ECHO 6 - Incident at the Echo Station

[Moonwatcher]

This is the last of this six part series which I first posted on the SPDG. I hope you've enjoyed this wee insight into the ambulance work of the 70s.

Bob.
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ECHO 6 - Incident at the Echo Station

The 1970's East (Echo) Ambulance Station, tucked in behind Tompkin's Garage just off the A8 Edinburgh Road in Glasgow's Carntyne area, lacked the amenities enjoyed by similar ambulance stations of today. No pool tables, colour TVs, DVD or CD players for us in those days. Oh no! A locker, 'Baby Belling' oven/grill, kettle, phone and you were considered well off! And so we were I suppose, compared to the situation of the crew at Arrochar, who were based in a public toilet! I kid you not. Mind you, it was a very nice toilet.

But quiet shifts got very tedious without a television and TVs did not come cheap. The old one, donated by a member of staff long gone, had popped it's clogs months before, the table on which it stood now sitting empty in the corner of the mess room, with nothing but an out of date Radio Times to serve as a memorial to what had been.

'Oi think we need to get a television' says the Camlachie Commando as he finishes his book and tosses it onto a formica tabletop 'There's a good film on tonight about the Russian Convoys.' He proceeds to tell us (once again) of his alleged experiences during that time; of the rum, the cold, the forty foot waves, predatory U-boats... Yawn! We've heard it all before.

'Wae need tae get a telly' says Alan staring up at ceiling.

The five of us are on the backshift with hours to go. It's midweek and quiet. Glasgow seems to be behaving itself tonight. We lie slouched on chairs staring at the the empty corner as though a picture will suddenly appear, accompanied by the theme tune of a programme, any programme, even the Russian Convoys would be entertaining compared to this.

'We could hire wan.' says Tommy.
'Nah! Ye'd nevir get them aw tae cough up thir monthly share eh the payments.' Says Alan. 'An anywae, who wid take responsibility furr the contract – no me aht's furr sure'
We continue to stare at the imaginary convoys in the corner.
'Whit if wae boat wan?' he suggests.
'Whit! Hiv ye any idea how much they cost? Ye'd nevir raise that kin ah money fae this lot!'
'Wae might if wae goat a cheap, reconditioned wan fae the Barras.'
'The Barras!' We all cry in unison.
'Aye! Ah saw a guy doon ther oan Setturday sellin tellys furr twinty quid. Looked okay tae me – picture an evryhin!'
'Yer jokin!'
'Suit yersells – jist a suggestion.' Tommy busies himself making tea over at the sink, taking two fresh teabags out of the packet and ignoring those 'only used wance' ones hanging from clothes pegs on the length of string stretched above his head!
We stare silently at the corner.
'A picture you say?' the Commando says thoughtfully.
'Aye.'
'Wae sound?'
'Aye.'
'Wae knobs furr adjustin things?' I add to the growing interest.
'Aye. Two big knobs.'
'Twinty quid?' asks Alan.

The following morning sees a notice on the noticeboard inviting the couple of dozen or so East Station staff to dig deep into their pockets and contribute to the telly fund. It's reckoned that if everyone agrees to two quid each we can afford a half decent set from the 'Barra Man'. Over the next week we check the notice for names appearing on the list of contributors. The Commando's name's at the top, followed by Tommy, ours, Des, Sammy, and... that's it! Various excuses are put forward ranging from 'I'll never watch it.' and 'There's nuthin worth watchin.' to 'A telly fae the Barras! Ye must be kiddin! Ahm no wastin mah money oan aht!'

The trouble is we KNOW that if a telly appears EVERYONE will watch it. But we're left with a small group willing to finance the project and we agree to to ahead and negotiate with the 'Barra Man.' You note that, during all of this, the subject of a TV licence is never raised – and never will be!

So, one afternoon our 'new' telly appears in the mess room. The place is mobbed as everyone gathers round to witness the grand switching on. There's much banter and not a little resentment towards those who've refused to contribute as a plug is fitted.
'Dont think yooz lot urr gettin tae watch this, ya tight fistitt bunch a halfwits!'
'How whit urr yeez gonnae day, pit it in yir loacker every time ye go oot?' The place erupts in laughter. It's about this time someone notices there's no aerial.
'Did wan no come wae it?' the obvious question is asked.
'Nah! The Barra Man drives a hard bargain. We couldnae afford whit eh wiz askin furr the aerial so wae telt im tae stuff it!'
'Good negotiatin technique.' More laughter.
The telly itself has been around a bit. Probably seen service with Logie Baird himself. The highly polished, dark brown, cabinet displays numerous stains ranging from tea and coffee mug rings to burn marks from carelessly placed cigarette ends. One of the two big knob/dials on the front keeps falling off and rolling under the table as though trying to escape the inevitable forthcoming humilation. The remaining one, for changing channels, boasts numbers up to twenty odd – strange, since there are only four channels available in the UK, and we'll be lucky to receive any of them.

A twisted wire coat hanger is produced from somewhere, probably off the wing of somebody's beat-up MKIII Cortina car in the yard outside, and a length of cable is expertly twisted round one end and poked into a hole at that back of the telly that looks like where an aerial might go. The plug is inserted into the socket, the big ON button is depressed with a satisfying CLICK and, as people shield their faces and turn away... nothing. Laughter can be heard all the way down Carntyne Road as everyone disperses, grinning and shaking heads.

It's Des that comes up with an idea.
'Bertie, the porter in the Royal Casualty used to be a TV mechanic. He still fixes them at home. How about if we ask him to take a look?' We agree. So we find out when he's due to finish his shift and offer him a lift in the ambulance to his home in the Bartibeith Rd – via the Station of course.

Bertie looks in the back of our telly.

'Hmmm. She's an auld yin right enough. Hmmm. Hmmm. Auld valves. Hmmm. Should gie ye a picture, black n' white only though. Hmmm.' Like all tradesmen, he knows how to spin out the drama.
Finally, he emerges from the back, holding up what looks like a small elongated light bulb with prongs sticking out from it's base, and gives us his diagnosis.
'This valve's gaun.'
'Bit it wiz working when wae boat it!'
'Aye that's whit they dae. These auld valves urr lik hen's teeth, ye cannae get thim anymerr. So yer man must've swopped it whin yeez wirr diggin oot the money!'
'So that's it then. The telly's knacked.'
'No quite. A'hm sure a've goat wan eh these auld valves in the hoose, in a boax unner eh bed. Ye kin hiv it, but it's the last wan, wance it blaws that's it, nae merr.'

True to his word, Bertie provides us with the precious valve. Attempts to locate the 'Barra Man' that Saturday prove useless – he's long gone. With the valve in place, and the 'aerial' slotted in at just the right angle of dangle between the slats of the plastic blinds on the mess room window, judicious jiggling of the vertical and horizintal hold knobs at the back, and providing the weather conditions are favourable, and no one slams the door, and the telly's given enough time to heat up – we get a black and white picture – sort of! Okay, so it's a grainy picture that jumps a bit and has the occasional jaggy line running up through it, but some more twiddling of buttons 'fine tunes' and stabilises it for a while. We even have reasonable sound, if we sit up close and concentrate. Fanny Craddock chastising Johnnie's doughnuts soon have us roaring with laughter.

But there is still the question of security. How can we ensure that only those 'authorised' to watch are allowed to do so. The answer lies in the all important valve. Last crew out who have 'viewing rights', switch off the telly and remove the valve from the back. That soon puts the non-payer's 'gas oan a peep'. Right in the middle of the 'Great Escape', with all eyes on the McQueen fella as he's about to jump that motorcycle over the barbed wire fence... and the screen goes blank as the outgoing crew pluck the valve from the set! Cries of 'Ahw naw! Swine!' and ' Aw cummoan... ahm sure eez gonnae manage it this time!' fill the room as the crew leave triumphant.

And so the situation continues for some weeks. Until one fateful night.

It's the backshift and we're on our own, Alan, you, me, watching Lawerence of Arabia on his camel crossing the scorching hot desert in a... snowstorm!?
'This picture's terrible' says Alan, banging the side of the telly with his fist.

Two things happen.

One, the snowstorm disappears... along with the picture. Replaced by a a single bright white line across the screen and a high pitched whining sound. Another fist treatment does not alter this.

Two, the phone rings and we are informed of an emergency call out. We drop everything and rush out to the ambulance – inadvertently leaving the telly switched on and the valve still in place!

The emergency turns out to be fairly straightforward and, realising we've neglected our duties as 'guardians of the valve', we're keen for a quick turn around at the GRI and get back to base. But not before tracking down Bertie at the casualty reception and seeking advice on the problem with the picture. We get to the bit about the white line across the screen and he looks at us with that look of concern that starts alarm bells ringing.
'Yeez did remember tae turn the damn thing aff afore yeez left didn't yeez?' says he without a trace of humour in his voice.
'Eh... naw, we we're in a bit of a hurry!'
'Well, yiv goat big problems then! That white line means that the high tension's gaun. [I have to say here that that may not be the correct technical term he used, but his meaning was clear enough] ' If it's left wae the power oan it'll catch fire urr blaw up – probably baith!'

'ECHO 6 TO GLAS AM. OVER'
'GO AHEAD OVER.'
'AYE THAT'S US CLEAR AT THE ROYAL, BUT WE REQUEST WE RETURN TO THE STATION URGENTLY WE'VE... EH... WE'VE LEFT THE COOKER ON. OVER '
'ROGER. LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU'RE CLEAR. OUT.'

As we approach the station, at speed, we expect to be greeted by an orange glow in the sky and fire engines at the door. But things seem okay, the other backshift ambulance is parked outside. We discover that they arrived back at the station just after we left. They saw the telly was still switched on and tried the fist treatment. When this had no more success as our attempt, they gave up and switched it off! Disaster averted. We all breath a sigh of relief. The telly never worked after that.

The following week...

The Commando tosses his 'Guns and Ammo' magazine onto the tabletop.
'Did Oi ever tell you about the time in WW2 when we were up against ...'

'Wae need tae get another telly' says Alan staring up at ceiling.

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This account is based on actual events. Some details may have been modified, either for the sake of privacy or because memory has failed in the years since these events took place.

[CatrionaL]

A good read