evil Sex Gang. HarperCollins became Harming Colin, Pearson became Pierced Tongue and Stanley Paul became Sadly Porn. It was very odd.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, "Bear" was grunting into the microphone and getting word-perfect transcriptions. What was going on? One person suggested that the moment I was put in front of a microphone, I started hamming it up, trying to sound posher than I was. I suppose that's possible, but surely if my hamming was consistent, the software should have picked that up?

I persisted for a week, as I had been assured that the program would evolve, gradually getting used to my voice. The final straw came on a Friday afternoon, when I was trying to enter the name of a children's publisher:

"Blackie."

The screen said Black Key.

"Blaackee."

This time it said Lackey.

"Blackie" (said in a clipped, Noel Coward voice).

The screen read Plucky.

At this point I started to get really annoyed.

"BLACKIE! BLACKIE! ****ing BLACKIE!"

In the middle of this rant, the only non-white person in the building walked past and stopped in their tracks.

I was mortified.

I knew that if I tried to explain it would only make things worse and plunge me into a Father Ted "I'm not a racist" scenario, so I calmly, but desperately continued: "Published by Blackie Books...published by Blackie Books."

I think I got away with it.

After that incident, I decided to go back to good, old-fashioned two-finger touch typing. I've no doubt the day will come when we can transfer our memories onto a hard drive and have flawless conversations with computers, but it isn't here yet.