Clearly the day’s strap line was: “Don’t mention the boats!”


George: “Mick, nothing could be that funny.”


An Apology


Since writing the last piece I have been struck down by some dreadfully inconvenient illness, which has confined me to home, thus missing, amongst other things, a much anticipated trip to Barnsley. It has also caused a severe sense of humour failure, hence the somewhat curtailed column this time.


Although I am now on the mend my low point occurred at about the time of the Thames Jubilee Pageant. Hoping for some diversion I draped myself languidly on the settee in front of the TV in preparation for a whole day’s viewing. As the day progressed my jaw dropped further and further and I could not believe what I was seeing.


How we all sniggered when the North Koreans, after the death of their Great Leader, were able to put group after group of citizens in front of the TV cameras, each clutching an identical national flag, and seemingly the ability to cry on order.


Clearly the BBC was impressed as the coverage of the Pageant was liberally interspersed with similar performances. Time after time the coverage would cut to some “TV personality” or other, placed in front of a small drenched group of British citizens, each clutching an identical national flag, with the objective of conveying delirious excitement as they listened to the sparkling repartee delivered about official Jubilee logoed sick bags or whatever. But they could not even organise that, as every time the presenter would launch into his or her piece, the backing group would remain looking drenched, cold and disinterested until, and far too late, told to do otherwise.


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As the BBC spokesperson said later: “We didn’t think you could take in a lot of detailed information about the boats you were seeing on the screen.” Why is it that the BBC holds us in such contempt, just like the bankers, the journalists, politicians on the fiddle, etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc…………………………


WORK III


Thoughts of a summer holiday job began to loom large at my school towards the end of the Lower 6th year. There were 2 options in my area, where employers were able to handle unskilled and totally inexperienced short-term workers. These were the bread factory or the glass bottle factory, both situated in Rotherham, a short bus ride from home.


I went for the glass bottles and had no trouble getting hired and reported for work bright and early the next Monday morning in my brand new TUF boots and old clothes. The firm was Beatson and Clarke and I think they are still in business. They specialised in small medicine bottles and the like and every time I get hold of such a bottle, even today, I turn it over to see what trade mark is underneath. And more often than not it is a Beatson and Clarke double arrow looking like an early prototype design of the British Rail logo. Try it for yourselves.


I was allocated to the “yard gang” whose duties were mainly ensuring that all raw materials were unloaded from whatever transport brought them and stored ready for use in the factory. And the first job was to tackle 3 railway wagons of sand that had been run into the firm’s private siding overnight. These were unloaded, with a shovel, into industrial wheelbarrows that had 2 wheels and a tipping mechanism, but could be handled by one person. The sand was transferred to a concrete bunker.


As you might imagine sand was the principal raw material but many other ingredients, mainly colouring agents, arrived by lorry in 1cwt sacks, apart from sodium carbonate, I think it was, which


THE TERRIER - Summer 2012


came in much bigger hessian sacks. This stuff got everywhere and would get into any cut or graze and sting like hell.


The sacks were moved with sack barrows except for when the charge hand, whose name escapes me at the moment, did his party piece - 2 colleagues would gently lower one of these big sacks from the lorry onto his back and he would walk to the store with it getting lower and lower as he went. No one else tried it, and in case you think he was some sort of athlete I have to say that he was the weediest person in the whole gang.


His other party piece took place immediately after we finished our lunchtime sandwiches which we partook in our dedicated underground concrete bunker refreshment facility. He would draw out of his pocket a tin box wrapped in an old bit of towelling. The box looked like it might contain a travelling geometry set but he opened it up to reveal an impressive glass and chrome syringe and proceeded to give himself an insulin injection, as he was actually a diabetic. Then he would hitch up his shirt at the front and check out the bandage around his middle. He constantly bled profusely from his belly button, probably due to his sack carrying exploits, and sometimes the bandage needed renewing or adjusting. [Thanks for that, Scribbler! Editor].


That then signalled an end to our break and so back to work.


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