Norman greeted me cheerfully on my arrival at his neat and tidy flat. The twinkle in his blue eyes and his love of life remain undiminished despite his considerable years; it showed in his readiness to chat away about himself and life in general. He is not a self absorbed man rather he takes a keen interest in news and sport [by way of his radio and television] but not necessarily in that order!
Norman was born to George and Francis Gleghorn in Eshwood Street, New Brancepeth in 1926. He was one of ten children, but as he pointed out, such a large family was not so unusual at that time.
Norman attended New Brancepeth School and although he recalls that gardening was a prominent part of the school's curriculum he was not interested in Mr Turnbull's gardening lessons, or for that matter George Hill's woodwork; his love was sport and more sport. He represented the school at football and cricket and enjoyed the experience so much.
Having left school at 14 he then spent the next 10 years working at New Brancepeth Coke Ovens as a mechanical fitter. It operated a three shift system; 6am to 2 pm - 2pm to 10pm and 10pm to 6am. During his time there the cokeworks never closed, not even on Christmas Day or New Year's Day, and Norman finds that fact remarkable to this day.
During our meeting Norman's daughter Ingrid, and his grand-daughter Sarah, popped in and out. It was obvious that they love and care for Norman in a very positive way.
Norman went on to say that the poor working conditions at the cokeworks persuaded him to find a healthier occupation and it arrived in the form of window cleaning. Norman is good with people and that, together with his need to keep fit for sport, made window cleaning such an attractive proposition. He spent many a year cleaning windows and he became a familiar sight on his rounds.
I felt it was time to challenge Norman: did he clean upstairs windows? I asked because a well respected contributor to the site had suggested that Norman had no head for heights. Norman looked at me and declared that he did ups as well as downs! I duly accepted his solemn declaration with a chuckle from me and a smile from him.
We moved on to football. Norman informed me that he had been given a trial by Derby County in 1947, as had Ronnie Peart from Bearpark. Derby booked them into the local Railway hotel on a bed and breakfast basis. The trial itself was played behind closed doors to prevent the possibility of spies from rival clubs having a look at promising players and possibly nicking them. Before the game the trialists were introduced to Horatio 'Raich' Carter and Peter Doherty, both of whom were two of the finest inside forwards to play in English football. I listened to this, having being a Derby follower since 1954, and felt envious to say the least! At one point during the day of the trial some Derby fans asked Soccer for his autograph and he still enjoys that memory!
As for the trial itself sadly it did not go well enough. The full back was good and Norman was young and nervous: those factors caused Derby to reject him. How dare they!
At 10.39am, some fifteen minutes into our discussion, Norman offered me a whisky. I declined with thanks but now regret the lost opportunity. He then pointed to a picture of himself taken with the England Test cricketer Paul Collingwood. He was rightly proud, as well he should be, because Collingwood is a test cricketer that fights hard for the English cause. He then showed me a photograph of himself taken with Cheryl Crowe. Have I got the name right? I get the Crowe's and Coles mixed up. Soccer described her as being a beautiful lady. He gets around....
On with his football career. He played for several teams and Ushaw Moor, Spennymoor United, Consett and York City Reserves spring to my mind.
'The ball was hard in those days and the lace could hurt. The modern ball is like a swerving balloon'. It is hard to disagree with Norman. He reminisced about some local players: it was Billy Findlay [Finlay?} at inside right that had opened the scoring with a header in the 3-1 defeat suffered at the hands of the great Bishop Auckland team. Soccer felt that Ushaw Moor had played well but towards the end Bishop Auckland were playing effective keep ball. Tommy Sharp was a very good full back and worked as a draughtsman at Mackays factory - at one point he ran a pub in Durham. Soccer said that Tommy could head a ball further than he could kick it. Tot Smith was an ex Blackpool player and played well in local football [at one time he had a pub in Crook]. Alan Lockey was not a world beater but always put on a good show. George Jameson, at centre forward, lacked height but was pacey and effective. Norman recalled fellow winger Harry Richmond and I asked him an 'innocent' question: 'was he as good as you Soccer?' You can imagine the answer. Actually he laughed and was surprisingly polite, given the question!
Norman married Peggy Harper and then Nancy Whitfield. Although a widower, with fond memories, he has been able to carry on in a positive vein - an example to us all.
Norman is number seven in the all time magnificent seven of Ushaw Moor [earlier article see archive] and deservedly so. I felt privileged to interview him and will never forget the experience.
WB
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Paul Has Made A Timely Comment
It is true that my previous post is off subject - not about memories of the village - and I must admit that I winced at and wondered about its likely reception when editing it. My mind was full of mild turmoil; do we let the memories side of it lapse into occasional but relevant articles or do we throw current affairs in amongst memories of the village with a view to creating more regular articles and hopefully maintain interest? Do we rely on Facebook as the mainstay?
Paul has the absolute right to govern and edit his facility and as a matter of fact I can fully understand his point of view. I intimated recently that my writing was coming to an end in July so that fixes the problem in any case.It had to come to an end because I have virtually exhausted my contributions to the village history at a time when several other things of a permanent nature are pressing.
It has been a privilege to write on this site and I thank Paul for giving me the opportunity. I do hope that our tour around the village, the upturned coffin incident, the debate about the 'magnificent seven', vicar's Welby's family history etc etc has been of interest.
There is one last point to make: if one or two of you can make 17/7 [1pm] at Ushaw Moor cricket club for a pint so well and good. If that is inconvenient never mind!
WB
Paul has the absolute right to govern and edit his facility and as a matter of fact I can fully understand his point of view. I intimated recently that my writing was coming to an end in July so that fixes the problem in any case.It had to come to an end because I have virtually exhausted my contributions to the village history at a time when several other things of a permanent nature are pressing.
It has been a privilege to write on this site and I thank Paul for giving me the opportunity. I do hope that our tour around the village, the upturned coffin incident, the debate about the 'magnificent seven', vicar's Welby's family history etc etc has been of interest.
There is one last point to make: if one or two of you can make 17/7 [1pm] at Ushaw Moor cricket club for a pint so well and good. If that is inconvenient never mind!
WB
Will the PCS Uncover Its Arsenal And Rescue The North East?
So the long standing Tory instincts to cut and burn have not gone away. This time they have served notice that public services are to be slashed at a rate that will hurt the young, the old and the bewildered to an unprecedented degree. And they seem to be expressing their intention with undisguised glee. As for their bedfellows text books and history books will eventually make a judgement about them; for now they seem to be tossing away their unexpected time in the limelight and confirming their unfitness for power.
The North East relies heavily on public service employment opportunities and most of those jobs are appropriate in a modern economy. Slashing them does not make sense and in any case the given reasons for doing so are not convincing. There is a need to cut, because we have a massive deficit, but the amount and timing is deeply unwise. We are not Greece and we are not Iceland and consequently the level and timing of cuts should be more gentle, for the sake of the economy and therefore the people. In passing I cannot resist that old joke: what is the capital of Iceland? Answer three pounds and fifty pence, or some such trivial sum, but I digress.
The government will be aware that civil servants have struck before, albeit not for long and with little intensity; but is there a danger that they will miscalulate the sense of betrayal that might eventually unleash the weapon available to the Public And Commercial Services Union? A selective use of civil service computer systems could bring this government down in months and although the government will know that they may well make the mistake of thinking that civil servants are sleeping bureaucrats, rather than what almost all of them are - hardworking employees involved in virtually every area of society; they help to maintain the very fabric of decency within this modern economy. The government seems to be be more gentle with avoidance schemes than school toilets; that of course is just shorthand for their seemingly undisguised glee at exercising their cobbled power to impose their political dogma.
WB
The North East relies heavily on public service employment opportunities and most of those jobs are appropriate in a modern economy. Slashing them does not make sense and in any case the given reasons for doing so are not convincing. There is a need to cut, because we have a massive deficit, but the amount and timing is deeply unwise. We are not Greece and we are not Iceland and consequently the level and timing of cuts should be more gentle, for the sake of the economy and therefore the people. In passing I cannot resist that old joke: what is the capital of Iceland? Answer three pounds and fifty pence, or some such trivial sum, but I digress.
The government will be aware that civil servants have struck before, albeit not for long and with little intensity; but is there a danger that they will miscalulate the sense of betrayal that might eventually unleash the weapon available to the Public And Commercial Services Union? A selective use of civil service computer systems could bring this government down in months and although the government will know that they may well make the mistake of thinking that civil servants are sleeping bureaucrats, rather than what almost all of them are - hardworking employees involved in virtually every area of society; they help to maintain the very fabric of decency within this modern economy. The government seems to be be more gentle with avoidance schemes than school toilets; that of course is just shorthand for their seemingly undisguised glee at exercising their cobbled power to impose their political dogma.
WB
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
It was Downhill After The Bacon And Eggs
If you read my previous piece of creative writing you will know that bacon and eggs were enjoyed on the colliery locomotive; this is the next instalment and I hope you find it interesting.
Although that railway line was a source of joy there were other types of line that gave me seemingly endless disappointment, humiliation and bafflement. My catalogue of misery started with the fifty yards primary school sprint on a sun filled sports day, one summer in the early 50s; I competed like the slim young child that I was and showed some promise. I quickly established a lead, maintained it and got to the line with much distance to spare. Sadly it was not the finishing line the organisers had in mind; by the time I realised my shortfall some young boy won the acclamation, and observed the parental joy, both of which had eluded me on nothing more than a technicality. Mum said, ‘Never mind’, but dad remained silent.
My line problems continued - one of which involved a trial for the Durham and District schools under 16s football team; the event could never have been described as a formality leading to my inevitable selection, but clearly the accolade ‘achieved further representative honours’ was worth striving for, if only to savour and enjoy it into adulthood as a counterbalancing consolation for likely academic failure. In the event I was undone by the weather, just as Napoleon had been at the battle of Waterloo, but it was snow rather than rain that caused my downfall. The white stuff had obliterated the touch line markings, rendered the pitch illegal and produced uncertainty, disorientation and dismay to my play in quantities never previously apparent. I wasn’t selected, ‘Never mind’ said dad. He looked disappointed so I never even told mother. Although a line had undone me yet again little did I know that lines of Clapham Junction proportions were about to hit me in the form of Mr Hill.
Mr Hill was approaching old age when I came across him for the first time. He frequently dressed in sturdy tweeds accompanied by a plain white shirt and dull uninspiring tie. I imagine that his teaching style was that of a 1930s disciplinarian but he was operating in the 50s when I found myself part of his captive audience. I did not understand his subject – technical drawing and it was a complete mystery to me, although many of my fellow pupils seemed to grasp it to certificate standards. Terms such as isometric, geometry, oblique and angle meant nothing to me. All those lines going here, there, and everywhere - for reasons that were usually unclear to me - froze my brain. The risk of retribution from Mr Hill was tangible and terrifying; in the event he never chastised me, very probably out of pity. Eventually I owned up to the obvious: ‘I do not understand technical drawing sir, so can I do history instead?’ Mr Hill did not reply and nor did he take any action. I was too young to assert myself and my parents were oblivious to the problem.
Death and danger were never far away in our mining village but my recollections of it were not associated with gassed, bashed, mangled nor maimed bread winners; it was the death and sometimes near death experiences of children and women that touched me. We shared a two up and two down house: a family that I barely recall were two up and we were two down. A potential tragedy began to unfold when an infant child, of the uppies, was rushed to hospital by ambulance. The following morning Mum and dad talked about a burst appendix and death, and the child was never seen again – neither on the stairs nor in the village. The rushing and fussing had been too late and my childish mind connected the death with the lack of a telephone, the like of which was seldom seen, save in a colliery manager’s house, the grocery store or the doctor’s home. The incident appeared random, puzzling and alarming to me and chipped away at my already frail sense of security.
The above experience was soon replaced by another and it felt all the more intense because it was my brother who took centre stage. The innocent looking opponent was a stubborn, sugar loaded, toffee and I had a grand seat as the event unfolded in our garden. The confection gradually turned my brother blue by lodging itself in his throat. Our alarmed mother, after an ineffective and strangely calm intervention, crucially decided to jump the garden fence and seek help from our unemployed neighbour, Mr Pinkney. He was prompt and equally calm and decisive; he began with a gentle approach to de-lodging, just as my mother had done, but it soon turned to an untutored downward thrust of his finger that brought blood and toffee to the surface. It had been a near death experience but Mr Pinkney’s successful intervention moved our mother to tears of joy and gratitude.
Great aunt Ada was the next person I saw to be in crisis; she appeared unannounced at grandmother’s door and looked tall, thin and gloomy. Her dark full length coat, fastened with three very large buttons, did little for her and neither did her clumpy flat black shoes. Her furry hat had very wisely been pulled down over her ears to counteract a chilly autumn wind, but she did not appear wise to me; she appeared sallow, haggard and with lifeless eyes more suited to a fish slab. My young mind knew that she was in grave distress. Grandmother appeared delighted to see her sister, and after some time honoured preliminaries, they both settled down to a hushed conversation accompanied by sweet tea and buttered scones. I picked out the phrase ‘we are here for you’ and I knew, with childlike certainty, that some sort of disaster had struck.
[Wilf Bell asserts his moral rights to be identified as the author of this work]
Although that railway line was a source of joy there were other types of line that gave me seemingly endless disappointment, humiliation and bafflement. My catalogue of misery started with the fifty yards primary school sprint on a sun filled sports day, one summer in the early 50s; I competed like the slim young child that I was and showed some promise. I quickly established a lead, maintained it and got to the line with much distance to spare. Sadly it was not the finishing line the organisers had in mind; by the time I realised my shortfall some young boy won the acclamation, and observed the parental joy, both of which had eluded me on nothing more than a technicality. Mum said, ‘Never mind’, but dad remained silent.
My line problems continued - one of which involved a trial for the Durham and District schools under 16s football team; the event could never have been described as a formality leading to my inevitable selection, but clearly the accolade ‘achieved further representative honours’ was worth striving for, if only to savour and enjoy it into adulthood as a counterbalancing consolation for likely academic failure. In the event I was undone by the weather, just as Napoleon had been at the battle of Waterloo, but it was snow rather than rain that caused my downfall. The white stuff had obliterated the touch line markings, rendered the pitch illegal and produced uncertainty, disorientation and dismay to my play in quantities never previously apparent. I wasn’t selected, ‘Never mind’ said dad. He looked disappointed so I never even told mother. Although a line had undone me yet again little did I know that lines of Clapham Junction proportions were about to hit me in the form of Mr Hill.
Mr Hill was approaching old age when I came across him for the first time. He frequently dressed in sturdy tweeds accompanied by a plain white shirt and dull uninspiring tie. I imagine that his teaching style was that of a 1930s disciplinarian but he was operating in the 50s when I found myself part of his captive audience. I did not understand his subject – technical drawing and it was a complete mystery to me, although many of my fellow pupils seemed to grasp it to certificate standards. Terms such as isometric, geometry, oblique and angle meant nothing to me. All those lines going here, there, and everywhere - for reasons that were usually unclear to me - froze my brain. The risk of retribution from Mr Hill was tangible and terrifying; in the event he never chastised me, very probably out of pity. Eventually I owned up to the obvious: ‘I do not understand technical drawing sir, so can I do history instead?’ Mr Hill did not reply and nor did he take any action. I was too young to assert myself and my parents were oblivious to the problem.
Death and danger were never far away in our mining village but my recollections of it were not associated with gassed, bashed, mangled nor maimed bread winners; it was the death and sometimes near death experiences of children and women that touched me. We shared a two up and two down house: a family that I barely recall were two up and we were two down. A potential tragedy began to unfold when an infant child, of the uppies, was rushed to hospital by ambulance. The following morning Mum and dad talked about a burst appendix and death, and the child was never seen again – neither on the stairs nor in the village. The rushing and fussing had been too late and my childish mind connected the death with the lack of a telephone, the like of which was seldom seen, save in a colliery manager’s house, the grocery store or the doctor’s home. The incident appeared random, puzzling and alarming to me and chipped away at my already frail sense of security.
The above experience was soon replaced by another and it felt all the more intense because it was my brother who took centre stage. The innocent looking opponent was a stubborn, sugar loaded, toffee and I had a grand seat as the event unfolded in our garden. The confection gradually turned my brother blue by lodging itself in his throat. Our alarmed mother, after an ineffective and strangely calm intervention, crucially decided to jump the garden fence and seek help from our unemployed neighbour, Mr Pinkney. He was prompt and equally calm and decisive; he began with a gentle approach to de-lodging, just as my mother had done, but it soon turned to an untutored downward thrust of his finger that brought blood and toffee to the surface. It had been a near death experience but Mr Pinkney’s successful intervention moved our mother to tears of joy and gratitude.
Great aunt Ada was the next person I saw to be in crisis; she appeared unannounced at grandmother’s door and looked tall, thin and gloomy. Her dark full length coat, fastened with three very large buttons, did little for her and neither did her clumpy flat black shoes. Her furry hat had very wisely been pulled down over her ears to counteract a chilly autumn wind, but she did not appear wise to me; she appeared sallow, haggard and with lifeless eyes more suited to a fish slab. My young mind knew that she was in grave distress. Grandmother appeared delighted to see her sister, and after some time honoured preliminaries, they both settled down to a hushed conversation accompanied by sweet tea and buttered scones. I picked out the phrase ‘we are here for you’ and I knew, with childlike certainty, that some sort of disaster had struck.
[Wilf Bell asserts his moral rights to be identified as the author of this work]
Friday, 2 July 2010
Wearside League 6 Uruguay 0
Seeing the nature of Ghana's World Cup exit has finally destroyed my interest in professional football. A Uruguay player handled the ball on the goal line in the last minute of extra time - Ghana then almost inevitably missed the penalty and also the shoot out. What happened is that Uruguay's cheating was rewarded with a win. That would not be so bad if they had at least shown a little concern for those players of Ghana in distress; all I hoped for was a kind word and the offer of a handshake but I did not see it. If they did eventually get around to consoling their brave opponents it was too little and too late. The football commentators did not get it early either;. no mention from them of the reward for cheating but plenty else.
Football at professional level needs sorting out. The Premier League's greed for money needs correcting. The manager of our national football team needs to take further English lessons and that self styled leader from Stamford Bridge [no not Lampard] needs to realise that he is not the manager; he should let his feet and head do the business - but not upon me please!
As for the Wearside League its attractions are several: its not too far for supporters to travel; there is the pride to be got from supporting your own community,the level of reward for players is not obscene and I could go on - but I think you get the idea.
Let's cut out pushing and shoving in the penalty area and penalise from the spot if the cut is not made. Put Blatter in the stocks and give three quid to the Red Cross instead of spending it on a glossy Premier League football programme.
The history of the Wearside League can easily be read on site: just google Wearside league football history or similiar and up it pops. All we need now is a team and a manager to inspire. Over to Soccer Gleghorn. Get your telephone book out Norman and network away.
WB
Football at professional level needs sorting out. The Premier League's greed for money needs correcting. The manager of our national football team needs to take further English lessons and that self styled leader from Stamford Bridge [no not Lampard] needs to realise that he is not the manager; he should let his feet and head do the business - but not upon me please!
As for the Wearside League its attractions are several: its not too far for supporters to travel; there is the pride to be got from supporting your own community,the level of reward for players is not obscene and I could go on - but I think you get the idea.
Let's cut out pushing and shoving in the penalty area and penalise from the spot if the cut is not made. Put Blatter in the stocks and give three quid to the Red Cross instead of spending it on a glossy Premier League football programme.
The history of the Wearside League can easily be read on site: just google Wearside league football history or similiar and up it pops. All we need now is a team and a manager to inspire. Over to Soccer Gleghorn. Get your telephone book out Norman and network away.
WB
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Back InThe Mid Sixties
I lived two doors from Keith Burkinshaw. Do the football fans on this site remember him? He managed several teams including Spurs and Newcastle United. One match day he saw me walking down the road on the way to see Workington FC and offered me a lift which I gratefully accepted. He was Workington's left half at the time and being the pleasant man that he was he even offered me a free ticket to the game. I declined the ticket on the basis that Workington were pretty broke at that time [average match attendance c 2,400]. He must have smiled inwardly at the seventeen year old's concern about the club's finances! I suggested to him that Workington should sign George Darwin the inside forward that had played for several teams, including Derby County and Barrow, but nothing became of it. In any case Workington already had a good schemer, that is Jimmy Moran, but I was concerned about the team if Jimmy became injured. A few years later I found out that George Darwin had relatives in Sacriston or was it Witton Gilbert?
It was during the mid sixties that Workington gave Chelsea the absolute runaround in the League Cup but without actually beating them. It ended 2-2. I recall Peter Osgood was making his debut that night and that Keith made a faulty back pass that enabled Chelsea to take the lead.
WB
It was during the mid sixties that Workington gave Chelsea the absolute runaround in the League Cup but without actually beating them. It ended 2-2. I recall Peter Osgood was making his debut that night and that Keith made a faulty back pass that enabled Chelsea to take the lead.
WB
Bob Marley
You can never anticipate where your surfing will take you and true to form I have ended up with Bob. The key within a key was Facebook and a contibutor to the book's Ushaw Moor site. I like Bob Marley's music but [if the given quote is correct] like a lot of fine professionals his lyrics do not always stand up to scrutiny. I refer to the notion that you can waste a lot of time dwelling on things instead of moving on. Yes you have to move on: there is no point in being a glutton for nostalgia at the expense of both the present and the future; the thing is some problems do have to be worked out and learnt from otherwise how can we grow up? Life long learning is not just a catchy phrase!
The notion that everyone will disappoint you is absolutely wrong. There are some wholesome people in the world and it is just a question of finding them. It is true that life can be perceived to suck; rip off merchants are there to be seen but the seeing is often too late. Charlatans abound - as do some powerful and assertive people that sometimes trample all over your dreams - but please hold onto the notion that the world is not entirely short of heroes.
By the way I have trouble spelling the female version of hero because it makes such a person sound like a dangerous drug!
WB
The notion that everyone will disappoint you is absolutely wrong. There are some wholesome people in the world and it is just a question of finding them. It is true that life can be perceived to suck; rip off merchants are there to be seen but the seeing is often too late. Charlatans abound - as do some powerful and assertive people that sometimes trample all over your dreams - but please hold onto the notion that the world is not entirely short of heroes.
By the way I have trouble spelling the female version of hero because it makes such a person sound like a dangerous drug!
WB
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