Читать книгу Tripping Over - John Hickman - Страница 15

I’d moved up a grade when at home I was introduced to our first television set.

TV appealed far more than schoolwork or reading. The screen was contained within an enormous polished wood cabinet as tall as me with hinged timber doors. The mystery began when we opened them as they hid the nine inch cathode ray screen.

‘Oh, good,’ Mum said. ‘Now I can watch the Queen’s Speech on Christmas Day, instead of only listening to her on the wireless.’

‘You can have your Queen’s Speech, Mum. I’ll settle on this new American rock n roll singer Elvis Presley.’

The horizontal hold had a mind of its own. Dad spent hours cross-legged on the floor where he twiddled each knob to make the picture viewable. We developed a sort of rotating twitch in one eye from being focused on the revolving screen. When the twitch spread to both eyes, nausea set in. Our queasiness declined as the rotation speed slowed. Because of that I first learned to watch television sitting upside down. Perched between Dad’s armchair and the fireplace was precarious when a fire was alight in the hearth.

Dad glanced over the top of his newspaper at the television. ‘That’s a terrible picture, Alice.’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Maybe a bird has shat on the aerial?’

Silence.

‘We do have an aerial, do we, dear?’

‘Of course we have.’

He took a few thoughtful puffs on his pipe as if in search of inspiration from his newspaper. ‘Haven’t we?’

‘Well, dear, the man who delivered the television set did say if you wanted a better picture you might need an aerial. But as that meant spending additional money you were to get back to him.’

‘I’ll get on to him tomorrow. I must have forgotten about that.’

The man was proven correct. With an aerial, images were crisp and clear but then we lost sound. The aerial man blamed the television set being the first model of its kind. The salesman in the store blamed where we lived. ‘You’re not ideally located in the central London area.’

‘How much more central can we be?’ Dad was incredulous. ‘If they broadcast from Alexandra Palace, we’re walking distance from Knightsbridge for Christ’s sake.’

‘There are too many high buildings between you and the transmitter, sir. That makes it difficult to pick up signals from Earl’s Court. Your aerial man should erect a taller mast.’

After much discussion the taller mast idea was ruled out. It would have cost a small fortune, as it needed all manner of supports and paraphernalia. Access to the loft was through Flat 3 above us with no easy exit to outside of the roof. This would have necessitated the use of long ladders and scaffolding.

Our new super-duper aerial ended up being of the portable variety. It looked a bit like a bent-up coat hanger sat on top of the television, but often to get a picture it needed to be moved to different parts of the room.

Sometimes if Dad held the aerial high above his head, while he stood on a chair on his toes, the picture was good. But to remain there for more than a few seconds needed more support than Mum and I could provide.

When Dad attached the aerial to the top of the curtain pelmet, it was as if the television sensed what he’d done, realised he’d tricked it, and our signal deteriorated. When we had a picture but no sound we lip-read. Mum was quite good at that.

Dad sat back with a grin and crossed his legs. ‘An art ably perfected, I’ll wager, from years of watching silent films my dear.’

Mum beamed with pride.

After she’d learned the volume knob was also the on/off switch she became proficient with the other tuning knob.

Shows for children included Muffin the Mule, and Bill and Ben the Flower Pot Men, which I’d grown out of. I preferred the Cisco Kid.

Bad men wore black hats like a badge. Good men wore white hats. Simple. Colours couldn’t be distinguished on the black and white transmission anyway, but viewers could tell black from white.

The Cisco Kid was always accompanied by his overweight and next to useless comedic sidekick, Poncho Gonzalez. They acted as if joined at the hip. Duncan Renaldo portrayed a dashing Cisco and rode a steed called Diablo as if he‘d been born on horseback. Their horse riding scenes were legendary. Leo Carrillo played Poncho and rode a horse called Loco and together they tore up the Arizonian desert.

It was a tossup between the two amigos and the Lone Ranger with his magnificent white stallion Silver and Tonto his reliable Indian sidekick.

Words like Kemo Sabe were made famous by the media. We associated this meant ‘trusty scout’ and ‘ Hi ho, Silver. Away! ’

Besides being dramatic the latter had been the cue during radio broadcasts for the riding sequence to commence with the clip, clop sound effects.

If Dad had told me dead cowboys and Indians were piled up in the back of the television set, I’m sure I would have believed him. ‘Rumour has it, Son, “Kemo Sabe” is from an old Apache dictionary and means, “a horse’s backside.” If true, this adds a whole new dimension to Lone Ranger shows as “Tonto” in Spanish means “fool.”

A likely dialogue:

Lone Ranger: ‘Come with me, Tonto’ (fool) Tonto: ‘I’m here by your side, Kemo Sabe’ (horse’s arse)

Dad said, ‘You know, Alice, our son’s easy to entertain. When he isn’t outside playing all he does is spend hours in a catatonic state in front of the television.’

Independent Television (ITV) came with supportive advertisements. They were a novelty at first. We assembled to watch an advertisement, any advertisement. I soaked up television like a sponge. There was a spate of new car advertisements, which reopened my parents’ discussions about a new car. I was sure they were getting ready to replace their old Talbot, but with what? Cars around London were becoming status symbols.

I was intrigued as to what they might buy as that was an area greyer than the London sky to me.