The Future on Your Desk: Remembering the ACT Apricot

For those of us who grew up navigating the analog joys of the 1960s and 70s—building Meccano cranes by the gas fire or tracking football scores on a cardboard ladder—the early 1980s felt like stepping into a science fiction novel. While the rest of the world was looking at beige IBM boxes, British innovation gave us something far more elegant: the ACT Apricot PC.

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A British Masterpiece of Design

The Apricot wasn't just a computer; it was a statement. In an era of chunky plastics, ACT (Applied Computer Techniques) produced a machine that felt sophisticated, portable (by 1983 standards), and distinctly European.

• The Micro-Screen: One of its most futuristic features was the built-in liquid crystal display (LCD) on the keyboard itself. It acted as a secondary screen for shortcuts and clock functions—a "Magic Wand" for the digital age that made Wooly Willy look like ancient history.
• The Sony Drive: It was one of the first major PCs to adopt the 3.5-inch micro-floppy disk. These sturdy little squares were a revelation compared to the flimsy 5.25-inch disks, fitting perfectly into a shirt pocket next to a box of Swan Vestas.
• The Aesthetics: With its sleek lines and integrated handle, the Apricot looked as dapper as Basil Brush in his tweed suit.

From Slide Rules to Software

Switching from a Philips portable radio and a Give-A-Show Projector to a personal computer was a monumental shift in how we spent our Saturdays. Instead of meticulously painting an Airfix Hovercraft, we were suddenly learning the strange syntax of MS-DOS or CP/M.

The Apricot became the brain of the home office or the local business in Old Poole. You might find one tucked away in a corner of a shop on The Broadway in Broadstone, managing accounts that used to be scribbled on the back of arithmetic tables.

A New Kind of Tea Time

Even as the technology advanced, our rituals remained. A long session of word processing or early gaming was still fueled by a plate of yummy wafer biscuits and a cup of tea. The "Parfum de Caractère" of Brut was still the scent of a night out at The Portsmouth Hoy or the King Charles, but the conversation had shifted to the wonders of "random access memory".

The Apricot felt like a "Gold Medallist" in its field, much like the legendary bread from J. Bright & Son. It represented a moment of British ambition, a bridge between the analog world of The Clangers and the high-speed digital future of 2026.

A Fruitful Memory

Looking at the ACT Apricot today, we see a machine that dared to be different. It reminds us of a time when the world was expanding—from the local tracks of the Poole Park Model Railway to the vast, invisible networks of the first home computers.

The Apricot might be a collector’s item now, but for those of us who heard its first whirring fans and saw the green glow of its monitor, it will always be the machine that brought the future home.

The "Smoker’s Match": The Iconic Glow of the Swan Vesta

In the 1960s and 70s, before the world became a sea of disposable plastic lighters, every kitchen drawer, mantlepiece, and coat pocket in Britain held a small, sturdy box of certainty. With its distinctive yellow background and the elegant silhouette of a swimming swan, the Swan Vesta was more than just a tool—it was a household staple as ubiquitous as a tin of Huntley & Palmers biscuits.

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A Design That Stood the Test of Time

The Swan Vesta box is a masterclass in classic British branding. Marketed for decades as "The Smoker's Match," it promised a strike-anywhere reliability that was essential in a world of damp coastal weather.

• The Strike: There was a specific, satisfying "scritch" sound as the match head caught against the side of the box, followed by the flare of a bright, steady flame.
• The Scent: That initial puff of sulfurous smoke is a "Parfum de Caractère" that takes many of us straight back to our childhoods, just as surely as the smell of Brut aftershave or fresh bread from J. Bright & Son.
• The Portability: It was small enough to be tucked away, yet bright enough to be found in the dark, much like our trusty Philips portable radios.

The Hearth of the Home

In our houses on Priors Rd or near the Poole Quay, the Swan Vesta played a vital role in our daily comfort. It was the key that unlocked the warmth of the gas fire on a chilly Saturday afternoon.

We’d strike a match to light the fire, settle onto the rug, and prepare for a long evening of entertainment. Whether it was watching Leslie Crowther on Crackerjack!, laughing at Basil Brush, or waiting for Fred Dinenage to read the football results, the flickering orange glow of the gas fire was the heart of the living room.

A Tool for Every Hobby

The utility of the Swan Vesta didn't end at the fireplace. Empty matchboxes were a prized resource for young engineers and artists:

• Storage: They were the perfect size for holding the tiny nuts and bolts of a Meccano set.
• Dioramas: Many a matchbox was transformed into a tiny scene for a school project, perhaps depicting Corfe Castle or a train on the Poole Park Model Railway.
• Creative Play: They could become beds for tiny dolls or trailers for Matchbox cars while we snacked on yummy wafers or a handful of licorice Allsorts.

Lighting Up the Memories

Looking at that little yellow box today in 2026 reminds us of a time when things were built to work simply and reliably. The Swan Vesta belongs to an era of shared experiences—of licking a 1966 Christmas stamp, using a Give-A-Show Projector, and following the adventures of The Clangers.

The Swan Vesta was a small flame in a big world, a tiny beacon of domesticity that reminds us of the warmth of home and the steady rhythm of a Dorset childhood.

The Saturday Afternoon Sentinel: Fred Dinenage and the ITV Results

For those of us who lived for the Saturday afternoon sports ritual, there was one face that signaled the climax of the day. While Des Lynam was a titan of the era, the man synonymous with the high-speed drama of the ITV Results service was often the unflappable Fred Dinenage.

Long before we could check scores with a swipe on a smartphone in 2026, we relied on the flickering teleprinter and the calm, authoritative voice of the man in the studio to tell us if our weekend was a triumph or a tragedy.

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The Nerve Center of the Weekend

The ITV Results studio was a place of frantic precision. Behind the scenes, the "World of Sport" team worked tirelessly to gather scores from every corner of the Football League.

• The Teleprinter: The rhythmic "chatter-chatter-chatter" of the teleprinter was the heartbeat of the afternoon. Seeing the names of teams like Poole Town or Bournemouth crawl across the screen was a nail-biting experience.
• The Presenter: Fred Dinenage brought a level of "Magnetic Personality" to the numbers that made even a 0-0 draw feel like an epic saga.
• The Ritual: Everything stopped when the results came on. It was as sacred a moment as Friday’s shout of "Crackerjack!" with Leslie Crowther.

A Household in Suspense

In homes across the country, the scene was the same. We’d be gathered in the living room, the gas fire providing a cozy backdrop to the tension.

While the adults focused on the screen, we kids might be busy with our own Saturday projects—perhaps tightening a bolt on a Meccano crane or putting the finishing touches on an Airfix Hovercraft. But the moment the Football League Tables cardboard ladders came out, all eyes were on the results. As Fred read out the scores, we’d meticulously slide the team tabs up and down, a tactile way of tracking the season's progress.

Snacks, Soundtracks, and Scores

The results were usually accompanied by the best Saturday treats. A shared bag of licorice Allsorts or a plate of yummy pink wafers was the perfect fuel for the emotional rollercoaster of a late-minute equalizer.

On the sideboard, the Philips portable radio might be tuned to the local station for post-match analysis, while the air was still thick with the smell of the "Gold Medallist" bread Nanny had brought from J. Bright & Son. It was a world of "Parfum de Caractère," where the scent of Brut and fresh-baked rolls mingled with the excitement of the game.

The End of an Era

Fred Dinenage and the ITV Results service represented a time of shared national focus. It was a world of Basil Brush puns, The Clangers' whistles, and the simple beauty of a Red Robin on a winter bird table.

Whether we were mourning a loss or celebrating a win at

The Portsmouth Hoy or the King Charles

later that evening, we knew the results were definitive because Fred had told us so. Those afternoons remain some of our most cherished memories, a testament to the power of a voice and a teleprinter to bring a neighborhood together.

It’s Friday, It’s Five to Five... It’s Crackerjack!

If those words don't immediately trigger a Pavlovian response to shout "CRACKERJACK!" at the top of your lungs, then you probably didn't grow up in a British household during the 1960s or 70s. For those of us who did, Friday tea time was a sacred ritual, and the host of the hour was the one and only Leslie Crowther.

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The High-Energy Heart of Friday Night

Broadcast live with a raucous audience of school kids, Crackerjack was the ultimate variety show. It was a whirlwind of comedy sketches, musical guests, and the kind of chaotic games that made your average Saturday morning at the Poole Park Model Railway look positively sedate.

• The Host: Leslie Crowther, with his infectious energy and "Magnetic Personality," was the perfect ringmaster for the circus.
• The Sketches: Who could forget the "Don and Pete" years, or the anticipation of a celebrity guest popping in to endure a bit of lighthearted ribbing?
• The Catchphrase: It was the only show where the audience was an instrument, shouting the title every single time it was mentioned. It was a sound as unmistakable as a Basil Brush "Boom! Boom!" or the whistle of the Swanage Railway.

Double or Drop: The Ultimate Test

The centerpiece of the show was undoubtedly Double or Drop. Kids would stand on stage, competing to hold an ever-increasing pile of prizes—and the dreaded cabbages.

It was a test of physical endurance and mental focus. One wrong move and a prize (or a vegetable) would tumble, ending the run. Winning meant walking away with the most coveted item in British television history: the Crackerjack Pencil. It wasn't a Meccano set or a Give-A-Show Projector, but in the eyes of a 10-year-old, it was worth its weight in gold.

A Friday Tea Time Ritual

Watching Crackerjack was a full-sensory experience. You’d sit on the rug by the gas fire, perhaps working on an Airfix model during the commercial breaks (if there were any!).

The snacks were essential: a plate of yummy wafer biscuits, a few licorice Allsorts, and if you were lucky, a biscuit from the Huntley & Palmers Family Circle tin. The background noise of the house included the Philips portable radio being moved to the kitchen and the smell of fresh bread Nanny had brought home from J. Bright & Son.

A Lasting Legacy of Fun

Crackerjack represented a time when television was a shared, live event that brought the whole family together. It had the same whimsical, slightly homemade charm as The Clangers but with the high-octane energy of a Slade concert.

Even as we look back from 2026, the memory of Leslie Crowther holding up a cabbage still brings a smile. It reminds us of a time when the biggest stress of the week was whether a kid could hold five boxes and a head of brassica at the same time. Crackerjack!

My Poole: A Patchwork of Salt, Steam, and Saturday Sweets

Growing up in Poole, Dorset, in the 1960s and 70s wasn't just about living by the coast; it was about existing in a world that felt both industrious and infinitely magical. From the cobbled narrowness of Old Poole to the suburban buzz of The Broadway in Broadstone, the town was a playground of sensory landmarks that remain etched in my memory like the ink on an arithmetic table.

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The Heart of the Neighborhood: Hamworthy and Beyond

Every week had its rituals, and none was more sacred than the trip for Nanny in Hamworthy. We’d head to J. Bright & Son, the "Gold Medallists" of the baking world. Standing before that art deco storefront, the smell of fresh-baked bread and cakes was a "Parfum de Caractère" that no bottle of Brut could ever hope to match.

Returning home, we’d huddle by the gas fire, watching the orange radiants glow as we tucked into a tin of Huntley & Palmers Family Circle biscuits or a plate of yummy pink wafers. It was the perfect time to open a new Beano Book or catch the latest hits by The Sweet or Slade on the Philips portable radio.

Saturday Adventures: Parks and Projects

Saturday mornings meant the Poole Park Model Railway. Watching the S.M.R. locomotive 1001 chug along the track was a local rite of passage, fueling dreams of travel that often led us out toward the Purbecks to see the Swanage Railway steam past the ruins of Corfe Castle.

Back at the kitchen table, the creativity continued. We weren't just consumers; we were builders:

• The Engineers: Wrestling with the nuts and bolts of a Meccano 5 set to create a functioning crane.
• The Modelers: Carefully painting the plastic hull of an Airfix SR.N4 Hovercraft.
• The Artists: Moving iron filings with a "Magic Wand" on a Wooly Willy card or swapping slides in a Give-A-Show Projector.

Evenings on the Quay: The King Charles

As the sun set over the harbor, the focus shifted to the Quay. While many flocked to the front, the real treasure was tucked slightly away on Thames Street: The King Charles. This Tudor gem, with its ancient beams and tales of ghosts, felt like stepping back into the time of privateers. Whether we were enjoying a pint topped with the Guinness harp or just soaking in the history, it felt like the very anchor of the town.

A Timeless Reflection

Poole was a place of high-energy fun—like a raucous "Boom! Boom!" from Basil Brush—and quiet, delicate beauty, like a Red Robin on a winter branch or the suburban drama of Butterflies.

In my memory, it’s always a Saturday afternoon. There’s a bag of licorice Allsorts from the corner shop, a 1966 Christmas stamp on a letter to a friend, and the whimsical sounds of The Clangers playing on the telly. It was my Poole—and it was perfect.

Stepping Into History at the King Charles

If you turn off the main promenade of the Quay and wander down Thames Street, you’ll find yourself standing before one of the most historic and atmospheric corners of Old Poole. King Charles Poole Click to open side panel for more information isn’t just a pub; it’s a living piece of the town's Tudor and medieval heritage that has stood its ground for centuries.

A Building with Two Souls

The pub is fascinatingly divided into two distinct historical sections. The main bar area is a classic example of Tudor architecture, but the adjoining Kings' Banquet Hall is even older, constructed from original oak ship beams and once serving as a medieval wool house.

• Ancient Roots: While it became a public house named "The New Inn" around 1770, the building itself dates back to the 14th century.
• A Royal Connection: Despite the name, it’s actually named after King Charles X of France, who landed at Poole Quay while fleeing his country in 1830.
• Original Features: Inside, you’ll find low-slung roof beams, wooden wall paneling, and a stunning 15th-century stone fireplace that was hidden behind a Victorian one for years.

Spirits and Sea Shanties

King Charles Poole is legendary for its "extra" residents. It is widely considered one of the most haunted buildings in Poole, with tales of a tragic landlady named Emily who is said to still wander the upper rooms.

• Vibrant Entertainment: The medieval hall hosts live music every weekend, and the pub is a hub for local traditions like sea shanty nights and Irish music sessions.
• Traditional Fare: It remains a favorite for its home-cooked comfort food, particularly its fresh local seafood and popular Sunday carvery.
• Community Hub: Unlike some of the more tourist-heavy spots directly on the water, this "cosy tavern" maintains a strong local community feel where you can still find a game of bar billiards or darts.

The Back-Cover Classroom: Remembering the Arithmetic Tables

For those of us who grew up in the era of the Beano Book and the weekly trip to Bright & Son for Nanny’s bread, the back of a school exercise book or a daily planner wasn't just cardboard—it was a definitive guide to the universe. Printed in tidy rows of black ink were the Arithmetic Tables, a dense grid of numbers that we were expected to memorize until they became as second nature as the lyrics to a Slade anthem.

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A Grid of Certainty

Before the age of the digital calculator, these tables were our "Magic Wand," allowing us to navigate the world of commerce long before we were old enough to enjoy a pint at The Portsmouth Hoy.

• The Times Tables: From the simple "two times two" to the dreaded "twelve times twelve," these columns were the backbone of our education.
• Weights and Measures: Often found alongside the multiplication grids were the conversion tables—telling us exactly how many ounces were in a pound or how many inches made a foot.
• The Design: There was a beautiful, functional simplicity to them. No colorful characters like Bertie Bassett or Basil Brush here; just the raw, logic-driven facts of life.

Practicing by the Fire

I remember sitting on the rug by the gas fire, the blue flames flickering as I tried to recite my sevens and nines. While the Philips portable radio played quietly in the background, I would trace the lines of the table with a finger, hoping the numbers would sink in.

It was a quiet, tactile pursuit, much like assembling a Meccano crane or painting the fine details of an Airfix model. There was a reward at the end, of course—perhaps a few licorice Allsorts or a yummy pink wafer from the Huntley & Palmers tin if I got the answers right.

Beyond the Classroom

These tables weren't just for school; they were for real life. You needed that mental math when you went to The Broadway in Broadstone to buy your first 7" single. You used it to count your change after buying a 1966 Christmas stamp at the post office or a ticket for the Poole Park Model Railway.

Even as we grew older and the "Parfum de Caractère" of Brut replaced the smell of pencil shavings, the rhythm of those tables stayed with us. They were a shared language of the 60s and 70s, as ubiquitous as The Clangers or the sight of a Red Robin on a winter bird table.

A Legacy of Logic

Looking at a set of arithmetic tables today is like looking at a map of a simpler time. In our current world of 2026, where everything is instant and digital, there is something deeply grounding about the "twelve times twelve." It represents a time when we carried our knowledge on the back of our notebooks and in the front of our minds.

The tables remind us that while fashions change and buildings like Corfe Castle may crumble, the logic of "two plus two" remains as solid as a Purbeck stone.