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Tuesday, 12 July 2011

PHILIP WHITELAND

PHILIP WHITELAND

Phil Whiteland
Author Biography
Philip is a 56 year old university lecturer in Human Resource Management and occasional outplacement counsellor.  He doesn’t tend to tell too many people about this as he is acutely aware of their eyes glazing over as he speaks.  He lives on the edge of the Peak District, or, as it sometimes seems, just lives on the edge.  He was born and brought up, like so many things, in Burton upon Trent and much of his writing over the past few years, for the Derby Telegraph, Burton Mail’s “times gone by” magazine and Mature Times has featured his recollections of growing up (allegedly) in the 1950s and 1960s.  Philip has also broadcast a number of articles in Radio Derby’s “Did I Ever Tell You” series of stories.  He has occasionally been accused of humour.  “Steady Past Your Granny’s” is Philip’s first, self-published, collection of stories.
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Steady Past Your Granny’s
Blurb
The perfect present for the "baby-boomer" in your life.
If you, or someone you love, remembers the sheer horror of ballroom dancing at school, the ”flying wedge” football formation involving one person actually kicking the ball and the rest of the team running after him, or chewing gum machines that gave an extra packet every fourth turn, then this book is for you.
Phil Whiteland is well known for his very funny insights into growing up in the 1950s and beyond, from the 'Yesterday Today' supplement, the 'Bygones' column of the Derby Telegraph and the 'times gone by' magazine from the Burton Mail. Other readers may recognise Philip's particular brand of humour from his articles in the online newspaper 'Mature Times'. If you're new to the slightly odd world of Phil Whiteland, this book is a great place to start.
To Buy This Excellent book, CLICK HERE
To read Phil's brilliant blog, The Slightly Odd World of Phil Whiteland CLICK HERE
EXCERPT FROM PHIL'S BOOK:
It came as quite a shock the other day to discover that I wasn’t “fair of face”!
I don’t mean in reality.  A quick check in the mirror would have disabused me of that notion long ago.  No, I was always convinced that I had been born on a Monday; hence “Monday’s child is fair of face”.  However, apropos nothing in particular, I was trawling back through an electronic diary when I had nothing better to do and discovered, to my delight, that you can view the calendar right back to the beginning of the last century.  Being of an egotistical bent, I naturally trotted back to the year of my birth, 1954, and there I found that August 30th fell on a Tuesday.  I would have bet good money on it being a Monday, although it always seemed to me that the evidence of my own eyes tended to wreck the predictive validity of the rhyme.  I suppose my confusion arose because I remember being told that my Mum was “doing the washing”, bearing in mind that this was still an all-day chore for a Monday, when nature decreed that I would make my presence felt.  I imagine, in my childhood naivety, I assumed that the onset of labour would be almost instantly followed, (after a few brief moments of discomfort, I wasn’t that na├»ve) by the arrival of me.  Until now, when I realised that my arrival was obviously a lengthy affair culminating some time the following day.  And that’s another problem, I have no idea when I was born!  Not for me the definitive astrological chart, pinning down the exact position of the planets in the celestial firmament at the time of my deliverance in downtown Burton upon Trent.  As both of my parents have long since passed on to that other country where zodiacal predictions are of considerably less importance, I don’t suppose now I will ever know this crucial piece of information.
The point of all this rambling is really to do with childhood misconceptions and how they can follow you through life.  Is it really true, for example, that as a child in the late 1950’s living in Anglesey Road, I was held up to look through our front room window to observe the Queen passing by?  I don’t mean by this that the Head of the House of Windsor was ambling along to the Cooper’s Arms for a pint and a packet of Park Drive.  I just have this vague recollection of a black limousine sweeping past our house and I can’t imagine why I was being held up for this event unless it was some important personage whose itinerary could be predicted – hence my belief that it was the Queen.  Of course, I could have dreamed the whole thing up.  Childhood imagination is pretty fertile soil for the propagation of fantasies.
I remember watching a cartoon or some such when I was small that somehow instilled the notion in my mind that there was some awful nameless beast living in the toilet that was biding its time, waiting to capture unsuspecting children.  Somehow this notion then became contorted into the conviction that, in order to avoid the clutches of this horrific, and probably foul-smelling, nemesis, I had to get downstairs before the toilet had finished flushing. Our bathroom in Anglesey Road (yes, we had a bathroom!  Posh, weren’t we?)  had been created by converting the back bedroom of what was, originally, a three-bedroom terraced house, and the toilet was at the far end of this room, by the window.  This meant, for the aspiring junior flush racer, a frantic pull of the handle, followed by a sprint across the linoleum, up two steps to the landing and then along the landing and down the stairs to the relative sanctuary of our living room.  This may not sound particularly daunting or challenging but you need to know that I was pathologically scared of heights, also widths, depths and just about any dimension you can imagine, and was desperately trying not to make my way downstairs by sliding from step to step on my bottom.  Timidity on the staircase does not fit well with panic-stricken flight and it’s a wonder that my childhood did not come to an abrupt end with me in a crumpled heap behind the stair’s door.
It’s funny how, as a child, you never share these nameless dreads with your parents.  Somehow you and this mystical fear are in cahoots against the adult world.  I suppose it boils down to an even stronger fear of being ridiculed, even though every fibre of your infant being tells you that the thing you fear is most definitely real.  For example, I was never afraid of the dark.  I simply avoided it.  Lying in bed with the covers clamped over my head, eyes tightly shut and thumb firmly fixed in mouth, I knew that the dark could not hurt me.  Imminent suffocation under all of those blankets, sheets and eiderdowns was far preferable to whatever lurked on the other side of my eyelids.  Now, I would never have dreamt of telling my parents about this.  I just assumed it was a fact of life, like those ancient maps marked with ‘Here be Dragons’, the map of my childhood world bore the legend, ‘Here be Nameless Dreads…and here…and here’.
Perhaps I had a particularly repressed childhood?  Could it be that my 1950’s compatriots were eagerly recounting their fears and fantasies to their understanding and sympathetic parents in an open, non-condemnational forum?  Somehow, I doubt it.  The post-war parents of the baby boom generation had, themselves, been brought up in a ‘children should be seen and not heard’ environment and whilst they might have progressed to a point where the sight and sound of children could be tolerated, full and frank discussions would have to wait for the onset of more liberated attitudes in the 1960’s.
So, I have to live the rest of my life in the knowledge that I am neither predicted to be, nor in reality, ‘fair of face’.  Now I have a new prediction to live up to, namely that I am “full of grace”, whatever that means.  Cancel the plastic surgery and book me into a retreat, if I can get my inner child back out from under the bedclothes, I think it’s time for a session of self-discovery.
To Buy This Excellent book, CLICK HERE
To read Phil's brilliant blog, The Slightly Odd World of Phil Whiteland CLICK HERE

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