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2004
MAUREEN SIMPSON - "Unsung
Heroes and Heroines”
No one in a hundred years
will remember me – or this
article. This programme may
end up being recycled, dare
I say, into toilet paper.
So no one will remember I
risked offending and/or
boring people as I beat my
drum for the low profile
dedicated enthusiast of
Bo’ness Fair.
Strangers never really
understand what the Fair’s
about, even when they’re
shown armfuls of
photographs. It’s
impossible to tell from
photos the amount of work
involved and the amount of
people that are willingly
recruited into service, all
in the name of keeping the
magic and tradition of the
Fair alive, not just for
now, but for future
generations. Every year
this grandiose affair
embraces the lives of eighty
or so children who are given
the experience of a
lifetime. I don’t think the
youngest fairy is any less
excited, less overwhelmed or
less fussed over than the
Queen on the Fair Day – well
maybe just a tad.
To me, Bo’ness Fair is kind
of like a miniature
Hollywood production, with
as many credits at the end
of the day as, yeah, I’m not
scared to say it, Lord of
the Rings.
Working together, I suppose
the Fair Committee and
school Staff members are the
directors who launch the
production. The Retinue and
presentees ate the stars
that grace the stages and
streets with their
performances and out there
behind the scenes are
parents, family, friends,
neighbours and colleagues
without whose help the
“show” would not hit town.
Every year, just when you
think last year’s theme
cannot be beaten, it surely
is. Another spectacle of
sensational originality
combines with colours,
costumes, music and dance to
enthral the thousands of
folk who come along to enjoy
the thrill of the Fair.
From conception to execution
everyone knows and remembers
the theme, but mystery
surrounds the creator. It
never seems to big a deal
who inspired the idea, but
someone surely deserves
credit.
Once that wee Fair Queen
runs home with the news “I’m
the Queen”, (mind you
probably text home now) I
dare say many a household
can kiss normality goodbye
for the duration of the Fair
Season.
Here I feel my first salute
must go to the tea ladies
who from start to finish,
that’s from February ‘til
June, don their apron’s,
roll up their sleeves and
are there all hours on hand
in the kitchen brewing brews
and churning out mountains
of sannies for the endless,
essential decision making
meetings that are conducted
in lounges and garages the
length and breadth of
Bo’ness.
Once decisions are made arch
builders step forward to
volunteer their talents and
labour armed with tools of
their trade and, in the same
time capsule as the tea
ladies, constructions worthy
of any building firm’s stamp
of excellence take shape and
finally transform whole
areas into representations
of faraway exotic places.
Who are these builders?
They emerge from the
woodwork, it seems, complete
the mission almost
impossible, and, after a
couple of wee drams, quietly
melt into the backgrounds
they have created. Year
after year all this hidden
talent augments the legend
of the Fair.
A drum roll for the men folk
and I’m sure the many women
who dabble their paint
brushes in the works.
Meanwhile, behind closed
doors another band of
stalwarts disappear to whiz
and whir the spring months
away with scissors and
sewing machines. Rooms or
maybe whole houses turn into
sweat shops (I mean that in
the nicest possible way)
where dressmakers, as if by
magic turn bolts of satin,
lace, net and taffeta into
dresses to die for. Not
only dresses that the girls
can’t wait to display on
their walk of frame to the
Glebe Park and after, but
the boys too who I’m sure
are equally proud to don
their dashing costumes as
they handle their duties on
this most auspicious
occasion. It’s no magic
wand that turns our children
into costumed characters who
could tread the boards in
any silver screen
production. It’s all pure
genius and hard work.
Well done to all the
designer costumes
departments.
As the Retinue are put
through their paces and
never fail to perform their
duties with solemnity, grace
and perfection, winning our
awestruck admiration, so
too, do the presentees by
adding, in complete
contrast, their razzamatazz
performances that so delight
the crowds. Those polished
dance routines are produced
by choreographers (well you
are really) who work
tirelessly to that end. In
the end it’s the boogie
woogiers, the guys and
dolls, the swingers, all
those dancers who take the
bow on stage to uproarious
applause. It’s then the
choreographer knows every
minute of every rehearsal
has been worth it. The
applause says so. They can
stand back now and take it
easy.
Let me take my hat off to
the ladies who year after
year make my feet tap and my
heart burst with pride at
Bo’ness challenge to the
Hollywood musical.
June sees the place of life
accelerate as back greens
fill with billowing curtains
and fringy lampshades.
Every stoor harbourer in
sight is clean, carpets are
shampooed and windows have
that extra special sparkle –
not a single dust mite
survives that Fair clean
up. While hoovers are at
work inside, the lawnmowers
are equally active outside.
In gardens weeds are out and
bonnie plants are in. Flags
begin to fly. It seems like
a declaration if being made,
Bo’ness Fair is imminent and
nearly everyone wants to add
their personal touch to the
festival. By Fair Day,
there is no evidence that
any major changes took place
during June. Maybe these
would have happened anyway,
because it’s summer, but I
suspect it’s Fair Fever.
A torch should be lit for
these people who keep the
spirit of the Fair ongoing.
Although mentioned in the
despatches (yeah you’re in
the programme!) – I’m on
about the bands now. I
wonder if each individual
band member realises their
hard work is essential to
the success of the day.
You’re here, there,
everywhere, with wake-up
calls. You lead the schools
throughout the day. Do you
realise how many a weary
footsore walker’s step
lightens as you blow your
horns, bang those drums and
blow those pipes.
A toast to one and all for
your never-ending rendering
of tunes, to the greater
glory of the Fair.
As cameras click in front of
the Queen’s School on Fair
morning, recording for
posterity that moment in
time when the Queen and her
retinue are poised ready to
leave for the crowning
ceremony before the backdrop
of some far flung clime,
forgotten are the dedicated
school supporters who leant
their hearts, minds, souls,
spirits, as well as all that
time, to changing that house
of learning into that
setting fit for a Queen.
Ever open were the doors of
the school for them to
quietly but surely release
their talents thus up
holding a relatively new
tradition that crept into
the Fair ritual, that of
decorating the school. Who
are these people? I’d like
to say here, 99% true
dedication or maybe it kept
you out of the wife’s hair –
oops!
Let the flag be flown from
the highest flagpole in
salutation to your seeming
powers of magic.
I read in the Journal dated
July 2003 and witnessed for
myself that only three
floats graced the Fair
procession last year. That
band of die-hards ignored
the expense, gave up their
time, conquered health and
safety directives and
somehow managed to wangle
time off to spend their day
negotiating the bends and
twists of, The Wynd,
labouring up Harbour Road
with floats that could
easily take their place in
any Hollywood or Disney
boulevard parade with
pride. I’m betting, whoever
you are, and you’re back on
track wielding mechanical
contraption moulding models,
whatever it takes, in an
energetic drive to once
again transfix the crowds
with your cleverly
camouflaged juggernauts of
the road.
Well horns toot for that
bunch of indomitable died in
the wool enthusiasts.
How do I pay tribute to the
next group? They have been
here since the 19th
century, are still here in
the 21st and just
like the main characters,
they have their part to
play. They too are put
through their paces learning
the Fair songs, being versed
on the timing of events,
given hints on survival
equipment, raincoats for
that inclement weather – and
sensible shoes for that
two-mile parade. Yet their
excitement is no less
infectious, intense or
invisible in class and
playground as the Fair
approaches. Although their
names are not floodlit or
emblazoned in plaques come
Fair Day our precious young
scholars disclose their
special signal of approval
of the day. It’s generated
in the gear (is that the
cool word for clothes –
these days?) They flaunt.
For months, top of the
gossip list has been “Fair
Claes”. (Boys too I’ll bet
but that’s probably after
last nights football
results.) Then the day
dawns and our normally
uniformed youngsters cast
off those work clothes and
look splendiferous in their
individuality. A veritable
feast of fashion flits
before our eyes. Catwalk
babes need to look to their
laurels. Not only do they
look good, they sound good
too as they wend their way
cheerily belting out the
name of the school to which
they owe their allegiance.
I think a Bo’ness roar is in
order here for each and
every one of them.
Although smaller in number,
members of the various youth
organisations join the day’s
proceedings too. Their
presence is heart warming.
Their smart appearance and
their orderly marching
demonstrate their loyalty.
Let’s rest for a moment,
stand tall and give them a
cheer.
The very small groups of
people in the procession who
seemed independents, as it
were, catch my attention.
They have a theme, are
dressed accordingly and
certainly jolly the crowd
along with their brand of
fun and gaiety. Who are
you? More please, and how do
I join your happy band.
I bow to your bravado.
“Eat up noo? Dae ye want
another drink? Dinnae be
feart tae help yersel!’
There’s plenty mair” that’s
the plea of hundreds of
Bo’ness women on Fair Day,
the hostess with the mostest.
They’ve all shopped ‘til
they dropped, stock piling
enough food to feed the
world. Its open house
always has been. It’s part
of the Fair. No one goes
hungry or thirsty on this
day, and probably not for
the whole week after.
Lets all burp to that.
Parents fret not – you’re
here, honourably mentioned,
because most importantly of
all without you, no
children, no Fair. I know I
can say that, without
exception, you’re the
greatest. From tots to
teens, main characters to
spectators, year after year,
you work, you worry, you
agonise, maybe even break
the bank, but who cares,
come the Fair Day it’s worth
it! There they are, your
pride and joy, turned out
resplendently by you,
carrying on the heritage
that coloured our childhood.
Feeling sick? Sorry if I
sounded patronising, boring
in my accolades, twee in my
sentiments. However, I do
not apologise. It is how I
feel.
Bo’ness Fair comes by as
regular as Santa and out
there a body of souls
dedicate a big part of their
existence to its success.
They never fail the event
and thousands have trodden
the path before them.
Something tells me not one
of them will ever forget
their part, however small,
medium or large in Bo’ness
Fair Day.
Three cheers everybody. Hip
Hip…
MAUREEN SIMPSON
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