This is a selection of the postcards collected by my grandmother during the first world war.
Some were sent by her brother from the front in France. Where possible I have shown the reverse side with the written message. Others are French postcards of the time or cards in series showing verses from songs or poems.
About 20 years ago dad gave me a photo album. It was full of postcards collected by his mother Mary Ellen. These postcards are now just over 100 years old. Some had been sent by her brother from France during the 1st World War. They helped me get a picture of a side of the family I know little about, because dad hardly ever talked about it. But it’s more than that; it’s a social history too.
The cards show what people – soldiers and the general public – thought the war was going to be like – stirring cavalry charges, glory and honour. As we now know it was far from that. The soldiers discovered this to their cost. The general public never did. Because of the propaganda of postcards such as this the truth was hidden from them. So there was a split between those who went to war and those who didn’t. And the split was never healed because the returning soldiers wouldn’t, or couldn’t, talk about it. Why? Well think what it’s like trying to tell others that your pain is worse than theirs. They tend not to believe you, or they suspect you of being a martyr. So you keep quiet.
It seems trite to say that Muhammad Ali was the greatest boxer that ever lived. He was that, of course, but he transcended sport. He became a cultural phenomenon because of his impressive personality. He ran rings around journalists and commentators with his quick-witted humour.There are so many good stories about him and his fights, mostly made up I admit. This is perhaps my favourite.
In 1975 he fought Chuck Wepner. As he left his hotel room before the fight Wepner told his wife tonight she would be sleeping with the world champion. Wepner dropped Ali at the end of the ninth and in his corner told his trainer to ” start the car, were going to the bank, we’re millionaires” The trainer looked across the ring and said ” hang on, he’s getting up and he looks pissed off”. Ali won all the remaining rounds, cut him over both eyes, broke his nose and knocked him out in the 15th. When Wepner went back to his hotel his wife took one look at him and said ” so, is he coming over here or am I going to his place?”
It doesn’t matter if a good story is true or not. It’s still a good story.
If you wanted to make a film showing the difference between football today and football 40 or 50 years ago you could do worse than tell the story of Albert Johanneson. Albert was my first Leeds United hero. He was a fast and skilful winger who helped Leeds get out of the second division in 1963/4. He then became the first black player to play in an F.A. Cup final in 1965 when Leeds lost to Liverpool. He was the nearest thing we had to a Brazilian. We even used to look forward to watching him in the warm-up before the match, because he would entertain the crowd with show-boating, ball-juggling and tricks rarely seen in those days.
His career didn’t last long and highlights all that was nasty about the unreconstructed game then. When Leeds went up into the First Division Albert wasn’t strong enough mentally, emotionally or physically to stand up to the cynical tactics used against him. There were no systems in place to protect him from the racial abuse or physical intimidation dished out by defenders in those days ( an area in which Leeds themselves were recognised masters, it must be said of course ). And when he left Leeds and went down the divisions eventually quitting the game, there was no safety net, no large nest-egg in the bank to break his fall. Within a few years Albert was destitute. He lived as a vagrant and turned to alcohol. He died alone in a town centre flat about 20 years ago. Tell that to the Man City players recently sulking because they were only on £200,000 a week.
my chautauqua 