Pall Mall

I mentioned yestrday that my Dad smoked Pall Mall cigarettes when I was a kid.  I'm sure that he has smoked several different kinds over his life (although he quit 45 years ago), and I vaguely remember that there was a battle of sorts during World War II between Lucky Strike and Old Gold that had my dad and presumably the other navy guys that he hung out with all smoking the same brand. Since my Dad is quite lucid and reads this blog regularly I'm going to ask him to drop me an email to fill me in on the details.   I'll pass on the story then.

But, back to Pall Mall.  I don't know how many of you are old enough to remember, but Pall Mall in the soft pack was one of the filter-less hold-outs.  Some others that I recollect were Camel, Lucky Strike, Old Gold Regular--the premiums had a filter, I think.  The easily recognizable red packaging was soft and crumpled very satisfyingly once that last cig was pulled.   The crinkly cellophane overwrap was marred only by the blue ink tax stamp on the bottom.  But one of the oddest things about this brand was that they were clearly and willfully mis-pronouncing the name every time it was spoken on television--they were calling these things "pell mell" versus "paul maul." 

Not to try to out-lyricize Bruce Springsteen, but I really was raised in a small town, and the horizons were pretty close in.  Our view of a trip was a visit to Albany; a family trip for us was invariably to Montreal to visit relatives; an exotic trip (e.g., a classmate's visit to see her boyfriend in  California one summer) was talked about endlessly both in the planning and in the re-telling.  And the trip of a lifetime was a local couple's visit to Ireland.  We lived these trips and their places vicariously but continued to exist happily in our little Beaver Cleaver hometown. That is, until we left.

My leaving came in 1971 when I (reluctantly) joined the Air Force on the misguided notion that I mightbe stationed at the local base for four years--an extremely unlikely event to say the least. (Actually, this really happened to my brother Joel who enlisted, went to tech school and then returned to Plattsburgh AFB where he spent the remainder of his enlistment...maybe I had had a chance at this ridiculous notion?)  I took a slightly different path, getting involved in intelligence work after spending a year in intensive language training. I moved from school to school around the country,and then was assigned to fly reconaissance missions out of Eielson AFB, Alaska for the balance of my time in service.

What, pray tell, does this have to do with Pall Mall (or "pell mell"). Well, it's funny how we learn things and sometimes the dots just connect.  For everyone else, this may have been an easy one, but for provincial little me, it was a revelation of sorts.  While roaming around London one day in 1972 with a friend who was actually born in London, Kentucky, we were (both) stunned to discover ourselves standing in Pall Mall.  The Brits have been butchering their language unceasingly for at least 500 years, and this is no exception...

You got it.  Pall Mall is pronounce like "pell mell" except it sounds more correct if you start with a mouth full of marbles and allow them to dribble out as you speak the phrase.  Another circle is closed, two more dots connected.

FYI, the squiggly lines in the street are placed there to designate areas where taxis may not pick up or drop off fares and not because the line-painter-guys were "pissed" to use a British saying.  An unbelievably civilized way to handle a problem.  I'm no Anglophile, but they've done a few things right.