In the early 1970s some bright spark decided School needed new laboratories and set about finding the moolah. Term followed miserable fund-raising term full of begging letters, boot sales, money-making schemes and sponsored marathons. 

The one bright spot was a series of concerts: classical piano, guitar, George Melly with John Chilton’s Feetwarmers . . . and a Folk Night. Not keen on that — folk music comes from books and it’s boring. But we went. We went to them all. My mother thought it might help make me a Senior Prefect. It didn’t.

Bushy Barrett the chemistry master was first up on the makeshift stage in the school hall, playing Incredible String Band songs and struggling with his fingerpicks. The headliners — “never heard of ‘em” — were Jacqui and Bridie, two sweet old ladies with tight perms and long floral skirts. Twee.

Except they weren’t. Jacqui McDonald on guitar, Bridie O’Donnell on banjo, sharing lead vocals or in harmony, were lively, hilarious, fearless and rude. I could still tell you Bridie’s uproarious story about the wide-mouthed frog. A stuffy audience in Wakefield adored them, laughed at all the jokes, joined in all the choruses and were a pushover for two women who were more used to winning over tough crowds of Scousers. 

I bought the record that evening and they signed it with love. (I notice, now, that the sleeve notes and the disc disagree over which side is A and which B.) 

It’s of its time, a tuneful and good-natured selection of contemporary folk, starting with the title song, a big-hearted welcome to newcomers of every colour and culture. Ewan McColl’s Schooldays over is here, and Alan Hull’s Winter song. The one I remember best is Alan Bell’s Bread and fishes, based on the Jesus-in-Glastonbury myth; the young Manners accompanied his mother on guitar while she sang it at countless chapel Do’s for the next several years.

But, for all the wide scatter of sources, it hangs together well. The sound is bright and clear and full, and it feels as though they chose songs with personal relevance: Jacqui singing The massacre of Glencoe, about the cruel slaughter of her namesakes, for instance. And it’s rooted in Liverpool, where they lived: Ferry to New Brighton, Knowsley Zoo.

Far from being twee, they were pioneers. Jacqui sang with The Spinners in the early days, but women on their own weren’t altogether welcome in Liverpool pubs and working men’s clubs in the early 1960s. So in 1961 they set up their own folk club. It grew, until they could give up the day jobs and sail to the USA in ’64 for a six week tour that lasted six months, collecting songs and dancing dolls along the way. The club thrived, with pretty well every big name on the folk circuit headlining there, and such a following that they could mount concerts at the Philharmonic Hall a couple of times a year. There was even a Royal Gala performance.

They weren’t old, either, though the perms did them no favours. Eventually Bridie’s health failed and she died in 1992 but Jacqui kept the club going until 2011. Half a century. That’s a good run. There’s a video of the final night on YouTube.

Looking back, they didn’t turn me into a full-on folk devotee. It took the Watersons and Martin Carthy to do that a couple of years later. But they lit the fuse.