sports pages, the cinema, football, allotment-tending, pigeon-racing, the kazoo band — all these were traditional working-class leisure activities that in substantial areas of Britain were, by the 1930s, no longer something to do at the end of a working day, a working week, but rather had taken the place of work. What if, as seemed increasingly likely, this was not to be a phase, a transition, but a way of life? The ‘idle rich’ might be an accepted feature of society, but what about the idle poor — even if their idleness was unsought, regretted, enforced, unafforded? Were such men and women to be regarded as the inevitable human cost of industrial decline, to be left to decline themselves, of no further use, supported at a minimal level by the state and allowed to pass their days as if on an unpunctuated weekend, but without the resources to do so? Or were they the vanguard of a new society in which new technologies and a more efficient form of capitalism would mean that there would simply be less work to do and fewer people needed to do it? In 1934 Havelock Ellis, usually described as a sexologist, predicted, rather as Major Douglas and Ezra Pound had done, ‘the four-hour working day as the probable maximum for the future. The day of the proletariat is over. Few workers but skilled ones are now needed. Most of the unemployed of today will perhaps never be employed again. They already belong to an age that is past.’ However, as a Vice-President of the Eugenics Education Society, Ellis was hard-pressed to see that it would be a bad thing if the ‘single proletarian left in England [was] placed in the Zoological gardens and carefully tended’, since, after all, ‘the glorification of the proletarian has been the work of the middle-class’, and the fact was that the ‘lowest stratum of a population which possesses nothing beyond its ability to produce off spring’ would be phased out as a matter of economic evolution.
When the film-maker Humphrey Jennings came to make a documentary for the GPO Film Unit at the end of the 1930s, ‘a surrealist vision of industrial England … the dwellers in Blake’s dark satanic mills reborn in the world of greyhound racing and Marks & Spencers’, the film’s working title was ‘British Workers’. But by the time he had filmed, in Sheffield, Bolton, Manchester and Pontypridd, men walking lurchers, releasing pigeons, playing billiards, drinking in a pub, a kazoo band ‘razzing away at “If You Knew Susie”’ and later carrying a child dressed as Britannia as they play a jazz version of ‘Rule Britannia’, a fairground, women watching a puppet show, a ballroom slowly filling with dancers, lions and tigers padding round their cages in Bellevue Zoo, Manchester, the title had been changed to Spare Time. The voice-over (spoken by the poet Laurie Lee) intoned: ‘Spare time is the time when people can be most themselves,’ as the miners’ cage descended the coalshaft. A re-evaluation of the whole notion of ‘leisure’ was clearly overdue. If talking about the unemployed as having leisure was to ‘mistake the desert created by the absence of work for the oasis of recreation’, how would it be possible to avoid the apathy that various social commentators confidently identified as the final stage the unemployed would pass through, via resolution, resignation and distress. As a ‘rough progression from optimism to pessimism, from pessimism to fatalism’? And if the creation of new jobs was not on the cards, how could the unemployed be encouraged to make the ‘right’ use of the leisure that would be the pattern of their future?
S.P.B. Mais, in his introduction to Time to Spare (1935), was convinced that ‘Left to themselves the unemployed can do nothing whatever to occupy their spare time profitably … This is where you and I come in … we have quite simply to dedicate our leisure to the unemployed,’ and suggested that this meant giving the unemployed man ‘a chance to work [since] playing draughts isn’t going to fit him for anything except perhaps the asylum’. Mais was full of ideas for ‘work’: ‘I don’t care what it is you set up,’ he insisted, ‘from a forge for men to work on the anvil to a stamp collecting society. It’s all grist to the mill. There cannot be too many interests in an unemployed man’s life … sell him the best leather at the cheapest possible rates and let him learn how to mend his boots for himself and his family … make it possible for him to buy [Mais stressed: ‘you will have noticed my insistence on the word buy. The unemployed do not want charity. They prefer to pay to the limit of their capacity to pay’] … to buy wood, then encourage him to learn how to make chests of drawers, wardrobes, chairs and other necessities of household furniture … to buy material and learn to make his own suits.’ Give the wife and family of an unemployed man a holiday, or imitate ‘the young Cotswold farmer who … gave up his summer to entertaining relays of school children from Birmingham … This principle of adoption should be extended to towns, and prosperous towns in the South like Brighton should adopt derelict towns in the North like Jarrow.’ But Mais recognised that this help should involve neither ‘charity (in the wrong sense) nor patronage’ (though, however well-meaning he may have been, the latter seemed rather evident). What was needed was either for ‘you and I’ to ‘join a local occupational club’, or if there wasn’t one, ‘get one going … all that is required to start with is a disused barn, hut or shop and the goodwill of, say, a dozen unemployed men to pay a penny for the privilege of membership’.
Some initiatives were essentially social clubs, organised locally and spontaneously, usually financed by the members, and intended to be money-making activities. Some, like those in Wales (where drinking in pubs on the Sabbath was not permitted) had licensed bars, and most had a billiards table and a wireless which supplied continuous background music. Such clubs in cities tended to be in the poorer districts. In Liverpool there were reputed to be nearly 150, most housed in empty shops, cellars or basements. Apart from the ubiquitous billiards table, raffles were organised, ‘the glittering prize quite often being a box of groceries with a bottle of beer or whisky for the man’, card games and other ‘petty gambling games — sometimes not so petty — are played from morning to night’. Many clubs organised a football team, and some a ‘Wembley Club’ into which members would pay a sixpence a week so that every other year when the international football match between England and Scotland was played at Wembley ‘a charabanc is hired and club members attend the match and go sight-seeing in London’. At Christmas an outing to the local pantomime would be organised, and ‘since some of the clubs are not lacking in the spirit of service to others, an old folk’s treat or free film show for the kiddies of the locality is occasionally provided’.
There were, as Mais recognised, already a number of ‘occupational clubs’ in areas of high unemployment. The Society of Friends had started an educational settlement at Maes-yr-Haf in the Rhondda in 1927, and another in Brynmawr the following year. Mais spoke approvingly of a club in Lincoln where ‘unemployed engineers cook the dinners for their own nursery school, mak[e] furniture for the Orphanages, toys for imbecile children, and invalid chairs for the decrepit aged’, and still found the energy for ‘Greek dancing’ in the evening. This was probably the one started in 1927 by the WEA, which had been founded in 1903 to ‘link learning with labour’, with the motto ‘An enquiring mind is sufficient qualification’.
The spread of such centres had been given a boost in January 1932 when the Prince of Wales, the (briefly) future King Edward VIII, who was patron of the National Council of Social Service (NCSS), speaking at a meeting at the Albert Hall called upon the British people to face the challenge of unemployment ‘as a national opportunity for voluntary social service’, and ‘refusing to be paralyzed by the size of the problem, break it into little pieces’. The response was heartening. By that autumn over seven hundred schemes were in operation in various parts of the country, and by mid-1935 the number had grown to over a thousand centres for men and more than three hundred for women, with a total membership of over 150,000. Many provided occupational opportunities as well as the usual facilities for billiards, dancing and reading. In the depressed areas of Lancashire there were 114 centres for men and thirty-five for women. There were nine in Glasgow, the same number in Liverpool and twenty-one in Cardiff. In the Rhondda there were between thirty and forty clubs which offered activities ranging from choral and operatic societies to mining outcrop coal. In Manchester, where there were some thirty centres for the unemployed (seventeen providing facilities for men to repair their own and their families’ shoes), an orchestra was formed among unemployed musicians which in May 1933 gave a recital on the BBC North Regional Service, while Gladys Langford, a generally rather discontented North London schoolteacher, went to Queen Mary’s Hall, Bloomsbury to hear the British Symphony Orchestra, ‘a body of unemployed