The Saturday Tuppenny Tradition

This revere would be interrupted by the heavy tread of my father coming down the passage, the bedroom door being flung open and ‘Come on! Show a leg!’ being bellowed in stentorian tones (I believe, now, that Dad was in a time warp, still serving with the Manchester in Ypres). He was just leaving for work, Saturdays in the thirties being part of a normal working week. Soon after minimal ablutions, I was seated to a breakfast in the kitchen, warmed by a coal fire.

My home was the Victoria Inn, Gloucester place, Mumbles of which my father was the licensee for thirty-five years. It was a true back street local. A very happy home, the delights of which I shared with my brother, Colin. My father, ably assisted by my mother, combined the running of the pub with a full time job as Bottling Manager of Wm. Hancock's, Wind St., Swansea, which was no mean task. The Vic, like most back street pubs was strategically placed at a confluence of small side streets, every corner having a shop. Opposite on Westbourne Place was John Morris, Butcher; on the comers of John Street was Davies the Baker and that legendary sweet shop of Mary Taylor's. Further down John Street, Sam Davies had his grocer's shop. Four shops in a radius of 25 yards! Everything we needed on our doorsteps — who needed a refrigerator!

The Tuppenny will always occupy a very special place amongst my warmest childhood memories. They were a part of growing up and provided endless fuel for all young and active minds. The wizard took us to Tibet with the 'Wolf Of Kabul' and his devoted servant Chung (whose sole weapon was a wire-bound cricket bat —‘Clicky-Ba’). Between them they caused mayhem amongst rebellious Afghan tribes. The delightfully named, Zorro the Slink, carried out the most heinous of crimes, hidden by a pea soup fog of his own making. Cowboys, footballers, cricketers, warriors, all exercised super human qualities. But far more popular than these, were the schoolboy heroes.

These characters lived mainly in the Magnet, Gem and Hotspur and the exploits of Harry Wharton and the Famous Five, Billy Bunter, Tom Merry and the Terrible Three, enthralled us in a way which is strange, to say the least. These stories were written by ex-public schoolboys whose way of life was as far away from the back street lads of Mumbles as the other side of the moon, yet love these boys of Greyfriars and St. Jims, we all did.

Sadly, World War II saw the arrival of the American type comic (viz, maximum picture, minimal words). Radio grew in popularity and finally TV coupled with computer games dealt the final blow to the old Tuppenny with its associated reading of words

I console myself with the thought that in the Valhalla for Tuppenny book heroes, the Wolf of Kabul and Chung are still battling with cunning Afghans, that Harry Wharton and his Famous Five are still cooking kippers and crumpets in their studies, that Bunter is still cadging money for a visit to the Tuck Shop and mysterious (to us!) things like 'doing lines' and 'attending prep' are continuing in a celestial classroom.

Many is the time, when as a grubby urchin, I came in from playing in the street or woods, sweaty and tired, to curl up in a chair, open up the Magnet and be transported from my small, humble world, to join the select company of pupils in the cloisters of a revered public school. To authors such as Frank Phillips, Martin Clifford and Gunby Hadath, I say ‘Thank you, for the magic you brought into my childhood.’

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