The diary of 1933 is notable for Alf’s positive approach towards looking after his health. He repeatedly commented on how well he was feeling, the reason for this being that the previous year had been a very bad one for him. He had almost died of diphtheria. This disease, caused by a virulent germ, is rarely seen today. It was virtually eliminated in 1946 as a result of the discovery of a vaccine but at the beginning of his final year at Hillhead, Alf contracted the disease – and it very nearly finished him off. In those days, prior to the discovery of antibiotics, he had to fight the disease simply through sheer determination coupled with good nursing from his parents. The standard symptoms were a sore throat and searing headaches, the throat becoming coated in an unpleasant ‘cheesy’ exudate which made breathing very difficult. In addition, he developed a series of painful abscesses all over his body, and these continued to be a problem for two years after his recovery from the disease. He recalled one particularly gruesome boil at the top of his leg that eventually became as hard as a rock. One evening, having decided that he had had enough of it, he squeezed it with all his might. In his own words, ‘A thing like a small cricket ball shot out of my leg and bounced its way across the floor!’ It sounds more like something out of a 1990s science-fiction horror story than pre-war Glasgow, but he recovered where many others had died.
This debilitating experience was responsible for a severe dip in his academic results at school, together with a complete cessation of his sporting activities. No wonder he was so glad to be alive. In August 1933, while on holiday in Sunderland, after a particularly exhilarating day playing tennis and bathing in the sea, he wrote: ‘When I look at all the fun I’ve had today and think that, last year, I was a wreck with diphtheria, I thank God for my health. It is the most precious possession anyone can have.’
He emerged from the darkness of diphtheria a new person, brimming with fresh ideas and enthusiasms. He was determined to keep himself fit. One day he was given a book called My Systemby Lieut. J. P. Muller. On the front of the book was a picture of a Greek God and, inside, photographs of a lean, wiry man twisting his body in a multitude of directions. Alf thought this person was the fittest human being he had ever seen and decided that he himself was going to become even fitter. He aimed to transform himself into the second J. P. Muller.
The ‘System’ is based upon a regime of cold baths followed by exercises – one which my father followed religiously in his youth, and his diary is liberally sprinkled with references to it.
On 20 April 1933, he wrote: ‘I’m feeling as fit as the proverbial fiddle. I put it all down to the exercises and cold baths. I am much brighter and healthier than I was last year before my illness and I seem to be on the upgrade. I’m going to enter everything at this sports – that is the 100 yards, 220 yards, broad jump, discus, javelin, hurdles, cricket ball, and place and drop kick.’ He had certainly set himself an optimistic target, his idea being to run off with medals in each one of them. Unfortunately, he got a little carried away with his training, pulled a muscle in his groin, and took no part when Sports Day arrived.
So keen was he on My Systemthat he bought me a copy and, during my years in Glasgow as a student, I followed in his footsteps in trying to emulate the indomitable Mr Muller. The cold bath is the worst part. Survival time in the water can be measured in minutes, during which time breathing accelerates alarmingly, while genitalia disappear completely from view. Upon leaping out of the bath, a testing regime of physical jerks is followed by the ‘rubbing exercises’; with the help of an abrasive glove, the body is vigorously massaged until it is glowing like a beacon. Loud shouting helps towards the overall feeling of well-being. I did not stick this routine for very long but the young Alf Wight followed it rigorously for years and was taking cold baths right up until the time he was living in Yorkshire.
Alf also subscribed to Supermanmagazine and bought a succession of chest expanders. Not only was he going to be as fit as J. P. Muller, he intended to be twice the size. His best mate Alex Taylor, too, was determined to build a mighty body and the two boys exercised furiously to attain their goal. They measured their bodies regularly but, after several weeks of intense activity, they were no nearer to being supermen than the day they started, and the craze ground to a halt. All that was left as a reminder was a rusty old set of springs that I discovered in my grandmother’s home many years later.
Alf considered enthusiasm to be one of the most important of human qualities – one that is both invigorating and uplifting. Throughout his life he was an enthusiast, and he displayed these qualities as a boy at school, as is revealed by many entries in his diaries. Some of the many pastimes which he enjoyed were quite unusual – and whilst a number were short-lived, his eagerness to improve himself shines out from the pages. On 20 February 1933 he wrote: ‘I’ve the notion to make myself a good jazz pianist … I think I’ll send to Uncle Bob and ask him for a loan of his book on jazz playing.’ On 7 March: ‘I have started to do a bit of juggling. It’s supposed to give you quickness of the eye and the house has resounded to the sound of falling balls.’ His ambitions seem to have been limitless: ‘Another of my notions. I’m going to read the Bible from beginning to end. Apart from the religious point of view it is a marvellous read!’
He bought books on swimming (he was not good in the water), took up golf, and started woodwork to help fill in the time during the long winter evenings. On a rare visit to a dance, he discovered that he was absolutely hopeless, so he proceeded to have lessons.
Throughout his childhood and school days, the Wight family would frequently return to Sunderland on holiday. Here they would stay with their relatives, all of whom shared the qualities of warmth, humour and generosity.
Warm, however, was not a word to describe the town where they lived. Sunderland has been portrayed as the unhealthiest place to live in the British Isles – a town (although, in fact, Sunderland has recently been accorded the status of a city) of drab, grey buildings and acres of wasteland where, in the winter, freezing easterly winds scream in from the North Sea, while the slightly warmer westerlies carry lung-demolishing pollution from the great industrial areas nearby. In later years, many of Alf’s relatives, including Uncles Matt and Bob, and their sister Ella, left the town to live further south, with few of them having regrets about leaving the harsh climate.
It is true that first impressions of Sunderland can be less than appealing, but there are parts of the city that are full of character, especially near the sea front. The Roker and Seaburn areas of Sunderland, and the old fishing village of Whitburn further along the coast, are very attractive places, with their tidy houses and the waves of the North Sea breaking on the beach.
Alf spent many happy days of his childhood in this invigorating playground. During his teenage years, often accompanied by his cousin George Bell – son of Uncle Stan – he would spend hours playing football and tennis in the local parks, walking along the fine beach, and watching cricket at the Ashbrooke Cricket Ground where the local team competed in the Durham Senior League.
One of Alf’s fondest memories of Sunderland was the food. The town abounded with ‘pork shops’ where succulent sandwiches of hot roast pork, often accompanied by that north-east delicacy ‘pease pudding’ (a tasty concoction made by boiling peas in ham water) could be bought for only a few pence. If he had an extra penny to spare, the sandwich would be dipped in rich, brown gravy to give this culinary masterpiece that final dash of magic. He used to say that the smell issuing from those pork shops would suck him through their doors like a giant magnet.