The death has been announced of one of Britain’s leading ordinary men.  Herbert Whorwood has died at age 83 after a period of declining health.  His passing will be marked without the usual fanfare reserved for less deserving residents of this Country, and a memorial service will not be held later this year.  As Prince Philip said on hearing of his passing, “who?”.

Bert Whorwood, as he was known, achieved non-fame in one of the bleakest period of the second world war when on the 19th of November 1940, at the height of the blitz, Birmingham suffered one of many nights of bombing following on from the devastating blitz periods for Coventry.  Acting as part of the fire-watch team allocated to the local school, Chapel Fields in Olton – then part of Birmingham, he watched as countless incendiary bombs parachuted onto the local area.  One in particular caught his gimlet like blue eyes as it bounced onto and off a local house, as it happened it was two doors away from his own.  He grabbed the state of the art anti-incendiary weapon and dashed off at a perilous run to the property.  His progress was somewhat hindered by the stirrup pump and more so by the full bucket of water, but this is what he had trained for and with commendable skill and little loss of water he arrived at Mrs. Clewer’s property.  

Dispensing with niceties he didn’t seek permission to invade the front garden and proceeded to locate the bomb, which he found behind a dustbin.  As other devices rained down, and chaos ensued he single-handedly and without fear selflessly removed the bin, for it to then explode in his face, the bin taking the full force of the blast.  

The incendiary devices used by the Germans at that time contained phosphorous which sticks on contact as it burns.  As he later recalled, “I was aware of immense pain and of seeing red and being blinded and deafened by the explosion, the world around me took on a surreal character with every sense heightened and dulled at the same time”.  Being conscious of trespassing without permission, he thought a withdraw was called for and felt his way to the front gate.  Hearing footsteps he called out and was answered by Mr. Lucas who was a local ambulance driver.  He was taken to the Birmingham Children’s hospital and was overseen by Dr. Quinet who administered the necessary first aid.  His further stay in hospital consisted of numerous skin grafts to rebuild his face particularly around his left eye socket which caught the full force of the explosion.  Needless to say he lost the sight of that eye which was removed, and for the rest of his life his glass artificial tried to convince people that he was not disfigured.

His convalescence centred around the mental institution called Barnsley Hall near Bromsgrove which had opened its doors to ordinary medical patients.  He disliked this intensely and one evening escaped and walked home – some thirty miles or so.  There was a police manhunt which culminated in a knock on the door and his startled wife being told to watch out for his return, and to notify the authorities if he turned up.  At about this time the “black dog” appeared (as Churchill called depression).  A hasty long range paparazzi still from a home movie shows him with his dog Bono, and Bert has a wistful contemplative expression.  This only reappeared once to common knowledge in the mid fifties and the cause or reason for its appearance at all is unknown.  It isn’t hard to put oneself in the place of an attractive, blue eyed, curly-headed able-bodied man to understand how disfigurement might affect him.

Bert was born in 1908 to Mary and Herbert and educated at Camp Hill School.  His leaving certificate shows him to have conducted himself well and to be of average ability and to be good at art and manual work.  Reference was also made to his practical abilities, with an instructor saying that he should do well in whatever work he undertook and that he had his personal endorsement.  His early work life might have been in the family tailoring business run by his father in Digbeth, Birmingham but what he did is now lost.  His life changed when his father returned from the First War to find that Bert’s sibling Harold, to whom his father had vested the running of the business, had proven unreliable and the shop was in a frail financial state.  Bert’s brother abandoned the business and his immediate future then became focussed on working in the business and paying off the debts before any money could be used for their joint future as a married couple.

The recession took hold in the mid twenties and work became harder to get.  These were the wilderness years and an enforced retirement from public life ensued.  He and his brother in law Arthur Otton resorted to making stools and selling them on street corners – wooden framed and woven reeds for seating.  Sometime in the early thirties see obtained work at Wilmot Breeden in Amington Road, Tyseley.  As what is unknown, but it could have been that most ordinary of occupations such as sweeping up such was his ability to be flexible and blend in.  In the 1939 survey he is recorded as being a tool setter, which is a testament to his adaptability and skill in detailed meticulous work.  He worked long hours at five and a half days a week which was normal in those days.  Nights shifts disrupted home life, and as he was promoted post-war to staff foreman he wore the responsibility heavily doing countless hours of unpaid overtime.  Often at Christmas he would finish work late on Christmas Eve, and resume on Boxing Day doing stocks checks having travelled to Branston near Lincoln for the big day.  Again, that was what was expected of the average unexceptional working man.

An untold story from the early fifties was his role in race relations.  Wilmots had begun to recruit coloured labour from the Windrush influx at about that time.  One evening, his wife was startled by a door bell ringing only to find two coloured men on the doorstep asking for Bert.  One of the men was called Ali and he brought as a gift an enormous bag of fruit.  Via the pigeon English translator it transpired that it was a thank you from him and others of his Country to Bert who had apparently stood up for him against the existing white work force.  Bert never revealed the exact circumstances out of deference and embarrassment, but this ritual occurred for several years, again much to his ongoing embarrassment.

He famously refused the honour of being the Most Extra-ordinary Man, telling the organisers that “To be extra-ordinary is a betrayal of my ordinary up-bringing and of the people of this country the majority of whom are ordinary.  If they weren’t then this country could now have won the war, or be the place I am proud to live in and be part of.  Being extra-ordinary is for those people who wish to be something or someone they are not. I am me and proud of it”.  He then got on the bike he cycled to work on each morning saying that he had a job to do, and that if he didn’t he couldn’t afford his annual week’s holiday in Weston Super Mare. 

At the end of the war, at the height of his obscurity, he became a father, which had long been an ambition which war had effectively put on hold.  He did what other ordinary men did and added to the population explosion which became known as “the baby boom”, in a stroke he made sure of his own immortality by consigning the young Harry to a life of ordinariness by being hidden in the increased population.  Fatherhood was a task he adopted with relish recounting and re-living his own life through Harry.  When the lad was being bullied, his advice was clear and simple “hit them, and they’ll stop” advice which was largely lost in the child as he didn’t know how to hit people, and when Bert resorted to teaching how to hit, the boy child burst into tears, not liking the pain that came with being hit.  A lost cause was Bert’s judgement, a “Nancy boy” his verdict.

Out of the limelight Bert liked to relax by attending Friday night boxing matches at the WB Sports club, and he was an avid and successful vegetable and fruit grower.  For the Coronation he produced numerous red, white and blue flower displays which overpowered his ordinary semi-detached house.  His lateral and innovative thinking

also came to prominence with his ahead of the times hobby of film production, what possessed him to buy a second hand cine camera prior to the War was never explained but he embraced the art like a professional.  He was also a member of the Cyclist Touring Club and spent many a day cycling around the lanes of Belbroughton and Worcestershire.  He and his Brother in Law Fred often rode tandem and on one memorable occasion freewheeled downhill at tremendous speed to hit a wandering larger pig at the bottom.  The pig walked away.

In 1934 he married Ivy Hilda Raybould whom he had met in 1924 at age sixteen when they had both just left school.  They met on “the monkey run”, the Nine Stiles walk that went from Sarehole Mill to St. Bernard’s Road, Olton.  The youths of the day paraded and strutted this route, whilst the young ladies dropped large quantities of cotton embroidered handkerchiefs to no avail.  They were not to wed until they could afford a house which they did.  Only to find that their idillic life was in short supply due to the impending war.  Bert’s mother was bombed out and came to live with them, an experience that coloured their outlook on life, and it is fair to say put strain onto the marriage.  By the time their son, Harry was born at the end of the war Bert’s mother was re-housed with her sister and normality of a different kind took over.

Bert’s nature led him to be a practical joker and he loved a laugh, with him “blacking up” in a rubber mask, and Ivy adopting a white woman’s one with long blond hair.  A party trick which went down well when amusing yourselves was the order of the day.  By nature he was also patient, generous to a fault, always ready to help on practical issues and inventive.  Ivy complemented him with her family traits of common sense, fairness, industriousness, fortitude and elbow grease.

In his later years he suffered an aneurysm, and the emergency operation to rectify this subsequently caused him coronary dementia, although with was never diagnosed.  He died in his nursing home in January 1991.  His wife pre-deceased him and they are survived by their only son Harry.

Herbert Whorwood.  Born 19th January 1908, died 27th January 1991.