- Spring: The Trip to Blackpool
Spring: The Trip to Blackpool
by Steve Wells
A series of memoirs in which our oldest member, Sir Reginald Bread-Basket, talks about his memories of photography in the early days. (As revealed to Steve Wells over a glass of fine vintage burgundy fermented exclusively from the blackberry bushes which cover the rough ground to the north of the tennis court at Falling Plate Hall).
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"Did I ever tell you about the trip to Blackpool?... No! Well, till your glass and listen. You'll learn a lot about candid photography and how to escape afterwards with your camera not too bent, and with your nose not bleeding."
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There's so much rubbish talked about what is important in learning photography. Take depth of field for example; I'll let you into a secret no-one actually understands it. It's one of those arcane subjects understood only by opticians and about which salesman trying to sell expensive lenses know all the fancy words. As far as focus is concerned, there are only two kinds of picture; in focus and out of focus! In one you can see every wrinkle, and the other is the one the customer is prepared to pay for.
Which takes me back to Blackpool. There were three of us on the trip. Me, Chalky White and Alf. Alf was the landlord of the Red Cow, and used to run the betting office in the back room of the pub. It was all unofficial and he used to have to keep everything very quiet in case the law found out. Chalky was Alf's best customer, particularly in the bar after hours. He was the local constable. Nothing escaped his attention - nothing important that is. When Old Granny Smith lost her marbles it was Chalky who found them in the library where she had left them while looking up the names of the runners in the 3:30 at Uttoxeter. She needn't have bothered of course; Alf had all the racing papers laid out in the snug bar.
Anyway, I'm drifting from my point. There we were, the three of us, on our way to Blackpool. We had decided to go by train. I say "we" out of politeness! I don't remember having anything to do with the decision. I could have told them there would be delays, but they wouldn't listen. All they would say is that if I had my way and if we had gone in my Austin Seven; then the rain which was beating down on the carriage windows would have been leaking through the Austin's convertible roof. I can't see it myself. How anyone can prefer a train to the joys of a small car I can't imagine. So it might get a bit damp, but the feel of wind in your hair and the smell of overheating oil is enough to make anyone hanker after the open road. They had no sense of art, that's what I say; and it showed in their photographs. Alf and Chalky used to produce those weedy insipid prints that look as if they have been processed in Earl Grey tea and fixed in second hand olive oil; all subtle variations on light grey with brown stains, with no clear whites or deep blacks.
Eventually the train reached cur destination. I dreamed of the 'golden sands around the tower. My thoughts receded as I looked at the station; "Lime Street' said the signs.
"Chalky" I said, "you know when you bought the tickets, where did you ask for?"
"The 'Pool" replies Chalky.
"BlackpooI", I ask, "or Liverpool?"
"Is there a difference." asks Chalky.
I think to myself in despair that children are taught to ask policemen for directions.
So, there we art in a small dark pub somewhere near the station. The locals are eyeing us with a combination of contempt and a professional estimate of the resale value on the black market of my Leica. Chalky is thinking that this is the kind of place which they warned him to beware of at police college. Alf is at the bar chatting up the landlord and I am beginning to think that maybe it would be easier if I just got up, walked across the room and handed over the Leica without having to go through all that painful rigmarole of fighting and ending up without the camera anyway.
Then the lights went out.
"This way", said a voice. Chalky and I followed. I held the camera out in front in the hope that anyone wanting it would take it straight away and not bother with a fight. We were lucky. We escaped. I was just wondering on the one hand what had happened to Alf, and, on the other, who would run the backroom betting shop, when he reappeared; his glass still in his hand, not a drop spilled.
"Ah, there you are!", he said.
We stared and we asked for an explanation, still wondering at the unspilled drink.
"Well", he said, "I'm a member of the Amalgamated Association of Landlords and Associated Trades and I was wearing my tie."
What", said Chalky, "That green and pink striped thing which looks as if a pigeon... arumph". I stopped him in mid flow as Alf began to look pained.
Alf continued. "In turns out that Johnny, that's the landlord here, is also a member. We saw each others' ties, exchanged the special handshake and said we were brothers for life. I told him why I was there and said I wanted to get some candid action shots. Well..., he looked worried at first because it's the darts club who usually break up the furniture on a Friday, and this was Tuesday. Then he remembered that the Bee Keeping Society was meeting in the room upstairs. He went and told them that the drinks were on the house if they would stage a fight for a couple of strangers. I hope the pictures come out because I have some great action shots of you and Chalky running away."
What can I say. I bought the film to save face, and a pretty price it cost.
I said you'd learn something" about photography, and this is it! If you want to take really effective candid photographs - fake the whole thing!
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