Times Gone

The weekend saw me taking a drive over the Pennines and the North Yorkshire moors. I stopped at Goathland village better known as Aidensfield in YTV’s Heartbeat and of course had a pint or two in the pub that by the way is quite different than in the series. At least the decor is.

I touched Levisham that has a beautiful Forrest drive and some great walks and managed to take in the old prisoner of war camp at Eden Camp Malton Located off the A64 York to Scarborough road at the junction of the A169 to Pickering. A modern history theme museum set in a 1942 prisoner of war camp, and is I assure you a great day out for the family. There is a theatre show for the kids, some very realistic battle and air raid scenes. And at the end of it all you can enjoy some Churchill pie in the NAFFI

I also stopped at Grosmont, a genuine 1950s railway junction where you can visit the station café, meander around the engine sheds and view the locomotives. I saw a Class A4 Pacific and a BR Standard 4MT; they looked splendid in their shiny new livery of maroon and gold and green and gold.

What I didn’t see was my favourite Steam loco the AD60 Beyer Garratt which for many years was built right here in Gorton Manchester by Beyer Peacock who shipped most of these mighty beasts to far off countries. In fact I had to go to Africa to see my first Garratt. That is not what I went there for but its strange that I lived right on top of the place they were made and several members of my family worked for years in Beyer Peacocks manufacturing these engines. Yet it took a trip half way across the world before I set eyes on one.

Its nice to see them so well cared for, but I remember them as dirty, oily, smelly huge black beasts that took you away to the coast for the annual holiday, or a day away climbing or fishing in Marple or Hayfield. There was a distinctive smell about them that was unique to these powerful engines.

As young lads my pals and I would linger on the Monkey Bridge waiting for a steam train to pass under it. We would be enveloped in dirty grey steam and thick black smoke from the boiler funnel. We would be deafened from the whistle blast that signalled its approach to Belle Vue station.

When I was a very young boy my Father worked for a time as a fireman on steam trains for British rail. Most mornings when my Mother walked me to school when we reached the bridge near Gorton lane, just as in all the best Enid Blyton books she would lift me up to wave at my dad through the steam and smoke as he passed under the bridge, blowing the whistle and waving like mad from the footplate.

Life was slower then, more relaxed, safer.

56 Gladstone Street

In the summer of 1968 my young wife and I took possession of our first house. We had lived in a flat for just over a year with a young baby, so the vastness of 56 Gladstone Street in old west Gorton was a refreshing change to cramped conditions of one room.

The house had been occupied by an old woman who had died several months before; she had survived her husband by twenty years and had been well into her nineties when she breathed her last. The house had not seen a lick of paint since the last war, so decorating was the first job on the agenda. Out went the old copper boiling kettle and brown sink in the kitchen, out went the cast iron fireplace in the living room and out went the flaking dark green and brown livery of a bygone age.

The transformation pleased my wife and so we settled in for the few years that this house was to remain standing confident that we would be rehoused to a brand new sparkling estate on the outskirts of Manchester when redevelopment of the area took place. But in the meantime this would be our home for seventeen and six a week. (17/6pence That’s just over 87p for the young uns)

When I was cleaning out the house I found an old Sergeant majors pace stick, battle scarred and badly burnt at one end I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. The next door neighbour told me that the old lady who couldn’t walk well had used it to summon her by banging on the wall with it, which might have explained why the plaster was missing from near the fire place. It had also been her poker for stoking up her coal fire during the winter months. It had a history, so I kept it.

We hadn’t been in the house for more than a few weeks when it started. At odd times day and night we would here a loud banging sound, rather like Morse code, the house to the left of us was empty so I assumed it had come from the house to our right where the lady who had helped the old woman lived. I asked her about this and she told me that she hadn’t heard anything, and that it certainly wasn’t her who was banging.

Then other more sinister things started to happen, lights would turn themselves on and off, and we would wake up in the middle of the night to the smell of gas coming from an old gas mantle fixed to the window in the bedroom. The mantle had been painted many times over the years and it was only possible to turn the tap on or off with pliers. But somehow it had managed to turn itself on and in those days there was no such thing as safety gas, we came very close to being overcome several times.

I entered the bedroom one afternoon and the curtains were blowing about furiously, but the window was closed and I don’t think had been opened for years, this made me more angry than frightened and in frustration more than anything else I shouted “For Christ’s sake” the curtains fell quiet.

One day I came home from work and my wife was unusually quiet. I asked her what was wrong and she told me that she had been locked in the house for nearly two hours. She had been unable to open either back or front door even though the locks were off and the bolts had been slid. She said that at one point she became very frightened and started to cry, her crying was met with high pitched laughter that seemed to come from under the floorboards. At this she screamed, which brought the next door neighbour to the door who had no problem opening it at all.

That evening we discussed moving out, even though I hated giving in. it was obvious that my wife couldn’t take much more of this. She went to bed early, I remained downstairs in the kitchen thinking about our options and wondering what to do for the best. Suddenly the room went icy cold, it was like walking out of the sunshine into a freezer, I could hear a low humming sound, and then the kitchen light went out.

I heard my wife shout my name, but I was already half way up the stairs. I reached out and switched the bedroom light on. But nothing happened, I tried the landing light, this came on and shed some light into the bedroom, where I saw my wife sat bolt upright in bed her hair was stuck out in all directions as if some huge electrical force was attracting it. I entered the room and as I did she pointed silently to the corner of the room. There I saw a black shadow low against the wall, it began to rise and get bigger until I could see the shape of an arm snaking across the wall toward the fireplace.

I had seen enough, I picked my wife up and carried her downstairs, we left the house and went up the street to a neighbour’s house. I left her in their care and started back to the house. God knows what I was going to do, but as I made my way I met a couple of coppers a sergeant with a dog and a young copper. It was around one in the morning and they wanted to know what I was doing out and about at that time. Things were different in those days, everything ended at twelve-o clock and it was unusual to see anyone out at that time of the morning.

I explained my predicament and as I did the wise old sergeant hummed and harrd, nodding his head every now and again and stroking his chin much as I imagined Sherlock Holmes would do. When I finished my story he stuck his chest out and said “Right, lets go and take a look at your ghost, we will see how it stands up to Simba”. Simba was the police dog, who I am sure for the best part of his career had displayed undying loyalty and courage to his master. But as we entered the house that was now in pitch darkness, Simba started to whimper.

It might have been the arctic like conditions that by now were present in every room. But I rather think it was Canine sensitivities that reduced this fine dog to a quivering, whimpering, barking wreck. Because when the sarge slipped him of his lead and commanded in a loud voice “Fetch Simba” the poor animal despite his training did an about face and ran out of the house with his tail between his legs.

Undaunted the brave sergeant advanced up the stairs torch in hand, minus I have to say the young copper who had volunteered to keep watch at the bottom of the stairs, for what I don’t know, but for sure he wasn’t going into the bedroom. He kept repeating “What’s happening serge” in a shaky voice and every time he spoke his breath was visible by the little light that the torch cast at the bottom of the stairs.

I heard the old copper say in a forceful voice “This is the police, come out” the young copper did a little dance, from upstairs we heard the old copper say in a not so forceful voice “Oh bloody hell” then what little light there was went out. As rotund as the sergeant was he was remarkably fleet of foot when it came to negotiating the stairs on his way out. The young copper and I were left standing and as we both experienced that cold shiver down the back, the serge was already in the street.

Before going of to look for his dog the sergeant advised me that it was a member of the clergy that I needed, not the police. In due course a lay preacher from some local church attempted to bless every room in the house, in the hope of laying whatever spirit that had the hump with me and my wife to rest.
But he only got as far as the kitchen then remembered he had an important meeting to go to. I doubt it would have done any good even if he had finished.

There was a small write up about the events in the Manchester and Openshaw reporter, but we never went back to the house, and I believe it was never again occupied before its demolition sometime in 1970.

No more Mr nice guy

I’ve had it with women, be it romantic or platonic, you just cant trust them as far as you can throw them, and believe me I’ve thrown a few in my time. They are just as devious as men are, just more subtle about it. I know that is a sweeping statement and we shouldn’t tar everyone with the same brush, but at the moment I’m in the mood for some serious sweeping and if I could I would do some tarring with a brush the size of the titanic.

Selfish is another word that looms large at the moment, that and deceitful. I have had my share of let downs in the past as regards romantic episodes, but you just don’t expect it when the relationship is based on friendship. It hits all the harder when you have gone out of your way and bent over backwards for the transgressor.

For any men reading this drivel, hear my words, you wont ever get anywhere being Mr nice guy, I know, I have been that for most of my life more or less and its done balls all for me. In fact the only time I have ever got anywhere is when I haven’t been a nice guy. That’s certainly the case in business and the more I look back and reflect, the more I believe it to be true of human relationships.

I don’t like being angry about what probably is just an unimportant fault on somebody else’s part. But I am the kind of person that thinks very carefully about what kind of effect my actions could have on someone else’s life, and when that simple courtesy isn’t returned it cuts deep. Its bad enough when an acquaintance does this, but when a friend is guilty of it, then it cuts deep.

My Father always taught me to do the right thing no matter what the cost to myself, in that you can live and be happy with your actions, and if others are blind to your kindness and loyalty, then it will be they who lose. Well I tried it Dad, now I think its time to be a bastard.

Bouncing down

Well the weekend party went with a bang; both kids and adults enjoyed themselves. There was some difficulty sorting out the blower thingy for the bouncy castle. That was my fault, I forgot the strap down pegs and the band that goes around the pipe but after several false starts up it went and up it stayed. The weather was finicky one minute sunshine the next rain, which caused a little commotion. I had asked one of the lads at work to clean the bouncy castle, he had used washing up liquid (Not the sharpest knife in the box) consequently every time it rained the air seeping out of the seems blew bubbles, lots of them. Of course the kids loved it plus the adults had a free foam party.

Despite the weather we all managed to get under cover one way or another, there were several umbrellas and a covered swing, and after a couple of bollywoods nobody seemed to care, they just got on with it. Later in the evening after the kids had gone to bed a few of us left the garden for the Eurovision song contest. Its so tacky its funny, we had a sweepstake which I nearly won (I had the Ukraine) then back into the garden where we all sat round drinking and laughing for hours. All in all not a bad day.

Fast food my arse

I don't often eat fast food but when I do I want it fast, or there would be no point. So why is that that the humble chippy now has longer waiting times for the crap they sell than some of the posh restauraunts. I understand that they have to try and cut down on wastage, if only to bolster their already inflated profits, but to cook chips only when a customer walks in and asks for them is ludicrous.

Its the same with fish, pies, puddings, name it. Now I don't like it but I would put up with it if it wasn't for the fact that if you order a pie or a pudding in the evening more often than not it will be an already warmed pie from the afternoon session, and that microwaved. Where once the mushy peas you bought in a supermarket were a pale imitation of the chippy peas, its now the other way round.

I hate waiting If I wanted to wait I would go to Lounge 10 for a decent meal and enjoy a good wine whilst I waited. A friend of mine has a chippy so I know how hard it can be to make a living cooking chips for ungrateful bastards like me, but you don't have to wait at her establishment, and as cynical as dealing with the public can make you, she has so far managed to avoid going down that road, plus her chips are edible, which is more than I can say for most chippies.

Old timers say that chips don't taste the same these days, and they don't, because the EEC stopped the great British chippy from using lard with just a dash of colts foot oil many years ago. Youngsters don't know any better, they have only ever tasted the tepid, tired, pale, limp excuses for chips that we have had to endure from the seventies onwards.

Chippy Gravy, now what can I say about that, erm let me see, “Its shit”. But all these little peeves aside, I really could put up with the dross that they sell, in exchange for a fast meal however awful it tasted, its a fair swap. But I wont put up with both, I hate waiting, so shove yer chips up yer arse.

By the way, if your a meat and potato pie, or pudding lover don't go to Norfolk, they have never heard of them, and I think the slow food syndrome started there first. Lets face it who with a brain wants to eat cheese and rabbit pie.

If you want a decent portion of chips with fish that tastes like it should, try Stalybridge, there is a chippy there that knows how to cook this type of food, can't remember the name but its in the center and I think is the only chippy open at night. An Italian guy owns it, nuff said.