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Roy oversaw the construction of a large brick factory in Chesterton, Newcastle-under-Lyme; the wall in the photograph is a short section of the perimeter. I’ve asked Roy if there was any significance to the brick layout, he insists that it was simply random.
Spitting Feathers
It is very cold here now. I’ll tell you what is on my mind: Clarry Reeve’s post about Harold Tew who fought in Korea and was friends with Bill Speakman (who won the VC) and when he returned was given a job digging in flowers at Queen’s Gardens, Newcastle. Also about a man I met at Keele University, who dressed up as a clown and a chicken and became friends with Lou Macari – he was given the freedom of the Borough. Bloody hell I am mad, spitting feathers. If you go around to Nello’s (Neil Baldwin) I am sure he will help. Or you could find out if Harold Tew kept his three o three see if that makes you laugh.
I had a fish from the chippie, I am sure they are losing it. Mine was smelly this week, but at least I don’t have flu. You want to make sure you go out more, especially before it turns cold next time. I can tell you when that will be but the Met Office do it in time too. Turn the heating off when you go to bed and a few times in the day, just enough to get you over the hump. It only stays cold as long as there is an eruption so it is only a day or so. The problem is that it has been non-stop the last few days. If you are not up to exercise and don’t feel like laughing the next best thing is to sing along with pop songs. Just a little exercise like that is enough to help clear your lungs.
My Brother
I have too many complaints to mention, so let’s call it “old age” but everyone is OK although Julie seems to get worse. She’s coming here for Christmas. There will be eight of us and three children. They say they will all muck in as my house is the best for Julie to move about in her wheel chair. I have a mobile phone now, it was difficult at first but I take it everywhere now. I can’t text with it, but call and receive is all I really want.
It’s been a very upsetting year for me, funerals every month. I didn’t go to Brian’s as I didn’t know he’d died. Ena has been a thorn in my side since mother died, so I thought it better to say away, nobody went from our side as far as I know, but she still annoys me – as her children have had words with mine, or given them nasty looks. This doesn’t make me so mad as I know where it is coming from. Brian and I never had words, because he knows that I know about him – which he dreaded me for, as he was still ashamed. The sister in the nursing home where mother stayed slapped his face accusing him of attempted rape. Barry may remember her, she lived in the big old house next to the junior school, Knutton. Her brother accused me, he’s a nasty piece of work and thinks he should have gone to prison. She Told Bobby Roper that she would not go to court. Whether this is true or not, I don’t know – perhaps Barry does?
I have written two more books. Whether I’ll have them printed I don’t know. The second one “My Brother” is dynamite my former agent says. Another chapter “Hitting His Girlfriend” – when her father beat him up. His short stay in the army, nine years he signed on for but was out in nine months after a courts martial for sodomy and a dishonourable discharge is true. Both Uncle Glen and I went to the trial in Colchester.
When we moved into this house, Ena and Brian were next door and thought that because we didn’t go to pubs and clubs we were snobs. Ena had wanted us to have Sunday dinner together but Joyce told her: “No, she just cooks for her own family.” So they decided to move to Australia with you. But, as you know she changed her mind. So they moved to Audley. Even though they were out there, there were still enough problems for a three-hundred page book. My agent can’t believe it and says it is going to be a best seller. What he doesn’t know is that I won’t publish it in my lifetime, as I think this will really upset the families.
The Fight
It was the village carnival and gymkhana, in which everyone took some part as it was for charity to help widows and children whose husbands had been killed in the war. Mark’s family and other local farmers were taking a large part in organising this event, bringing their produce to be on display and with hope, win a prize. It was a beautiful summer’s day which brought people from miles around. Lots of stalls selling anything from toys to foodstuffs, ice cream, fish and chips, candyfloss and even a beer tent for the grown-ups. Mark and friends decided to sample the local brews in the marquee. As they walked in, they had not realised there would be so many people. To their annoyance, they could not get to the bar as many had stayed there, blocking others from being served. They were a very noisy lot of what Mark called townies, working in finance or some businesses, never done a proper days work in their lives. Laughing and shouting, and in the middle orchestrating them was Ossie. When he saw Mark, he pushed his way through to him. With his arms and palms of his hands wide open and showing a big smile on his face he said “Let bygones be bygones” and stood there in defiance. They had not spoken to one another for over a year, and that was all Ossie, with his head swaying, could say. Mark was in such a rage, he had a flash back of his three mates lying dead in their tank and all those men killed and dying in the prisoner of war camp. Even poor Edward, who had volunteered to go into the army as a way of shaming Ossie, had been killed on the beach at Dunkirk. All Mark could see now was Ossie’s grinning face and all his potbellied cronies drinking champagne. How was it possible that men like this made such a lot of money and became very wealthy, when all around them other men were dying or being killed? Mark, turning into a massive green hulk, swung his right arm with a closed fist right on the left side of Ossie’s face. There was a loud crunch and as he was falling over on his right side, Mark let go with an almighty left hook. He smashed into the other side of Ossie’s face, making the sound of crushing bones. Ossie collapsed on the ground.
Sam and his friends had now recovered from the shock of what had happened. It had only been seconds before they grabbed Mark and rushed him out of the marquee, where they found a quiet place to sit and calm him down. Sam gave him a drop of brandy from Roger’s pocket flask. Mark, looking at Sam with both hands covering his face, as though he did not wish to hear the answers said “Have I killed my own brother?” As luck had it, St. John’s medics and an ambulance were on standby for the carnival, they rushed in and came out with Ossie on a stretcher. “How is he?” Roger enquired. “He’s conscious, so I think he’ll be OK, but I don’t think he’ll be talking much for a while, we are taking him to the hospital” said one of the medics. “The police are here”, said Sam. After a while the police came out saying “As usual nobody saw or heard anything, we’ll have to wait until the injured party can speak”.
The Carnival
A knock on the back door and the sound of it opening with my Auntie Jean’s voice shouting “Edna, Edna” as she entered the kitchen. “Are you entering any children in the carnival? There are some very good prizes”, she said. “No” mother answered, “I’ve got no money to dress them in costumes, in fact I’ve got none at all because this little devil opened the front door to the rent man. They all know never to open the door, only the rent man knocks there, all the rest come ’round to the back. So, I had to pay him.”
My other Auntie, June had entered the room saying “We will dress them, it will not cost anything. Doreen can put an apron on and her hair in a net, and walk around with a mop in her hand with a sign saying Mrs. Mop”. June said “Roy already has a football strip, so he can walk with a ball and have number seven on his back, the name being Stanley Matthews.” Everybody by now was talking and laughing, bar Doreen, my sister and myself. We weren’t laughing, “I’m not going as Mrs. Mopp” said Doreen, and “I’m not going either”, I shouted. “But there’s good prizes even if you don’t win and you have crisps and a bottle of Vimto all to yourself” said Auntie Jean, who was very persuasive. I thought “All by myself, I’ve always had to share with my twin brothers, could be a good thing here.” But my shirt is plain white, and Stoke are red stripes, and in any case I have not got a proper football. “Don’t worry about that, we have some red paint and I can borrow a ball from the YMCA club”, interrupted Auntie June, “OK, next Saturday morning we will be here at 10 o’clock and get you ready. Edna, it won’t cost you a penny, I’ll see to everything.”
This was the first village carnival Knutton had since after the war and Auntie Jean was on the committee, so she wanted her family to show some support. Sure enough, come Saturday, at 10 o’clock, she and June arrived with a ball and a tin of red paint. I couldn’t believe it, I stood there in the back garden while June painted red stripes on my shirt.
The carnival started outside the British Legion club, by the local cenotaph. There seemed to be thousands there, so I did not feel afraid and paraded and walked around all the streets, behind the Salvation Army band. We finished on the school playing fields, where there was a stage erected with the mayor, his wife, and all VIPs. Auntie Jean was among them. A man with a microphone called us one at a time to go up to the stage, walk across and down the other side. The crowd would clap, shout and whistle, welcoming us. On the other side we were given a bag of Smith’s crisps with a little blue bag of salt and a bottle of Vimto. As a surprise, we received a long thin yellow thing which they called a banana, it was the first time I had ever seen one. The twins would not bite into it, they were afraid, so I ate theirs as well. “Now it’s the time for awards to the winners of the fancy dress contest”, the man with the microphone announced. “And the winner is… Stanley Matthews”. Blimey, I’ve got to go onto the stage to that man holding a small brown envelope. Eventually I got there and he shook my hand, gave me the envelope, and ruffled my hair, saying “Well, I had to vote for you didn’t I?” Yes, it was the man himself, in the flesh, the maestro, my hero, Stanley Matthews.
What is Love?
Love is happiness, which when pursued, is sometimes just beyond your grasp. Persevere, it may look upon you. When it does, hold it, nurture it and treasure it like gold, for love is the greatest pleasure on earth. If there is anything greater, then God has kept it to himself.
Looking at old photographs, I came across one of my late wife in her Scottish outfit from when she used to go dancing. She was very young and very beautiful. Listening to Roy Orbison sing ‘In Dreams’ I felt the tears begin to trickle down my face. I wanted to put pen to paper, as I thought there must be others that feel the same way as me when they hear certain music. So I wrote: “I still dream of loving, talking and walking with you”. I wish that I could turn the clock back. I would nurture all of her, not only her heart. I would start by trying to overcome my shyness, to say how much I loved her, because sometimes I feel as though I let love slip away. Grandad would say to grandma, “If you are too shy to say you love me, squeeze my hand. Not that hard!” he would add. “Get away with yer, man” grandma would tell us, “take no notice of your grandad, he’s silly.” Most people have these feelings from time to time and simple lines of quotations spring to mind, capturing how you feel at the time. I have the same feelings reading just a line or a few sentences by my fellow writers. Sometimes they bring tears to my eyes and then I take a moment to reflect, then realise that great thoughts come from the heart.
Two poems come to mind, one is by Che Guevara, which I first heard from his wife in Cuba. It was in Spanish and she read it out at a meeting in Spanish, which the translator related to me in English for me. The second is from the film ‘Carve her Name with Pride’. I read the book later but no poem was printed. This is my interpretation of the two:
Take this, it is only my heart
Hold it in your hand
Love is all I have to give you
For it all I own and now it is yours, all yours.
Your beautiful body will revive and nurture it
For I know that all that you are is honest and true.
When the dawn arrives,
Open your hand and let the sun warm it.
When we meet again
I hope that it is a beautiful place that we both will adore
It’s not as good as the originals I admit, but I hope you get my drift. Any love or friendship you have can’t be forgotten without leaving some mark on you. Just a glance and you have fallen in love, crazy. But if the other person has the same feelings, love begins and that spark starts a fire.
The Twentieth Century
The evil Century. Future historians will call this the evil century. I am eighty years old and have spent most of my life in it, therefore I am able to write about my experiences living and working in it. The first world war was a terrible slaughter, a stupid and cruel waste of human life. Only the wealthy and powerful people can tell us why. And in my opinion they should have been charged with war-crimes.
I was born in 1935, so am only aware of the first world war through films and documentaries and books I have read. I actually feel quite knowledgeable about it. The second world war I remember quite well as a child, hearing the German bomber planes coming over and dropping their bombs. My mother carrying me and my sister and brothers to the Anderson shelter at the bottom of the garden. My father was fighting in the terrible war, where thousands of soldiers and many civilians were slaughtered. I am only mentioning the first forty-five years of the century. War after war, all my life! when will the wealthy, powerful people realise the terrible crime, or is it their way of keeping the population down?
My belief is that it is greed and they are never brought to account. I’ve written down the list of wars that I can remember: Palestine, Malaya, Korea, East Africa, Kenya, Suez, Cyprus, The Gulf States, Borneo, Oman, Falklands, Northern Ireland, Balkans, Iraq, Afghanistan, Sierra Leone and Libya.
The 21st Century has only just started and is full of fighting already. From what I read and see on TV, there is a lot more to come. As the song asks: “When will we ever learn?” The powerful say we must have a deterrent, we always have had one but it makes no difference. We are peace-keepers, they say proudly. But if I remember correctly, when I did my national service the first thing they train you for is discipline and to do as we are told. They gave me a rifle, taught me how to shoot and kill the enemy. The target was a cardboard full sized soldier, with bold eyes on it where the heart is. If you put a bullet in there that was a kill. Another face and head that also was called a kill. One hit on the shoulder arm, body or legs was called a wound. Others outside of the cardboard figure would be a miss. And after the allotted time, if you had not got a kill you would be posted as a driver clerk, medic or store-man. We were not trained to keep the peace. Isn’t it strange, this century must have the greatest advances in technology, knowledge and medicines of all other previous centuries. Why was that century so warlike? One reason may be that some countries have everything and some have nothing, we hear this said many times, even in wealthy countries. With people crying out for equality, the haves and the have nots.
Don’t get Pigeon-holed
We English love to pigeon-hole people, especially the elite, it’s something to do with keeping the lower classes in their place. The elite have a curriculum vitae knowing the working classes don’t understand what that means, but over the years have learned it means CV. For themselves, they have many arrows for their bow, the working class has one e.g painter, bricklayer, chef, etc. and are considered fodder. But this pigeon would not be holed, so this is my story or curriculum vitae. Schooled in a state system, being called factory fodder was my hole for ten years, until I started work as apprentice bricklayer, and sure enough put me in another hole for six years. When classed as a tradesman, but no hole, her majesty required me for national service for two years. What a bloody hole that was. Afterwards, back in my bricklayers hole, flitting from one hole to another as a foreman / site agent / site manager / self-employed builder. The hole was getting more luxurious, nevertheless, the elite kept me holed as my CV was not of academic. So I decided to find work overseas, wonderful no pigeon holes there. Freedom at last, especially in places like Australia. Many years later I joined the VSO as a technical vocational training teacher, before returning to the UK. I reached the age of sixty-five years, retired and was put in the OAP hole. I started writing my memoirs after my fourth book was moved to authors / writers hole. This was a little difficult to get out of, as I was feeling my age. What could I do now? Where could I fly now? Perhaps it was time to accept you’ve had your time mate, accept it. A friend then suggested I buy a computer and learn to operate it and get on the internet. What a challenge? So my conclusion is education is quicker and easier. Study to be a professional, get to be one of the elite, although it may not be exciting you can always turn the telly on. Winston Churchill was always being pigeon-holed, same as me, because he was a bricklayer.
Councillors and Politicians
You need a bleeding degree now to be a councillor, and to be an MP in the Commons you need to be a millionaire with an honours degree. “If you haven’t got a million already, with the expenses that members of parliament get, you soon will be!”, said Jack, who had been a councillor for forty years and not received a penny, excepting some expenses for bus fares. It didn’t matter what party you belong to, common sense ruled the day, not what letters you had behind you. The young ones of today call them old farts, but Jack, Ike, Sam, Alf, Elsie, Lilly and Hannah, to name only a few, worked hard to keep our borough what it is today. I call them the salt of the earth. Their names tell you they are ordinary working people. How can you expect them to vote for academics and the elite from out of the London area with names like Antony, Tristhan, Mohamad, Julia, Helena, Seema and Gareth. Yes, I’ve had my arguments with them over the years, but have always agreed to differ. Some people like Ike will never change, like his views about refusing planning applications for four bedroom houses because they are for conservative voters and accepting applications for council or town houses because they vote labour. I’ve told him that if Hitler became leader he’d still vote labour, but to be fair to him the conservatives would vote the same! It seems to be all for the party nowadays, and not for the ordinary man in the street. Some people think more about animals and having a beautiful view, than allowing a young couple to own their own house. Sometimes it’s granted, but it has to be in a kind of grotto, with no space between one house and the next. My great grandfather built those type of houses two hundred years ago. They called them terraced for the working classes or poor farmers cottages. I went to Jack’s funeral today (31/10/2014), my birthday was a sad and yet happy day – strange but true. Sitting in the church, remembering all of the stories he used to tell me. People who glanced at me must have thought what a strange man I was, with a smile on my face, but I was reminiscing the tale he told many times, but never dared write about. As they have both died, I don’t care what the media cannot print, I can. He used to say one of his opponents was a very attractive lady, beautifully dressed and her make-up was perfect. She was a poshly spoken speaker, but always came to meeting with no knickers on. “How do you know that Jack?” I would ask laughing. “Don’t ask”, he always replied. Miss you Jack.
Get Your Finger Out
Get your own newspaper you, Newcastle black and radio station instead of criticising ours. Our MP may look like a Tory, but after just three years is on the front bench, After many years is still on the back bench just drawing his expenses, you and him should tittle. Oh dear, I thought the local media was for all of north Staffordshire. Nevermind, I’ve some good news. I am on the OAP line rate with BT, saving me £15 per month, no more press button 1, 2, 3, etc. Thank-goodness. Also to Newcastle council for helping me with my council tax. Not too happy with Seven Trent water board, but at least they are talking to me – they say jaw jaw better than war war. Perhaps I’ve upset them by telling them they can have gallons off my garden for free. They told me, a seventy-eight year old man to go to a web site, where all of my questions would be answered. I cannot find it, it’s not on my bus route – a friend told me it was between Woore and Whitmore. Save on this and that, all sending these leaflets, but the invoices still get higher. I try to save myself by weeing behind my garden shed, using my neighbour’s outside tap to fill my kettle and on the other side there outside toilet. Now for the big two: gas & electricity. I’ve managed to get a little help, pay by debit wear your overcoat or dressing gown (I don’t have one). I end up putting more on than off when I go to bed. Reduce the timer on my central heating boiler, well at least they are trying not to make me laugh. When I told my friend, Mrs Brown, the above and how I thought I had cracked these cartels, she replied “FRACKING HELL!!!!!” Please, fellow bloggers, what’s so bad about the above, why will they not print or announce it? One mailed to tell me that I must moderate your blogs, I replied “BOLLOCKS”. It has taken me two weeks to write this blog. Twelve months ago I started to pay attention to computers. I wrote a letter to a newspaper and to my shame they printed it, at the time it was very funny and I got many congratulations.
Horse Meat
I wrote a letter to the Sentinel some time ago, but I never had anywhere else to moan until I created this account. So here goes nothing: Hello Tony, what’s happening to these horses? Oh, they are being sent to Ireland. What for? They don’t look like racehorses, I laughed. I don’t know and you don’t want to know either. Bloody hell, I thought the miserable old sod! But didn’t dare say this as Tony is quite powerful. He was reputed to be a millionaire. Six foot six high, at least twenty-five stone (three-hundred and fifty pounds) and had a face like Bruce Woodcock (British boxer).
This incident happened twenty or more years ago, but it doesn’t stop me from writing this story as it became a big scandal recently. My story begins in Libya, when some French pilots invited me to a meal in Tripoli. This was reputed to be the best restaurant on the Med. It was French cooking, the most wonderful cuisine, and when the menu was handed to me I was so embarrassed it was all in French. “What’s your pleasure Roy?”, asked the squadron leader. “Well Michael, I would like a steak, medium with all the trimmings. But as you know I don’t speak French and this menu is beyond me.” Ah, that’s it there and he named it. It sounded very posh and that’s what I ordered. It was a beautiful steak and I ate everything on the plate. The best I’d eaten in all my time in Libya. It’s better than that dog-curry you had on the Korean site the other day, don’t you think? Everyone laughed at that. “Do you know what you’ve eaten?” another pilot said. It was horse meat. We all eat horse meat, there is nothing wrong with it. “It’s you English, you just want to be different”, said another. Well, I must say I enjoyed it. A little stronger than beef and the texture was not as close (a bit stringy), but not a bit of fat or gristle. Nevertheless, whenever I was in Tripoli, I always went there and had horse steak for four years, it did me no harm.
The other day I was travelling to Keele on the local bus, I went past Tony’s fields. Sure enough, a dozen or so horses were grazing there. I wanted to stand up and shout “There are your burgers! Angus steaks!”, but could not find the courage. So I have proof horse meat is not harmful. What IS the problem people have? Perhaps it’s just being conned by unscrupulous supermarkets by false labels. Farmers and suppliers have been telling us for years that supermarkets are lying to us. Their motto “profiteering” is called “business”. I only hope that race horses are not in the food chain, as I know they have been injected with all kinds of drugs to help heal muscles. I have been lucky. I have reached the age of seventy-seven without too many worries. What is the answer? I think that one answer would be to encourage those three mature, but attractive ladies from the “Rip Off Britain” show a daily programme each day on the subject. It’s no good bringing the government in, as they seem to accept it. Their answer “We didn’t know this was going on.” But that excuse is all too common from politicians.
They will print the story if I can prove it, but Tony, my old friend died a few years ago so I cannot confirm much. Tony is the only farmer I know and discussed the matter with so I can’t prove anything. But, in keeping with the free internet, I am going to ‘Print And Be Damned’, as I have with my book about Red Ash. I went to see his son, he replied “We have a license to export and import live beasts. We transport horses to Ireland and Belgium what they do with them is nothing to do with me.” So fuck off and ask them, but he ended up telling me to fuck off again. This was from a friend, we shared rounds of beer with occasionally in my local pub. So I went to talk to his brother, who drives the cattle lorry. I asked him what his brother meant about import and export licenses. I drive them to Ireland and bring back the horses I delivered the month before. Something to do with payments from the EU. Oh, it’s a fiddle? You said that, not me. From the media’s reply I read that I had no proof so like a fool tried to get some. It was not until later that I had a call from two policeman, one being my neighbour’s grandson, who I know well. “Mr. Smith, we have read your blog. Do you know how serious it is dealing with these kind of people? Your life or at least your health was in danger we are watching these people, so leave it to us.” “But this has been going on for years and it’s not nice not being believed by your own media, so I thought I’d get more evidence. “No!” was the stern reply. So thank you very much local media, I realise why you don’t investigate now, but wait for the public and idiots like me to do your dirty work. I’ll be more careful next time.
What our Local Newspaper will not Print
The Potteries people raped again. I thought this would have helped the area – a dozen celebrities, all authors from London, some with Potteries connections (there are no authors worth mentioning in Stoke on Tent according to Waterstones). Waterstones have refused to sell books by local authors, mine included. But what happened at the Stoke Literary Festival recently? Guess who were running the show at the Emma Bridgewater factory? Waterstones! What is wrong with Webberleys, they help local creative writing groups, or WH Smiths who sell our books for us?
I smell money burning, perhaps I am wrong, but I am not willing to bet on it. I believe the council set this affair up, so how come it was hijacked by Waterstones and Emma Bridgewater? The treatment given to local authors in a local showcase for literature was unfair. Although the staff were helpful, we were allocated an area well away from the “elite.” But when their marquee collapsed they kicked us out of our room and put us in an awful alleyway. What happened was that the marquee for the celebrities blew down in the night and by the time we locals arrived, they had moved us out, giving the accommodation to people from London. I could say more. We were treated like monkeys, only… no nuts. And to rub salt in our wounds our MP, Tristram Hunt, like everyone else, just looked quickly down our alley and disappeared. If he is Labour, I will eat my hat. Emma Bridgewater didn’t even bother to look, I don’t suppose she even knew we were there. But of course it is the Potteries once again treating the locals badly. The main writer’s groups in the area were not invited until pressure was brought on them, making the organisers relent. But the group still felt aggrieved, so they held their own impromptu festival in Newcastle library on the same day.
Debbie McCauley and many other local authors gave their advice and expertise. Mel Sherrat always helps the writers groups free of charge, not like the London elite, charging the audience £6 per head per lecture. Local councillor Garth Snell would have been better appreciated had he come in with us, rather than kow towing to the elite. At the entrance to the alleyway was a stall for the Sentinel giving goodie bags at a pound a time. Good value, I had one despite not staying long. The newspaper men went home early, leaving in disgust, saying no one was bothering and leaving us their ‘goodie bags’. Near the end, a brave lady did venture to my stall and picked up my book “From Oatcakes to Caviar”. I thought my luck had changed, she asked “What are oatcakes?” When I explained, she said quite indignantly “So that’s what the locals eat.” And then she walked away, the snooty cow. That was the final straw. I packed up and with my tail between my legs I made my way to my kennel. Please Stoke-on-Trent, no more unless consideration is given to us locals. We suffered enough, give us a chance. That is all we ask.