For weeks, My Friend Harry’s dog Tykie lived on a diet of apple pies. Come to that, old people in homes throughout the North-East scoffed apple pies until the sight of another pie-tin made even the hungriest turn aside. Why this glut of apple pies?
Simple. My Friend Harry organised the North of England Apple Pie Championship. He made a presentation to Lintas, the advertising agency looking after the interests of Cookeen cooking fat, offering to run an apple-pie championship, to arrange for judging in six regions in the area, to promote the championship in Newcastle’s three newspapers and to stage the final in the City Hall, Newcastle, with six regional winners cooking their pies on the stage. All Cookeen had to do was provide the fat - it being mandatory to use Cookeen - the baking tins and the prizes. And, of course, to take advertisement space in the newspapers. It’s a deal, said Lintas. So the wheels were set in motion.
The response was unbelievable. Hundreds upon hundreds of people entered in every region and so district contests had hurriedly to be arranged in each region to break down the numbers going forward to the regional finals. What, then, to do with all those apple pies? Get hold of Rotary Clubs, Round Table Clubs, Women’s Institutes, Townswomen's Guilds and ask them to arrange to send them to old people either living in homes or on their own in humble circumstances. They were only too willing to help.
Came the evening of the grand final at the City Hall. Renowned cinema organist Con Docherty was commissioned to play non-stop at the City Hall organ for an hour before proceedings began and to accompany the cabaret items which would entertain the audience while the pies were being cooked. Five electric and one gas cooker had been set up on stage. The internationally famous Canadian star Robert Beatty had been hired to present the prizes. Chauffeured limousines had been sent to the homes of the regional winners to drive them in luxury to the City Hall - and would stand by to drive them home again. The Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress, the Lord Lieutenant and his Lady and various other northern notabilities had been plied with drink in an ante room and would be led to their reserved seats in the circle by beauty queens wearing tiaras and sashes.
My Friend Harry hovered in the wings with Robert Beatty, ready to go on stage to introduce the finalists as they were brought on one by one. Harry was happy. The finalists were there, Beatty was there, there were three minutes to go before he was due on stage to the accompaniment of a crashing chord from Con. He cocked an eye around the wing and saw that the VIPs were taking their seats in the balcony. Timing perfect. He cleared his throat, made sure his flies were fastened, caught Con’s eye and prepared to go on stage.
That was when Paul Boys-Stones, Harry’s assistant, tugged his sleeve. “Bloody hell, Harry," he whispered. “One of the contestants hasn't brought anything to make a pie with."
The breakdown of responsibilities had left Lintas to ensure that the cooking stoves were installed and working and that contestants had brought all the ingredients necessary to make their pies. Lintas had boobed. What to do? Eliminate the poor lass who hadn’t brought the ‘makings'? Unthinkable! Inspiration! “Paul," hissed Harry, "race round to the County Hotel, see my friend M. Rousseau, the Belgian chef, ask him to give you enough ingredients to make an apple pie and race back here with them. In the meantime, I’ll take Robert Beatty on stage and we’ll try to keep the audience from demanding their money back."
Off darted Paul, Harry caught Con Docherty’s eye, the organ thundered out a chord and Harry went on stage to introduce Robert Beatty. They then launched into the longest ’live’ interview either of them had ever suffered. They had almost got down to his favourite colours and his choice of shaving soap and Harry was mentally toying with the prospect of inviting questions from the audience when he saw Paul, all smiles, waving at him from the wings.
All was saved. On came the contestants to thunderous applause and started to make their pastry and prepare their ingredients and so on and so forth. Robert Beatty and Harry went back-stage for much-needed restoratives, Paul introduced the first cabaret.
All six pies were baked and the ladies stepped back gnawing their lips and twisting their handkerchiefs as the judges, all professionals, went about the task of cutting the pies open, tasting, muttering among themselves, making jottings on the marking sheets and then retiring back stage to make their minds up.
And who do you suppose was the winner? Right. The contestant who hadn’t brought any ingredients!
But the most profound secret of the whole tremendously successful enterprise was that the winner hadn’t used Cookeen! Dear old Rousseau wouldn't have had the stuff in his kitchen! Harry dreaded to think what would have happened if the sponsoring Cookeen ever found out. But they never did. But just to make sure, he had a very private word with the winner and told her that a handsome cheque would be in the post if she held her tongue.