Where Did All the Money Go?

A couple of weeks ago, we saw the comedian Bridget Christie at the Junction in Cambridge. It was a bit of fun, and lovely to have a pint with our pals the Pointons afterwards. It prompted me to think of some acts we have seen at the Junction in the past. Musically, the most fun performers were Moishe’s Bagel, The Yiddish Twist Orchestra, The Men They Couldn’t Hang and the side-splitting Half Man Half Biscuit.

There was also one very interesting act we saw in the pre-children days, in the early 1990’s, Alias Ron Kavana. Ron Kavana is a wee fat Irish guitar hero who has worked with some very big names, including Dr John, Doug Sahm the Cosmic Cowboy, Champion Jack Dupree, The Pogues, and many others. He and his band had a very eclectic set in terms of musical styles. In addition to straight rock, they performed some Irish punk-folk in Pogues style, and some very well-crafted roots/world music. This included a song about Irish volunteers in the Spanish Civil War, which incorporated some extremely impressive flamenco guitar flourishes, and a song called Pennies for the Black Babies, including a frequent refrain, Where did all the money go?

For those who did not experience a Roman Catholic education, there was a charity to which catholic primary school kids were invited to donate, officially entitled The Holy Childhood Fund, with the money destined mainly for the missions in Africa. Each pupil had a card with 30 little boxes. Each penny donated meant a cross in one of the boxes on the card. Once half a crown (thirty boxes, this was pre-decimal money) had been donated, you received a certificate and were allowed to give a name to a baptised child in the mission areas.

The official name of this fund was almost never used. We all called it The Black Babies.  D’you know, our teacher when I was eight years old, Mrs Mead, had one of those money boxes in the form of a stylised black man from the chest upwards, with one hand flat out? You would put a penny in the hand, pull a lever and the little figure would lift the penny to its mouth and swallow it. This was where we donated the Black Babies money. First thing in the morning as we all stood at our desks just after prayers, Mrs Mead would ask, ‘Who’s got any money for Sambo?’

This is just what happened in the 1960’s, I would under no circumstances attempt to justify it. The past is a foreign country.

Anyway, Ron Kavana’s song about the Black Babies was done in the most beautiful township jive style, lyrical and foot-stomping at the same time. Have a listen. Isn’t it marvellous? And isn’t Ron an amazing guitarist?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjt9Gmrv8FE

I remember taking some pride in getting the certificate after donating half a dollar over a considerable period of time, and getting to name a black baby after my pal James. But now, I wonder like Ron, where did all the money go?

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The comedy gig at the Junction reminded me of some other things in my past. The Junction is presumably named after the junction of Hills Road and Cherry Hinton Road where it stands. Near there are Fair View Lodge, Shaftesbury Road, which housed the MRC Biostatistics Unit, where I worked in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, and the Earl of Derby public house. The MRC Unit was famous for its riotous Christmas parties. On the occasion of one of these, again pre-children, Linda and I rashly agreed to go for a nightcap with the younger staff to the Earl of Derby after we had already got plastered at the Christmas party. We were in our thirties, and although that seems so youthful now that I am sixty-six years old, I think we were still tolerated seniors rather than members of the younger staff.

Somehow or other, after further refreshment at the Earl of Derby, we obtained a taxi and got home safely to the far north side of Cambridge. The next morning, after surfacing painfully to consciousness, drinking buckets of coffee, and refamiliarising myself with the geography of my home, I became aware that my briefcase was not among those present. This was one of those solid, cuboid black briefcases. It would make an effective weapon if you had enough sandwiches in it.

I checked with the fish and chip shop across the road, which I had a vague memory of visiting the previous evening, then gingerly made my way down to the office. The briefcase was not in either venue.

I then went to the Earl of Derby, which was just opening up. I spoke to the guvnor, who in turn quizzed the cleaning staff. No sign of the briefcase.

‘Sorry to bother you about this,’ I said to the landlord, ‘I feel a complete idiot about it.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ he replied, ‘The other night, a bloke went home from here with someone else’s trousers on.’

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That reminds me of another story relating to my briefcase, again taking place when I worked in the MRC Biostatistics Unit in Cambridge. One of our colleagues had received an honour and had brought in a couple of bottles of wine for us to toast the success. This was in the 1990’s before the days of screwtop wine bottles. There was a moment of anxiety as the members of the barcada looked at the corks and wondered how to get the bottles open.

‘No bother,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a corkscrew in my briefcase.’

Our distinguished colleague Sheila Gore, now Sheila Bird, reflected, ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’