All posts by Graham Snowdon


Dr Rod Amos, a retired con­sult­ant rheum­at­o­lo­gist at the Royal Hallamshire and Sheffield Children’s Hospital who last spoke to us in January 2014 on Changing Concepts of Medicine (from Sorcery to Science), returned with a fas­cin­at­ing account of the almost total erad­ic­a­tion of polio­my­el­itis.

Specifically, his talk centred on the involve­ment in fun­drais­ing of Franklin D Roosevelt, the 32nd President of the United States, who was him­self struck down with a para­lytic ill­ness (there is some debate as to whether it was actu­ally polio)  in 1921, at the age of 39.

Roosevelt, who would sub­sequently be elec­ted to the first of his record four terms as pres­id­ent in November 1932, was the only child of a rich and polit­ical family, and was at his hol­i­day home at Campobello Island, a pop­u­lar summer retreat for wealthy Canadians and Americans, when he was taken ill with exhaus­tion, deep muscle aching and fever­ish­ness. Within a day he was show­ing signs of para­lysis which even­tu­ally left him unable to walk or even stand without some kind of sup­port.

President Franklin D Roosevelt in 1944

He was crippled, as Rod poin­ted out, at a time when such a dis­ab­il­ity was a major prob­lem to someone who wanted to be prom­in­ent in public life. He labor­i­ously taught him­self to walk very short dis­tances while wear­ing cum­ber­some iron braces on his hips and legs by swiv­el­ling his torso and sup­port­ing him­self with a cane, and he was care­ful never to be seen using his wheel­chair in public.

Although his ill­ness was gen­er­ally known, the extent of his para­lysis was kept from public view, helpedby a gentlemen’s agree­ment with the Press that there would be no pho­to­graphs or cari­ca­tures reveal­ing his dis­ab­il­ity, and he would often stand for two or three hours while making speeches at public meet­ings, his leg irons and hip brace locked in pos­i­tion but con­cealed by a spe­cially con­struc­ted three-sided podium.

A rare pho­to­graph of FDR in a wheel­chair, 1941

Roosevelt tried a wide range of rem­ed­ies, and par­tic­u­larly favoured hydro­ther­apy. He believed that swim­ming in the warm, buoy­ant min­eral water of the Warms Springs resort in Georgia was bene­fi­cial. “Franklin Roosevelt will swim to health,” pro­claimed one news­pa­per head­line of the day. He became obsessed with it, to the extent that in 1926 he bought Warm Springs and turned it from a resort to an insti­tute for polio rehab­il­it­a­tion, set­ting up a non-profit organ­isa­tion able to bene­fit from tax-free gifts and char­it­able dona­tions.

The Georgia Warm Springs Foundation was renamed the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis in 1927 and Keith Morgan, a suc­cess­ful insur­ance sales­man, was brought in to sell the idea to pro­spect­ive wealthy pat­rons, a busi­ness plan which fell victim to the Wall Street crash of 1929. Carl Byoir, a PR expert, was hired to raise the foundation’s pro­file and sug­ges­ted a nation­wide party to cel­eb­rate FDR’s birth­day in 1934, organ­ising 3,000 ‘birth­day balls’ around the coun­try. This became an annual event from which 70 per cent of the profits were retained by local com­munit­ies to provide care for polio vic­tims and 30 per cent went to the found­a­tion.

The name March of Dimes – a play on the title of a con­tem­por­ary American radio and news­reel series, The March of Time – was coined by Eddie Cantor, who was a radio show host as well as a pop­u­lar singer, comedian and screen star. The found­a­tion had decided at Byoir’s sug­ges­tion on a nation­wide fun­drais­ing cam­paign which would encour­age large num­bers of small dona­tions rather than a few large bequests, and Cantor inspired a fun­drais­ing cam­paign in the week before President Roosevelt’s birth­day on January 30, 1938.

Lapel pins were sold at ten cents (a dime) each, and thou­sands of people mailed cards and let­ters, each con­tain­ing a dime, to the White House. On the first day 30,000 dimes were received, on the second day 50,000 and on the third day 150,000. Along with the pro­ceeds from spe­cial events held by nightclubs and cab­arets, and spe­cial fea­tures pro­duced by motion pic­ture stu­dios and the radio industry, Cantor’s appeal raised more than $85,000 in what the Press called ‘a silver tide which actu­ally swamped the White House.’ Over the years, half a bil­lion dol­lars would be raised in the fight against polio.

The word polio­my­el­itis comes from the Greek words polios, mean­ing grey, and meulos or myelós, mean­ing marrow or spinal cord. It would often cause res­pir­at­ory para­lysis and Rod, who was born in 1948, struck a note with many in the audi­ence when he said: “In my early child­hood, when polio was men­tioned, the image which came into my mind was the iron lung.”

An iron lung ward in an American hos­pital

The big break­through in the erad­ic­a­tion of polio came in the period 1951 to 1953 when Dr Jonas Salk, a med­ical researcher and vir­o­lo­gist, was given more than $1 mil­lion in fund­ing by the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis in his quest to find a cure, and the Salk Vaccine was intro­duced in 1955. Salk’s ‘killed’ vac­cine was effect­ive in elim­in­at­ing most of the com­plic­a­tions of polio, but did not pre­vent the ini­tial intest­inal infec­tion.

But in late 1954, Salk’s rival Dr Albert Sabin had tested his ‘live’ atten­u­ated oral vac­cine, and between 1955 and 1961 the oral ver­sion was tri­alled on at least 100 mil­lion people in the USSR and other coun­tries. This provided the impetus for large-scale clin­ical trials of the oral vac­cine in the US, in the face of con­sid­er­able oppos­i­tion from the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis.

Dr Jonas Salk (1914–1995)

Salk and Sabin hated each other,” Rod revealed. “There was a lot of rivalry. Many sci­ent­ists had long thought that a live, oral ver­sion made more logical sense, but the National Foundation wouldn’t sup­port the cost of another massive vac­cin­a­tion pro­ject before the Salk vac­cine was up and run­ning,”

However, from 1962 onwards the USA and much of the world switched to the Sabin ver­sion.


Are You Sitting Comfortably? – Dr Murray Wilson – 24th April 2017

This was the first time that I had heard our own member Murray Wilson give a talk, and as I took my seat I wondered whether we would be learn­ing about the long-running BBC children’s radio pro­gramme Listen With Mother (“Are you sit­ting com­fort­ably? Then I’ll begin”), the 1969 single recor­ded by the Moody Blues or the 1989 album by the rock band IQ.

I was wrong on all three counts, and I was quickly reminded of the huge depth of know­ledge and exper­i­ence within our own mem­ber­ship, often undis­covered and unac­know­ledged.

Murray, a med­ical prac­tioner and an anaes­thet­ist by pro­fes­sion, has also had a lifelong interest in trans­port of all types, and for 16 years served as a med­ical con­sult­ant to the Air Transport Users’ Council which now comes under the wing (excuse the pun) of the Civil Aviation Authority.

He has a par­tic­u­lar interest in pas­sen­ger air­craft seat­ing — thus the title of his present­a­tion — and talked us through the his­tory of air trans­port, from the earli­est days when air­craft had just a few wicker chairs and tables in sur­round­ings more akin to a cock­tail lounge, to today’s sardine tin jumbo jets, or alu­minium tubes as Murray described them, cap­able of car­ry­ing well over 500 pas­sen­gers in cramped con­di­tions (unless you can afford Business Class).

From this …

                                                                                                        … to this

The double-decker Airbus A380-800 is cer­ti­fied for up to 853 pas­sen­gers (538 on the main deck and 315 on the upper), achiev­able with a one-class con­fig­ur­a­tion, although Airbus them­selves refer in their mar­ket­ing mater­ial to a “com­fort­able three-class” 544-passenger con­fig­ur­a­tion. However, the Emirates air­line have squeezed in a fur­ther 71 seats to carry 615 pas­sen­gers in two classes.

By com­par­ison, the Boeing 247, pro­duced from 1933 and regarded as the first modern air­liner, car­ried just ten pas­sen­gers and a flight attend­ant. Even the early de Haviland Comet 1 air­craft, the world’s first com­mer­cial jet­liner which came into ser­vice in 1952, car­ried only 43 pas­sen­gers,

Today it is, as Murray explained, a huge global busi­ness with around 5,000 air­craft car­ry­ing a stag­ger­ing 700,000 pas­sen­gers in the skies around the world at any one time. It is all about bums on seats, quite lit­er­ally, and between 2018 and 2020 Boeing and Airbus between them are expec­ted to pur­chase 3.4 mil­lion seats for new air­craft coming off the pro­duc­tion line.

And from this (the last air­worthy Boeing 247) …






                                                                … to this (BA Airbus A380-800)

It is also a one-sided money making oper­a­tion. As Murray said when he gave evid­ence to the House of Lords report on Air Travel and Health in 2002: “The pas­sen­ger approaches the check-in desk more as a sup­plic­ant, rather than as a part­ner to an equal-sided con­tract.”

On the same theme, he told us: “Airlines want to pack as many people in as pos­sible. The more people they can get on the air­craft, the more money they make, and by pro­du­cing seats for the latest A380s which are 30 per cent lighter, they can save two tons in weight and thus make big sav­ings on fuel.”

But seats also have to be built to a required safety stand­ard and must be able to with­stand 16 g (grav­it­a­tional force) hori­zont­ally and ver­tic­ally, which would have the effect of con­vert­ing a weight of 10 stones into one ton.

There are also strict rules imposed by the CAA on the spa­cing of seats, with a min­imum of 26 inches of knee to but­tock length (British Airways cur­rently allow 29 inches in Economy Class) and seven inches between the seat squab and the back of the seat in front.

There is no min­imum width, though even a rel­at­ively gen­er­ous size can have prob­lems in these days of mount­ing obesity among pas­sen­gers. Virgin Atlantic agreed a £13,000 set­tle­ment with a lady pas­sen­ger who claimed she had been crushed and injured by an obese pas­sen­ger in the adja­cent seat.

Samoa has one of the world’s highest obesity rates at 74.6 per cent of the adult pop­u­la­tion, and Murray explained how their national air­line, Samoa Air, became the first to charge pas­sen­gers by weight, intro­du­cing an XL class — and a row of wider seats — for pas­sen­gers weigh­ing more than 20.4 stones.

A ques­tion and answer ses­sion at the end of the present­a­tion brought the inev­it­able ques­tion: “Where is the safest place to sit on a plane?” Murray’s dry humour revealed itself when he replied: “There is no simple answer to that. But air­craft don’t usu­ally back into things.”

I’ll remem­ber that next time I am check­ing in.


Sheffield Hospitals in World War I — Dr Michael Collins — 6th March 2017

Much of Sheffield’s part in win­ning the First World War, such as the man­u­fac­ture of arma­ments and the sac­ri­fices made by the city’s own sol­diers on the front line, has been well doc­u­mented.

Less well known, per­haps, is the huge con­tri­bu­tion made during the con­flict by the city’s numer­ous hos­pit­als in treat­ing no fewer than 70,000 wounded sol­diers from all over Britain — as well as coun­tries such as Belgium, America and Canada — who were trans­por­ted from the bat­tle­fields of France and Belgium by train to Sheffield’s Midland Station.

Dr Mike Collins, who stud­ied medi­cine at Galway University in his native Ireland but whose career was as a con­sult­ant radi­olo­gist in Sheffield until his retire­ment four years ago, is a member of the Sheffield Hospitals History Group, and he gave us a fas­cin­at­ing present­a­tion entitled The Treatment of Soldiers in Sheffield Hospitals During World War I – A story of chal­lenges and bene­fits.

Having listened to his thought-provoking present­a­tion, what for me was the sig­ni­fic­ant word in that title was ‘chal­lenges.’ They were huge – logist­ical and fin­an­cial, as well as med­ical .

The fig­ures are mind bog­gling. For the dur­a­tion of the war (and in fact until 1920), Sheffield became home to the 3rd Northern General Hospital, not as in the Northern General Hospital we know today, but as one of the main centres of treat­ment for wounded sol­diers in the north of England (Leeds, for example, formed the 2nd Northern General Hospital).

The ‘base’ hos­pital was what had been a teacher train­ing col­lege in Collegiate Crescent, better known today as the Collegiate Campus of Sheffield Hallam University, which was fitted out with oper­at­ing theatres and wards.

The base hos­pital, still very recog­nis­able today, at Ecclesall Road/Collegiate Crescent

Fir Vale Infirmary, which 50 years later would become today’s Northern General, was the biggest of the city’s exist­ing hos­pit­als — with 500 beds — to be used for the treat­ment of wounded sol­diers. Ecclesall Infirmary, later known as Nether Edge Hospital, had 150 beds, the Royal Hospital on West Street had 140, the Royal Infirmary on Infirmary Road had 133 and Winter Street Hospital (St George’s) had 120 .

But by far the biggest centre for the treat­ment and recu­per­a­tion of sol­diers, with no fewer than 2,000 beds, was the former Wadsley Lunatic Asylum at Middlewood which became known as the Wharncliffe Hospital. It opened as a war hos­pital in May 1915 and oper­ated until July 1920, lat­terly as a dis­persal centre, by which time there had been 36,665 admis­sions.

Staffing these centres of treat­ment, as Britain struggled to cope with the repat­ri­ation of two and a half mil­lion sol­diers, were officers from the Royal Army Medical Corps based at what is now the Yorkshire Regiment reserve centre in Glossop Road, exist­ing doc­tors and nurses from the vari­ous hos­pit­als, local GPs, uni­ver­sity staff and nurses from vol­un­tary organ­isa­tions such as the Red Cross.

The base hos­pital at Collegiate Crescent also con­trolled con­vales­cent homes in an area stretch­ing as far afield as Derby, with local centres such as Greystones School and Bramall Lane cricket pavil­ion (150 beds each), Lydgate Lane School (130 beds) and Carterknowle School (115 beds).

Commanding Officer of the whole set-up was Lt Col Arthur M. Connell, later pro­fessor of sur­gery, whose por­trait hangs in the Royal Hallamshire Hospital to this day.

Dr Collins accom­pan­ied his talk with slides of ori­ginal pho­to­graphs and excerpts from such items as house sur­geons’ day books from the vari­ous hos­pit­als, which he had gleaned from the Sheffield City Council Archives in Shoreham Street. Mike praised Sheffield as being one of the best cities in the coun­try for keep­ing his­tor­ical records. “The archives form a won­der­ful resource,” he said.

Photographs of wounded sol­diers arriv­ing in Sheffield are rel­at­ively rare, for the simple reason that the author­it­ies knew that the arrival of thou­sands of war wounded into the city would be bad for the morale of the local civil­ian pop­u­la­tion, so the move­ments were often car­ried out under cover of dark­ness.

A bus car­ry­ing wounded Belgian sol­diers from Sheffield Midland Station enters Collegiate Crescent from Ecclesall Road

Most of the arrivals would be at night,” Mike explained. “The cas­u­al­ties were trans­por­ted by train from the south­ern ports to the Midland Station, and from there taken to one of the hos­pit­als in either open-topped buses, in the case of the walk­ing wounded, or in four-person ambu­lances in the case of the more badly injured.”

Typical entries in the sur­geons’ reports were: “Today we received 20 sol­diers who have just been on active ser­vice in Belgium, some of them extremely ser­i­ously injured… We have received 400 sick and ter­ribly wounded sol­diers in four days… Because of the short­age of res­id­ent officers, ward sis­ters are to be trained to admin­is­ter anaes­thetic…”

Somewhat bizar­rely, a report from May 1915 com­plained: “We have the almost intol­er­able situ­ation of people coming into the hos­pital and hos­pital grounds, who have no busi­ness to be there but want to see the sol­diers.”

They would get their chance later when sol­diers — who might be suf­fer­ing from head injur­ies, burns or ampu­ta­tions — had recovered suf­fi­ciently to be allowed out to walk around Sheffield prior to their trans­fer to one of the recu­per­a­tion centres or, in less severe cases, back to fight­ing in the war.

While the city’s hos­pit­als were in danger of being over­whelmed by the influx of cas­u­al­ties, the situ­ation also brought fin­an­cial prob­lems, par­tic­u­larly for the Royal Hospital and Royal Infirmary which were both run by char­it­able bodies funded by dona­tions from the public. They were forced to appeal to cent­ral gov­ern­ment for help.

The situ­ation also had a major impact on the local pop­u­la­tion, who were unable to get into hos­pital for routine treat­ment. At Wharncliffe, the former lun­atic asylum, more than 1,600 inmates had to be trans­ferred out into the wider soci­ety, although just a dozen were retained to tend the hos­pital farm. More than 130 staff from the asylum were given med­ical train­ing at the Royal Infirmary over a period of just two weeks to pre­pare them for the influx of wounded sol­diers.

Perhaps it was more than coin­cid­ence that Wharncliffe’s spe­ci­al­it­ies included treat­ment — in what became known as the ‘mental block’ — for shell shock, or post-traumatic stress dis­order as we call it today, and other psy­chi­at­ric con­di­tions. Sheffield’s hos­pit­als and their staff played a cru­cial role in help­ing to heal the ter­rible wounds, both phys­ical and psy­cho­lo­gical, of what was optim­ist­ic­ally called the war to end all wars.

The Samaritans: Who, What and Why? — Tim Hollis — 30th January 2017

Tim Hollis, res­id­ent of this parish, is a man of many parts and could have spoken to us on many sub­jects.

He could have told us about his teen­age exper­i­ences with Voluntary Service Overseas in Ghana before attend­ing Bristol University, or about his early career in the army as an officer in the Parachute Regiment. He could have regaled us with stor­ies of his 14-year ser­vice in the Met Police, reach­ing the rank of Chief Inspector (Operations) at Notting Hill before trans­fer­ring to Sussex Police and rising to Chief Superintendent.

He could have told us how he returned to his home patch as Assistant Chief Constable (Crime and Operations) of South Yorkshire Police in 1994, and was awar­ded the Queen’s Police Medal in 2000 before being appoin­ted Assistant Inspector (Crime and Operations) of HM Inspectorate of Constabulary in 2002, and then taking on per­haps the biggest chal­lenge of his career when he became Chief Constable of the ailing Humberside Police in 2005.

During his eight years with the Humberside force, Tim was appoin­ted vice-president and then acting pres­id­ent of the Association of Chief

Photo cour­tesy Scunthorpe Telegraph

Police Officers, with spe­cial respons­ib­il­ity for drugs, and he retired as Chief Constable in 2013 having been widely cred­ited with turn­ing the Humberside force round. He was repor­ted as saying at the time: “I feel that I have helped put the pride back into the force both loc­ally and nation­ally, restored con­fid­ence and left the force in fine fettle.”

Tim was appoin­ted Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in the 2010 New Year Honours.

So, more than enough there to make an excel­lent present­a­tion to Stumperlowe Probus Club. But what he actu­ally came to talk to us about was his totally unre­lated role as a ‘listen­ing volun­teer’ for the Samaritans, the char­ity which provides sup­port — usu­ally through their tele­phone helplines — to anyone in emo­tional stress, strug­gling to cope or at risk of sui­cide.

These two aspects of Tim’s life could not be more dif­fer­ent, and in fact he was able to volun­teer for his role with the Samaritans only after his retire­ment from the police.

A serving police officer, who has a duty to deal with any sug­ges­tion of crim­inal activ­ity in an appro­pri­ate way, cannot become a volun­teer because, as a Samaritan, you must be totally non-judgemental and com­mit­ted to abso­lute con­fid­en­ti­al­ity,” he explained.

Making an ana­logy with the play Six Degrees of Separation, which explored the premise that every­one in the world is con­nec­ted to every­body else on the planet by a chain of no more than six acquaint­ances, Tim said that his exper­i­ence with regard to sui­cide has nar­rowed this down to two degrees of sep­ar­a­tion.

Most people will know some­body, or will know some­body who knows some­body, who has com­mit­ted sui­cide,” he explained.

Sadly, in Tim’s case, he was among the former group, although he did not real­ise it at the time. “My mater­nal grand­mother com­mit­ted sui­cide when I was a young child. She had clearly suffered from long-term clin­ical depres­sion, but I didn’t know the cir­cum­stances of her death until years later. All I knew was that she had died.

This was at the time when it was still a crim­inal offence to attempt to commit sui­cide. If you didn’t suc­ceed, you were sent to prison to die there instead,” Tim added with more than a hint of irony.

Taking their name from the par­able of the Good Samaritan in the Bible (though they are a sec­u­lar organ­isa­tion), the Samaritans took their first call in 1953 and now receive more than five mil­lion calls a year (or one every six seconds) handled by 20,000 volun­teers in 201 branches such as the one in Queens Road, Sheffield. Lines are open 365 days a year, seven days a week, 24 hours a day.

The Sheffield branch has 135 volun­teers, the major­ity of them female, and ran­ging in age from the early 20s to the early 80s.

More than 6,500 lives are lost to sui­cide every year, and two third of those are men, mainly in the age group from the late 20s to the late 40s.

However, Tim told us: “The major­ity of people who ring us are not sui­cidal, but people who are going through dif­fi­cult times and want to talk. We get a lot of what I call Eleanor Rigby calls from lonely people.

The major­ity of people who are having prob­lems do not ring us, because they have some­body to talk to. But some people are socially isol­ated — they don’t have family or friends who they can talk to, and we are there to meet that need.”

Three years ago when Tim star­ted his volun­teer­ing, the Sheffield branch answered calls from local people and it was not uncom­mon to recog­nise a reg­u­lar caller’s voice. Today, the lines are on a national plat­form and the caller goes through to the first avail­able listener.

All con­ver­sa­tions are totally anonym­ous, and the listener must not develop a per­sonal rela­tion­ship with the caller.

When you pick up the phone and say ‘Hello, Samaritans,’ you have no idea what is going to come next . The caller wants some­body to walk along­side them and listen to their prob­lems for the dur­a­tion of the call, which could last for 20 minutes or could last for two hours.

When you put the phone down, you have no idea what happened next. We are not actu­ally there to pre­vent some­body com­mit­ting sui­cide. We try and talk them out of it, but if some­body says that they are going to commit sui­cide that is their choice.

We are not trained coun­sel­lors, we are trained listen­ers. We do not give advice.”

One thing a caller to the Samaritans will def­in­itely never hear is the mes­sage ‘Calls are recor­ded for secur­ity and train­ing pur­poses.’ Conversations between the caller and trained listener are strictly con­fid­en­tial, and the only time that any­body else might be privy to what was said is when a newly qual­i­fied listener is being ment­ored by a more exper­i­enced col­league.

Of the people who express an interest in join­ing the Samaritans, only ten per cent actu­ally become listen­ing volun­teers. “There is a selec­tion pro­cess, because you are asking people to do a job which can be quite emo­tion­ally and psy­cho­lo­gic­ally chal­len­ging,” Tim explained.

Tim is also respons­ible for the Sheffield branch’s out­reach activ­it­ies, liais­ing with local uni­ver­sit­ies and schools as well as talk­ing to com­munity groups such as our own.

Being away from home for the first time can be a prob­lem for stu­dents,” he added. “Not every­body is an extro­vert, and some finish up spend­ing most even­ings in their very com­fort­able en-suite accom­mod­a­tion, effect­ively in sol­it­ary con­fine­ment.”

It was a very enlight­en­ing talk, and well received, which promp­ted Tim to praise ‘some really inter­est­ing ques­tions’ from the floor. I am sure we will be invit­ing him back, per­haps to tell us about his dis­tin­guished police career.

Comedy, Magic and Me – Dave Moylan – 19th December 2016

OPINION is divided on whether Walt Disney or Phineas Taylor Barnum coined the expres­sion “Always leave them want­ing more.” It could just as easily have been Dave Moylan.

It wasn’t easy writ­ing notes for this blog while laugh­ing out loud, tears rolling down my cheeks, but that was the situ­ation I found myself in as a packed audi­ence for our last meet­ing before Christmas listened to just under an hour of hil­ari­ous anec­dotes about Dave’s life in the world of show busi­ness, recall­ing his work with some of Britain’s best known enter­tain­ers.

Everybody in the room went home with a big smile on their face, and pro­vi­sion­ally Dave is booked for the same slot next year. Certainly, nobody fell asleep, not even soon-to-be octo­gen­arian David Hague who is nor­mally doing well to last 15 minutes before drift­ing away (and who has kindly given me per­mis­sion to say so).

Glyn Davies fool­ishly sat in an aisle seat on the front row and was pre­dict­ably roped in — in more ways than one – to be Dave’s stooge as our enter­tainer opened the show with a series of illu­sions involving burn­ing nap­kins, lengths of rope which Glyn was invited to cut in two, and sleight-of-hand card tricks.

Dave invited us to step with him into his won­der­ful world of magic and illu­sion, explain­ing the dif­fer­ence between the two. “Magic was when England won the World Cup in 1966,” he said. “Illusion is ima­gin­ing that they will ever do it again.”

Derby-based Dave has been inter­ested in magic from a very early age. “In fact,” he told us, “when I was born I came out of the woman in the next bed.”

Illustrating his ver­sat­il­ity and his mod­esty — “If you keep your expect­a­tions very low, I might just about get away with this” — Dave then picked up his guitar and gave us a tongue twist­ing rendi­tion of All I Want is a Proper Cup of Coffee (made in a proper copper coffee pot). No, I’d never heard it before, either.

Dave then took us on a sen­ti­mental jour­ney through the hal­cyon days of the music hall, from such famous names as Max Miller to less well known such as Billy Bennett, whose rep­er­toire of mono­logues included Christmas Day in the Cookhouse, a spoof ver­sion of The Road to Mandalay and, bizar­rely, A Sailor’s Farewell to his Horse (I said to a girl, you must swim for your life, or hang on to a buoy if you can. She looked at me coy, and said ‘you’re not a boy, you’re just a dirty old man!’).

The comedy and magic were sim­ul­tan­eous. Dave leafed through a hand­ful of news­pa­per cut­tings, with stor­ies about the first trans­plant of a pig’s ear on to a human (“How’s your hear­ing? It’s OK, but there’s a bit of crack­ling”) and how a woman drowned in a bowl of muesli (“She was dragged down by a par­tic­u­larly strong cur­rant”) before appar­ently wringing his hands and turn­ing all the scraps of paper into one intact broad­sheet news­pa­per.

Dave took us through the greats of British radio comedy such as Sandy Powell, Al Read and Tony Hancock before we arrived at prob­ably the most famous magician-comedian of all time, Tommy Cooper.

Tommy Cooper was not a great con­juror, but he was cer­tainly one of the fun­ni­est men who ever lived,” Dave told us. “He was much bigger than the magic he per­formed.”

Also singled out for praise was Billy McComb, a Belfast-born American magi­cian and comedian who told his audi­ences: “I was born in Ireland, in a little vil­lage called Wedlock. In fact, I was born just out­side Wedlock.”

Dave told us (and I think he might have made this one up) about Adolphus the Third, the world’s worst knife-thrower, and his assist­ant Zelda the 27th.

Max Wall was another of Dave’s favour­ites. “The strange thing is,” he told us, “There isn’t a single teen­age girl in Britain who has ever heard of Max Wall, so why the hell do they all dress like him?”

After trip­ping up on another tongue-twister of a song, Dave admit­ted: “I don’t nor­mally do this when I’m sober.”

On a sim­ilar theme, he recalled the time he proudly took his son to the pub for the first time, lining up a suc­ces­sion of pints of bitter, Guinness and lager, none of which his son liked. “I had to drink them all myself,” he recalled. “In the end, I got so drunk I could hardly push his pram home.”

Dave also con­fided that he had recently joined Alcoholics Anonymous. “I’m still drink­ing, but under a dif­fer­ent name,” he explained.

There’s hardly space here to tell you about the Brummie who went fish­ing in the canal and pulled out a whale (he threw it back, because there were no spokes in it), or about the Liverpool pub comedian who bought his chil­dren an advent cal­en­dar with all the win­dows boarded up.

The one comedian I don’t recall Dave men­tion­ing was one of my own favour­ites, Frank Carson. But, as we stacked the chairs away at the end of the meet­ing, the most fre­quently heard remark was “It’s the way he tells ‘em!”

The Mystery of Hallamshire – Howard Smith – 17th October 2016

An altern­at­ive title for this fas­cin­at­ing present­a­tion by reg­u­lar vis­itor Howard Smith could well be “Where the f*** is Hallamshire?”

I and quite a few other mem­bers have the words Hallam or Hallamshire in the names of the roads where we live. We vote in the par­lia­ment­ary con­stitu­ency of Sheffield Hallam. I catch a 51 bus at Hallam Head. I pass Hallamshire Golf Club almost every day along with Hallam Football Club (the oldest foot­ball ground in the world, but that’s another story). We go to the Royal Hallamshire Hospital when cir­cum­stances dic­tate, and Sheffield Hallam University is a seat of learn­ing (hope­fully) for more than 30,000 stu­dents.

And yet few of us really know just what con­sti­tutes the his­toric region of Hallamshire, and how and why it came into exist­ence.

Howard, a member of the neigh­bor­ing Crosspool Probus Club, made a vali­ant attempt to explain the facts, but him­self admit­ted that much of the his­tory of Hallamshire is guess­work because no writ­ten records exist from the earli­est days. It is, indeed, a mys­tery.

We are sur­roun­ded by the names Hallam and Hallamshire,” he said. “And yet I sus­pect that if you had a vis­itor from, say, London, who asked what it meant, very few of you would be totally con­fid­ent of explain­ing exactly where it is, how big it is, or its his­tory. It would be a case of ‘answers on a post­card please.’

The truth is,” he con­tin­ued, “there is no such place as Hallamshire. It does not exist. So why on earth is it such a per­vas­ive name?”

In Anglo Saxon times, Hallamshire formed the south west­ern out­post of the Kingdom of Northumbria, and its border with the Kingdom of Mercia. In fact, one of sev­eral sug­ges­tions for the origin of the name Hallam is ‘a corner por­tion of a larger ter­rit­ory,’

That same ancient bound­ary between Northumbria and Mercia – along Stanage Edge – today still forms the border between South Yorkshire and Derbyshire, the city of Sheffield and the parish of Hathersage in the Derbyshire Dales and, Howard reminded us, the See of York and the See of Canterbury.

What is gen­er­ally accep­ted as the region of Hallamshire covers an area of 112 square miles and takes in the par­ishes of Sheffield, Bradfield and Ecclesfield. Before Sheffield grew in import­ance, Ecclesfield was the mother church of Hallamshire, and Bradfield – to the north and west of Sheffield – was and still is one of the largest par­ishes in England.

As Howard poin­ted out when list­ing all the place names, organ­isa­tions and com­mer­cial con­cerns which include the words Hallam or Hallamshire: “It doesn’t exist leg­ally or geo­graph­ic­ally, but has become almost a brand.”

Just one example of this is ‘the Company of Cutlers in Hallamshire’ — not Sheffield — which has rep­res­en­ted the cut­lery industry in the city and elec­ted a Master Cutler every year since 1624.

We are honored to have within our mem­ber­ship three past hold­ers of this his­toric and very pres­ti­gi­ous post, and it was former Master Cutler John Harvey who provided me with the pos­sible altern­at­ive title to which I referred in the open­ing para­graph.

During the ques­tion and answer ses­sion which tra­di­tion­ally fol­lows our talks, John eli­cited the biggest laugh of the morn­ing when he recalled the time he was attend­ing a white tie livery dinner in London during his term of office. “A very posh lady came up to me and asked: ‘Are you the Master Cutler?’

’Yes,’ I replied. ‘… of Hallamshire?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I replied again, to which her response was: ‘Where the f*** is Hallamshire?’”