Sandy Hobbs | # ,
Some time around 1980, I started to organize a growing pile of notes into what I called the MODERN FOLK TALE file. Over subsequent years I have added to that file, not always very systematically and never managing to empty out the Miscellaneous file which feeds it. The MFT file now stands at well over 400 items. Some of these I have written about, many more have been written about by other people. Of course, the name “modern folk tale” now seems rather old fashioned. They are much more frequency called legends, with the qualification “contemporary”, “rumour”, “urban”, “modern” and “belief”. (“CRUMB” legends is what Gillian Bennett and I once called them.)
The term “urban legend” is being used here in acknowledgement of the work of Jan Harold Brunvand, who has employed that phrase. His book The Baby Train (1993) contains the closest attempt that I know of to a systematic listing of these stories. What follows is based on Brunvand’s listing, in that it contains some examples from the MFT file which DO NOT occur there.
The MFT file has been a working instrument. It has included items about which I had mused “Is that a modern folk tale?”. Sometimes that judgement turned out to be probably wrong, but it was nevertheless worth making, because it meant I kept an eye open for more evidence one way or the other.
In general, I have erred on the side of overinclusiveness. This has meant noting material which was perhaps too local or lacked a sufficiently strong narrative to become part of the urban legend corpus. Nevertheless, it seemed to me to be worthwhile to look at some of the “failed” items and reflect on why they didn’t make the Brunvand collection.
UL stands for Urban Legend(s); the number before each item is its MFT code; CLFB refers to Bennett and Smith (1993); LTAM stands for Letters to Ambrose Merton, DMT stands for its predecessor, Dear Mr Thoms…
007 HOWLERS
David Cornwell and I wrote about these in LTAM 1:1-5 and LTAM 2:26-36. Whilst they seem to circulate like UL, it probably makes sense to classify them apart from UL. However, the dividing line is fuzzy. In The Choking Doberman (1984: 26-27), Brunvand tells a story of how the Lord Chancellor processing through the Houses of Parliament shouted “Neil!” when he saw his friend, Neil Marten, M.P., only to find tourists around him falling to their knees. The same Neil/kneel mistake has appeared in a book of howlers, attributing it to new pupils in a primary school (see Hobbs, 1989).
010 TITANIC HEADLINE
A story to illustrate the parochial outlook of local newspapers is that when the Titanic sank, a local newspaper in Aberdeen headlined the report:
Aberdeenshire Man Drowns At Sea
He Was A Butcher In Union Street
Hamilton (1982) included this in a collection of “myths about the Titanic”. He reports that one of the two local papers in Aberdeen ran the headline:
Mid-Atlantic Disaster: Titanic Sunk By Iceberg
A rival paper had a similar headline. However, like UL, this “myth” has survival powers. I have seen or heard it attributed to papers in Bideford, Gateshead, Greenock and Norwich. Most recently I spotted it, ascribed to Aberdeen, in The Herald newspaper, 13 April 1987.
021 MURDERED SON
The story of the son returning home unrecognized, who is murdered by his parents, is most certainly a legend (see CLFB entry 782). But is it modern? It may no longer be currently “told as true”, perhaps because of its use by Camus in his famous play Le Malentendu (translated as Cross Purpose).
060 SECRET TUNNELS
The earliest use of the phrase “contemporary legend” I have come across is by F. Scott Fitzgerald in The Great Gatsby (first published in 1925). Gatsby’s notoriety, writes Fitzgerald, “fell just short of being news” and “contemporary legends…attached themselves to him…” As an example of such a legend, Fitzgerald gives the “underground pipe-line to Canada”. I have never come across other references to underground pipe-lines, but the similar idea of a secret tunnel is quite widespread in Britain.
Many years ago, Alistair Steven gave me a reprint of an undated article he had written for a local newspaper in Scotland, in which he discussed tunnel claims. He argues that Scottish topographical writing is “plagued by a surfeit of stories which do not bear the weight of any close scrutiny…” As an example he casts doubt on the story of tunnels between castles in Perthshire.
What advantage would tunnels between castles have given which would have compensated for the immense amount of work involved? The greatest tunnel of the old world which the Romans drove under Monte Salviano to drain Lake Rucino went for three and a half miles…but it is said to have involved 30,000 labourers for 11 years. The kind of mind capable of constructing it was also capable of recording the construction. If there was anything at all approaching a Newton-Ardblair tunnel in Scotland why is nothing satisfactorily known about the system? James I would not have been murdered in Blackfriars Monastery had even the short sewage system there not been blocked. Had they been in use as an escape route, bigger castles than the Newton, whose lairds commanded regiments of men, would have had them. The Drummonds purchased the lands of Newton of Blair about 1550 and would build the original keep thereafter. George Drummond was on so poor terms with practically all his neighbours that four years later they banded together and murdered him…Amongst the murderous band was the laird of Ardblair. There is no record subsequently of any strong links between the families…How then could the tunnel be made?
Steven pours the cold water of historical detail over these tunnels. However, the story is not unique. For example, Enid Porter, in her Cambridgeshire Customs and Folklore (1969) has two examples. On page 143 she refers to vaulted cellars under “Old Abbey House, a 17th century building built on the site of a 12th Century priory. A bricked up arch is traditionally regarded as the entrance to an underground tunnel. This is rather vague. Where did the tunnel go? However, on page 183, there is a more detailed tunnel story. It was supposed to run from Grantchester Manor to King’s College Chapel, in Cambridge. Furthermore, there is a narrative to go with the tunnel. A fiddler went to explore the tunnel and was never seen again. There is a local field name, Fiddler’s Close. This is the widespread legend of the Lughnasa Musician discussed very fully by David Buchan (1970).
The Lughnasa Musician is not always lost in a tunnel; sometimes there is a cave. However, the tunnel is a common feature. It may be objected that this is clearly a traditional, rather than a contemporary, legend. However, is there a sharp dividing line? One version David Buchan cites was collected orally only two years earlier than the publication of his paper. It concerned a tunnel between Paisley Abbey and Crookston Castle, two or three miles away.
066 A TAXI TO WICK
I opened a file on this story on the basis of a newspaper clipping I made and lost. The file was intended to alert me to look out for it appearing again. However, the file remains empty. The story is very simple. A London newspaper editor rings a journalist in Glasgow about a story he wants followed up. “I want you to take a taxi to Wick..,” he begins. That is the story. If it means nothing to you, it is because you don’t know Scotland. Wick is about as far from Glasgow as you can get on mainland Scotland. The taxi journey would be long and expensive. Perhaps the story is to elementary and its “meaning” too crude to have allowed it to develop into a fuller legend narrative. That London editor is an outsider who does not understand Scotland. There are lots of people in Scotland indulge in the hobby of anti-Englishness; perhaps if had moved in those circles I would have had a better chance of hearing about the taxi to Wick again.
067 SALMON TWICE A WEEK
This file contains notes of a conversation, a radio programme and a television programme. The least vague refers to the television programme I saw on BBC 1 on 27 June 1983 but which had apparently been first shown on BBC 2 in May 1979. Called “The River Keeper”, it was in a series called “A Year in the Life of…”. The keeper was Bernard Aldrich of Broadlands Estate. The narrator, appropriately enough, was called Tom Salmon. The programme referred to the decline in salmon stocks and said that at one time salmon was so plentiful it was food for apprentices and they complained about having to eat it every day.
My other notes refer to (a) apprentices having written into their indenture agreements a clause stipulating they would be fed salmon no more than twice a week, and (b) a similar stipulation being made by farm servants in the North Est of Scotland.
085 ORDERED NOT TO FAINT
On 14 July 1989, The Times newspaper reported that 300 children between the ages of seven and fifteen years had collapsed while marching in a jazz band competition at a carnival in Nottinghamshire. One explanation offered, and hotly disputed, was that it was a case of mass hysteria. During the debate which followed, one reader wrote the following letter, published 2 August 1980:
Sir, Between 1924 and 1929 I was a pupil at Cheltenham Ladies College.
One morning, a girl fainted during prayers, and there was a certain amount of confusion in taking her out of the hall. Next morning two girls fainted, and thereafter there was not a morning, but that two or three girls succumbed.
On the Friday, after prayers were over and she had given out the usual notices, the Principal, Miss Sparks said, “In the future, no girl will faint in College”.
No girl did – in my time,
Yours faithfully,
Mary Crisp…
My suspicion that this might be apocryphal was given support by a letter appearing on 6 August 1980.
Sir, When I was at Cheltenham Ladies’ College from 1917 to 1923, the story of the fainting girls was told in almost exactly Mrs Crisp’s detail of Miss Dorothea Beale, the great founding Principal who died in – I think – 1912.
Miss Sparks was maintaining a well-established tradition.
Yours sincerely,
I.K. Stephenson…
086 FISHING FOOTBALLS FROM THE RIVER
This is a very straightforward example of a story reported by a friend in the belief that it might be apocryphal. Listening to a radio commentary on 27 January 1979 of an F.A. Cup match between Shrewbury Town and Manchester City, he heard it claimed that the Shrewsbury club was so poor that it employed a man to fish footballs out of the river that ran past the ground. He was suspicious of this as he thought he had heard the same said of another team, possible Wigan Rugby League. I filed the story and waited.
On 13 February 1982, I heard a preview of an F.A. Cup match between Shrewsbury and Ipswich. The item included an interview an elder gentleman called Fred Davis, reminiscing about his job: fishing footballs from the river. Apparently in one match the ball went into the river eight time. The story was apparently true.
089 RATION BOOK FOR 1984
This file contains just three letters. Note that they are dated 1982.
8 February 1982
Dear Sandy,
Have you encountered at all recently the folk tale about someone (in the case brought to me “A fellow college student’s mother”) having sent to the appropriate government office for a Child Benefit form and receiving instead a food ration book dated 1984, and all properly made out with her name and address? I’d be interested to know if you have encountered this recently, because it used to resurrect itself from time to time.
Regards,
Norman [Norman Buchan M.P.]
12.2.82
Dear Norman,
I am sorry but I can’t give you much help on the ration book story. Although I can remember seeing references to it at least twice, I didn’t keep records because its “folk” status escaped me. One appearance was in Socialist Worker, I think, told with an obvious political point. More recently, I noticed a journalist appealing for someone who had actually seen a ration book to come forward. Now you’ve alerted me, I’ll be on the look out and let you know of any further sightings.
Yours sincerely,
Sandy Hobbs.
February 25 1982
Dear Sandy
Thanks very much for your note. Regarding its folk status:
(a)It’s a fairly common tale;
(b)It’s always happening to someone at second or third remove;
(c)It usually is accompanied by an embellishment to the effect that a policeman called next day and threatened them with dire consequences if they didn’t keep silent about it – as in this case.
I suppose it is all a rather bureaucratic concept for a folk tale!
Best wishes,
Yours sincerely,
Norman.
In fact I don’t seem to have come across it again. Presumably, Brunvand would have classed this with his Government Legends.
115 JAM JARS AT THE CINEMA
In the essay “Enough to constitute a legend?”, which I contributed to The Questing Beast (Bennett and Smith, 1989), I took a critical look at the debate about whether British cinemas ever accepted empty jam jars as payment for admission. That debate goes on.
What follows is abridged from “Mystery of the jeelie jar” by Frank McGroarty, which appeared in The Herald newspaper, 16 December 1995, in a special supplement celebrating the centenary of the cinema.
Every household takes for granted the common jam jar. However, during the early years of the century it was more than just a way to store preserves. It was a form of currency.
In those days, the jam (jeelie) jar was a prized possession among youngsters. They were exchanged for money or sweets at the local grocer’s, would pay for fairground rides, and according to many mature members of today’s society, the jars would pay for the price of a cinema admission ticket.
The connection between jeelie jars and the cinema is the only part of that legend that is hotly disputed, even till this day. For every former patron who said that it did not happen, there were those regular customers who have strong recollections of paying their way in with jam-jars and in some cases lemonade bottles.
Many film historians are convinced that this story was myth because according to them, such a practice would have been illegal. At that time cinemas had to give a percentage of the money raised from admission tickets to the Customs and Excise, to pay what was an entertainment tax, which ran from the time of the First World War until the early fifties. So they believed that paying in by the jam jar method deprived the taxman of his cut.
Another point raised was that…a typical cashier’s desk was so small, that there would be nowhere to store the empty jars.
However, Dunfermline sports coach, and film fan, believes in the jamjar story and was able to explain how cinemas used to get round that problem based on regular conversations with his parents.
“They used to say that there were two queues, one leading to the cash desk and one for those with jam jars, which was often referred to as the poor queue,” he said. “They handed the jar to the man who would then place it in a box, and then hand them a ticket. They would then take it to the cash desk where they would be given an admission ticket.”
One former customer, Ray Hannah, used to go to the local cinemas in Blackburn in the forties and remembers often getting himself into trouble when collecting his jars to take to the cinema. “I got many a whack with a bannister brush after being caught supping the jam in the garden shed in order to get the empties,” he said…
Even though noted film historian, Frank Manders, has not discovered any documentary evidence, he is convinced that such a practice did exist.
“There are certainly many cinemas that did not allow jam jars, but there is plenty of anecdotal evidence to suggest that it happened at the small picture houses,” he said.
Memories of admission by jam jar are widespread. When the Scottish newspaper, the Sunday Mail, ran a story on the subject, it was “mobbed” with letters, of which it published five (21 June 1992). One appeared to recall the circumstances in great detail:
“At the Wellfield Cinema in Springburn, Glasgow, you could get in for three jam jars on a Wednesday afternoon between four and 4.30.”
Two indicate that jam jars were not a unique alternative to cash:
“A jeelie jar…got you into the Victoria in Greenock. And so did a label from a packet of Lyons tea.”
“In Saltcoats you could get in for a wrapper from Cowan’s soap as well as a jam jar.”
These could presumably have been the result of promotional schemes by the companies concerned. One reader remembered getting change!
“A one pound jar got you in, and if all you had was a 2lb jar they gave you sweets for change.”
Rather less plausible, apparently, is change the other way round:
“I once went to the pictures with half a crown (30 old pence) and got 29 bottles in change.”
However, Michael Thomson (1988) in his history of cinemas in Aberdeen, cites a story in a local newspaper in March, 1921, in which a boy was said to have received eleven jam jars change when he paid for his ticket with a shilling. Thomson believes the jam jar practice lasted from approximately the First World War until around 1935.
I have also come across references to the jam jar admission in Edinburgh (Community History Project, n.d.), Sheffield (Vickers, 1987) and York (York Oral History Project, 1988). However, these are all memories of members of the audience. I have still to find either documentary evidence or recollections by cinema staff.
120 SHOVE OFF, CHARLIE!
This was collected from a letter to the editor in Expression! The Magazine for American Express Cardmembers, May 1985. The writer starts by stating that this is one of his favourite business anecdotes, but is probably apocryphal. It concerns a young advertising executive, rising fast but as yet relatively unknown.
Hoping to close his biggest deal yet, he booked lunch at the Ritz. Awaiting his guest nervously, wondering how best to create the right impression, he spotted Sir Charles Clore heading for the restaurant, and had his inspiration.
Brashly approaching the great man, he introduced himself, explained his situation, and begged Sir Charles to do him a tremendous favour by somehow indicating (in the client’s presence) that they were mutually acquainted.
The sheer impudence of the request touched a soft spot with Clore – perhaps reminding him of his own early days – and when the young man and his guest sat down to lunch he delivered the favour handsomely, striding across to their table, beaming with outstretched hand, “My dear chap, how nice to see you! How’s everything with you?”
The young man responded with a pained expression. “Oh shove off, Charlie. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
I felt fairly confident that I’d come across this story again, but in fact this clipping sits alone in the file.
413 FALKLANDS VETERAN
David Cornwell provided me with the following text on 21 March 1989. He had heard the story two or three weeks previously from a colleague at Jordanhill College of Education at Glasgow. I had asked him to write it down because I had heard essentially the same story two days earlier from John Widdowson, who reported it as the content of a cartoon.
This guy was sitting on the pavement in Argyle Street with his cap upside down in front of him, begging for money. He was covered in cuts and bruises, all scarred. He had only one arm, and one leg. He was blind. A sign hung around his neck read “Falklands Veteran. Please give generously.” No one paid any attention to him, and no one gave him any money. People just walked by, walked around him. This other guy notices that no one is giving the beggar any money. He says, “Come on, what’s wrong with you all,” shouting at the passersby. “This man has fought for his country. He’s been wounded and suffered greatly…Come on, give him some money.” The passersby seem embarrassed by all of this, and keep a wide berth of the man. They still don’t give any money. “Come on,” shouts the man, “Give him some money. Here! I’ll start this off.” And he pulls out his wallet and takes out a ?10 note. He throws it into the beggar’s hat. The beggar looks up at the mind and says, “Gracias, senor”.
Almost three years later, in his column in The Observer newspaper (19 January 1992), Simon Hoggart told the following version:
You may have heard this joke, but I pass it on anyway because it was told me by one of Lady Thatcher’s best known and most intimate confidantes. It seems that the Lady was passing by some homeless beggars and had a crisp word of advice for each: “Smarten up, there are plenty of jobs to be had”, and so forth. Then she came to a pitiable figure with the words “Falklands Veteran” around his neck.
Overcome by sorrow and gratitude, she instructed an aide to find a ?20 note. The derelict’s eyes popped with astonishment as he sobbed: “Muchas gracias, senora!”
References
Bennett, Gillian & Smith Paul. Contemporary Legend: A Folklore Bibliography. New York: Garland, 1993.
Brunvand, Jan Harold. The Choking Doberman And Other “New” Urban Legends. New York: Norton, 1984.
Brunvand, Jan Harold. The Baby Train And Other Lusty Urban Legends. New York: Norton, 1993.
Buchan, David. “The legend of the Lughnasa Musician in Lowland Britain”, Scottish Studies, 23: 15-37, 1970.
Community History Project. Jeelie Jars and Barrie Coats. [This twenty page pamphlet, reporting a project undertaken at Silverlea Day Care Unit, Lothian Region, has neither publisher’s name nor date.]
Hamilton, Alan. “Sunk at last: some myths about the Titanic”, The Times, 15 April 1982.
Hobbs, Sandy. “Enough to constitute a legend?” in G. Bennett and P. Smith (Eds.), The Questing Beast, Perspectives on Contemporary Legend IV, pages 55-75. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989. [Am earlier exploration of the edges of legend.]
Porter, Enid. Cambridgeshire Customs and Folklore. London: Routledge, 1969.
Thomson, Michael. Silver Screen in the Silver City: A History of Cinemas in Aberdeen, 1896-1987. Aberdeen: Aberdeen University Press. {Appendix 1, pp 339-340: The Great Jam Jar Controversy.]
Vickers, J. Edward. A Popular History of Sheffield (2nd ed.) Sheffield: Applebaum, 1987.
York Oral History Project. York Memories of Stage and Screen: Personal Accounts of York’s Theatres and Cinemas. York: York Oral History Project, 1988.