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Uncle to thousands, but a father to me

‘Uncle Timothy *— the man who became an uncle to thousands of children in his long- running newspaper column.
‘Uncle Timothy *— the man who became an uncle to thousands of children in his long- running newspaper column.

I wonder how many of your readers once I belonged to a newspaper children’s club? Although more up-to-date papers have dropped such clubs, it is sdll possible for today’s young generation to join one if their parents subscribe to a small-town local newspaper like the one I take.

Even if today’s youngsters can find such an organisation, I very much doubt whether it is run by an ‘uncle’ or an ‘aunt’. Democratic modern days have abolished these characters, together with the uncles and aunts of BBC Children’s Hour.

My father must have been one of the last of these honorary uncles when he retired in the early 1960s. He served the sons and daughters of the readers of a notable provincial daily paper for more than 25 years under the title ‘Uncle Timothy’. He borrowed the name from his father, and was accompanied in his work by ‘Aunt Edith’ who wrote in the associated evening paper.

I remember going to see him in his office when I was a teenager in the 1930s and noting that he and ’Aunt Edith’ had adjoining offices and had to share a telephone, which was passed to and fro through a litde hatch. How different from modern newspaper offices where everybody is linked up by computer and the mobile phone is a universal tool!

My father wrote a daily column encouraging children in good works and, in particular, organising vast charitable collections and efforts, especially in support of the local hospitals. Every Christmas, for example, they were asked to donate toys which were directed to the Children’s Hospital. I can remember when I was quite small finding my father’s office looking like an Aladdin’s Cave of toys. Some of the less-acceptable ones found their way to me and my personal toy collection probably had more secondhand toys than new!

This was all the more extraordinary because my father had a very rudimentary education. The son of a farm labourer who died when my father was only 14, he left school as soon as he could demonstrate basic literacy at the age of 12 and worked in the cudery works until he was thrown into unemployment by the Depression. After a period doing odd jobs, Father got himself a job selling insurance for the local paper.

This involved not only collecting subscriptions from newsagents (a penny a week, perhaps, from their customers but also the gloomy business of visiting the widows of colliers killed in pit accidents to pay out the pitiful amount to ease their tragedy).

From that lowly job Dad smuggled himself into the sales and publicity department of the Sheffield Mail. This work, although perhaps more respectable, was equally varied. Among other bizarre tasks he took the role of a provincial ‘Lobby Lud’ (remember Lobby Lud of the Daily Mail}) strolling around Cleethorpes or Scarborough waiting for a reader to challenge him with the exact formula printed in the paper “You are… and I claim my five shilling postal order”. He was passed from that paper, when it failed, to the Sheffield Independent, then to the Sheffield Telegraph, which still exists as a weekly.

I have no idea of how he got into the actual writing business, but I do know that he had, apparently by nature, an easy colloquial style which was popular with his readers. His abilities might have had something to do with him also being a local preacher in the Methodist Church, and a very popular one too. He had a knack of introducing litde stories into his preaching and his newspaper column which gave him an attractive common touch.
Every year he organised a vast concert at the City Hall (which could hold 2,000 people) for the benefit of the hospitals. Known as ‘Uncle Timothy’s Concert’, this featured regularly local artists such as Joey the Clown and a conjurer called Albert, who, as I remember, had learned his patter by rote and had to start again if interrupted. These were supported by a rich bass singer and a soprano, but most notably by a couple of variety acts of national reputation poached from the local Moss’s Empire. My father had a knack of persuading these famous names to give their services free, and often handing over a donation as well. I remember meeting George Formby (junior) , Sandy Powell and Gert and Daisy who were particular favourites of my father and his audiences. Uncle Timothy’s Concert was a chance for readers of the paper in the colliery villages round Sheffield to have an annual night out and became a kind of reunion. I can remember when I was older and had left home, returning to one of these concerts and being shocked by the continual conversation which went on throughout the performance as people caught up with family news!

Dad acted as master of ceremonies and ‘straight man’ to his regular comics. The jokes were of the feeblest and their attraction lay in their familiarity. A good(?) example was the tale of the chap who offered to do the washing because his wife was ill in bed. The details escape me but it finished with the foolish husband dragging the mangle up to the attic because that was where the washing was!

The reign of ‘Uncle Timothy’ lasted for many years and there must be thousands of people who, if they look back, can remember the joy of having a Children’s Corner badge, having their birthday mentioned in the paper, fun at local village fetes organised for the club and a rare family night out at Uncle Timothy’s Concert in the grand setting of the Sheffield City Hall. My father eventually gained an OBE for his charitable efforts but never earned more than an average wage for all his local fame. I am sure he got enormous satisfaction and, no doubt, a greater reward in Heaven.

Colin Tindall

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Uncle to thousands, but a father to me

‘Uncle Timothy *— the man who became an uncle to thousands of children in his long- running newspaper column.
‘Uncle Timothy *— the man who became an uncle to thousands of children in his long- running newspaper column.

I wonder how many of your readers once I belonged to a newspaper children’s club? Although more up-to-date papers have dropped such clubs, it is sdll possible for today’s young generation to join one if their parents subscribe to a small-town local newspaper like the one I take.

Even if today’s youngsters can find such an organisation, I very much doubt whether it is run by an ‘uncle’ or an ‘aunt’. Democratic modern days have abolished these characters, together with the uncles and aunts of BBC Children’s Hour.

My father must have been one of the last of these honorary uncles when he retired in the early 1960s. He served the sons and daughters of the readers of a notable provincial daily paper for more than 25 years under the title ‘Uncle Timothy’. He borrowed the name from his father, and was accompanied in his work by ‘Aunt Edith’ who wrote in the associated evening paper.

I remember going to see him in his office when I was a teenager in the 1930s and noting that he and ’Aunt Edith’ had adjoining offices and had to share a telephone, which was passed to and fro through a litde hatch. How different from modern newspaper offices where everybody is linked up by computer and the mobile phone is a universal tool!

My father wrote a daily column encouraging children in good works and, in particular, organising vast charitable collections and efforts, especially in support of the local hospitals. Every Christmas, for example, they were asked to donate toys which were directed to the Children’s Hospital. I can remember when I was quite small finding my father’s office looking like an Aladdin’s Cave of toys. Some of the less-acceptable ones found their way to me and my personal toy collection probably had more secondhand toys than new!

This was all the more extraordinary because my father had a very rudimentary education. The son of a farm labourer who died when my father was only 14, he left school as soon as he could demonstrate basic literacy at the age of 12 and worked in the cudery works until he was thrown into unemployment by the Depression. After a period doing odd jobs, Father got himself a job selling insurance for the local paper.

This involved not only collecting subscriptions from newsagents (a penny a week, perhaps, from their customers but also the gloomy business of visiting the widows of colliers killed in pit accidents to pay out the pitiful amount to ease their tragedy).

From that lowly job Dad smuggled himself into the sales and publicity department of the Sheffield Mail. This work, although perhaps more respectable, was equally varied. Among other bizarre tasks he took the role of a provincial ‘Lobby Lud’ (remember Lobby Lud of the Daily Mail}) strolling around Cleethorpes or Scarborough waiting for a reader to challenge him with the exact formula printed in the paper “You are… and I claim my five shilling postal order”. He was passed from that paper, when it failed, to the Sheffield Independent, then to the Sheffield Telegraph, which still exists as a weekly.

I have no idea of how he got into the actual writing business, but I do know that he had, apparently by nature, an easy colloquial style which was popular with his readers. His abilities might have had something to do with him also being a local preacher in the Methodist Church, and a very popular one too. He had a knack of introducing litde stories into his preaching and his newspaper column which gave him an attractive common touch.
Every year he organised a vast concert at the City Hall (which could hold 2,000 people) for the benefit of the hospitals. Known as ‘Uncle Timothy’s Concert’, this featured regularly local artists such as Joey the Clown and a conjurer called Albert, who, as I remember, had learned his patter by rote and had to start again if interrupted. These were supported by a rich bass singer and a soprano, but most notably by a couple of variety acts of national reputation poached from the local Moss’s Empire. My father had a knack of persuading these famous names to give their services free, and often handing over a donation as well. I remember meeting George Formby (junior) , Sandy Powell and Gert and Daisy who were particular favourites of my father and his audiences. Uncle Timothy’s Concert was a chance for readers of the paper in the colliery villages round Sheffield to have an annual night out and became a kind of reunion. I can remember when I was older and had left home, returning to one of these concerts and being shocked by the continual conversation which went on throughout the performance as people caught up with family news!

Dad acted as master of ceremonies and ‘straight man’ to his regular comics. The jokes were of the feeblest and their attraction lay in their familiarity. A good(?) example was the tale of the chap who offered to do the washing because his wife was ill in bed. The details escape me but it finished with the foolish husband dragging the mangle up to the attic because that was where the washing was!

The reign of ‘Uncle Timothy’ lasted for many years and there must be thousands of people who, if they look back, can remember the joy of having a Children’s Corner badge, having their birthday mentioned in the paper, fun at local village fetes organised for the club and a rare family night out at Uncle Timothy’s Concert in the grand setting of the Sheffield City Hall. My father eventually gained an OBE for his charitable efforts but never earned more than an average wage for all his local fame. I am sure he got enormous satisfaction and, no doubt, a greater reward in Heaven.

Colin Tindall

More Stories

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