There was really nothing to match the particular quirkiness of dinner time in an Irish household in the 80s. It was a time when spaghetti bolognese was the very pinnacle of cuisine-based daring and you were urged to eat every single thing on your plate lest the poor children in Africa psychically know food was going to waste via some Catholic church-based mind link (probably), and weep even more tears of suffering.
And then, of course, there were the ads on the radio for liver fluke. The wireless was constantly tuned to RTÉ Radio 1 at ear-bleed levels in McDermott HQ. This meant every main meal was a welter of fluke-based terror, and appetite would die instantly as a solemn, disembodied voice would lecture in the ad break – mid extended weather forecast – as to the dangers of rhynchosporium, bovine fasciolosis, septic mange mites and other horrible things involving the bowels, arses and intestines of sheep and cows.
Jesus, what to do to fix this dire prognosis! Apparently something along the lines of a dose of Triple A Golden Maverick, ably advertised on TV to a soundtrack of the theme tune to spaghetti western Il Pistolero Dell Ave Maria and starring Harry from Fair City, and all would be well again. Ok, so it’s actually a milk-replacement product for calves but hey – I had to get it in here somehow.
And why dinner time? Easy: the farmers were all in post-milking to listen to the weather news, and ever tuned to the art of market segmentation, the fine bucks at Peter Owens and their ilk block-booked all the ad space for dinner time to catch them at their tay. Well I mean, how better to get into their brains as they supped than by planting the idea of the exact right brand for their particular sporocyst, eh?
It was August 1977. Elvis was still alive. We were on our annual family holiday and like the previous summer, Duncannon was the location.
Back then a Chilly Willy or L’il Devil was the usual cooling-down tipple for my sister and me; either could be had for a mere 4p. My parents tended to avoid the ice lollies and instead were happy with a Choc Ice or a Brunch.
One day I decided that I wanted proper grown-up ice cream. There was only one problem – the newsagents at the bottom of Duncannon’s main street was sold out of Choc Ices. Instead I was offered this:
The first few bites tasted funny and eating the chocolate exterior was a little tricky as the pieces kept sliding off and on to my t-shirt. But dogged persistence paid off and I got to the end – licking the stick with a sense of accomplishment.
In those formative years holidays abroad were very much the exception and only affordable for a handful of people in the town. Like many others our annual getaway brought us to such far-flung places as Inchydoney, Courtown Harbour, Bundoran and Slea Head. One or two weeks of mostly sunshine, daily strolls from our chalet or guesthouse to the adjoining beach and plenty from the ice cream freezer. Back then HB were the main attraction with the likes of Dale Farm a trivial sideshow. Every summer brought a new marketing campaign, a fresh poster with a mixture of old reliables and some fresh débutantes to keep the customers happy.
1979 saw four new offerings. The anodyne Mini Milk, the clumsy-sounding Frogurt, the delightful Nogger and the marvellously exotic Cornetto. At 20p this was an infrequent indulgence. We hit West Cork that year and the sensible / affordable choice was the plain yet tasty Golly Bar. I was also discovering Enid Blyton around the same time so the wrapper struck a chord with me.
We went back to the same place in 1980. Rain drove us into Clonakility one afternoon and into a newsagents to pick up a new Kalkitos. I had caught the action transfer buzz some months earlier and was eager to add to my collection. But what was this? A new and unusual looking ice cream stared back at me. It was the Hiawatha – a hybrid of lemon, vanilla and chocolate in the style of an Indian headdress. A genius move by HB and from a taste perspective, a most delicious concoction.
We stayed in our own county for 1981 and made the 40 mile trip to Courtown on 15 August. This was to be our destination for three years – a busy spot with a decent beach and an exciting amusement venue.
By now HB added a third variety of Cornetto to the range – the mint option – along with two other popular strawberry-fuelled treats.
Funny Feet: the original Freaky Foot.
That-A-Way was a rich ice lolly that once unwrapped could be utilised as a rude gesture. Until it started to melt about 30 seconds later.
I turned 10 in 1982 so my parents increased my weekly pocket money. Just as well – Jumbo had arrived.
Jumbo was a wallet-buster. It was the most expensive item in the range and retailed at a staggering 50p. But it was amazing – completely encased in chocolate with a sweet oatmeal biscuit underneath that stored a thick slab of vanilla ice cream. It wasn’t the hottest of summers so I was able to exist by forking out for one every two or three days and foregoing other confectionery pleasures.
1983 was a different story – July and August were relentless with sunshine which meant that we were constantly parched. From a financial perspective it was easiest to revert to icepops. Enter Dracula and its “mixed fruit” creation that made for a refreshing shot of citric acid and flavouring.
1984 was another scorcher. Two Tribes went to number one in June. We spend most of July visiting the circuit of beaches in Wexford – Duncannon, Booley Bay, Dollar Bay and Carnivan. Top Of The Pops every Thursday night to see Holly Johnson and co. Two heavy-hitters got added to the range – Fat Frog and Feast – the ultimate chocolate ice cream indulgence. Fat Frogs were marketed with a groovy rock’n'roll advert.
Two Tribes stayed at number one until August. I bought a different version for each of the nine weeks. It was dethroned by George Michael’s Careless Whisper in the UK with Neil’s Hole In My Shoe doing the honours over here. Poor old Nigel only lasted a week at pole position before Two Tribes went back on top.
Three years later and we arrived in Lahinch. Tangle Twisters were the new kids on the block, Golly Bars were still hanging in there while Jumbos had been axed due to poor sales. Inflation had driven the top price to 65p. Spotting a gap in the market, HB decided to launch a luxury cornetto. There were two additional choices – Tutti Frutti and Choco Rico – while the mint version was quietly dropped.
Tutti Frutti was the clear winner – rich, creamy and bursting with er, fruit. The drawback – the aforementioned 65p. But by then I had a proper summer job in a supermarket and could afford one every day if I wanted. However my tastes were changing and the music bug had well and truly gripped me. Ice cream had been supplanted in my affections by vinyl.
Postscript: the answer is “Yes it does.”
The posters and wrappers are taken from Luke Keating’s HB Ice Cream Memories Facebook page.
I urge everybody to “like”. Sincere thanks is extended to Luke for granting permission to use this wonderful collection of memorabilia.
[Today's guest post is by Lisa Carey. Lisa explains things for a living, mostly to humans. When not writing about stuff, she plays clarinet and keyboards with zombie noiseniks The Jimmy Cake and tweets nonsense at @msleedy].
Ah, to be in primary school in early 80’s Ireland, where some sort of pre-internet mind meld meant that every so often, suddenly everyone was “into” the latest vaguely pointless craze. Fancy paper. Tying patterned shoelaces round your head in the manner of a proto-Axl Rose. “Illuminous” socks. Deely boppers. “Doing Buck’s Fizz”. Watching That’s Life after you’d done your homework on Sunday in the hope that there’d be a talking dog and not just an exposé of Guar Gum. And, of course, Coca-Cola Spinners.
A Spinner was, basically, a yo-yo, blinged out with Fanta or Coca-Cola colours and logos. Like this:
Of course, I know now that they were called Spinners rather than yo-yos for legal reasons – yo-yo was a trademarked term here in 1981, so they were marketed as Russell Spinners instead. But at the time it made them seem like an exotic new toy, not a boring old yo-yo.
Not only did they have a shiny name and shiny covetable colours just like their namesake minerals, they also had a further secret weapon of coolness: the professional Spinner experts. One afternoon in school we were all marshalled outside the prefabs to watch a group of hyped-up cola representatives demonstrate Amazing Feats Of Spinning. Beverage-themed plastic yo-yos “walked the dog”, hovered in mid-air, defied gravity, formed cat’s cradle patterns, always whipping back into the operative’s hand with a satisfying “thunk”. There was talk of competitions, giveaways, special prize Spinners. The Spinner experts were on the Late Late. Suddenly being able to do yo-yo tricks had instant cachet.
Soon like every other child that summer, I got my Spinner, purchased in the local newsagents. I went for the red Professional one, not because I particularly cared about weight and handling (apparently the clear-edged Professionals were slightly heavier than the opaque-edged Supers) but because I liked the colour. I was that serious about my yo-yoing career.
I can still remember the plasticky smell of the thing, the glowing boiled-sweet beauty of the translucent red bits (bear with me, it was the 80s), and the brisk whizz as it whirled its way down the string. And, well, stayed there. But no matter! I was going to be like the Coca-Cola Spinners team. I would do tricks! I would amaze my friends!
One major problem with this plan was that I was possibly the least coordinated child in Ireland. I was the kid at tennis in school who wasn’t given a ball. No, I just had to stand beside the gym and practice “making shapes like a banana” with my tennis racquet. My haplessness in all feats of physical dexterity was such that I have no idea why I became convinced that I could become a yo-yo expert.
First, of course, I would work on “back up”. Whizz. Nothing. Roll it back up. Whizz. Nothing. Roll it back up. This went on for some time. I became convinced that there was something wrong with my Spinner and handed it to a more dextrous friend, who promptly whirled it into something resembling an Escher painting, still spinning, then snapped it back up into her hand. Back to the drawing board.
Of course, with persistence, even the most cack-handed child can figure out how to operate a yo-yo, and for some reason I persevered with the Spinner for longer than I had with, say, the tennis racquet. Finally I mastered the flick of the wrist needed to propel the thing down the string with such force that it shot back up again, and was able to move on to other vital life skills such as clicking my fingers (eventually mastered in a Gaeltacht céilí aged 14) and drinking. And I’m proud to say, it’s like riding a bike – to this day, I can make a yo-yo go back up the string. Still need to work on “walking the dog”….
(Before writing this I hadn’t realized there were multiple Coca-Cola Spinner campaigns – there was a second, much-documented campaign in 1989, when I was in college and only interested in Fanta if it had gin in it. As far as I can remember, “my” Spinner mania took place in 1981.)
The 1980s were not the most exciting for Arsenal fans. A 1-0 defeat in the FA Cup final to 2nd division West Ham was a glimpse of the relentless mediocrity to come. The football was terrible, Liam Brady buggered off to Italy, and crowds at Highbury dwindled.
With the benefit of hindsight, it’s now clear that Arsenal’s big problem in 80s was a grubbiness not conducive to winning trophies. It wasn’t poor management and a poor playing squad, it was soiled kit. The low temperature wash stopped the red winning into the white, but the whites weren’t really white.
Can you be expected to top Division 1 with grass stains on your sleeves? Isn’t it too much to ask players to play to their full potential when they’re pulling on half-clean jerseys? Winning cups with muddy bits on your arms from those no-man’s land pitches back then was simply an impossibility.
Then along came Ariel Automatic and with that an up-turn in Arsenal’s fortunes. The ad aired in 1987, the very same year that Charlie Nicholas scored twice at Wembley to win the Littlewoods Cup against Liverpool. Coincidence? I think not.
Within 2 years, with sleeves whiter than Erik Estrada’s teeth, Arsenal won the league for the first time in 18 years when Michael Thomas scored that late goal at Anfield.
Many point to the impact of George Graham, the arch-disciplinarian who moulded together a team far greater than the sum of its parts, but we all know who the real mastermind was.
God bless you, Ethel Donnelly, Arsenal’s unsung hero.
Reader Susan Cullen sends us this slightly moth-eaten, but still surviving (goddammit), nipper.
Carrot devoured years ago, alas. Speaking of which, those mangy Velcro-covered paws are giving me the shivers and the fear. Now have visions of my own (abandoned) nipper dragging himself across the floor, into the bed, and then, um, causing me minor skin irritation with some frantic paw-rubbing.
Ireland, in 1985, was, of course, a giddy and utopian place. Where endless streams of laughter flowed through a sun-dappled wonderland of enchantment. The movings at Ballinspittle? Oooh! The foundings of the Progressive Democrats? Yay! But Marian apparitions and super-sexy Desmond O’Malley were not the only things setting young hearts racing.
Forget Mandela. Forget “The Birmingham Six”. Half a decade earlier, beings of a very different order were crying out for justice and liberation. Small and boggle-eyed beings. Fluffy and cheap-looking beings. Nippers.
Cruelly enslaved by their cigar-chomping, fat cat, petroleum-bastard masters their plaintive squeaks for release captivated a nation. Here’s their first appearance:
There was something so frazzled and anxious and sad about the nippers (not to mention Brendan Grace). They were simultaneously desirable collectible objects, and tragic entities who needed us to lead them out of bondage. And we did. In our thousands. Here’s Tom Noonan, Chief Executive of The Maxol Group (Boo!):
The promotional campaign was launched in late 1985 and was timed to take advantage of the build up to Christmas in that year. The advertisements were an instant success. The campaign unashamedly targeted the children of motorists, who subsequently begged, bothered and cajoled their parents into collecting the nipper stamps at Maxol stations. Approximately 400,000 nippers were freed by the end of the campaign and a star was born.
Nippers, like many living things denied their dignity and freedom, took refuge in stimulants. In their case, 7-UP.
Note the loose use of the term “treasure” there. Rugs, cutlery, photo albums. Even for mid-80s Ireland this was a bit on the shit-biscuits side. Having said that, there are some gems that I would happily beat a nipper to death for.
Digital nipper watches.
Analogue nipper t-shirts.
While Brendan Grace is still a findable object (if you’re so inclined), these wonders have long since disappeared into a promotional ephemera black hole. Just to clarify, Brendan Grace can still be viewed, touched (probably) and held (ooer), but nipper watches and t-shirts now exist only as glorious memories…and pixellated JPEGs. Life sucks balls.
And what of the nippers themselves? As Maxol’s ad campaign developed, an extraterrestrial point of origin was hinted at.
Hang on. So…they were coming to Earth, in hijacked NASA Space Shuttles, and willingly allowing Maxol (and their stooge, Bottler) to hold them captive? Then carrying placards begging us to release them from this “torment”? I liberated a nipper. Most of my friends liberated nippers. We were passionate about the cause. On mature reflection, I think we were had (our best instincts cynically exploited). If I still had my nipper I’d punch it hard in its manipulative little leporine face.
We’re left with questions. Does anyone still have a nipper? Does anyone have one of those impossibly groovy nipper T-shirts (or, even, a comfy Maxol rug)? Did anyone ever go to see the (genuinely not made up) “Bottler in Nipperland” panto? What ever became of almost half a million freed nippers? Where did they go?
