Alan Day - the Biography

The facts of Alan Day's life and antecedents have never been disclosed to the public and so, in the spirit of true biographical research and documentation for posterity, I am laying out the facts, as I understand them, for the general public.

Little is known of his paternal line before the appearance in Grimsby, in 1912 of Icelandic cod fisherman Oharpi Deyya. Oharpi, then aged 32, had spent many years in the North Sea, shuttling between various fishing boats, both Icelandic and English. Eventually, tiring of the maritime life, he disembarked in Grimsby for the last time and moved to south London, where he Anglicised his surname to Day and took up work as an itinerant goatherd. In 1913, he met Casabianca Perkins who, some years previously had also sailed before the mast, on collier brigs plying between Newcastle and Yarmouth. It was on these brigs that she spent many happy moments shelling peas (a penny a peck) to pass the time. Oharpi and Casabianca married in 1914.

Alan Day - Parental Marriage Certificate

So it was that, on April 1st 1914, Alan Day came into this world in a goatherd's small but cosy tin hut on the fringes of rough farmland in Streatham. Born with prehensile middle fingers, which allowed him to pick his nose and scratch the back of his neck simultaneously, Alan was a precocious child - a precocity which was beaten out of him fairly early in life. More children followed after Alan, and the tin hut - full of goats and kids - grew cramped and uncomfortable. In 1928, at the age of 14, Alan left home and, through the influence of his father, gained a position as a junior clerk in the Mordern branch of the Dogger Bank. There then followed several mundane and humdrum years until, in 1946, he found his true vocation. The story is worth recounting in full.

Alan had been discharged from his job for slight flaws in his accounting procedures which, unaccountably, had left the Bank a little poorer and him a little richer. Wandering late on dark night from pub to pub in the wildernesses of Purley, pockets stuffed with treasury notes, he fell in with bad company, got very drunk and passed out in the street. While he snored in the gutter, a band of Morris dancers fell out of the local pub and proceeded to give an impromptu performance on the nearby pavement. Roused by the noise, Alan started to sing at the top of his voice, "While I lay there in the gutter, far too drunk to even mutter..." One of the Morris men, annoyed at the interruption, shied his instrument - which happened to be an ancient and battered Anglo concertina - into the dark in Alan's direction. It hit Alan squarely on the ear and, picking up the concertina, Alan quickly got to his feet and made off as fast as he could.

The rest, as we know, is history. From early performances busking to the theatre crowds in Sidmouth, impromptu floor spots in dingy little folk clubs and outbursts of riotous behaviour in sessions in East London pubs, Alan very quickly made a name for himself as a red-nosed comedian, a stage drunk and - in spite of total deafness in his right ear - a passable player on the Anglo concertina. In 1951, he fell in with a roving band of musicians wearing striped jerseys and stinking of Comté cheese and vin jaune at the Festival of Britain exhibition. I should explain that the phrase "fell in with" should be taken literally. Alan, pissed as ever, was attempting to climb the Skylon. Naturally, he lost his footing and fell headlong on to the Musette de Cour belonging to one of the musicians. Having found what turned out to be a band of travelling skivers posing as French musicians, he refused to leave them and was, after some chaffering and passing of money from hand to hand, taken on as road manager and part-time concertina player.

From those early times, Alan's name has become the household word it is today, and it has been my privilege since 2009 to support him (i.e. hold him up) at gigs all over the country. In the next few days, Alan retires to Shottisham in Suffolk to become, like his father before him, a part-time goatherd in a small cottage next door to the local pub, the "Sorrell Horse". I wish him well - and look forward to accompanying him for the opening night at a new folk club in the pub in the very near future.