Open Writing

There’s nothing that children relish more than having a secret.

The makers of a famous bedtime drink realised this simple fact more than 50 years ago and built success out of secrecy.

Some bright spark in the Ovaltine empire had a flash of inspiration when they hit on the idea of the League of Ovaltinies.

Millions of youngsters like me became Ovaltinies through what must be one of the most devastatingly brilliant advertising campaigns ever.

The fun and excitement of having a membership card, badge and secret passwords was compelling stuff.

It was a bit like being in a junior branch of the Masons, I suppose, although we never got around to rolling up a trouser leg or giving each other a funny handshake.

Come to think of it, I do believe I still have my bronze Ovaltinies badge hidden away somewhere - in a secret place, of course.

Besides the badge and membership card we also used to be sent a regular newsletter and new password. And, believe it or not, we Ovaltinies had our very own programme on Radio Luxembourg.

We had our own song too, which if I remember rightly went something like: “We are the Ovaltinies, happy girls and boys. We share each other’s troubles, share each other’s joys’’ and ended with an unashamed plug for the master product. “Because we all drink Ovaltine, we’re happy girls and boys.’’

There was a handful of Ovaltinies in our class at school, and we used to derive sadistic pleasure from teasing the others with our coded messages.

The envious outsiders at one stage tried to set up a rival group. But it was a venture doomed to failure which was hardly surprising when you consider the organising ability and experience of six-year-olds.

In my case the novelty of swapping passwords and sporting my bronze badge soon wore off,
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But I’ve often wondered how many Ovaltinies carried over their love of secrets into manhood.

This is a thought fraught with possibilities. Is it possible that half our local Masons, Oddfellows and Buffaloes were Ovaltinies in the 1930s?

Alternatively, could the various Lodges be filled with men of substance who more than half-a-century ago were frustrated schoolboys who couldn’t scrape together enough to join the Ovaltinies?

I suppose it went without saying that we were all expected to drink Ovaltine before being tucked up in bed, encouraged not only by loyalty but the young lady on the Ovaltine tin’s wrapper.

The dairy maid looked the very picture of health or as somebody once described her “the plump personification of country goodness.’’

It was all too irresistible in those days. So while father tucked into his nightly bowl of pobs (bread and milk) and mother sipped her umpteenth cup of tea, we boys were sent to meet the sandman on a mug of Ovaltine.

A lot of milky drinks have gone down our throats since then, but Ovaltine and its image have stayed basically the same since the product was launched by the Swiss scientist Dr George Vander in the early days of last century.

Slowly but surely, however, subtle changes crept in. For instance, the dairy maid became a bit slimmer.

In my book there’ll never be anything to take the place of the genuine, old-fashioned Ovaltine which has been my nightcap for many, many years both at home and abroad.

As my wife is apt to remark when the clock creeps past 11 pm: “I suppose it’ll be your usual tonight dear?’’

And for those thinking dubious thoughts, yes, she does mean my Ovaltine.