If it hadn't been for the maritime mania of Freddie Fairburn, My Friend Harry would never have had his big chance. Freddie, great enthusiast as he was of motor sport and eminent as he was as President of Newcastle Motor Club and notwithstanding the fact that he had been the club's official announcer since the days of hand - held megaphones, nevertheless loved boats above everything - except, maybe, his jolly wife Doris. And Doris wasn't too sure about that priority, either.
So, when it turned out that his long-planned cruising holiday on the Norfolk Broads was going to clash with the annual motor cycle sand races at Druridge Bay, Northumberland, he had a problem.
Harry knew nothing of all that when Freddie bought him a pint at the club’s monthly meeting - although he should have suspected something from the readiness of the hospitality. The conversation turned from drink to food and from food to dinners and from dinners to speeches and then became gratifyingly complimentary about a speech Harry had made at such and such a function.
It could, however, have been couched in less rugged terms. "You’ve got the gift of the gab, all right," Freddie acknowledged with a nudge. "Bags of waffle."
Harry smiled a little wanly and decided that the man meant well. Freddie came to the point. The club, he said, was stuck for an announcer and what about it? He added that the entire club was in favour of Harry getting the job.
That, as Harry discovered later, was true only by implication. The entire club had refused the job before Freddie had got around to Harry with Newcassel Broon Ale. There wasn't much he could say, and Freddie clinched the deal by adding: "Nothing to it, really. Results and all that. Bit of gen now and then and a couple of records in the interval."
Thus, was Harry groomed for stardom. All that was required, he decided, was accuracy, efficiency and clarity. No inexplicable delays. Piece of cake.
Came the day and, armed with notebook and pencil, Harry made his way to the pits to gather the gen. He also took with him a scrofulous hound which had adopted him from the moment of his arrival on the beach.
Later, a little lollie-sucking girl tagged on and she, in turn, was followed by an Army cadet whose beret rested one inch below the eyebrows, plunging him into a world of perpetual solitude and darkness. Harry's tour of the pits began to look like a lunatic game of blind man's bluff at the annual outing of The Association of Very Small Soldiers and Mangy Mongerels.
Even Harry's six years in the Army hadn't prepared him for the flood of obscenities which suddenly came from a purple-faced mechanic. It transpired that the dear doggie had seized upon a piece of wood to thwack about. So? So, upon the said piece of wood had rested a magnificent array of graded jets for the mechanic's Binks 'mousetrap' carburetor.
Harry decided that the language wasn't doing the dog any good, never mind the children, and he took the implied advice and left. The time had come for him to check the tools of his trade.
The microphone, he discovered, was attached to the tailboard of a lorry in such a manner that to speak into it he had either to stand on tiptoe on the ground and crane his neck upwards, or kneel in the lorry and crane his neck down. He decided to kneel, a decision later to be regretted when he found that wherever he knelt, there were coach bolts. The rest of the public address equipment was contained in a car 30 yards away. Harry quickly evolved a foolproof signalling system with the owner. Whenever there looked like being a lull and he wanted a record played, he would wave to him. Nothing could be simpler.
And so, the great moment came. Harry knelt on the coach bolts and bent his head down. Immediately in front of him he saw a respectful group composed of his little girl with the lollie, his very small soldier with the black outlook, three other children with buckets and spades and his dear doggie.
He swallowed, flicked the switch and spoke. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen." he said winningly. Only the children and the dog heard and the children politely replied "Good afternoon." The dog swept arcs in the sand with its tail.
He flicked the switch over to the left. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he repeated. No sound, save for the sniggering of the kiddiewinkies.
He banged the microphone in his palm and tried again. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen." he gabbled with a hint of hysteria. Nothing, save for the laughter of tiny tots with smooth, rounded necks that could be snapped like a carrot had a man a mind to it.
Desperately, Harry beckoned to the owner of the equipment for help. At once came from the speakers such a blast of booming military marching music as had horses shying two villages away. Up came the secretary at the gallop.
"Stop that bloody row," he bawled. "We want to get started." Harry dashed over to the man in the car and snatched the record off the turntable. "I want to make some announcements," he said fiercely. “You shouldn't have waved, then." the man snapped. He followed Harry to the lorry. "Of course the mike's dead." he snorted. “The snatch plug's out."
"Well how the hell was I to know the bloody snatch plug was out?" Harry demanded - and the loud speakers duly thundered out his explanation to the delight of the crowd. The mike had been left switched on.
Groping in his jacket pocket, Harry began to speak. "I have here, ladies and gentlemen, the non-starters for the first event . . . the, er, race for solos up to 350 c.c. (hoarse voice of the lap-scorer: "250"). I mean solos up to 250 c.c. They are (where were those damned papers he had written them on? Damn the coach bolts. And those blasted kids). Er…"
He switched off. Harry was sweating now, and he knew he had broken the last of his own rules for announcers: ‘No inexplicable delays'. He searched through his pockets - and then remembered he had left the papers with all the gen in the secretary's car. He grabbed a marshal.
"Nip over to Les's car and bring me the papers on the front seat." he begged. The marshal went off like a shot. A minute later, he was back, papers in hand.
"I have some gen here for you," Harry said smoothly into the mike as he took the papers.
Then he saw what the marshal had brought. The People, The News of the World, Reveille and True Confessions. Harry said a wicked word, looked guiltily at the kids and waved the papers frantically at the marshal. At once came another blast of booming military marching music and the sound of horses bolting two villages away.
Up came the secretary again. "What the blazes is going on?" he shouted. With an imperious gesture to the electrical man he stopped the booming military music in mid-march, leapt into the lorry, switched on the mike and said in carefully modulated words: "The riders are coming up for event No. 1, the four-lap scratch race for solos of 250 c.c. The non-starters are numbers 21, 33 and 37."
He switched off. "Cut out the ad-libbing," he advised. Harry gave him his well-known wan smile.
The secretary waved his program to the starter. "Soon as you like, Joe," he called. "There's been enough time wasted as it is."
That's what Harry expected he said, anyhow. He couldn't catch the exact words for, as the secretary waved to the starter, there came a blast of booming military marching music and the distant sound of stampeding horses.
Nothing wrong with the inter-com, anyway.
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