Apart from old photos,  programmes and what lives in the memory of the spectators, the production team and the actors themselves, in my view, next to nothing of the immediacy of it all. Even the odd poem, like this bit of doggerel, can do little except rekindle some old memories.

As a drama student there was a fantastical children’s play I was roped into that turned out to be a bit of a gas. I can no longer remember what it was called at the time but it had a formidable cast, in fact I believe a large proportion of the fifty student actors from our year at college.  And the year in question? I think it was 1965 or 66.  It toured schools around Kent and was dead popular with audiences. Later the play was published by Samuel French as ‘Big Noise at Fort-issimo’ but that was not what it was called when we did it.

In those days, not being much of an actor anyway I used to bunk off and collect road debris and other rubbish to make what were then known as mobiles – long before the ubiquitous and multifarious cellular!

The dilapidated toy train I played in that piece was something of a manic depressive and had a revolving fly-wheel attached by means of a pin and a bit of nose putty to the tip of my hooter.

MR. CHUFF

With hat like a battered chimney

(a topper with formidable dent);

and tights that rendered me bean-pole like

I strutted that engine all around Kent.

 

A circular sandwich-board I’d crafted

was slung from my scrawny neck:

it had my name and number written on it:

a broken, old lantern enhanced the effect.

 

For I was that sad clockwork train,

long-abandoned, continually depressed.

Poor ‘Mr. Chuff’ was my name and vocation

just gathering dust,  nigh laid to rest.

 

But the Playroom’s forgotten army;

a platoon of old tin troops

found me and disarmed me

with the promise of important use.

 

A brand new purchase of Star-ship aliens

threatened everyone with imminent  war.

And to go and face battle six rusty old soldiers   

needed help to cross the playroom  floor.

 

Ah!  The wheels I haven’t yet mentioned -

one each for my knobbly knees

and a fly-wheel to muster attention

spinning around in a current of breeze.

 

This last had a simple pin axle

stuck to the end of a putty-long nose.

This little wheel with fins cut in it

spun round and round when I blowed.

 

The hard fought victory went

to the heroes,  the old, traditional toys.

It was super fun while it lasted

and it was great to be one of the boys.

 

But the end of that story I have to admit

is of no special use in my song;

yet the journey there that was started

has lasted a whole life-time along.

 

It’s something to do with performing;

of putting yourself on the line.

Nothing to do with Chuff-chuffs or Star-ships

but doing it YOUR WAY – at least for some of the time!

…………………………………………………………………………………………………..

 The photo at the top is of Robbo and Jeannie,

the Story-tellers from the same play.