Buffalo Bill Rides in... and Bows Out

Buffalo Bill and some of the Red Indians in 1890
Source: Wikimedia Commons

On 17 August 1891, former hunter and US army scout turned impresario, William Cody, better known as Buffalo Bill, opened his 'Wild West Show' for the first of six days of performances in the Potteries. The show was making a tour of Britain and had arrived from Sheffield several days earlier in three trains comprising 76 carriages, bearing 250 performers, several hundred horses and dozens of bison. Cody and his company also brought enough scaffolding with them to build a pavilion that could seat 15,000 spectators, which was quickly constructed not far from the train station in Stoke by local workers. A Red Indian village was also built nearby for the many native American performers and their families, which became a great attraction during their stay. In the main pavilion there were two shows a day at 3pm and 6pm and though it rained on the first day the weather improved as the week went on. Sure enough, as elsewhere, thousands of local people turned up to watch the likes of Annie Oakley with her sharp shooting, cowboys riding bucking broncos and especially the Red Indians riding around the pavilion, whooping their war cries as they attacked stage coaches or a pioneer cabin. At the end of each performance, Buffalo Bill himself, elegantly clad in his buckskin suit, rode into the arena mounted on a white horse and was wildly cheered by the crowd as he made his parting bow.

Thirteen years later on 21 October 1904, the people of the Potteries witnessed the last ever performance by 'Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show' to be held in Britain. The season had started here earlier that year on 25 April, most of the animals and some of the cowboys and stable hands having overwintered at Etruria, while the bulk of the company had gone home. Now after their last tour of the country, the show made a return to the area prior to departing for the Continent. They signed off with two final performances held on this day at the Agricultural Show Fields at Birches Head. The evening performance attracted a crowd of 12,500 people and at the end of the show the performers were bid goodbye by the audience spontaneously singing Auld Lang Syne.  

Reference: Staffordshire Sentinel, 17 – 18 August 1891; Staffordshire Sentinel, 22 October 1904.

Boots! Boots! - A Potteries World Premier

Probably at some point in early to mid July 1934, Burslem hosted the world premier of the first film of an up-and-coming star, when, according to report, the Palladium Cinema in in Waterloo Road showed a new British comedy entitled Boots! Boots! The star of the production was George Formby Jr, the son of a notable music hall performer, who would go on to be one of the biggest home grown film stars of the early 20th century. In his most famous films, Formby was invariably cast as a gormless but cheeky character with an infectious grin and an astonishing skill with a ukulele, on which he played numerous very catchy tunes; his films still come over surprisingly well today. This early film, though, was a far cry from those later glossy productions. Apparently filmed over a fortnight on a shoestring budget in a room above a garage, the film has the feel of a review, with very little plot. George plays John Willie (a character invented by his father) a hotel boots who indulges in a number of comic encounters with the hotel manager, the chef, some of the hotel guests and a scullery maid (played by Formby's formidable wife Beryl). Discovering John Willie's prowess with the ukulele and the maid's dancing skills, the manager puts them in the hotel's cabaret.

George Formby later described Boots! Boots! as 'a lousy film', and certainly it seems very cheap and cheerful today, but on it's opening it proved to be a great hit across the country and effectively launched Formby's cinema career. By his own account he himself saw what a draw the film was when he secretly came to the Potteries to see the film open and was astonished to find that it was playing to packed houses. A Sentinel reviewer described it as ‘a distinctly happy piece of entertainment. There are plenty of laughs, an abundance of good tunes and the settings are up to standard for a film of this type.’

The reason why the exact date of the premier is unknown seems to be because the Palladium Theatre often went through periods when it did not advertise in the Sentinel, 1934 being one of these times and as a result the date is lost. The film was subsequently shown at the Roxy in Hanley for three days from 19 July and at the Regal, Newcastle on Bank Holiday, Monday, 6 August 1934, having gone on general release on 30 July. 

Reference: Staffordshire Sentinel 7 August 1934, p.3; correspondence of Jonathan Baddeley and David Rayner in The Way We Were supplement to the Sentinel, partially reprinted in The North-West George Formby Newsletter 36, Vol. 3, No. 12, June 1998, p.4.

In Glorious Biocolour

In the early to mid 1920s, a pioneering film maker Claude Friese-Greene and his assistant, drove a car from Land's End to John O'Groats. Using a specially developed process of early colour photography christened 'biocolour', their journey was immortalised in a documentary The Open Road, the purpose of which was to show off the new process. Due to film limitations only a narrow spectrum of blues, greens and reds could be captured by Friese-Greene's method, nevertheless the result was an impressive colourful snapshot of Britain in the 1920s.

To show off his colour photography to its best advantage, Friese-Greene mostly filmed rural scenes, the bucolic imagery of which suited his additive process, but there were occasional forays into industrial areas and one of these was in the Potteries and internal evidence suggests that the visit took place in 1926. After a brief panoramic view of the district from some high vantage point, Friese-Greene then visited the Wedgwood factory at Etruria. Here he found to his delight that he was able to film indoors quite easily due to the large expanse of windows in the workshops. He filmed a thrower at work and paintresses putting finishing touches to the wares. This was followed by a perhaps overlong display of Wedgwood wares from vibrant lustres to the more subdued colours of the famous Portland vase.

Suffice to say, though ingenious, Friese-Greene's technique never took off, losing out to the more versatile Technicolor. As a result, his film went into storage and remained unseen for 80 years until it was restored and aired in 2006 in a BBC documentary entitled The Lost World of Friese-Greene.

Up, Up and Away

Balloonist Charles Green later in life.

Charles Green was quite a celebrity when he arrived in the Potteries in early October 1826. A pioneer balloonist, five years earlier, Green had become famous almost overnight when he made a special ascent into the air in his coal gas filled balloon at George IV's coronation. Since then he had become a professional balloonist, touring the country giving displays and allowing a lucky few to take a ride up with him. Now that thrill was open to the people in North Staffordshire and to one lucky passenger would fall the chance to make local history by joining Green in the first ever flight over the district.

The first ascent was to take place from Shelton late in the afternoon of Tuesday, 3rd October 1826. 'A vast concourse of persons' had assembled according to a reporter for the Staffordshire Advertiser. A carnival atmosphere prevailed, a band had been arranged to keep the onlookers entertained and enclosures had been set up for paying guests. The most exclusive of these for 'the most respectable inhabitants' was rather thinly populated at first, but started to fill up after 3 p.m., allaying fears that Green would not be fully compensated for his visit to the area. Another cheaper enclosure was also pretty well filled. Most of the locals, though, opted for a free view, an immense number of whom were camped out in surrounding fields, streets and yards, perched on roofs or leaning out of windows.

The weather was cloudy but favourable despite a brief shower which dampened those waiting for the launch. Half an hour or so before the main event a small pilot balloon was released to check on the wind direction, Green then got to work preparing the large crimson and gold striped main balloon for its trip over the Potteries. There was at this point some anxiety as to who, if anyone, would accompany Green on his historic flight. Some days earlier a suitable companion had been selected, but who this was is a mystery as the man backed out shortly before the launch and it seemed very likely that Green may have to go up alone. Indeed, the celebrated balloonist had clambered into the basket or 'car' as it was then called and was making his final adjustments prior to lift off, when the band suddenly struck up the popular Irish melody 'Fly not yet' to get his attention. A last-minute replacement had been found, the Reverend Benjamin Vale, perpetual curate of Stoke-upon-Trent had volunteered to go.

Vale was not a local having been born in London in 1787 and despite his religious credentials he seems to have been a rather prickly and erratic character, who was prone to rubbing people up the wrong way. Years earlier he had gone to Australia in hopes of setting up a ministry, but had left under a cloud when in a fit of misplaced patriotism he had illegally seized an American ship in Sydney Harbour, much to the annoyance of the local governor who had cleared the ship and who promptly sent Vale packing back to Britain. The rebuked clergyman had then served in his native London for a time before securing his position in Stoke. Years later he would become the Rector of St James Church, Longton, but his flock never seemed to have warmed to him and in 1842 his home fell prey to an angry mob during the Pottery Riots. Yet, whatever his other faults, Vale does not seem to have lacked in physical courage and after briefly justifying his decision with his anxious friends, to the applause of the onlookers he eagerly stepped forward to join Mr Green for this first historic trip.

Vale's friends crowded around the car when the clergyman had taken his seat and expressed their wishes for a safe journey. The balloon was allowed to rise into the air to a considerable height above the gathered crowd, ropes still holding it secure while it did so. Here, Mr Green released some ballast and dropped a parachute over the side attached to a basket that carried a cat, which floated safely back down to earth. After a short while suspended thus probably to give the crowd a good view of the 'buoyant and splendid machine', it was drawn back down to earth, two flags were handed over which were fixed at either end of the car, the ropes were released and with the band playing and crowd applauding the balloon rose gracefully into the air. To those on the ground the balloon remained in sight for about twenty minutes before vanishing into a cloud for ten minutes, then reappearing briefly in the distance as a dark-coloured ball. The rest of the journey was instead charted by Reverend Vale who subsequently wrote an account of the historic flight, which was printed in the Staffordshire Advertiser several days later. Shorn of its evangelical asides, it makes for an interesting first aerial view of the Potteries.

'At four o'clock the flags were presented to us, and we left the earth; the wind blowing rather to the north and east, and the barometer standing at 29.4. I continued to answer the salutations from below as long as I could distinguish particular objects, and afterwards occupied myself in general observations with Mr. Green without feeling a particular sensation of any kind. By degrees, the objects on earth became so small, that the most extensive manufactories appeared like so many mole hills,and the people appeared like so many black and white specks. I could not but think how truly ridiculous it was for men of immortal minds to weary themselves unnecessarily, and strive with each other for the possession of such mud-heaps as the establishments on earth now appeared to be; and I looked about with great anxiety to observe that humble church preferment which I was so anxious to obtain, and which many were so anxious to confer on me. I looked, however, in vain – it had already mingled in the obscurity of distance, and nothing remained but a huge dark sod, with a mud-heap where Hanley stood, and another where Lane-End might be supposed to stand.

One of Charles Green's balloons in 1836

At five minutes past four, the barometer standing at 26.2, we entered a very thick cloud of a yellowish white colour; we were then little more than half a mile high, i.e. 58; the cloud had a  peculiarity of taste which I am not now able to describe, and the feel of it was somewhat soapy. Having now lost sight of the earth, we adjusted the ballast, put out the grappling iron, and properly fastened it; Mr. Green then untied the mouth of the balloon, and I looked up into it, which from the pureness of the gas appeared to be empty. Mr. Green left the mouth of the balloon open, that as the gas might expand, it might find itself a passage downward through the mouth. When Mr. Green observed the balloon to become fully distended, he opened the valve and let out some of the gas; and as this led to me making some remarks about the valve, he permitted me at proper times to open the valve myself. The first time I opened the valve I think I did it with some hesitation, but opportunities multiplied and I went about it at last as if it had been my business.

At ten minutes past four, we were as near over Blithe Marsh Bridge, beyond Lane End, and then gliding into another current of air, we drifted towards Cellar Head. We now had a good view of the clouds beneath us, layer on layer, the last layer appearing to rest in sullen silence upon the earth, while all the rest appeared to move, each layer seeming to be directed by a peculiar current of air.

At fifteen minutes past four, we approached Werrington windmill, which we saw directly, and at the same time we heard the halloo and greetings of persons who were too much diminished by distance to be observed by us. The barometer then stood at 24.2, and our distance was nearly a mile, i.e. 98.

At twenty minutes past four, we passed over Consol Woods, and heard several guns fired, and had a good view of the bleak and hilly country over which we were about to pass.

At thirty minutes past four, we threw out ballast to check the descent of the balloon, which Mr. Green considered too rapid. We now held out the flags, and it was evident that we were going downwards, as the flags were blown upwards. I looked earnestly towards the earth to discover the first appearances again. What appeared narrow straight lines hardly distinguishable, turned out the be the King's highways; what appeared to be a mushroom, turned out to be a hay-stack; and what appeared to be a solitary bush, turned out to be a plantation or a wood. We again heard voices, and a curious humming sound, which Mr. Green explained as being produced by a shower of very small rain falling on the balloon; a sound which in his earlier experience, had very much alarmed him. We then crossed Churnet River, and the Canal in the neighbourhood of Belmont House, and saw the reflection of the balloon in the water. The rain had now condensed the gas, and the lower part of the balloon collapsed.

At thirty-five minutes past four, we found ourselves descending over a woody district, and threw out ballast in order to pass over it. As we ascended, we got into another current of air, which drove us rather southerly, between Ipstones and Kingsley. Here it was somewhat cold. A voice was now heard distinctly crying out “Come down, come down.” Mr. Green answered “Not yet.” and I vociferated “Silence.”  and I have since learned that a good hostess understanding Mr. Green to say “yes, yes,” and supposing me to say “mistress,” little thinking that she did not appear to us bigger than a pin's head, went in and fetched out some brandy to regale us. The barometer now stood at 23.1 and our distance was about a mile i.e. 1.2.

At forty minutes past four, the barometer stood at 20.1, so that our elevation then, (which was our highest elevation) was a little above two miles, i.e. 2,047. Mr. Green thought it proper here to tie the mouth of the balloon to keep out the atmospheric air; and he mounted on the very edge of the car to accomplish it; as it was not possible for him even so to reach it, I hung upon a cord my whole weight to bring the mouth of the balloon low enough, and in this manner it was effected. I now heard the sound of a horn, and Mr. Green heard the sound of carriage wheels, so that we concluded some public coach was passing, and we stooped a little from our elevation to examine the ground for a descent.

At fifty minutes past four, a heavy storm came on, and we were obliged to hasten our descent. Nothing but stone walls appeared to greet us in this moorland country, and we both prepared for the worst that could happen to us. Having come down low enough for the grapple to touch the earth, we called to the first object we saw to come and render us assistance. Two men that appeared were unable to overtake us. The grapple caught on a wall and dragged an immense part of it to the ground. Again we swept the distance of a long field, and again the grapple caught on another wall which it served as it did the first. In this manner our velocity was checked, and other persons coming up, we made a safe landing, after having been in the air, as near as possible, an hour, and having passed over at least 25 miles.'         


Reference: Staffordshire Advertiser 7 October 1826, p.4 ; J H Y Briggs, ' A Staffordshire Clergyman: The Reverend Dr Benjamin Vale,  L.L.D. (1787-1863)' in Staffordshire Studies (Keele, 1987) pp. 141-153.                                

Soprano: The Musical Career of Lily Lonsdale (1)

'If only to hear the remarkable singing by Lily Lonsdale, the entertainments given by the Royal Gipsy Children are well worth attending... The young lady named is still well within her teens, but she sings with skill expected only from artistes far above her years, and has a voice of unusual compass and beauty.'

-  Western Mail, Cardiff, 27 December 1899

Elizabeth Longsdale, alias Lily Lonsdale

Elizabeth Longsdale, or Lonsdale, was born in Pitts Hill, Tunstall in 1878, the fifth of eight children born to William Longsdale and his wife Martha nee Maskew. Elizabeth's father was a potter by trade, but his great passion was for choral music and in the last decade of his life he served as the choirmaster at Christ Church, Tunstall. Given this background, it is hardly surprising that William and Martha raised a family of very musical children: their son Wilson became a noted local baritone and their youngest daughters Agnes and Ethel also became elocutionists, singers or performers as too did one of their grandchildren. But it was Elizabeth, under the stage name of Lily Lonsdale, whose star would shine the brightest. Unfortunately for William, though, he never got to see his daughter's rise to fame, dying at a relatively young age in 1889 when Elizabeth was only eleven years old.

Elizabeth first made her name as a soloist at local concerts before joining the North Stafford Amateur Operatic Society where she made her stage debut, eventually taking on lead roles, most notably as Iolanthe in the Gilbert and Sullivan comic opera of the same name. As was later noted in her obituary, it was after this that that she turned professional, joining Thomas Tomkinson's Gipsy Children, a local choir turned concert party. Unusually, this was composed of talented children or adolescents and had garnered quite a following in the Potteries, even earning several invites to Trentham Hall to entertain the Duke of Sutherland and his guests. This troupe – known from 1897 onwards as the Royal Gipsy Children – would be the starting point of several successful show business careers during its existence, most notably that of Gertrude Mary Astbury, who better known as Gertie Gitana, later enjoyed a stellar career in the music halls. When Elizabeth was with the troupe Gertie was a child prodigy from Burslem nine year Elizabeth's junior, who under the stage name 'Little Gitana' ('Little Gypsy') was already gamely tackling the multiple roles that members of the Gipsy Children were often expected to take on, be it singing, dancing, acting, yodelling, paper tearing, male impersonation and performing in musical or comedy sketches. Contemporary newspapers occasionally provided digests of the entertainments the troupe provided.

Lily's co-performer Gertrude Astbury -
'Little Gitana' - in later life. By this time
she went by the stage name 'Gertie Gitana'.

'THE GIPSY CHILDREN - Mr Thomas Tomkinson's Gipsy Children have attracted crowded audiences to the Town Hall during the past week, on their return visit to Leek. Without doubt Mr Tomkinson has at his command one of the finest entertainments at present travelling, and the lengthy programme which includes musical items, comicalities, gymnastic displays, &c., is full of interest from start to finish. The first portion of the entertainment is composed of songs, dances, solos and choruses by the children, and it would be a difficult task to single out any performer, from Miss Lonsdale with her beautiful singing, to Little Gitana with her dry humour, who is more worthy of special praise than another. The second part consists of skipping-rope dances, clog dances, toe dances, character sketches and feats of equipoise on wire. The Musical Mascots give an excellent item, and the Urma Trio of charming young ladies go through a marvellous performance on the triple trapeze, which is suspended from the ceiling of the Hall. The mysterious Flying Lady, concludes the programme, and many are the suggestions made as to how this wonderful trick is done. The work of trying to please the audience extends down to the attendants who see that nothing is wanting for the comfort of their patrons. We strongly recommend those who have not already done so, to visit the Town Hall this evening (Friday) or to-morrow, when there will be a matinee, besides the evening entertainment.'

- The Leek Post, 3 December 1898

Elizabeth too occasionally performed in some other roles as the situation demanded taking parts in sketches and revealing an aptitude for comedy, but her best and natural talent was always singing. Slim and attractive and now in her late teens, Elizabeth had developed into a fine soprano singer possessed of a beautiful, well-modulated voice. Billed under the alliterative moniker 'Lily Lonsdale', she quickly became one of the star performers with the Gipsy Children, regularly granting encores to delighted audiences and earning fine reviews from equally enthralled reporters.

Though originally performing exclusively in the Potteries or North Staffordshire, by 1897, the reputation of the Gipsy Children was such that they took on a tour of the Midlands and Wales and were very well received. Lily – as we shall now call her -  like the other performers joined the troupe on the road and went wherever she was required. The performances took place in various locations, sometimes grander places such as theatres, but also in town halls or humbler public buildings like church halls or meeting houses. The company included not only the cast, but also the management and a small army of helpers. Indications are that many of the parents of the children were involved with the troop and joined them on tour and took on various roles such as helping the young performers with their costumes, serving as ushers for the audience, collecting tickets and scene-shifting. All the props had to be transported too and the Gipsy Children even took a large velvet curtain on a custom made extending brass pole with them to serve as the stage for the show where none existed. Such ad hoc arrangements were known in the business as 'fit-ups', because they could be fitted up anywhere to give a performance. Only in such ways could visiting performers take their acts to small out-of-the-way venues where no other suitable performing area existed.

Ernie Myers

Working with the Gipsy Children, experiencing life on the road, working in theatres and the numerous fit-ups, in front of varied audiences (including royalty if we believe Thomas Tomkinson's tale about how the troupe suddenly became the 'Royal' Gipsy Children) was doubtless good grounding for Lily in her intended profession. During this tour she honed her skills and earned many plaudits for her performances, but she must have felt that it was apprentice work and by mid 1899 she was looking to move on with her career. There may have been several other reasons behind this desire to spread her wings; for one she was now 20 or 21, a grown woman and was obviously getting rather too old to make a convincing gipsy child. Also by this time she was romantically involved with another member of the troupe, 28 year old comedian Ernie Myers and they doubtless wanted a bit of privacy for their relationship, while armed with their skills the prospects of a married life on tour as variety performers looked promising.

Lily's initial attempts at forging a new career, however, got off to a bumpy start. Having quit the Royal Gipsy Children in June 1899, she enlisted as a member of Leon Vint's Globe Choir that was formed from 20 to 30 young women and seemed a logical choice, but she soon regretted it. Lily joined the choir in September, but by December her voice was suffering from overwork and despite being under contract until the following summer she handed in her two weeks notice. At first Leon Vint was agreeable to her quitting her contract if a replacement could be found and Lily's sister Agnes working elsewhere in the company offered to step in, but for whatever reasons Vint then changed his tune and after seemingly plucking an excuse out of thin air and claiming that the two women had breached their contracts, he threatened to take the sisters to court, at which Lily and Agnes, angry at this volte-face, promptly resigned. To court they went, at Tredegar on 16th January 1900, but here Leon Vint's bully-boy tactics backfired when he admitted that he had indeed asked for a replacement and Agnes had agreed. The judge was also critical of the contract which he deemed very one-sided in the management's favour and as a result he promptly dismissed the case against the two women.

To support herself in the meantime, Lily had returned to performing with the Royal Gipsy Children. Her return, though, was short-lived and was effectively brought to an end only a few days after the successful court case when on 22nd January, Thomas Tomkinson, the founder of the Gipsy Children died from pneumonia at Dowlais near Merthyr Tydfil aged just 27 years. The company would carry on touring and performing under the care of Thomas's brothers, but in the reorganisation following his premature death, Lily and Ernie made their final break from the company and set off as independent performers. Taken onto the books of theatrical agent A. Borelli, they were immediately set up with a number of dates, one of the earliest being in Liverpool and whilst in the area they married at Prescot in Lancashire in April that year. Shortly afterwards they appeared in Salford, after which their manager put both of them on the so-called Moss and Thornton tour, taking in a series of theatres and musical halls across Ireland, northern England and Scotland.

There was a brief pause for Lily early the next year when she returned to the Potteries to have their first child, Jacob William or 'Jack', in February 1901, but hard economics and the strictures of contracts dictated that family life had to play second fiddle to their careers. So, while young Jack was left in the care of Lily's mother in Tunstall, Ernie and Lily went off to earn a living and so began the gruelling round of public appearances up and down the country that was the lot of jobbing variety performers in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

References: Obituary, Staffordshire Sentinel,  8 March 1929

Soprano: The Musical Career of Lily Lonsdale (2)

The Queens Palace, Rhyl

In the first few years on the road Lily and Ernie appeared in numerous venues up and down the country, including Belfast, Hull, Salford, Liverpool, Rhyl, Pentre, Tonypandy, Barry, Treorchy, Birmingham, Leeds, Derby, Coventry, Gloucester, Birkenhead, Argyll, Edinburgh and occasionally back on Lily's home turf in the Potteries. They were as yet only middle-ranking performers building up their reputations on the theatre and music hall circuit, all of which further honed their considerable skills. Despite now being married and performing at the same venues, they still appeared under their original stage names as separate acts, Ernie as an increasingly popular 'patter comedian' regaling the audience with amusing if outlandish stories and Lily in her role as a classical or ballad vocalist, though occasionally she too turned her hand to comedy, often performing in sketches or skits opposite her husband, such as when they were appearing at the Queen's Palace in Rhyl, North Wales in 1902:

'A very clever item is the amusing sketch entitled “The New Man” a burlesque in which much jesting and vivacity are introduced and which does the artistes credit. Ernie Myers well sustains the funny part, humour of course being a speciality of his which has made him a great favourite while in Rhyl. The mad woman's part is played by Miss Lily Lonsdale, the accomplished ballad vocalist who for the past week or two has charmed the audiences from day to day.'

- Rhyl Journal, 20 September 1902, p.2

They appeared in very mixed companies, sharing the stages with conjurors, ventriloquists, impressionists, acrobats, marksmen, puppeteers, clowns, jugglers, dancers and performing animals as well as other comedians and singers. On at least one occasion they were on the same bill as another married couple who performed as the double act 'Drum and Major'. The husband 'Tom Major', real name Tom Ball, would later adopt his pseudonym permanently and following the death of his wife Kitty, by a second marriage he became the father of future Conservative Prime Minister John Major. Probably the most famous bill that Lily and Ernie appeared on, though, was that for the Argyll Theatre of Varieties, Birkenhead, on 29 May 1905, when they were amongst the acts who for three nights appeared in the same show as the famous American escapologist Harry Houdini, then on a tour of Britain.

Their schedules could be gruelling, travelling from one venue to another and when there giving performances six evening a week, plus a weekday matinee. Lily sometimes had to sing up to six or seven songs per performance, so needed to make sure that her voice was in tip-top condition. Away from the stage, both she and Ernie needed to constantly keep their repertoires topical and refreshing; for Ernie this meant a constant search for new material for his comedy act, while Lily had to learn and practice the latest songs to keep her audiences entertained. The winter season did at least give the couple the chance to settle down for a few months into more regular work, when like many artists today they took on roles in traditional Christmas pantomimes. Lily and Ernie often appeared together in Aladdin, where Ernie gained a reputation for playing the villainous magician Abanazar and Lily made a memorable Princess. 

Though their workload was heavy, both of them were still young and the constant round of work paid for a very respectable lifestyle and by 1911 the couple had settled down in a pleasant house in Derby. By now they also had another child, a daughter, Lillian May, born in 1910, who when her parents were on tour along with her elder brother Jack were again left in the care of Lily's mother Martha, who had quit the Potteries and now lived with the couple in their new home. The children were doubtless left in the care of their grandmother for several months in August 1911, when Lily and Ernie and a few other acts set off on a journey to South Africa, where theatrical agent Edgar Hyman of the Empire Theatres Trust had booked them to perform at the Empire Theatre in Johannesburg. By December, though, they were back in Britain, once again taking up their respective roles in yet another performance of Aladdin.

Things carried on in the same vein for the next two years or more, but this happy period came to a shattering end when in 1914 the couple again set out for South Africa, this time at the invitation of the Africa Theatres Trust who had bought out Edgar Hyman's management company. Taking passage aboard RMS Briton they enjoyed the long voyage down, but on the approach to Table Bay at the end of the journey Ernie was taken ill and died suddenly on the morning of 7 April before the ship reached port. Lily was devastated, but the theatre community in Cape Town rallied around her. Harry Stodel, the local impresario who had booked them stepped in to organise the funeral, while the theatre company from the Tivoli music hall where they had been set to perform helped Lily through this hard time, for which she was very grateful. She was far from home and there are no indications that she had her children there with her to say goodbye to their father when he was buried at Maitland Cemetery, Cape Town on 8 April 1914.

After fulfilling what remained of her contract in South Africa, Lily took her lonely journey home. Back in Britain she quickly returned to her life back on the stage, a necessity now that she was the sole family breadwinner. This was a position made even more tenuous by the outbreak in August of what would become the Great War, with all the upheavals this caused. However, Lily was lucky, her reputation was high and she never stopped working during the war and after a few variety performances in London when she first returned to Britain, her work  took a new direction with regular employment on two long-running stage shows. She first landed a plumb role in the new musical farce Mind Your Own Business, written by Charles Baldwin and directed by Ernest Dottridge. Boasting a cast of forty performers the show starred comedian Arnold Richardson as restaurant proprietor Nathaniel Bloggs, with Lily as his daughter Ella, Vera Hind as a 'Sicilian Syren' and Leyland Hodgson as Ella's sweetheart, Dick.

The show would prove popular as it toured the country and Lily stayed on as a principal member of the cast until the end of 1915. She remained with the company for the winter season panto, but in February 1916, she announced that once the pantomime ended that she would return back to performing in variety. This plan quickly changed, though, when she was snapped up for another musical My Son Sammy, which would provide Lily with work for the rest of the war and beyond. She was again playing one of the principal roles, that of Vera Openshaw, while the titular character Sammy was played by comedian Arthur White, whose antics carried the show. Described in a similar vein to Mind Your Own Business, the show was a musical farce and a topical one with numerous songs touching on the military, such as 'Military Mad' and 'The Chocolate Soldier', the latter sung with verve by Lily herself, for as throughout her career she was widely praised for her commanding presence on stage and the beauty of her singing.

My Son Sammy toured the country with great success, it consistently played to packed houses, audiences seemingly delighting in anything that distracted them from the grim news from the front. Sometimes during a stop over, the cast would break off from their normal routine to put on special performances for wounded servicemen in the numerous war hospitals dotted around the country. For instance, in October 1918, Lily and her fellow performers were at the Grand Theatre, Hanley and put on just such a variety performance at the local war hospital, where many of the wounded were stretchered in by members of the Royal Army Medical Corps. It was a great success and Lily shone on home turf where she 'delighted the audience with her charming rendering of “The end of a journey.” In response to a determined encore she gave the popular “Joan of Arc” in splendid style.'

A few days later the company moved on to Middlesbrough and it was whilst there that on 11 November 1918, that the armistice was signed and the war ended.

The show went on for two more years with Lily still playing her part. Her career was going well, but the increasingly poor health of her mother was a concern and in mid-May 1920, whilst in Wigan, Lily suffered a nervous breakdown due to stress. The Stage put this down to her punishing work schedule, noting that she had played over a thousand performances in My Son Sammy. This was doubtless a factor, but by now her mother was in the last weeks of a long and painful illness. Lily recovered and trouper that she was got back to work a fortnight later in St Helens. However, on 21 June 1920, Martha Longsdale died back in Derby, putting a stop once more to Lily's performances. She and her relatives met up three days later in Tunstall for her mother's burial in the local churchyard.

Following this traumatic event Lily briefly left the cast of My Son Sammy and by mid-July she was headlining at the Gaiety, Durham as the star of The Rainbow Girl, described in the bylines as 'The most gorgeous and refined attraction of modern times'. Perhaps her time on this show was simply to give her a break from her normal routine and to allow her to pull herself together, or maybe she found that she could not fit into the new show. Whatever the case, after only a month Lily returned to her regular role in My Son Sammy. And there she remained for the next year when in December 1921 a sequel Sammy in Society was produced. Lily reprised the role of Vera Openshaw, but only for a short run of performances. It was time to move on.

Top of the bill. Lily briefly headlines in The Rainbow Girl.

After this long stint of very fixed work Lily moved back into the world of variety and a life akin to that she had led early in her career, and on one occasion at least she is said to have toured abroad once more, this time in Madeira. Also according to her obituary perhaps harking back to her father's choral background, she also occasionally dabbled in oratorio. Her long career now usually saw her receiving top billing wherever she went, but there were fewer mentions of her in the press. There was one notable exception in 1923, albeit for all the wrong reasons, when on 4 November, her son Jack died at the age of 22. He had been ill for some time and his death again hit Lily hard and his passing and funeral were given conciliatory coverage in The Era newspaper. Now there was only Lily and her daughter Lillian, who within a few years also started to pursue a career in the music halls and theatres. Her mother carried on as before.

A photo of Lily from her obituary.

For the next five years Lily worked constantly, but as was the case with many music hall stars, the workload and peripatetic lifestyle started to tell and by her late 40s her health had begun to suffer. In Wolverhampton in August 1928 the end was signalled when she suffered a seizure and collapsed on stage. She sat down to complete her final song, but as soon as the curtain fell Lily was escorted out to a waiting ambulance. What the seizure boded is never made clear, but from what little can be gleaned it ended her career and her life. She never recovered and on 2 March 1929 at the age of 50 she died at the Derbyshire Royal Infirmary. 

Teddy Boy (Part 1)

Bill Cooper (third from left) in his early days as a Ted.

'When I was 14 and still living in Nelson Place with my sister Minnie and her family, two of my mates who were older than me had asked me if I wanted to go dancing. I said, “Dancing. I’ve never danced in my life except some square dancing at the church hall. Where you going?” They said “The skating rink, they’re playing rock and roll.” I said, “Rock and roll, what’s that?” - “Haven’t you heard those new records on the radio?” They said.

Well, I wasn’t all that interested at first, but I said I’d think about it. They were going on the Tuesday, so I tuned in to the radio after this just to find out what they were on about. The first rock and roll record I ever heard, even before Bill Haley and the Comets, was by Boyd Bennett and the Sky Rockets. It was one that was imported from America, you never heard it much because they didn’t play that sort of stuff on the wireless much then, it was mainly crooners and big band sounds like Victor Sylvester, Edmundo Ros and Ted Heath.

Anyway, I went to the dance. It was at the Ideal Skating Rink; they had dancing there on Tuesdays and Saturday nights and as I was tall for my age they thought I was 15 and they let me in. I enjoyed myself, but I was still a bit shy so didn’t dance, I stood at the side talking to some girls from school and some older ones who’d already left. They were all asking me why I was there. I went again the next week and this time I had a few dances and started to like it. They were still doing what they called jive which had been introduced when the Americans were here during the war. It was very similar to what they called bopping, only to big band music. But that wasn’t in the Teddy Boy era; it hadn’t started around here yet. 

Of course, when the first rock music came out, the big band stuff and the jive had had it, that had gone. When Elvis and Bill Haley came out, we didn’t want to know that other stuff, all we wanted was rock music. And when proper rock and roll dancing came in, the Teddy Boys appeared. The Teddy Boy era didn’t last all that long. It started in about 1953 and by 1959 it was all over, around here at least. I first decided to be a Teddy Boy after seeing an article in the 'Daily Mirror' about lads in London dressing as Teddy Boys. Anyhow after the article in the 'Mirror' about the Teddy Boys in London, of course it spread all over the country and they started appearing around Hanley. I saw one or two and then more started dressing like that, then as I say, I became one as well. My family didn’t mind about me becoming a Teddy Boy. Minnie wasn’t really bothered, she knew it was the 'in' thing then and that I liked dancing. Her kids, Marie, Margaret and all the others would say “Where you going?” when I used to start getting dressed up to go out on a Saturday night.  

Weekday wear.

In the week we'd wear jeans and bomber jackets, sometimes leatherette or leather if we were well off, but at the weekend we’d never go out without a suit on and a tie. That was the real Teddy Boy look - it took Edwardian style dress and exaggerated it a bit. I think we took some style from the pictures too, like the film 'Beau Brummell', that one with Stewart Granger. I know Beau Brummell wasn’t Edwardian, but he was a dandy and if you watch that film you’ll see the influence there, the flashy cravats and ties. The long coats were the main thing that made us stand out, some with fancy lapels and we wore drainpipe trousers that tight that you used to have to sometimes lie down on the bed to pull them on. But a lot of the tailors in Stoke-on-Trent wouldn’t make you a Teddy Boy suit, I don’t know why - they just wouldn’t do it. To get a Teddy Boy suit, I had to hunt around and finally got one made at a private place down in Shelton. It cost me £15, which was a lot of money then, even when I worked in the pit. At one time, though, I did have a real Edwardian suit. The bloke next door, Lily Kondratiuk’s father, saw me dressing up one night and he said, “That looks like Edwardian stuff.” and I said, “That’s how they’re beginning to dress now. They call them Teddy Boys.” He says, “Well, I’ve got one of them suits, but it’s in the pawn shop. If you want it, here’s the ticket; go get it.” 

Anyway, I went up to get it and it was absolutely brilliant! Jet black it was, with a waistcoat. When I put it on it was a perfect fit because he was same build as me then. I bought a pair of black shoes to go with it, a fancy white shirt with frills on and a string tie. My mates were jealous to death. They said, “Where’ve you had that made?” I said, “I haven’t had it made. It’s older than any of us this is.” I wore it for ages, it was a lovely suit.

Another time, I bought a Teddy Boy jacket on its own. A grey one it was, very long, down to my knees. I’d only worn it a couple of times, but with sweating from all the dancing I did the lapels went crinkled on both sides. I said to one of the lads, “I onna bloody wearing this again. It’s had it.” To my surprise, though, he said, ‘Hey, it’s great! I wish I’d got one like that.’ What it was, after the dancing I’d put a big duffle coat over the top of my jacket - a big black one with those big peg buttons - and it held all the sweat in and made the jacket all wrinkled down the lapels. Everyone said it looked good, so I wore it all the time after that. 

We also used to wear fancy shirts as well. We’d think nothing of wearing bright orange shirts, or pink or yellow. Tony Hughes was best when he came in a frilly shirt. He met us outside the Albion and when he arrived he’d got his big duffle coat on and he says, “I’ve bought a new shirt.” That was nothing new because we used to buy shirts regularly. Anyhow, we went inside the Albion for a couple of drinks and said, “Let’s have a look at it then.” He took his coat off and it had frills all round his collar like lace, all around his wrists and lace sticking out all down the front. Harold Hale said, “You look like a big girl, you do!” We were all laughing, but it was different and the following week, we’d all got them on. They didn’t last long though, as they were right buggers to iron. Minnie had to iron my shirts, I couldn’t iron shirts, I'd just iron the front and put it on. When she saw these frilly shirts, though, Minnie said, “What the bloody hell have you brought me here for iron?”

The Tony Curtis look was in, so you had to have a quiff as well. I went to see how much it cost to have it cut in that style - I was told 10 shilling, which was an astronomic price! So, I did it myself, they showed you how to in a paper. To do your quiff you’d comb your hair up, then just pull it forward. I used sugar and water mixed. What you did was you mixed the sugar and water, not much water, but plenty of sugar. The water had to be aired so the sugar was just starting to melt and then you dug your hands in it and rubbed it hard until it melted right down, you could feel it sticky on your hands and you rubbed it on. Then you combed your hair and that’s it, it stayed. Mind you, my first go wasn’t all that brilliant, my hair was too short and it came out all spiky.

Bill Cooper, Harold Hale (on bike) and Ronnie Williams.

I had plenty of friends to go out with. There was still John and Harold Hale from Nelson Place. They were Teds as well, but John more than Harold. There was our cousin Raymond Walsh and Tony Smith, he was only a little guy, he was only about five foot and when he’d got his long jacket on the sleeves hung down to his finger tips. He’s the one that kept getting into bloody trouble all the time and expected us get him out of it. There were a lot of us. There was Brian Ward, Ronnie Williams, Billy Gilbert, Bernard Shaw and others. There was quite a few of us from the Nelson Place area, but not the older ones; those that were two or three years older than me and who I first went dancing with didn’t take it up. 

You could call us a gang, I suppose, but it wasn’t just made up of those I’d known when I was growing up in Nelson Place, there were others that we’d meet in dance halls and in pubs. We used to all hang round together. There used to be a bunch of girls with us as well all the time. We would go all over the place dancing, not only in Stoke either, we also went to Manchester.' 

Reference: Interviews with William Cooper, 2007.

Teddy Boy (Part 2)

'The first time we went to Manchester was after we’d talked with a bloke named Danny. I remember him saying he’d been in Manchester on a Saturday night with a couple of mates of his and they’d visited some rock and roll clubs there. Because there wasn’t all that much of it going  on around in Stoke at that time, we started going to Manchester on the train. It used to be 3s/6d return, and the trains used to run every half hour so you could catch one back early in the morning from Manchester to Stoke. We would catch the train at six o’clock on a Saturday night, arriving in Manchester three quarters of an hour later and would go the clubs until one or two o’clock in the morning. Then on the Sunday morning we would catch the mail trains back, that were coming down to deliver the papers from Manchester to Stoke and Birmingham. We went there plenty of times visiting all the different clubs in Moss Side in Manchester.

The Teddy Boy was also a miner. L to R: Stuart Colclough, Bill Cooper and Derek Ford at Hanley Deep Pit.

There were a  few times when we didn't take the train and instead had a lift up there in a car. I worked at Hanley Deep pit at the time and I knew this big, tall black guy named Jim Brown who had come down from Manchester to work in the pits here as he couldn’t get any well paid jobs where he came from. He’d got an old Standard Vanguard car - he was the only bloke I knew that had got a car - and he asked us if we wanted to go with him to Manchester for a weekend. We said “Well, it’s going cost us a bit.” - “Ooh no, you can stay with my family.” he said.

Anyway, he took us, five of us, in his Standard Vanguard, from the pit on a Friday night when we’d finished, straight to Manchester. When we got there we found that his family had a three storey house, a big old Victorian place with a stack of bedrooms! It was like being in one of the boarding houses at Blackpool. His parents were nice people and his mother especially was a right jovial woman! Jim had about five or six brothers and sisters and they all lived at home. I said, “Where are we going stay?” His mother said,” Well, there’s a lot of us here. Just grab somewhere to sleep. There are plenty of rooms. If you go in somebody’s bed you’re all right, they’ll go in another one.”

We went out that first night, but we were all tired because we’d been at work, so we only stayed out until about two o’clock. But on the Saturday night Jim took us to a party in Moss Side,  where all the warehouses were. Going down some steps he opened an ordinary looking door and we went into a huge cellar. There were old settees scattered all around the place and tables too, a band was playing and there were records in between! It was packed, mostly with black people, but there were quite a few white folk there as well. But, bloody hell, it was five o’clock in the morning when we finally came out, from about seven at night! And talk about drunk! Well, they were selling beer out of wooden barrels on trestles and you’d just helped yourself. You just gave them the money and filled your pint; or you could have bottled beer or whisky, or whatever you fancied. It was licensed, the blacks ran their own club. We went again on the Sunday night and then went to come home the next morning, because we had to go work on Monday night. 

We went to that place two or three times and Jim’s mother used to feed us up like mad. She had a large room and she’d had two big tables put in it, with chairs all around and then a kitchen with a serving hatch she’d had knocked in. She said, “I was fed up of carrying the stuff in, so I’ve had this knocked in so I could just pass it through to them.” 

They’d got a big range to cook all the stuff on and two of the grown up girls used to help her. They used to have a stack of food, a quantity of food I’ve never had since. I remember going in once and she said “We’re having chicken.” She got these big bowls out and they were full of chicken legs piled high, all cooked, it was steaming hot and you just helped yourself! 

They seemed to have plenty of money but, there were a lot of them and most of them worked. I’m not sure, but I think I remember something about a shop they’d got. Well in that area there were a lot of big shops down the main street and I think one of them was theirs. The mother didn’t work, I think it was the old man and two or three of the lads that run the shop. But, she used to come with us when we went out at night time, either that or she and the father used to come along later. She would dance as well, she wasn’t all that old, I should say she was in her late forties, but she seemed old to me because I was only sixteen or seventeen.


Reference: Interviews with William Cooper, 2007.

Teddy Boy (Part 3)

Despite all the dancing there was still plenty of time for drinking.

'We'd dance all night. That was the one thing we wanted do, nothing else, just dancing, dancing to rock music, continually. I used to go out dancing five nights a week. I often wonder how I ever made it to the pit the next day because we didn’t just go out for two or three hours at a time, we went out for six or seven hours.  It’s a wonder I wasn’t worn out by the time I was twenty. I’ve got in the house when Minnie was in, taken my big duffle coat and jacket off and my shirt was stuck to me, wringing wet. She’d say to me “You’ll finish up with bloody pneumonia.”

When you wanted to go dancing in Stoke, you’d either go up the Ideal Skating Rink, or to the TA places, like the one at the top of Bucknall Road. But after a while we started clubs of our own, one at Meakin's club near Meakin’s pot bank and we started another for rock and roll dancers at the Northwood Mission. It was there I taught Minnie's eldest Marie how to rock and roll and she used to go up the Northwood Mission with me on a Tuesday night. 

There were bigger halls of course, but they wouldn't let us in. You couldn’t get into Kings Hall if you were wearing a Teddy Boy suit in the early 1950’s, they’d kick you out. They probably thought we were going smash the place up. Aye, well, some of them did! There were plenty of fights. Every time you went anywhere there was nearly always a punch up. It was like it is now, no different - boozing and fighting. No different at all. The only thing that wasn’t around then much was drugs. You could get marijuana - a couple of sailors, blokes doing their National Service used to sell it at the Ideal - but at five bob a time it was too much. It was expensive five shilling was! A pint of mild was seven pence and the bitter was nine pence a pint. So reckon that up. You could have nearly six pints for five shilling. I mean, it used to be a shilling to go in the dance hall.

In the Ideal they didn’t sell alcoholic drinks, you could only have orange squash, tea or coffee. If you wanted a drink you used to have to go out and when you went out they stamped your hand so you could get back in again. You could guarantee that everyone would rush in quick, get a seat in there, or sit around the side, because you danced on the skating rink. All as they did was throw chalk down to make it less slippery, because they had ballroom dancing and then jiving in between that. They played a bit of ballroom, a bit of jiving. We all used to go in and get a seat, but you could guarantee at half past nine that half of them would be across the Sea Lion, or the Golden Lion further down.

Well at that time when I was seventeen I only had to have three pints and I was drunk! But some were worse. One of my mates, Tony Smith, he was terrible at getting us in fights when he'd been drinking. Terrible, he was. We got that fed up with him that we used to tell the blokes he was falling out with “Give him a bloody good hiding, it'll serve him right. He only does it for try and drag us in for pull him out again.” One bloke did give him a good slapping one night. We said to Tony afterwards “That serves you bloody right. It’ll teach you a lesson that will.” Mind you, they could have hurt him bad because there was a gang of them that night, but they let this one lad slap him around, he didn’t hurt him all that much anyway.

Then on another occasion, about six of us were sitting down at the side in the Ideal and Tony says “That bloody lad over there keeps bumping into me when I’m dancing.” We said, “Well what’s up with that?” He says, “He won’t do it again.” Next minute he runs on the floor, jumps on this bloke’s back and starts pulling him over. He’d been drinking and being the size he was he only had to have a pint and he was drunk. Of course, this bloke’s mates all started kicking and hitting Tony so we all joined in. They finished up chucking us out and it took us three weeks to get back in again. We had to go up and apologise to them.

With the boys in Blackpool.

I remember one big punch up in a dance hall at Blackpool when I was about eighteen or nineteen. It was absolutely packed in there. They’d got these three rock bands on and it was just solid rock and roll. There was a big gang of us and we were dancing with these girls from different parts of the country when the fight started. The next thing I knew a fist had hit the side of my face. Then somebody hit me with something. Then I was hitting somebody else. The next minute I said to Harold and John Hale and one or two others, “Come on! Out of here!” We dashed through the door and ran on up the stairs to the balcony, then we were looking over the top watching them fight. Then all these security blokes in uniforms came in. They just grabbed anyone who was fighting and must have thrown about a hundred and fifty of them out. We got well out of that, but my ear hurt the next day where somebody had punched me!

I’ve been in fights when they’ve been whirling bike chains, once at Blackpool and once down Stoke when one of us got stabbed. It was that quick. I remember leaning over him with a jumper, holding it on the wound until the ambulance came. The blood seemed to be everywhere! But I suppose it seemed a lot because he was wearing a white shirt. I think he must have been stabbed with a penknife myself. He was all right, though, it wasn’t all that deep. He was out next day walking around. I saw him in the pub. I said, “Art owrate? I thought thay'd have been in hospital for a month!”  He says, “Nah, they give me a couple of pints of blood and stitched me up.” I said, “Let’s have a look.” - three stitches. The best part of it, him that got stabbed, he’d only been with us about three or four times. He was no trouble at all, he wasn’t aggressive or anything. It wasn’t his fault, it was just that the fight started and he was the one that was in the road and got stabbed. And those that started it had all run. Of course the cops came and they were asking us all these questions, who was it, what’s their names - and how the bloody hell did we know? We didn’t know them. We just got into a fight with them in a dance hall which finished up outside.

I saw a lot of rockers and bands in the 50s and early 60s. Roy Wood of Wizard, I saw him when he was nobody, when he first started out. Joe Brown and the Brothers too and Tommy Steele. One time, I think it was with Ted Heath and his orchestra, Cliff Richard and the Shadows were there and me and Tony Hughes were talking to Cliff outside. He’d got a pink jacket on, a black shirt and a pink tie. We’d come out, we’d seen the show, come round the side, round where that little car park is - the stage door used to be there. Anyway, he was there with two of the Shadows - I think it was that Bruce Welch who used to play with them and somebody else. But they went in and we were talking to Cliff - I can’t remember what we said to him. I know Tony Hughes had his autograph, but we were talking to him for about five minutes and then he says, “I’ll have to go, because we’ve got another show.” And he went in. He was standing outside, he wasn’t smoking but the other two were. And then the Americans started coming to the Theatre Royal, but I can’t remember them all. And then what happened in 1965, when Rock and Roll was still going - even though the Teddy Boy era had finished - and it was bigger than ever? He came here, Chuck Berry, the greatest.

The Teddy Boy era went, though. As quick as it started, it finished, it just died out almost overnight. The music was still there, rock music was as big as ever, it’s just that the people themselves changed, I don’t why. I think it was partly because the Teddy Boy suits got that expensive; the tailors they twigged on. Plus the Teddy Boys, they started getting married and what have you and a lot of them were called up for the army, because National Service was still on. So, it just died out everywhere. But, they were good exciting years and I wouldn’t have missed them for anything.'

Reference: Interviews with William Cooper, 2007.

Dandy Dogs and the Mad Cat Artist

When he paid a visit to the Potteries in the summer of 1874, journalist James Greenwood noted that Hanley was a town full of dogs:

'Tykes of all ages, sizes, and complexions sprawl over the pavements, and lounge at the thresholds of doors, and sit at the windows, quite at their ease, with their heads reposing on the window-sill, hob-and-nob with their biped "pal," who cuddles his four-footed friend lovingly round the neck with one arm, while his as yet unwashed mining face, black and white in patches as the dog's is, beams with that satisfaction which con­tent and pleasant companionship alone can give.'

Some of the prize winning animals at the 1885 Hanley dog show.

How accurate a portrait of the town this was is open to debate as Greenwood immediately went on to write the infamous story of the 'man and dog fight' that scandalised the area, a tale that ultimately backfired on him when it became pretty obvious that he had concocted the whole story. Yet there is plenty of evidence to suggest at least in the comment above that Greenwood was not being untruthful and the locals were indeed keen pet owners and dog fanciers. A dog and poultry show was regularly held in Hanley from 1865 into the 1870s and in October 1883 Hanley hosted a major dog show organised by the North Staffordshire Kennel Club. This proved so successful that in February 1885 a second exhibition took place. This was larger and much more widely reviewed by the press, attracting not only local but national and even international attention.

Held over two days 24th and 25th February in the old covered market in Hanley, there were 774 entries for the show and there could have been more but for a lack of space. Most of the major show breeds were present in large numbers. There were 170 fox terriers; 74 St Bernards; 27 mastiffs; 22 pointers; 18 setters; 88 collies; 34 bull dogs; 20 bull terriers; 48 dachshunds; 18 pugs; and six bloodhounds. Add to this the more obscure dogs and hounds, some from abroad, plus some champion dogs including five mastiffs who had secured honours at the prestigious Crystal Palace shows, and you had you had a major treat for dog lovers from across Britain. Anticipating a good turnout both the North Staffordshire and London and North Western Railways issued cheap tickets for those wanting to attend the show.

Providing a series of illustrations for The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, was Louis Wain, the artist who in later life went mad and spent his latter years painting numerous pictures of sinister anthropomorphic cats. At the time of the Hanley dog show, however, he was still quite sane and penned a series of fine dog portraits and whimsical side illustrations. The most amusing sketch showed a carriage trundling its way up the bank from Stoke Station up into Hanley, bringing with it a fine collection of prize pooches, large and small, riding in or on top, or running behind the coach, evidently much to the astonishment of onlookers.

Another of Wain's illustrations showed that once in the market hall the various dogs were housed in a series of pens ready for the viewing of the general public and while they waited on the judges to do their rounds. There were a few problems. A reviewer in the same paper that carried Wain's illustrations noted that quite a few of the dogs on show still bore evidence of a mange epidemic that had recently swept the country. Most were over the disease and the worst effects they showed were rather patchy coats, but a few displayed signs that their condition was still 'alive', much to the reviewer's alarm. The entry of such obviously infected dogs he put down to the laxness of the 'honorary veterinary surgeon' and the inconsiderate nature of some owners. This was all the more surprising as one of the Kennel Club's rules stated quite forcefully that no dog suffering from mange or any other infectious disease would be allowed to compete or be entitled to receive a prize.

The writer also suggested that the chains holding the dogs in their pens were in many cases far too long. Some of the dogs were fierce or excitable and in their frenzy apt to fall over the edge of their bench and with the smaller dogs in danger of hanging themselves. Wain illustrated the point with a picture showing a placid St Bernard face to face with a group of irate terriers, one of whom had taken just such a tumble and was in danger of throttling itself. The long chains also allowed more mischief as some of the animals were able to get around the partitions and engage in scraps with their surprised neighbours.

In the long run, though, these were minor issues in what turned out to be a very successful and well organised show. And as can be seen from Louis Wain's fine illustrations, despite the ravages of the mange epidemic there were still many handsome dogs on hand to pick up the numerous prizes. So popular did the exhibition prove that another show was organised early the next year and the competition carried on through the latter years of the 19th century expanding into a dog and cat show by the late 1890s.

References: The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, 7 March 1885 pp. 607, 617, 623.  James Greenwood, Low Life Deeps, pp. 16-17

Pictures: Author's collection.