Did you chew gum as a youngster? Perhaps you did and still do. Was Station Road a mess because of spat out chewing gum from your jaw sagging mouth? Which brand did you like? Were you a bubble gummer and if so how big were your bubbles?
I await the answers to the above survey with interest but there is a bigger question: what do you think of of those members of Parliament that can be seen chewing away like depressed cows during televised Parliamentary business? There are only a few of them but one is too many.
During my career I attended many meetings with members of the public but not once did I chew gum, or anything else, during them. It simply was not good form to do such an unprofessional thing. Lately I have spotted a few MP's chewing away at a speed that suggests chewing gum is the item being chewed. The reputation of Parliament remains in tatters owing to many inappropriate claims to expenses by some members; you would think that chewing members would seek to convince the electorate of their professionalism not encourage more distain. It surely cannot be a sponsorship arrangement because, apart from anything else, the gum manufacturer cannot be identified; there again one company has the lion's share [rather than the cow's share] of the market so maybe there is some lucrative auto suggestion going on. Tongue in cheek there; just a bit.
I come to the question of chewing gum disposal; please monitor the methods being adopted by parliamentarians and report back if you will. I am particularly curious about whether any of them are in the habit of sticking used gum in inappropriate places.
WB
Wednesday 30 June 2010
Tuesday 29 June 2010
More Creative Writing
Here are a few fond and genuine memories expressed in a way that has been much influenced by my attendance at the local university writing course. I hope you enjoy them:
Walking was the default mode of transport in the coal mining villages of the 1950s. But the experience wasn’t all dirt and grime. It could, and often did, produce memories inspired by nature with a cast of thousands: Bluebells carpeted the wood, smiley sunflowers decorated Mr Dean’s garden, Mr Hope’s carnations popped up at village weddings, and dog roses appeared everywhere, other than at weddings. Two of nature’s spectacular specialists, thunder and lightning, occasionally lit up the stage, with support from unforgiving rain that lashed in their wake.
But Nature’s theatricals came at a cost. Parental condemnation, brought about by ill prepared rain sodden explorations, expressed itself sharply in a motherly fashion, ‘You stupid boy, why did you not take a raincoat?’ Her question was unanswerable but it was followed, like night that follows day, with an act of love made tangible by clean warm clothing - and Spotted Dick, if my luck was really in.
String, steam, and skewer were the enablers that etched themselves into my memory bank. The string secured the greaseproof paper that overlapped the basin’s sides and the steam process contributed to producing a pudding far superior to that other fraudulent alternative, the baked version. The skewer, having being inserted into the pudding at the allotted finishing time, to test for readiness, confirmed it by coming out clean and uncluttered. Much later the ever remembered cooking process would eagerly bring forward powerful and nostalgic yearnings for that 1950s version of the comforting, sweet and substantial Spotted Dick. Its availability was never guaranteed and a familiar substitute, equally remembered but seldom lauded, was the tired left over Yorkshire pudding; it was forever in alliance with blobs of strawberry jam and filled my non protesting young stomach with qualified contentment, if the pudding was not soggy or brittle.
One particular Sunday produced a well of excitement and expectation within me; it was signalled by a smiling father’s directive, ‘’Meet me by the buffers at two o’clock’’. He had a tremendously special job at the colliery and had promised to share it with me. I anticipated being the envy of a league of junior school personnel: the pupils, the teachers, the canteen ladies and even our caretaker, a man not easily impressed by much, if my little chit chats with him were a reliable guide.
Shortly before the appointed hour a proud and noisy show off announced itself with some rhythmic chuff chuffs; it became bigger and noisier by the second and its plan was to meet me. A different mode of transport, flight, was under my active consideration, but I stood my ground against a giant that seemed both friendly and intimidating. My guardian, the driver, my father no less, smiled a knowing smile as he scooped me up from the footplate into his cabin; the inner sanctum was full of puzzles, noises, threats, fiery glow and uncertainties – but he was a confident, well seasoned operative, and I knew it.
Father tugged the whistle cord, despite it being Sunday, and opened the regulator to control the passage of steam from boiler to cylinder. With the safety valve shut down – signified by a clicking noise, we began to move away from the buffers towards the colliery, known as the pit. I began to relax and remember that I had not eaten since breakfast, but that disconcerting thought was brushed aside by means of parental planning, provisions and a big shovel. It became clear to me that the fiery locomotive furnace, immediately in front us, was to be the cooking method; the ingredients would be bacon and eggs – they had suddenly appeared from under dad’s cap – and the shiny shovel would do the rest. First to submit were the uncooked eggs closely followed by the bacon. The treat was all the more delicious because of the entertaining and novel means of production which father had orchestrated with panache.
[Wilf Bell asserts his moral rights to be identified as the author of this work]
Walking was the default mode of transport in the coal mining villages of the 1950s. But the experience wasn’t all dirt and grime. It could, and often did, produce memories inspired by nature with a cast of thousands: Bluebells carpeted the wood, smiley sunflowers decorated Mr Dean’s garden, Mr Hope’s carnations popped up at village weddings, and dog roses appeared everywhere, other than at weddings. Two of nature’s spectacular specialists, thunder and lightning, occasionally lit up the stage, with support from unforgiving rain that lashed in their wake.
But Nature’s theatricals came at a cost. Parental condemnation, brought about by ill prepared rain sodden explorations, expressed itself sharply in a motherly fashion, ‘You stupid boy, why did you not take a raincoat?’ Her question was unanswerable but it was followed, like night that follows day, with an act of love made tangible by clean warm clothing - and Spotted Dick, if my luck was really in.
String, steam, and skewer were the enablers that etched themselves into my memory bank. The string secured the greaseproof paper that overlapped the basin’s sides and the steam process contributed to producing a pudding far superior to that other fraudulent alternative, the baked version. The skewer, having being inserted into the pudding at the allotted finishing time, to test for readiness, confirmed it by coming out clean and uncluttered. Much later the ever remembered cooking process would eagerly bring forward powerful and nostalgic yearnings for that 1950s version of the comforting, sweet and substantial Spotted Dick. Its availability was never guaranteed and a familiar substitute, equally remembered but seldom lauded, was the tired left over Yorkshire pudding; it was forever in alliance with blobs of strawberry jam and filled my non protesting young stomach with qualified contentment, if the pudding was not soggy or brittle.
One particular Sunday produced a well of excitement and expectation within me; it was signalled by a smiling father’s directive, ‘’Meet me by the buffers at two o’clock’’. He had a tremendously special job at the colliery and had promised to share it with me. I anticipated being the envy of a league of junior school personnel: the pupils, the teachers, the canteen ladies and even our caretaker, a man not easily impressed by much, if my little chit chats with him were a reliable guide.
Shortly before the appointed hour a proud and noisy show off announced itself with some rhythmic chuff chuffs; it became bigger and noisier by the second and its plan was to meet me. A different mode of transport, flight, was under my active consideration, but I stood my ground against a giant that seemed both friendly and intimidating. My guardian, the driver, my father no less, smiled a knowing smile as he scooped me up from the footplate into his cabin; the inner sanctum was full of puzzles, noises, threats, fiery glow and uncertainties – but he was a confident, well seasoned operative, and I knew it.
Father tugged the whistle cord, despite it being Sunday, and opened the regulator to control the passage of steam from boiler to cylinder. With the safety valve shut down – signified by a clicking noise, we began to move away from the buffers towards the colliery, known as the pit. I began to relax and remember that I had not eaten since breakfast, but that disconcerting thought was brushed aside by means of parental planning, provisions and a big shovel. It became clear to me that the fiery locomotive furnace, immediately in front us, was to be the cooking method; the ingredients would be bacon and eggs – they had suddenly appeared from under dad’s cap – and the shiny shovel would do the rest. First to submit were the uncooked eggs closely followed by the bacon. The treat was all the more delicious because of the entertaining and novel means of production which father had orchestrated with panache.
[Wilf Bell asserts his moral rights to be identified as the author of this work]
Monday 28 June 2010
My Favorite Summer Memory
I guess my fave summer memory, has to be my holidays in Newquay in Cornwall as a young boy. We drove down form Ushaw Moor down to Cornwall over a couple of days, stopping overnight at Tewkesbury. I guess that was my first memory of Surfing, at least surfing of a sort, on a poly short surf board, but it was great fun.
Stayed in a touring caravan with my sister Mum and Dad. I was lucky to get away so often as I did, spending most weekends away in the caravan.
Happy Days
Disconnected Thoughts
I like to think I am a free thinker but that thought is very suspect
Some of the people on Ushaw Moor Facebook are really interesting
Why is it that often the driver that fails to signal left or right is found to have a defective brake light?
How can students spend three years at university and come out feeling religious?
Harriet Harman has done well in recent question time confrontations with Cameron
Will it be raining in Ushaw Moor on 17/7?
England's defence was a shambles but Germany's is not that good either
Will we ever find new blood authors for this site?
The world would be a better place if more people took up Nordic walking and read Johann Hari
We do not need oil to run cars
Why go to restaurants when you can have fun cooking for loved ones at home? Less dicky stomachs are a bonus as well
WB
Some of the people on Ushaw Moor Facebook are really interesting
Why is it that often the driver that fails to signal left or right is found to have a defective brake light?
How can students spend three years at university and come out feeling religious?
Harriet Harman has done well in recent question time confrontations with Cameron
Will it be raining in Ushaw Moor on 17/7?
England's defence was a shambles but Germany's is not that good either
Will we ever find new blood authors for this site?
The world would be a better place if more people took up Nordic walking and read Johann Hari
We do not need oil to run cars
Why go to restaurants when you can have fun cooking for loved ones at home? Less dicky stomachs are a bonus as well
WB
Friday 25 June 2010
A Few Residents Of Albert Street
In the very early part of the 20th century John Brady and his wife Mary were living at 1 Albert Street Ushaw Moor together with their daughter Mary; John Hagan was their lodger for a time. Billy and Emily Nicholson lived nearby with their children Mary and John.
John Brunskill and his wife Emily were not far away in Albert Street; their children were Candais, Hannah and Jane; Tommy Price lodged with them.
There were quite a lot of lodgers in the village and perhaps that reflected a shortage of housing as well as itineracy. Lodgers contributions no doubt enabled some tenants to survive economically.
Do you recognise any of those names?
WB
John Brunskill and his wife Emily were not far away in Albert Street; their children were Candais, Hannah and Jane; Tommy Price lodged with them.
There were quite a lot of lodgers in the village and perhaps that reflected a shortage of housing as well as itineracy. Lodgers contributions no doubt enabled some tenants to survive economically.
Do you recognise any of those names?
WB
A Bicycle, Pen And Thomas Hardy
My parents gave me a lovely new bike at Christmas in 1957 and it gave me freedom, variety and occasional calamity. I recall the freedom to go to 'that bridge' and look down upon the Flying Scotsman. Paul Clough will be more familiar with that bridge and certainly will know how to spell its name - Relley Bridge perhaps - and confirm whether or not I am relating a false memory about the Flying Scotsman flashing underneath it.
I recall a minor accident on the road outside Neil Davies' home in Bracken Court during 1958. It might have been me that failed to negotiate a parked vehicle. Or was in Neil? Or was it Allan Burn? Which leads me on to some creative writing.
I have just recently completed a creative writing course at the local University and I enjoyed it a great deal. One of our tasks was to write a short piece about an inanimate object and I choose a pen. Hopefully the result is coming up shortly [cut and paste on the new package is still a minor mystery]. Before coming to that piece of work can I say that I recall ink pens at New Brancepeth school in 1952. Being left handed it was never easy for me to prevent the black blob and smudge. Can any other reader identify with that problem? Now then, the exciting bit. Can I cut and paste on this new package?
The Pen
Here I am, a wooden pen with a bright brain, lying in my glass prison. There’s a computer set back to my left and a pencil to my right. Let’s face it – they look as bored as I feel in this badly decorated box room.
Here comes the master. I could write so much that is meaningful but he never listens to me. He trots out the same old lists: five pounds of potatoes, cheesecake, tea....
When he suffers writers’ block he chews and squeezes me. His son is just as guilty. One day one, or both of them, might damage my brain. One of my neighbours, the pencil, has a rubber top so never gets chewed; mind you he does get squeezed – I have seen it happen so often.
When I am taken out I frequently cannot see a thing – when stuck in a top pocket or thrown to the bottom of his brown bag –has he not got one in another colour?
Oh look! He’s compiling one of his ‘to do lists’. Much of it never gets done; it’s more like a ‘not to do list’ if you ask me. He has just written ‘vacuum the box room’ but I hope that he puts that off because that vacuum cleaner is far too noisy.
Life is not all bad. I enjoy the internet even if my master’s choice is limited and predictable: Richard Dawkins, Derby County, Robbie Williams, A C Grayling and Johann Hari. On he goes to the newspapers: The Independent, The Guardian, Times and Telegraph – always in that order. I hope he goes back to that article about James Dyson – the man with a more efficient vacuum cleaner.
My master sometimes uses my ink to doodle and deliberate upon the internet’s complexities but more often he can be found to be forcibly tapping my stomach against his bony thumb in a most inhuman and painful way. I can do little to rectify his behaviour but I welcome any suggestions from whatever source.
I like writing thank you letters; in doing so I imagine I am giving lots of pleasure. His spelling is not too bad but he’s a bit mechanical - on the other hand his wife can’t spell but has the sensitivity he lacks.
In my quieter moments I wonder what the purpose of my life is. Is it just to write? What will happen when my ink runs out? Is there a place where pens go for a nice time when they are inkless? Am I refillable?
Oh! Out of his pocket has come a sleek and slender silvery pen. I am not familiar with her – I wonder whether she is going to try and replace me or join me.
Thanks for reading that. Now for Thomas Hardy. Back at college decades ago I was lambasted by the lecturer for daring to criticise that highly regarded writer Thomas Hardy.At the time my immature but decisive brain signalled yawns when it was time to do Hardy. Imagine my surprise when a few weeks ago a young, clear eyed, pleasant looking young graduate declared that my writing reminded her of Thomas Hardy! It related to a longer piece of mine and although it was flattering and wrong to link me with a greatly accomplished writer it has nevertheless given me some confidence to persevere; I will try to ' hack through the wood' and go onto better things. I have twigged that creative writing will improve my observational skills and in the long run enrich my vocabulary.
WB
I recall a minor accident on the road outside Neil Davies' home in Bracken Court during 1958. It might have been me that failed to negotiate a parked vehicle. Or was in Neil? Or was it Allan Burn? Which leads me on to some creative writing.
I have just recently completed a creative writing course at the local University and I enjoyed it a great deal. One of our tasks was to write a short piece about an inanimate object and I choose a pen. Hopefully the result is coming up shortly [cut and paste on the new package is still a minor mystery]. Before coming to that piece of work can I say that I recall ink pens at New Brancepeth school in 1952. Being left handed it was never easy for me to prevent the black blob and smudge. Can any other reader identify with that problem? Now then, the exciting bit. Can I cut and paste on this new package?
The Pen
Here I am, a wooden pen with a bright brain, lying in my glass prison. There’s a computer set back to my left and a pencil to my right. Let’s face it – they look as bored as I feel in this badly decorated box room.
Here comes the master. I could write so much that is meaningful but he never listens to me. He trots out the same old lists: five pounds of potatoes, cheesecake, tea....
When he suffers writers’ block he chews and squeezes me. His son is just as guilty. One day one, or both of them, might damage my brain. One of my neighbours, the pencil, has a rubber top so never gets chewed; mind you he does get squeezed – I have seen it happen so often.
When I am taken out I frequently cannot see a thing – when stuck in a top pocket or thrown to the bottom of his brown bag –has he not got one in another colour?
Oh look! He’s compiling one of his ‘to do lists’. Much of it never gets done; it’s more like a ‘not to do list’ if you ask me. He has just written ‘vacuum the box room’ but I hope that he puts that off because that vacuum cleaner is far too noisy.
Life is not all bad. I enjoy the internet even if my master’s choice is limited and predictable: Richard Dawkins, Derby County, Robbie Williams, A C Grayling and Johann Hari. On he goes to the newspapers: The Independent, The Guardian, Times and Telegraph – always in that order. I hope he goes back to that article about James Dyson – the man with a more efficient vacuum cleaner.
My master sometimes uses my ink to doodle and deliberate upon the internet’s complexities but more often he can be found to be forcibly tapping my stomach against his bony thumb in a most inhuman and painful way. I can do little to rectify his behaviour but I welcome any suggestions from whatever source.
I like writing thank you letters; in doing so I imagine I am giving lots of pleasure. His spelling is not too bad but he’s a bit mechanical - on the other hand his wife can’t spell but has the sensitivity he lacks.
In my quieter moments I wonder what the purpose of my life is. Is it just to write? What will happen when my ink runs out? Is there a place where pens go for a nice time when they are inkless? Am I refillable?
Oh! Out of his pocket has come a sleek and slender silvery pen. I am not familiar with her – I wonder whether she is going to try and replace me or join me.
Thanks for reading that. Now for Thomas Hardy. Back at college decades ago I was lambasted by the lecturer for daring to criticise that highly regarded writer Thomas Hardy.At the time my immature but decisive brain signalled yawns when it was time to do Hardy. Imagine my surprise when a few weeks ago a young, clear eyed, pleasant looking young graduate declared that my writing reminded her of Thomas Hardy! It related to a longer piece of mine and although it was flattering and wrong to link me with a greatly accomplished writer it has nevertheless given me some confidence to persevere; I will try to ' hack through the wood' and go onto better things. I have twigged that creative writing will improve my observational skills and in the long run enrich my vocabulary.
WB
Tuesday 22 June 2010
England 4 Brazil 2
Does that football scoreline appeal to you? Believe it or not that is a real scoreline albeit from 1956. It is a strange scoreline and the players' wages were even stranger, being more akin to those of supporters that went to the game to support England. The players had some colour about them: Reg Matthews was a brilliant and brave goalkeeper and Johnny Haynes was a master of the accurate and perceptive pass. Duncan Edwards was a youngster of towering proportions and played like a young giant; he was a member of that brilliant Manchester United team of 1957 and I had the privilage of seeing him, Roger Byrne and Tommy Taylor as part of a United team that enjoyed a 2-1 win at Newcastle United just prior to their deaths in the Munich disaster.
When England's matches were on the television, usually on a Wednesday, I used to dash home from the school in Temperance Terrace to watch them and I was seldom disappointed with the result. The players played with pride and understood the fans in a way that is not always possible these days.
The players of that generation were not separated from the public by an enormous disparity in wages and as far as I know never appeared in magazines such as Hello. Neither did they live in mansions. To be honest I welcome a huge rise in the wages of professional players; what I do not like are the rates that amount to a pigs' trough and make a mockery of the relationship between fans and clubs. I have said it before: I would not pay thirty pounds to see Derby County play Man U or Newcastle play Sunderland even if the game was only five minutes away from my door. I will go further and say that if Slovenia beat England I will not care a great deal. The English game is sick and is propped up by wonderfully skilful foreign players at a cost to up and coming English players. So that being the state of affairs do not expect me to get excited about a 1-0 win against Slovenia but do expect me to be a tad cheery in the event of defeat.
I do try to think globally, and welcome free trade, but football needs to sort out its identity; is it 100 per cent business or perhaps 70-30 business and sport? The English game needs sorting out and perhaps an early exit will do its team good in the long run even if it leaves the leisure business crying to the bank.
Come on Slovenia.
WB
When England's matches were on the television, usually on a Wednesday, I used to dash home from the school in Temperance Terrace to watch them and I was seldom disappointed with the result. The players played with pride and understood the fans in a way that is not always possible these days.
The players of that generation were not separated from the public by an enormous disparity in wages and as far as I know never appeared in magazines such as Hello. Neither did they live in mansions. To be honest I welcome a huge rise in the wages of professional players; what I do not like are the rates that amount to a pigs' trough and make a mockery of the relationship between fans and clubs. I have said it before: I would not pay thirty pounds to see Derby County play Man U or Newcastle play Sunderland even if the game was only five minutes away from my door. I will go further and say that if Slovenia beat England I will not care a great deal. The English game is sick and is propped up by wonderfully skilful foreign players at a cost to up and coming English players. So that being the state of affairs do not expect me to get excited about a 1-0 win against Slovenia but do expect me to be a tad cheery in the event of defeat.
I do try to think globally, and welcome free trade, but football needs to sort out its identity; is it 100 per cent business or perhaps 70-30 business and sport? The English game needs sorting out and perhaps an early exit will do its team good in the long run even if it leaves the leisure business crying to the bank.
Come on Slovenia.
WB
Monday 21 June 2010
1959 Was A Bad Year For Science
We went a whole year without science teaching at a time when grammar schools and others were pumping in facts to help open up minds and maximize GCE results. It was a travesty and a disgrace that reached far beyond our headmaster and the County Council. I recall that we were entertained by a personable and no doubt knowlegeable teacher called Mr Fawcett. I guess he was filling in and he did it with much humour. I was not impressed by his goal scoring in our school team's 4-1 victory over the teachers; well yes I was impressed because he took it well - but it was salt being rubbed into our science starved eyes.
Coming up to date - the theory of Evolution is accepted by the Pope, and many other influential people, but despite that too much of American education is siding with a world that took seven days to form. I ask you! It gets worse: if you believe media reports the outdated emphasis on creation is also much closer to home -at first I thought it was Sunderland but now believe it's Gateshead.
I do hope the theory of evolution is put firmly in front of young minds by means of the curriculum. I do hope that the elementary facts of science fire the imagine of youngsters in such a way that they are enabled to appreciate the brilliance of Professor Brian Cox and others. I do hope that I can put 1959 to bed safe in the knowledge that youngsters are free from the taint of superstition and entranced by a better magic called science. If such a dream comes true it might help to save the planet one day!
WB
Coming up to date - the theory of Evolution is accepted by the Pope, and many other influential people, but despite that too much of American education is siding with a world that took seven days to form. I ask you! It gets worse: if you believe media reports the outdated emphasis on creation is also much closer to home -at first I thought it was Sunderland but now believe it's Gateshead.
I do hope the theory of evolution is put firmly in front of young minds by means of the curriculum. I do hope that the elementary facts of science fire the imagine of youngsters in such a way that they are enabled to appreciate the brilliance of Professor Brian Cox and others. I do hope that I can put 1959 to bed safe in the knowledge that youngsters are free from the taint of superstition and entranced by a better magic called science. If such a dream comes true it might help to save the planet one day!
WB
Sunday 20 June 2010
Tories To Tread Carefully Or Suffer Electoral Disaster?
This article has little to do with Ushaw Moor memories but it is written by a lad that walked the Ushaw Moor walk in the 50s and what a walk it was. Some of the windows in Temperance Terrace looked a bit rough; window curtains were not universal and I saw many a newspaper headline up at windows on my way to school. It was a time before Tax Credits and Supplementary Benefits as we now understand them. If you were in work the food on the table was tolerable but if you were not...
The then Tory prime minister said we had never had it so good, but be that as it may, at one point one of our neighbours could not afford a custard tart from the travelling shop and mum helped out with a penny that made all the difference. Even though my step-father was in regular work I found myself on the eve of a school cup final without football boots.
Tuesday will be a big day for the coalition; cuts there will be but where will they apply? There is a hint that the middle classes will take some pain and many of them can no doubt adjust to it. If cuts are fair to society, as a whole, then that is to the good but it still begs the question: will the timing and scale of them be wise? I do hope Mr Osborne has some wise advisers because the decisions to be made are immensely complex in that one thing can adversely affect another so easily. I see it as an opportunity for the modern updated Tories to come out and show us what they are. It was not that long ago that they were poised to financially disintegrate; they had been seen for what they were so surely now they must chart a socially fair course; the alternative might be a public backlash the like of which have not been seen for a while.
With regard to coming out the Prime Minister was all over the place recently regarding Gays. He blustered over his past record of voting and even asked for the interview to restart. That in itself suggests spin over leadership. Currently Tory spin is particularly good but the substance has to be revealed and we shall see what we shall see over the next year or so.
WB
The then Tory prime minister said we had never had it so good, but be that as it may, at one point one of our neighbours could not afford a custard tart from the travelling shop and mum helped out with a penny that made all the difference. Even though my step-father was in regular work I found myself on the eve of a school cup final without football boots.
Tuesday will be a big day for the coalition; cuts there will be but where will they apply? There is a hint that the middle classes will take some pain and many of them can no doubt adjust to it. If cuts are fair to society, as a whole, then that is to the good but it still begs the question: will the timing and scale of them be wise? I do hope Mr Osborne has some wise advisers because the decisions to be made are immensely complex in that one thing can adversely affect another so easily. I see it as an opportunity for the modern updated Tories to come out and show us what they are. It was not that long ago that they were poised to financially disintegrate; they had been seen for what they were so surely now they must chart a socially fair course; the alternative might be a public backlash the like of which have not been seen for a while.
With regard to coming out the Prime Minister was all over the place recently regarding Gays. He blustered over his past record of voting and even asked for the interview to restart. That in itself suggests spin over leadership. Currently Tory spin is particularly good but the substance has to be revealed and we shall see what we shall see over the next year or so.
WB
Saturday 19 June 2010
On The Buses
We all know that the main function of a bus is to get from A to B but there can be several very upsetting subplots; thanks to Paul's big red picture of a shiny United bus it is all coming back to me. For a start how is it that the National Lottery has never come up with 43 44 47? There has been plenty of 42 45, or even the comic's favourite 44 45. Could today be the big day for 43 44 47? Are you tempted and will you be grateful to me in Ushaw Moor Cricket Club on 17/7 when you roll up in a posh car? The trouble with numbers is that most of them have some significance and the big win is so elusive. Keep the faith in 43 44 47 but don't tell the church.
There can be snobbery associated with bus transport. I know one potential father in law who rejected his daughter's suitor because he was 'only' a joiner. That snobby man was a bus inspector! I have to say that I respect bus inspectors but not if they are so snobby and delusional about their walk of life. A bus driver has far more responsibility than a bus inspector and as for a colliery joiner - any joiner for that matter -he/she is far more skilful that a bus inspector; the latter has little more to do than know how to catch a bus and do a simple check on tickets. Tell me I am wrong. The joiner joins things, usually in a workshop and with all the pomp of a trade. I hope that Michael Gove can dismiss Victorian snobbery, will all its associated faeces, and give full recognition to skills worthy of pride.
There is something about Northern folk that often pleases the eyes and ears. Back in the 50s they often chatted away on the 47 in anticipation of a good film at the Palladium or Essoldo, with a packet of fags to [admittedly] foul the air; brylcreamed hair often recognised the occasion just as it did at other venues such as cricket matches. Brylcream is associated with Denis Compton's adverts and they were big on buses in the 50s but that is another story.
WB
There can be snobbery associated with bus transport. I know one potential father in law who rejected his daughter's suitor because he was 'only' a joiner. That snobby man was a bus inspector! I have to say that I respect bus inspectors but not if they are so snobby and delusional about their walk of life. A bus driver has far more responsibility than a bus inspector and as for a colliery joiner - any joiner for that matter -he/she is far more skilful that a bus inspector; the latter has little more to do than know how to catch a bus and do a simple check on tickets. Tell me I am wrong. The joiner joins things, usually in a workshop and with all the pomp of a trade. I hope that Michael Gove can dismiss Victorian snobbery, will all its associated faeces, and give full recognition to skills worthy of pride.
There is something about Northern folk that often pleases the eyes and ears. Back in the 50s they often chatted away on the 47 in anticipation of a good film at the Palladium or Essoldo, with a packet of fags to [admittedly] foul the air; brylcreamed hair often recognised the occasion just as it did at other venues such as cricket matches. Brylcream is associated with Denis Compton's adverts and they were big on buses in the 50s but that is another story.
WB
Monday 14 June 2010
Ushaw Moor's Full FA Cup Record
It spans the years 1950 to 1955, as follows:
1950/51 Brandon CW [CW stands for Colliery Welfare]] brought an away 1-0 win then a 2-2 away draw at Crook Town followed by a 3-2 home win in the replay. The run ended in a 3-1 home defeat to Blackhall CW.
1951/52 Defeat again to Blackhall CW - 2-1 away.
1952/53 The run started with a 2-0 home win against Chilton Athletic, followed up with a 4-1 home win against Silksworth CW. Then came grief at Horden CW in the form of a 3-1 defeat.
1953/4
A 1-1 draw at Murton CW started the ball rolling and it was followed by a handsome 4-1 win in the replay. A difficult trip to Horden CW ended the campaign - a 4-2 defeat that day.
1954/55 brought quick grief but much pride - Durham City 4 Ushaw Moor 3.
WB - with acknowledgements to the Football Club History Database.
1950/51 Brandon CW [CW stands for Colliery Welfare]] brought an away 1-0 win then a 2-2 away draw at Crook Town followed by a 3-2 home win in the replay. The run ended in a 3-1 home defeat to Blackhall CW.
1951/52 Defeat again to Blackhall CW - 2-1 away.
1952/53 The run started with a 2-0 home win against Chilton Athletic, followed up with a 4-1 home win against Silksworth CW. Then came grief at Horden CW in the form of a 3-1 defeat.
1953/4
A 1-1 draw at Murton CW started the ball rolling and it was followed by a handsome 4-1 win in the replay. A difficult trip to Horden CW ended the campaign - a 4-2 defeat that day.
1954/55 brought quick grief but much pride - Durham City 4 Ushaw Moor 3.
WB - with acknowledgements to the Football Club History Database.
There's No Point In Making The Call
From time to time, especially when my writing dries up, I have thought about telephoning my half-sister to cadge an Ushaw Moor memory posting from her. Although she would be friendly and caring enough she does not 'do' nostalgia nor looking back. Neither has she much interest in family history. Her view is largely that what is done is done and there is little point in looking back. I have some sympathy for her point of view and you might be surprised by that! Having said that my sympathy does not stretch to agreement. We owe it to our children to get life stories down on paper, as well as stored electronically. Furthermore some understanding of the past can enable us to negotiate the present and decide some of our options for the future. The act of writing is also good for the brain's creative side.
Then of course there is the fun! Take last week. Having spent years trying to track down some film of the 1946 Cup Final, between Derby County and Charlton Athletic, I stumbled across it in my researches. I was able to, albeit briefly, watch Horatio [Raich] Carter in all his pomp and the Irishman Peter Doherty in all his spell binding finery.
So there we have it. I will not be making the appeal to my half-sister in the knowledge that she is cheese and I am chalk, at any rate about doing the past.
WB
Then of course there is the fun! Take last week. Having spent years trying to track down some film of the 1946 Cup Final, between Derby County and Charlton Athletic, I stumbled across it in my researches. I was able to, albeit briefly, watch Horatio [Raich] Carter in all his pomp and the Irishman Peter Doherty in all his spell binding finery.
So there we have it. I will not be making the appeal to my half-sister in the knowledge that she is cheese and I am chalk, at any rate about doing the past.
WB
Saturday 12 June 2010
The Sky's The Limit?
We subscribed to Sky TV a few weeks ago and it is troubling me a bit. Reception is good, and choice is plentiful, but that choice is the hub of the problem. There are too many films to tempt me in retirement and there is a danger of sloth and accumulated fat. It must not happen. It must not. I must increase my Nordic Walking activity.
We did not have so much choice back in the 50s but there were some gems. Take Wagon Train; wonderful drama that tended to involve disputes, romance and too much drink. Although Ward Bond was a commanding wagon master was that a factual portrayal of the role? My understanding is that in reality the wagon master did not have much power; it was his task to get the train moving. Furthermore the portrayal of a train seems to be misleading in that often the wagons were abreast. We loved the programme nevertheless.
Do you remember Quatermass in the 50s? It frightened the life out of me at the time in a way that Dr Who could never do. Those Daleks were utterly ridiculous and there is no danger of them ever taking over the world.
Can you imagine a Dalek playing centre forward for Sunderland? They were so clumsy and easy to panic. By the way the best save by a goalkeeper that I witnessed involved Jim Montgomery. He appeared too far out of goal to deal with a lob but by arching his back and showing a wonderful gymnastic turn he tipped the ball over the bar. Utterly memorable and not a Dalek in sight.
WB
We did not have so much choice back in the 50s but there were some gems. Take Wagon Train; wonderful drama that tended to involve disputes, romance and too much drink. Although Ward Bond was a commanding wagon master was that a factual portrayal of the role? My understanding is that in reality the wagon master did not have much power; it was his task to get the train moving. Furthermore the portrayal of a train seems to be misleading in that often the wagons were abreast. We loved the programme nevertheless.
Do you remember Quatermass in the 50s? It frightened the life out of me at the time in a way that Dr Who could never do. Those Daleks were utterly ridiculous and there is no danger of them ever taking over the world.
Can you imagine a Dalek playing centre forward for Sunderland? They were so clumsy and easy to panic. By the way the best save by a goalkeeper that I witnessed involved Jim Montgomery. He appeared too far out of goal to deal with a lob but by arching his back and showing a wonderful gymnastic turn he tipped the ball over the bar. Utterly memorable and not a Dalek in sight.
WB
Thursday 10 June 2010
A Provocative Look At Red White And Blue?
Although I admire the Queen, and wish the Duke of Edinburgh well on the occasion of his 89th birthday, I am not a royalist; there is little logic to it once you strip away the falsehood of divine right of kings. And why should someone be king or queen. purely because of their exit from a particular womb?
Back in 1953 it was so different. I was an innocent child entranced by a free coronation mug and the sight of scores of brilliant red ,white and blue flags. I loved the excitement of it, as well as the cakes, jelly and meat sandwiches so lovingly handed out to us bairns. Little did I know, in 1953, that the Queen's mother had already got a history of spending money as if the nation was about to convert to a barter system. Neither did I not know that for much of WW2 she had stayed at comparatively safe Windsor, whilst some PR had given the impression that she was sharing the experience of explosions dished out to those in London.
I see that Prince Charles is blaming the world's ills on 'soulless consumerism and Galileo'; I bet that goes down well with the coalition.
WB
Back in 1953 it was so different. I was an innocent child entranced by a free coronation mug and the sight of scores of brilliant red ,white and blue flags. I loved the excitement of it, as well as the cakes, jelly and meat sandwiches so lovingly handed out to us bairns. Little did I know, in 1953, that the Queen's mother had already got a history of spending money as if the nation was about to convert to a barter system. Neither did I not know that for much of WW2 she had stayed at comparatively safe Windsor, whilst some PR had given the impression that she was sharing the experience of explosions dished out to those in London.
I see that Prince Charles is blaming the world's ills on 'soulless consumerism and Galileo'; I bet that goes down well with the coalition.
WB
Wednesday 9 June 2010
Italy And WB Deserve Each Other
The final stages of the World Cup are almost upon us. Which team do you fancy? Although my money is on Spain the best team does not always win.
As for Italy just how many games of the 0-0 1-0 variety can we put up with? Is its boring football something to do with the personality of the players? Some Italians are not boring but the football played by their national side is often sleep inducing. Which brings me to cricket.
I was probably the most boring northern batsman in 1968. Was that something to do with my personality at that time? Take NCB Team Valley v Philadelphia Workshops as an example. I captained the former for a while but because I had so little faith in my fellow batsman I refused to play an evening match of more than 18 overs per innings. 18 overs! Reed Kitchen, the opposition's captain, tried to get me to agree to 24 overs then 20. No deal no dice. I recall sharing an opening partnership of 50 runs with Alan Eltringham before he went for 32. I had 18 runs at that point but then attempting to increase the tempo I tried a a pull shot, for the first time in the innings, and holed out to a fielder that had no right to catch it. Sadly he must have been 6 feet 4 inches in height because he did catch the blooming thing. 50-2. I was right of course - about keeping it to 18 overs - we were all out for 68 in the final over. Sadly I was dishonest in that game and got found out for it later. The crime? Alan Eltringham played for a village team just down the road and was not entitled to play for the NCB team, not that he was aware of this; he thought he was doing me a favour by helping out.
Italy was boring at football, and I was a sadly repressed batsman with a good defence but an under used cover drive and square cut. I had the shots, and used them, but with as much gusto and regularity as Italy's football team in attacking mode.
Do not book Italy and WB for a comedy club appearance. The beer would not sell and the laughs would not register.
WB
As for Italy just how many games of the 0-0 1-0 variety can we put up with? Is its boring football something to do with the personality of the players? Some Italians are not boring but the football played by their national side is often sleep inducing. Which brings me to cricket.
I was probably the most boring northern batsman in 1968. Was that something to do with my personality at that time? Take NCB Team Valley v Philadelphia Workshops as an example. I captained the former for a while but because I had so little faith in my fellow batsman I refused to play an evening match of more than 18 overs per innings. 18 overs! Reed Kitchen, the opposition's captain, tried to get me to agree to 24 overs then 20. No deal no dice. I recall sharing an opening partnership of 50 runs with Alan Eltringham before he went for 32. I had 18 runs at that point but then attempting to increase the tempo I tried a a pull shot, for the first time in the innings, and holed out to a fielder that had no right to catch it. Sadly he must have been 6 feet 4 inches in height because he did catch the blooming thing. 50-2. I was right of course - about keeping it to 18 overs - we were all out for 68 in the final over. Sadly I was dishonest in that game and got found out for it later. The crime? Alan Eltringham played for a village team just down the road and was not entitled to play for the NCB team, not that he was aware of this; he thought he was doing me a favour by helping out.
Italy was boring at football, and I was a sadly repressed batsman with a good defence but an under used cover drive and square cut. I had the shots, and used them, but with as much gusto and regularity as Italy's football team in attacking mode.
Do not book Italy and WB for a comedy club appearance. The beer would not sell and the laughs would not register.
WB
Which Way To The Tower Of London?
As we wait for those elusive writers to appear out of the mists, with fingers to tap out tales of old Ushaw Moor, we must get prepared for a bit of social upheaval and excitement of the financial kind. There will soon be extraordinary bills to question and perhaps pay. Are you ready to pay the bills of bankers? Do you hope that the Liberal Democrats can dampen down Tory inspired gore? Will Vince Cable be your hero or are we looking to Watt Tyler for inspiration?
I would not trust the Tories to help me cross the road. As for their coalition partners the jury is still out; I have followed them with some affection but will they blow their big chance to show social justice at centre stage for the sake of vanities, money and power?
Ushaw Moor memories are harmless fun but they may become more than that soon; could it be that they will be a safety valve or refuge from the reality of sword slashing Tories in all their pomp?
Which way to the Tower of London?
WB
I would not trust the Tories to help me cross the road. As for their coalition partners the jury is still out; I have followed them with some affection but will they blow their big chance to show social justice at centre stage for the sake of vanities, money and power?
Ushaw Moor memories are harmless fun but they may become more than that soon; could it be that they will be a safety valve or refuge from the reality of sword slashing Tories in all their pomp?
Which way to the Tower of London?
WB
Monday 7 June 2010
Melvin Thompson
I recall a young lad of that name. I hope I have the correct spelling of his forename but it is open to some doubt. I do not recall him ever being in an 'A' Form but he was always capable of getting in one's hair. He was often very assertive and chipper and maybe that was partly to do with his below average height. I do recall once inviting him to one of my birthday parties but sadly he did not turn up. All that jelly and custard went to waste, as well as crisps and cakes and goodness knows what. Never mind, I forgave him!
He was not part of the school football scene: I cannot ever remember facing him but can imagine that if he had been able to play the game it would have given me some experience of a Billy Bremner type opponent. I would have enjoyed treading on his toes and smiling afterwards even though I was a very clean player as a rule.
It is difficult to assess someone of so long ago, the 1950s era: I was a child myself and lacked sufficient wisdom and maturity to enable me to make a fair assessment. I can comment on bluebells and Spotted Dick but Melvin was quite something else. I think he was a troubled lad and the best example of that was his abuse of Mr Tonks, a very good teacher at Ushaw Moor Modern school. Mr Tonks finally lost his rag [but not his professionalism] in a way permitted by 50s teaching culture and that seemed to be that. Sometime later a man, that I can only assume to be Melvin's father, attacked Mr Tonks on school premises instead of giving Melvin his considered attention and a rocket to boot.
I am very sorry that Melvin died prematurely and hold no grudges against him. May he rest in peace.
WB
He was not part of the school football scene: I cannot ever remember facing him but can imagine that if he had been able to play the game it would have given me some experience of a Billy Bremner type opponent. I would have enjoyed treading on his toes and smiling afterwards even though I was a very clean player as a rule.
It is difficult to assess someone of so long ago, the 1950s era: I was a child myself and lacked sufficient wisdom and maturity to enable me to make a fair assessment. I can comment on bluebells and Spotted Dick but Melvin was quite something else. I think he was a troubled lad and the best example of that was his abuse of Mr Tonks, a very good teacher at Ushaw Moor Modern school. Mr Tonks finally lost his rag [but not his professionalism] in a way permitted by 50s teaching culture and that seemed to be that. Sometime later a man, that I can only assume to be Melvin's father, attacked Mr Tonks on school premises instead of giving Melvin his considered attention and a rocket to boot.
I am very sorry that Melvin died prematurely and hold no grudges against him. May he rest in peace.
WB
Don't You Believe It
Decade after decade people and organisations have frequently bombarded us with advice regarding all manner of things, but caution is the key word. Sometimes we hear dross like 'do not read books because they are bad for you' or even 'don't smile because it will give you wrinkles'.
There are numerous other pieces of advice offered to us, some of which are good for both the individual and even for humanity as a whole, but look out for dross. It is true that there are plenty of bad books that mislead but civilization relies on the knowledge from good books and the gems from great minds. On a good day you could decide that some civilizations are like an ever growing pyramid built upon genius and that books are one of the mediums of expression that enable it.
As for the non smiling anti- wrinkle idea - that is being peddled as an anti- ageing technique that denies the personality its easily identifiable expression. To smile, frown, and show the glitter in your eyes is a means of communication; it gets us through the day. Do you want to walk around looking like your passport photograph? No, I thought not.
WB
There are numerous other pieces of advice offered to us, some of which are good for both the individual and even for humanity as a whole, but look out for dross. It is true that there are plenty of bad books that mislead but civilization relies on the knowledge from good books and the gems from great minds. On a good day you could decide that some civilizations are like an ever growing pyramid built upon genius and that books are one of the mediums of expression that enable it.
As for the non smiling anti- wrinkle idea - that is being peddled as an anti- ageing technique that denies the personality its easily identifiable expression. To smile, frown, and show the glitter in your eyes is a means of communication; it gets us through the day. Do you want to walk around looking like your passport photograph? No, I thought not.
WB
Saturday 5 June 2010
After A But Before C
Let me start with brief notes about a celebrated Esh Winning Bushby. In the 30s Harry Bushby had a business at 65 Durham Road Esh Winning. Arthur Hodgson recalls that Harry had a bit of a motoring problem in that he was very reluctant to reverse; in fact he sometimes took longish routes, at least a mile, to enable a turnaround that obviated the need for him to reverse.
Little bluish indents can still be seen on some elderly ex miners faces. They were caused by chips of coal penetrating [and stinging] their faces.
The Ballarat coal seem was, according to Arthur Hodgson, excellent for domestic coal use. Can some older folk recall that?
Ushaw Moor's batsmen and bowlers, of 1947 vintage, are the subject of much detail [courtesy of Norman Hope] in my article published on 26/07/2006. It can be viewed on an older archive via the current site. If you have an interest, but cannot find the archive, just make a comment to that effect and I will advise you further].
The Blue Dot refers to our planet. Just google - Blue Dot Carl Sagan - and you will capture it. It shows just how insignificant we are. As well as giving you access to a picture of Earth from a huge, huge, distance [taken by Nasa] he provides a moving account of what the picture means to him - here is just a flavour. 'Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark'.
Let me finish with a few Ushaw Moor people of yesterday [30s-40s] that had a surname beginning with the letter B: John Bell - farmer of Cockhouse Lane, Sydney Brown a baker at 67 Station Road, Billy Brown a general smith and horse shoer, Louisa Burn a shop owner and Nelly Burnip a ladies hairdresser of 66 Station Road.
WB
Little bluish indents can still be seen on some elderly ex miners faces. They were caused by chips of coal penetrating [and stinging] their faces.
The Ballarat coal seem was, according to Arthur Hodgson, excellent for domestic coal use. Can some older folk recall that?
Ushaw Moor's batsmen and bowlers, of 1947 vintage, are the subject of much detail [courtesy of Norman Hope] in my article published on 26/07/2006. It can be viewed on an older archive via the current site. If you have an interest, but cannot find the archive, just make a comment to that effect and I will advise you further].
The Blue Dot refers to our planet. Just google - Blue Dot Carl Sagan - and you will capture it. It shows just how insignificant we are. As well as giving you access to a picture of Earth from a huge, huge, distance [taken by Nasa] he provides a moving account of what the picture means to him - here is just a flavour. 'Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark'.
Let me finish with a few Ushaw Moor people of yesterday [30s-40s] that had a surname beginning with the letter B: John Bell - farmer of Cockhouse Lane, Sydney Brown a baker at 67 Station Road, Billy Brown a general smith and horse shoer, Louisa Burn a shop owner and Nelly Burnip a ladies hairdresser of 66 Station Road.
WB
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