The tale of the Rugby doctor who rushed from the pub to deal with a Royal emergency - but not before finishing his glass of whisky

Health emergencies are nothing new… and you don’t have to go back to the days of the bubonic plague to appreciate that fact.

As far as I know, there are no surviving accounts of how the ‘village’ of Rugby coped with the pestilence of the 14th and 17th centuries.

But in more recent times, Rugby – along with the rest of the country – did not escape unscathed the infamous 1962 smallpox epidemic then sweeping across Britain.

I seem to recall that the inoculation against the disease took the form of a number of rather painful scratches on the upper arm, into which the vaccine was rubbed.

Our family doctor’s practice was in Bilton Road, and I clearly recall my visits, not just during the smallpox crisis, but also for the other less serious illnesses that traditionally afflict children and young people.

There were a lot of ex-Army doctors around in those days, and ours displayed the kind of demeanour that tended to indicate that he hadn’t been away from the parade ground all that long.

A typical encounter might be along these lines. The nurse would call you by name and then knock the doctor’s door.

There then might follow a moment’s pause, followed by an imperious “Come!” emanating from the other side of the woodwork.

Upon entering, the doctor would invariably have his back to you.

A few seconds might elapse, he’d stub out his Capstan Full Strength into an overflowing ashtray, pivot round on his swivel chair, fix you with accusing eyes and boom: “Well, what can I do for young fella-me-lad?”

Yes, you did read this right. In those days, doctors not only smoked like the Rugby Portland Cement chimney, they had only just ceased recommended taking up smoking “to calm the nerves.”

The 1961 surgeons’ report on the links between smoking and lung cancer had started some major rethinks by the medical profession regarding tobacco consumption.

Like so many walks of life all those years ago, most professions and callings had their fair share of characters, and Rugby was no exception.

One of the earliest tall tales that I heard during my time as an Advertiser reporter was the case concerning a certain Rugby doctor – who shall remain nameless – and his encounter with a certain royal personage at Rugby Midland Station.

The doctor in question had a fondness for whisky, and when not on duty at his surgery, could usually be found propping up the bar at the Central Hotel, which might possibly provide a clue as to the whereabouts of the man’s practice.

In fact, it’s fair to say that this particular doctor seemed to run on alcohol in the same way that a motor vehicle requires a constant supply of petrol or diesel to keep working.

This permanent semi-state of inebriation probably didn’t make all that much difference when he was examining the man or woman in the street.

And besides, this being the immediate post-war period, unlike the present when every other person in Britain seems to have become an unpaid health policeman, it undoubtedly didn’t matter all that much.

But one day the good doctor was partaking of his liquid lunch at the Central when a breathless messenger dressed in railwayman’s uniform burst into the bar, asking for the doctor by name.

The latter, by now replete with his repast, asked the rather flustered messenger the reason for his inquiry. “Doctor Blankton, please come quickly to Rugby Midland Station, it’s an emergency. Her Royal

Highness the Queen Mother is in her royal carriage and in need of urgent medical attention.”

The doctor drained the last drops of golden liquid from his glass, rose from his bar stool and hurried off down Railway Terrace with his new-found distinctly agitated companion.

It was only upon his arrival at Rugby Midland that the doctor realised the extent of the emergency and ensuing panic that had now engulfed platform two.

The Queen Mother had been returning to London after a series of engagements in the north of England when she had poked her regal head out of the window of her carriage.

This still being the glorious Age of Steam, there was all manner of debris flying about, and a particle of ash or soot had entered her eye. The train was forced to make an unscheduled stop at Rugby in order to seek medical attention.

And the railway staff knew exactly what to do… send for Doctor Blankton, who would either be at his surgery or the Central Hotel.

Suffice to say, the valiant medic – despite his undoubted slightly tired and emotional state – succeeded with steady hand in removing the foreign object from his royal patient’s peeper, and in the words of Warwickshire’s great poet, all’s well that ended well.

I’ve resisted the temptation to name this eminent Rugby physician, but there will perhaps be some older readers who will have more than a sneaking suspicion as to his identity…

John Phillpott’s book about his days on the Rugby Advertiser titled Go and Make the Tea, Boy! and published by Brewin Books, is now on sale.