My first encounter with cinema was as page-boy at the Raynes Park Cinema in south-west London in 1929. It was an evening job, as I was still at school, and I was paid 7/6d. a week for six evenings (we were closed on Sundays) from 6.00 till 9.30. After leaving school I was full-time at 15/- per week: mornings, rewinding the previous night's programme, afternoons as a trainee projectionist, and evenings as page-boy.

The projection equipment was Simplex front-shutter projectors, Power's Cinephone sound, Hans Gerty arcs, and a generator that laboured to give us 20 amps. On changeover when two arcs were required we kept our fingers crossed. Rewinding the previous night's programme sounds mundane, but the films had been 'run into the ground' before we, as a 'flea-pit', got them, and the repair of joins, perforation damage, etc., was amazing.

The first film I showed as a projectionist was The Desert Song in 1930. It was sound-on-disc, which required much skill, patience, and a knowledge of how everything worked - few of the present - day pro-jectionists could do it. The discs were 16" in diameter and played from the centre out-wards, so that at the slow surface speed the needle was sharp, and as it got blunt the surface speed increased to compensate. The reel number was clearly stamped in very large figures on the disc label, but 6 and 9 were always marked Six and Nine to prevent an embarrassing mistake. In those early 'talkie' days, the public demanded two films: the main feature, usually a talkie, supported by a silent second feature, so another of my jobs was playing records on the 'Panatrope' (the Brunswick Company's trade-name for a double turntable with fader), to match the silent pictures.

Just when I was feeling proud of my position as a projectionist at the only cinema in the area - horror struck - a giant '48-sheet' poster appeared on the railway bank opposite declaring the opening of the Regal, Kingston, which boasted 2,500 seats. I sported 6d. to go there. It was magnificent: two feature films, Reginald Foort at the WurliTzer organ, and the auditorium was 'out of this world'.

The dignity of this amazing palace was a little tarnished in Raynes Park soon after, when the bill-poster had presumably had a couple too many. The film that week was Splinters in the Navy, but the enormous poster told everybody it was Splinternavs in the Y! It stayed like that all week, but Kingston was five miles away, so who cared?

In 1934 Billy Hughes, the new owner of the Raynes Park Cinema, closed it for two weeks to redecorate, install new seats, new Ernemann projectors, Strong arc-lamps, and change the name to Rialto. Sadly, business declined, as the people of Raynes Park seemed to want their old rough-and-tumble place back!

Later that year, I got a job as 4^th projectionist at the magnificent Regal, Kingston, so it was from one extreme to the other. The equipment was Simplex rear-shutter projectors with built-in solenoid-operated changeover shutters, with Hall & Connelly 150 amp. arcs on Western Electric 'Universal' bases, and Stelmar follow-spots. Later, the arcs were changed for Peerless Magnarcs. Although the brightness was there, at half the amperage, I though the H & C arcs gave a more even light over the screen area. Also around this time, the name of the cinema was changed from Regal to Union, and Harold Ramsey -the famous organist- was Director of Entertainment.

By now, big stage shows were being presented, as well as the films, and for an hour on Friday nights, the B.B.C. broadcast our shows. Being in charge of the 'limes' (follow spots), I met many of the stars, including Billy Cotton, and Gracie Fields at her one-and-only cinema appearance.

For Gracie a special stairway was built on the stage, and on cue she was to come through a door high up and walk down to the footlights. Came the big moment when Harold Ramsey shouted "And now, here's Our Gracie," the door wouldn't open and he had to run up the stairs and help her force the door open. The two walked down together laughing.

Another big act was the famous illusionist Horace Golding. He had performed privately for Queen Victoria, and although by now no spring chicken, he was highly respected. One night a trick went wrong, and such was the concentration that Horace must have forgotten that it was a live performance. He looked to the wings and shouted "What do you think you're doing?" One of his assistants walked onto the stage carrying a large board with dozens of wires coming from it, and while jiggling one of the switches he shouted back, "This is what I'm doing and it doesn't bloody well work!" It brought the house down.

In 1936, I got my first chief operator's job, which was at the Rex Cinema, Hayes, in Kent. The equipment was Ross machines with B.T-H. sound, and 'National' oil engines generated the electricity.

There was no Sunday opening there, and one week-end the chief engineer of the company asked me to go to the Gaisford, Kentish Town in London, just for the Sunday evening, as he had only one projectionist that evening, and the law required two. He said that I was only going to make up the number - ".The other chap is the regular 2^nd operator and he'll do everything."

When I arrived, both machines were already threaded-up, and everything was ready to go. The cinema was a converted private house: the cash desk was once the front bay-window, and the projection box was formerly a bedroom! When starting time came, I asked where the curtain controls were. My colleague said, "There ain't any." He then removed a porthole glass and shouted through, "Open the curtains, one of you." One of the audience obliged. They all seemed to know how to run the place.

So, off we went with a Crazy Gang film. About half-way through the second reel my colleague came into the box looking a bit concerned - I asked why he looked worried - and he said "We're showing the wrong film - this is Monday's programme." I asked sarcastically, "What do you normally do when showing the wrong film?" He said simply, "I'll be back in a minute." About 15 minutes later he returned, looking relieved. I asked, "What did the manager say?" "Oh! I haven't told him," he said. "I just altered the front-of-house publicity." !!

The homely attitude didn't stop there, though. About nine-o'clock I saw a fist banging on the porthole glass, so I asked my mate to go down and stop them. "Take the glass out quick," he said, "That's our fish-and-chips." Sure enough, when I removed the port glass, a parcel of fish-and-chips came through. No Royal Command performance could match an evening at the Gaisford.

When I left the Rex, Hayes to join the Odeon chain in 1940, I had to do relief work and then spend six months as a resident 2^nd before I could be an Odeon chief.

Personal appearances of the Rank starlets were the order of the day, mostly for charity functions. Whilst doing my six months as 2^nd at the Odeon Surbiton, Mark Hamburg, the famous pianist, honoured us with a concert in aid of the Red Cross. He had his own concert grand which must have weighed a ton. The cinema had an orchestra lift which had never been used, and the idea was to have a superb presentation with the orchestra and Mark Hamburg all coming up on the lift. Fortunately, we had a rehearsal, which proved the lift wasn't up to it: the orchestra side came up, but the piano side stayed put owing to the weight. Everything rolled down to the piano end, damaging some instruments. That night the cinema's own stage piano had to be used.

While on relief work in the West End, I spent a week at the Gaumont, Haymarket. One of the regular staff told me of the remains of the old Capitol, which the Gaumont had replaced. Under pressure, he took me on a climb into the roof space, where the beautiful gold proscenium was still intact, as was most of the ornate ceiling. Even the old projection box still had spools lying around. All this brought tears to my eyes, because as a school-boy I had seen the silent Charlie Chaplin film A Dog's Life at the Capitol. I remembered some pictures of a quartet playing something classical: it only lasted a few minutes but the applause was thunderous. Years later I realised that this had been a demonstration of things to come - the talkies. Also I saw the remains of the once-famous Kit-Kat Club, underneath. It was an array of heating and ventilating equipment leaning against ornate pillars.

In the 50s, when television came within reach of ordinary people, the cinema industry woke up - it had to! No longer would people have to stare at a small, poorly-lit screen - now there was CinemaScope, VistaVision, and bigger and brighter screens, but the conversion was not easy. Many small cinemas were still privately owned by people who did not have a clue about how anything worked. I attended a demonstration of VistaVision at the Plaza, Haymarket. The screen must have been 50' wide, and the detail definition was staggering. Two women sitting behind me, obviously owners of small cinemas, were complaining. "What did they bring us here for? It's only a big screen." !! Then they went back to their poorly-focussed, dimly-lit five foot screen (painted on the wall) having learned nothing. Fortunately the growing of the big circuits, with some knowledge, eventually removed that barrier.

By far my most enjoyable few years was as chief projectionist of the Ambassador, Hounslow West, built by London & Southern Super Cinemas, and opened by Bebe Daniels and Ben Lyon in 1936. The equipment was Kalee 11s, Kalee HML arc-lamps, and Western Electric sound. Seating just over 2,000, the auditorium was a most unusual design, and there were no visible light fittings, as all the lighting was from constantly changing floodlights concealed in the walls and ceiling.

I was learning to play the organ at the time (about 1941), so the lovely illuminated-console Compton helped me a lot, as did Peter Kenyon, the resident organist. We became great friends, and combined our ideas for his weekly show.

The climax of his show one week was Ketelby's lovely In A Monastery Garden. All over the console there were buttons for every conceivable sound effect. As the final crescendo started - with monks walking slowly through the monastery garden on the stage - suddenly - a klaxon motor horn!!! I couldn't believe it - then a ship's siren!!! Peter wasn't a drinker, so what was up? I couldn't wait to see him after the show to asked what had happened. "I was trying to find the bird-song," he said, "I thought a few twitters would be nice."

One evening I was summoned to the manager's office, and told to be there early next morning to prepare the public address system for a very important meeting, and that no other staff were to be there. While I was setting-up, army personnel were searching all corners and cubby holes. Soon, army trucks and cars were arriving bringing hundreds of officers. The last car to arrive was a Rolls-Royce, bringing Field-Marshal Montgomery, who obviously had something important to say to his men which was far too confidential to be distributed in writing.

Briefly, my impression was that Monty was there to convince all his officers that the changing circumstances of many European countries meant that Russia, long regarded with suspicion, was now a friend of Britain. By the time Monty left a handful of locals had gathered, as the Rolls-Royce parked outside told them something was going on. The windscreen looked most odd, as it was tilted forward at about 45⁰. Apparently this was to avoid reflection when the car was used on the field of battle.

Being a bighead, I often wonder if any of the big boys learned from me! I can still hear them saying, "And now, I give you that well-known Russian lullaby, the 1812.

In 1944 I was called-up and became a service and repair technician in the Royal Navy, starting with a training course at the R.N. Cinema School in Chatham. It was there that I first met Jack de Coninck, as my instructor, and the Wren who was later to become his wife, Mary. Here I was introduced to the navy equipment - G-B. N 35mm. projectors and the L516 16mm.

After completing my training course I was posted to H.M.S. Wellesley, Liverpool. We were responsible for the maintenance and service of projection equipment for the area stretching from Cardiff to the Scottish border. One of my assignments was to H,M.S. Glendower on the Welsh coast, which had been Butlin's Holiday Camp, Pwllheli. There was a Hammond organ there (lucky me!) and I gave a solo before the evening cinema performance.

The Butlin 35mm. projectors were still in the original projection box, and were the oldest I had ever seen. The civilian projectionist told me they were Kalee 6s - made about 1910. He was quick to point out, however, that at the end of hostilities he had been promised two new machines.

"What will they be?" I asked. He stuck out his chest proudly, and said, "Kalee 8s." Would he know the difference? I think Kalee 8s went back almost to WW1.

I cannot let all this go without a word of praise for the ladies (we called them operettes) who filled the many vacancies of projectionists who were called-up for military service. They did a wonderful job of adapting to an unusual profession.

After the war I did a spot of instructing myself, at the Circuits Management Association's London Training School for projectionists at the Gaumont, Camden Town.

In about 1955 an amazing coincidence saw my wife and me meet up with my navy instructor, Jack de Coninck and his wife Mary. We have been firm friends ever since.

* * * * * *