WEEKEND BREAK (21)

From The Archive. See bottom item for today: How Bond Girl Explained Her Golden Touch

 

 

FEEL-GOOD PIC No 1

 

"CRISIS?  WHAT CRISIS?"  

 

The world may have been holding its breath these past few weeks, but this little boy for one has been totally untroubled by it all.

 

He could even have been doing my favourite trick of falling asleep while trying to read a book.  Or perhaps the distant views of Dartmoor were just too hypnotic. 

 

Whatever, I couldn’t resist making him the subject of my latest painting, just completed, from a photo by Alec Evans.  

 

After my bigger than usual last one (31 x 21ins), I fancied a "little cutie" this time with this 8 x 8ins acrylic. Credit as always to my teacher, the one and only Jeanni Grant-Nelson, https://www.visual-awareness.com.

 

 

FEEL-GOOD PIC No 2

 

My beautiful grandson's idea of helping with this morning’s shopping!

 

 EMMA THOMPSON HAS GIVEN ME AN IDEA . . . 

 

Emma Thompson has reportedly suggested that sex should be recommended by the NHS.

 

“You need sex because it’s part of our health plan, if you like,” she was quoted as saying. “It should really be on the NHS. It should; it’s so good for you!”

 

Okay . . . I’ve re-read that several times and convinced myself there’s only the one possible interpretation. “ON” the NHS?  So yes, taxpayer-funded sex free “at the point of delivery!”

 

Which leads me irresistibly on to the fact that our Emma is in fact 50-odd years behind me with this idea.  And yes, you read that correctly, too.

 

In the early 1970s, I had to down tools for purposes of an NUJ strike. I was working Oop North as a reporter on the Liverpool Daily Post & Echo.

 

Which meant that I was pretty much alone in the daytime with little to do other than twiddle my thumbs, there being no lovely Cornish beaches and clifftop walks close by.

 

So I came up with an idea and duly wrote a novel – SEX ON THE STATE. 

 

Title clear enough, I hope?  

 

Yes, you could call up your sex, whenever your need arose, from Government-appointed providers. 

 

Of course I hadn’t thought the idea anything like entirely through, but I tackled it with relish nonetheless.

 

I naturally gave full vent to descriptive powers borne of my testosterone-fuelled youth and very nobly pointed out its manifold benefits – not only for the participants per se but also by reducing humankind’s frustrations and thus the risk of sex crimes. (Ergo, on balance, “fundable!”)

 

Alas, the strike came to an end and I never progressed that novel, never sought a publisher.

 

But in all probability I still have it in my possession somewhere. 

 

Maybe I should find it, dust it down and finally see where I can get with it – now that I can exploit the marketing value of a famous name endorsing the concept!

 

(Or maybe not.)

 

 

HOW TIMES CHANGE

 

It’s hard to imagine now, with all the present-day kerfuffle over pronouns and genders, but nearly 40 years ago I witnessed a delightful little episode borne of another ground-breaking change in attitudes. 

 

It was indeed big then, but small beer compared with today’s confusing I/D issues.

 

I was at Land’s End for some form of reception, shortly after Peter de Savary had bought up the place, and we were all queuing up to  introduce ourselves to the great man.

 

I couldn’t help noticing how the guy immediately in front of me was shuffling about very uncomfortably.

 

It became apparent why when it was his turn to introduce himself and his lady companion.  

 

“I’m ------ -------- ,” he said, “and this is my, er” – more shuffling and acutely uncomfortable expression – “er, umm . . . my PARTNER.”

 

The term then, for personal relationship purposes, was still very much in its infancy.

 

Behind me was Douglas Williams, West Cornwall district reporter for the Western Morning News and very much old school. 

 

After Janet and I had moved on, he proudly announced, in a voice so loud it might even have been heard beyond the famous cliffs outside:  “ . . . and this is my WIFE!!”

 

 

TESCO VALUE!  

 

We finally binned our Christmas poinsettia this week.  (Janet: “It doesn’t normally last beyond January!”)

 

A fiver well spent, I reckon.

 

 

UPSIDE DOWN JOURNALISM

 

I’m still regularly amused by the lengths to which our local news outlets will go in pursuit of Clickbait – the practice of delaying key details for as long as possible in their “reports,” in order to maximise traffic and boost advertising potential.

 

It’s the very opposite of what we were taught back in the day, employing the sliding scale of news value.

 

In other words, you win your readers by creating the strongest possible intro, followed by the next most newsworthy bit, and so on and so on.

 

In the process, the modern way of writing – “upside down journalism,” as my fellow blogger John Marquis coined it - throws up some hilarious teasers.

 

But for my money there is still nothing to quite match one from several years ago – and I forget which site it was now, CornwallLive or the Packet – which referred in its headline to “a Cornish city.”

 

You could just imagine all those readers clicking away to find out which Cornish city, couldn’t you.

 

Well, all those who may not have known that there is only one Cornish city, of course! 

 

A close second was a Packet report, again from several years ago, which headlined something like “At Last – Key Decision in Planning Saga.”

 

Readers wanting to know what the, er, decision actually was had to wade through fully 600 words or more of council chamber waffle and recap for the answer . . . in the very last line!

 

 

THICK BLACK PLUMES OF SMOKE IN SKY OVER CORNISH PORT TOWN 

 

That was a headline on CornwallLive one day last week.  

 

“Cornish port town,” eh?  That’s a new one, isn’t it. Why can’t they just say Fowey, for goodness sake? (Well, we know now, don’t we – see above piece!)

 

Has a great ring to it, doesn’ it – “Cornish port town?”  Rolls off the tongue so well, the sort of phrase you hear in everyday conversation.

 

Not.

 

 

FROM THE ARCHIVE . . . 

 

My umpteenth viewing of Goldfinger the other day reminded me how I once got the answer to one of the most frequently-asked questions of a “Bond girl.”  Here it is again, from a blog piece I originally published in August, 2017:--

 

HOW BOND GIRL EXPLAINED HER GOLDEN TOUCH

 

As PR man for Helston Garages, I had put out several press releases previewing the company’s 40^th anniversary celebration party (in October, 2000).  Without naming names, I promised that one of the best-known Bond girls of them all would be joining the guests.

 

“And they were not to be disappointed,” I subsequently wrote, “for in swept Shirley Eaton, the actress who famously met a gleaming death by being covered in gold paint in the film Goldfinger.”

 

I couldn’t resist asking her how it was done, referring to that scene where she gave new meaning to a golden all-over “tan.”

 

She replied: “Do you know how many times I have been asked that question over the last 30 years or so?”

 

I persisted: “Was it you or did they use a double?”

 

Shirley gave me a look of mock horror and declared: “You’re not seriously suggesting they could have found someone else so beautiful, are you?”

 

“Okay, okay, but how WAS it done?” I probed, suggesting that, long before the days of CGI, she had maybe at least worn some sort of golden body stocking.

 

“Absolutely not,” she insisted, “and nor did I have the paint sprayed all over me from a can, as a lot of people have suggested.

 

“I was literally painted with a beautiful wide thick sable brush.  It was a very thick, gooey make-up with millions of gold particles and it was very uncomfortable.  Getting it off again was a matter of just scrubbing and scrubbing – and that made my skin very pink!”

 

Then she added: “I had to go through the whole process twice because there were two shots – one where you first see me dead and then the other, close-up, where Sean (Connery) feels for my pulse and pronounces me dead.”

 

So Shirley didn’t even need 15 minutes to make her famous. As she said: “I was only in Goldfinger for five minutes, but it made me internationally known – that just shows what a funny old business it is.” 

WEEKEND BREAK (20)

HOW FALMOUTH ROCKED ON ‘SUPER SATURDAY’ . . . AND SPINNING MY WAY THROUGH CROWDS AND BEER

 

I don’t suppose we’ll ever see anything resembling a reliable estimate of the crowds in Falmouth last Saturday – it being notoriously difficult to judge such things, after all - but there surely can’t have been many days in the town’s history when it has hosted so many people.

 

And that’s saying quite something when you think peak Tall Ships, total eclipse of the sun, Red Arrows, solo sailors’ epic homecomings etc etc. 

 

But a bumper triple win was assured with the biggest day in the International Sea Shanty Festival plus the Falmouth Classics Regatta and, for good measure, the cruiseship Ambition (1,200 guests capacity) in port.

  

For many – businesses, imbibers, party-goers, racers, starry-eyed youngsters - it all added up to “Super Saturday.”

 

And good for Falmouth – it certainly knows how to “rock” these days.

 

But the huge crowds weren’t everyone’s cup of tea, of course, as was made clear by some of the comments on social media.  

 

And I for one am not a crowd person, except – perversely – for big football matches!

 

For me, last Saturday was a reminder of the days when I PR-d for Skinners Brewery during their sponsorship of the shanty festival.  

 

Any self-respecting spin doctor, of course, can switch on the passion for any subject that may not necessarily reflect his/her private preferences. 

 

Sure enough, I would do my Skinners stuff each year in the build-up to the big event.

 

So people used to be surprised when, with Falmouth’s Events Square just around the corner from my home, I would answer “no” when they asked me if I had joined in with the singing and the crowds.  Honest, to this day I never have!

 

(The last public singing I did, I might point out, was as an angelic, nay cherubic, little boy in Penryn’s St Gluvias Church Choir in the 1950s – Vicars Gilbert and Perry-Gore.)

 

By definition, of course, I also had to wax lyrical about Skinners’ beers in my regular press releases for the company. 

 

Boss Steve clearly thought I was doing a cracking good job, because every Christmas a complimentary crateload of his beers would find its way to my front doorstep.

 

Eventually, I had to come clean and confess that I, er, wasn’t actually a beer drinker. . . and that his seasonal gifts would always be redistributed to more appreciative drinkers.

 

The next Christmas, would you believe, I found several bottles of WINE on that doorstep! 

 

 

THE LONG AND THE SHORT OF IT

 

Scene One.  Gorgeous Gylly start to a day last week.  Sea swim (cold) with daughter Lisa, including non-stop natter.  Duration: 11 minutes.

 

Scene Two.  Late Friday evening.  Treliske A&E, treatment for Lisa’s cut hand (cooking).  Told must keep it dry at all costs for X number of days.

 

Scene Three. Another gorgeous Gylly start to a day this week.  Sea swim (still cold) on own, i.e. with zero natter.  Duration: THREE minutes!

 

 

FLAT-OUT BUSY DOCKS

 

In passing (last weekend, see above), I couldn’t help also noticing just how busy Falmouth Docks looked.

 

Compared with the “good old days” of the 1950s and ‘60s, that may seem a strange sentiment when you consider I have chiefly just five vessels in mind.

 

But times change and the Saturday line-up of three MoD vessels and a cruiseship all in for substantial work plus a cruise call – respectively the  Cardigan Bay, Mounts Bay, HMS Scott, Spirit of Discovery and Balmoral – made for an undeniably “bustling” appearance.

 

Together with a few smaller ‘uns making up the numbers, and bearing in mind the loss of wharfage in recent times, that scene was probably about as busy as it ever gets these days. 

 

 

SCINTILLATING STUFF 

 

I mentioned last week the business of hoarding and the inability of myself and my current book subject, Andy Street, to part company with just about anything of sentimental/personal value from way back when.

 

Another of my own most treasured little mementoes goes all the way back to 1969 when I was a raw trainee reporter on the Falmouth Packet.

 

I used to turn out for the Packet All Stars football team. In one of those Sunday morning matches, I managed to score all six of our goals in a 6-3 win over Falmouth Technical College at the Dracaena Avenue playing fields.

 

The match report in that newspaper’s next edition kicked off with:  Mike Truscott was in scintillating form on Sunday when he scored all six goals for Falmouth Packet All Stars . . . 

 

Unfortunately, the report was too small for a by-line and so I’m afraid I cannot for the life of me now recall who would have written it . . .

 

 

QUOTE OF THE WEEK, SURELY

 

President Trump, on whether he would join Israeli strikes on Iran: “I may do it, I may not do it. I mean, nobody knows what I am going to do.” 

 

Did he really not add: “Including myself?” 

 

 

From The Archive

 

This is one of my favourites, first published in March, 2017, touching as it does on so many aspects of Falmouth life that are now long gone.

 

THE GHOSTS OF SEAFRONT PAST

Occasionally, I introduce you to some of the people I see on my daily walk around Pendennis headland and along Falmouth seafront.  By way of a change, let’s wind the clock back half a century or more and get a glimpse of the people, and things, that would have caught our eye back then.

 

The headland actually wouldn’t have changed much, apart from the absence of the big new regional Coastguard centre, opened in 1981 by HRH Prince Charles.

 

Instead, you would find a little “hut” – for it was barely any more than that – just below the southern end of the car park, housing all of a couple of coastguard officers on watch.

 

In the bay, at any one time, you could expect to see a Shell tanker or a BP tanker or a Federal or New Zealand Shipping Company cargo ship – or maybe all four. 

 

These, along with a goodly number of others, were the household shipping names that regularly sent their vessels to Falmouth for repair and refit.

 

That was the time when the Docks would be accommodating up to 15 or 20 ships at once, employing over 2,000 people and regularly calling on the “magnificent seven”* harbour tugs to undertake three, four or more shipping movements in a single day.

 

Along the seafront, the whole character was different, chiefly on account of the hotel bias over apartments.  (I think we were still calling them “flats” in those days.)

 

You’d walk past the likes of the imposing Bay Hotel, the Gwendra, the Carthion and the Pentargan, all now no more.  Oh, and not forgetting the recently-departed Madeira.  The Pentargan was reinvented as the Falmouth Beach, but that, too, disappeared – destroyed by fire five years ago.

 

As Gyllyngvase Beach came into view – back to half a century or so ago now – you would see a raft bobbing about either close in or well out, depending on the state of the tide.  In all except the worst weather, crowds of swimmers young and old would be having great fun on and around it, like bees attracted to a honey pot. 

 

There were no lifeguards on Gylly in those days, but there was, for a number of years, a stern-faced St John Ambulance lady on hand to help if needs be.  Someone might even remember her name?

 

On a Sunday morning, just by the entrance to Gylly (albeit, admittedly, not quite as long as 50 years ago), you would find a lovely cheery fellow by the name of Nelson Gower selling that day’s newspapers from the boot of his car.

 

He had a key to a nearby hut and he let me have a copy so I could use that hut for changing before and after my daily lunchtime swim – all year round, that is, for six years!

 

In August of 1967, you might have witnessed a new spectacle with the first-ever waitresses’ race along the seafront.

 

This proved a tad controversial, with at least two competitors disqualified, according to the Falmouth Packet, “for running with their glasses, bottles and trays clutched tightly to their bosoms.”

 

And a Packet reader’s letter from M Winter, of the Green Lawns Hotel, complained: “As far as Falmouth is concerned, we would be better to save the expense, rather than waste time bending over backwards to make ourselves and the town a laughing stock.

 

“It was not advertised as an open race . . . only one waitress walked the quarter of a mile with a bottle, glass and tray carried in the manner one would expect in such a race.”

 

Fortunately, it wasn’t all aggro.  The race was part of Falmouth Carnival Week, which was opened by Westward Television personality Ken Macleod.  He described Cherry Pritchardas “the most beautiful carnival queen I have ever seen.”

 

In that same era, on around half a dozen evenings every summer, you might even have caught some echoes wafting across town from the Custom House Quay basin and signalling another hugely popular event.

 

With outdoor entertainment still well ahead of the indoor or screen equivalent, up to a thousand spectators would line the quayside for water galas.

 

As well as the races and diving events, there would be fiercely-contested water polo matches. Then Miller and Sweep would arrive in their little boats and send soot flying everywhere.

 

Back at Gylly, meanwhile, you could be amused by something else now long since departed – the Punch and Judy shows.

 

Let’s finish for now by winding the clock back even further – a few more decades. Browse through any book of really old Falmouth photos and you’re likely to see some quaint sights in the form of men and women dressed in their old-fashioned Sunday best taking a seafront stroll. 

 

Long dresses, elaborate hats and dark suits and ties were the order of the (Sun)day, as opposed to today’s anything-goes culture.

 

Something not so well chronicled is the set of rules, or rather old by-laws, governing bathing and changing on Gyllyngvase Beach, and which in all probability still apply to this day!

 

In 1902 Falmouth Borough Council introduced by-laws stating that “a person of the female sex shall not, while bathing, approach within 20 yards of any place at which any member of the male sex, above the age of seven years, may be set down for the purpose of bathing.”  And vice versa.

 

Eric Dawkins, Falmouth Town Clerk back in the 1980s, once told me that bathers were “set down” from gypsy-like caravans that were horse-drawn to the water’s edge at the start of each day.  With the exception of males swimming before 8 am, all bathers had to use these “bathing machines”, as they were known, for the purpose of changing.  

 

As Eric said: “It’s an accepted practice now, of course, for people to change on the beach just by putting a towel around themselves, and to do so wherever they like.”  Reassuringly, he added that a present-day prosecution for such blatant by-law breaching was realistically not very likely!

 

A further insight into our ways of old is contained in Eric’s copy of the 1910-11 Falmouth Guide.  This states that the western portion of Gyllyngvase is reserved for gentlemen and the eastern section for woman and children.  

 

So now you know!  

 

WEEKEND BREAK (19)

PROOF: I’M JUST A LITTLE BOY AT HEART!

 

Any day now I fully expect Jacob, my beautiful little grandson, to tell me he wants to be a train driver when he grows up.

 

Goodness knows, he spends enough time playing with the toy variety, and the other week he was allowed to sit at the controls of one of the engines at Lappa Valley.

 

Thing is, even if he doesn’t end up pursuing that ambition, his dream will never truly die.

 

Or at least not if his Grandpa’s experience is anything to go by.

 

During my current ongoing decluttering exercise, I came across these  photos with the revealing proof that I am still a little boy at heart.

 

 

Thanks to the Helston Railway Preservation Society, and a 70^th birthday present of a voucher for a steam engine footplate ride, I finally realised every little boy’s dream four years ago.

 

I assumed the all-too-real role of driver, pulling and pushing at those heavy levers, with expert guidance, of course.

 

It was a bit of a hairy-scary experience, and I felt for daughter Lisa and son-in-law Greg, the birthday gift providers, who were passengers in the coach I was pulling. It wasn’t exactly the smoothest of rides on that lovely little line.

 

But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

 

And guess what – decluttering or no decluttering, I’m definitely hanging on to these photos!

 

 

JUST USE YOUR IMAGINATION!

 

The Falmouth Packet’s Step Back In Time old pictures page is not noted for the detail and clarity of its captions.

 

A new standard was surely set this week, though, with this classic:

 

I’ve not cut the pic in any way; it’s exactly as published - with the caption "A parking project, early summer 1975."

 

For the record, I am 99.9 per certain the lady in question is Janet Pearce, who, with husband John, owned Cornish Sheepskin Shops and was a prominent member of Falmouth Chamber of Commerce.  

 

But don’t ask me where she was being re-parked!

 

 

 

HOW COLD-HEARTED BOSS MADE EMILY A BUSINESS WINNER

 

Congratulations to Emily Davidson, owner of Falmouth’s Castle Beach Café, on winning Business Cornwall’s “30 Under 30 Class of ‘24” award scheme.

 

Now in its ninth year, the scheme aims to highlight the best of the county’s burgeoning young business talent.

 

Community connection and employee well-being have “hugely benefitted” her business, she says. 

 

“Sadly, I think there is a lack of respect for hospitality and retail workers, not just from the general public but from employers,” she observes.

 

“I have been on the receiving end of this.  One employer even said ‘yeah, yeah, we’ve all got things going on. I don’t want this to affect the quality of your work; the company needs you right now.’” 

 

Emily had just told him that her mum had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and had only three months to live. (She resigned that night.)

 

“When I became a business owner, I knew exactly the kind of boss that I didn’t want to be.”

 

Emily evidently succeeded – proudly citing her staff turnover rate as “practically 0%.”

 

 

REMEMBER THIS CASTLE BEACH?

 

Still with Castle Beach, and recalling my sand-less piece last week, for anyone who has forgotten how it used to look – and should look by now – see Sarah and Andrew’s latest Cornish Walking Trails video, all about Falmouth at its very best:--

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Vlm5YmzfVQ

 

Sandy Castle begins at 30:38.

 

 

HOPELESS HOARDERS

 

In terms of our respective footballing abilities, former Falmouth Town and Cornwall captain Andy Street and I are worlds apart.

 

There is at least one thing we have in common, though, and that is our status as hopeless hoarders.  We just cannot bear to part company with any number of little mementoes.

 

In our latest session together for his forthcoming book* in aid of Cancer Research UK, we came to the point in 1998 when the Cornwall team were away to Guernsey.

 

That involved a return flight out of Exeter, for which - he proudly told and showed me - he still has the ticket, by now somewhat faded but still just about legible!

 

So what did I do? I reached for my wallet and pulled out something even less legible by now . . . the one-inch-square rail return ticket from Manchester to Liverpool that led to my reporter’s job on the Liverpool Daily Post and Echo back in February, 1972!!

 

*  We’re on target for publication of Andy Street’s memoir, STREETS AHEAD, in September/October this year. 

 

 

HAIR-RAISING MOOD SWING

 

Had a dreadful start to my weekly Tesco shop today.  

 

As often happens, I was first into the Falmouth store when it opened at 7 am.

 

No-one else was immediately in sight.  Just the one staff member busy loading up a shelf.  

 

This one never normally speaks, but on this occasion it seemed silly not to at least wish her Good Morning.

 

Which I did, loud and clear.

 

Would you believe, no response.

 

Spirits sank . . . but I knew I was only seconds away from the lady loading up the bread shelves who always has such a lovely smile and friendly hello.  (I was going to ask her to say Good Morning to me twice, to compensate.)

 

But then my spirits PLUMMETED – she wasn’t there!

 

I had to lift myself somehow, so opted for a detour around Pendennis Point and the seafront on my way home.

 

I stopped to talk through my window to a couple of fellow walkers/swimmers.

 

Anna, bless her, gave me a beaming smile, as per usual, but then  declared: “I LOVE that haircut, Mike – so cool.”

 

Wow – spiritual balance restored, with interest.

 

Little things . . . that can make such a BIG difference!

 

 

THE DEED IS DONE

 

At 10 o’clock this morning, the gates were opened and Truro City season tickets went on sale for 2025-26. 

 

I bought one!!

 

Will I ever be allowed into Bickland Park again?  Sorry, Falmouth Town (my lifelong club, black and amber in my blood and all that), but the lure of an unprecedentedly high standard of football just up the road was simply too great.