The copper top tart.
It amazes me how people who abuse and torture their bodies with drugs, booze and raucous living can outlast seasoned fitness freaks who do all the right things health wise. One such person is Nora, or as she was known locally “The copper top tart”.
Nora has always been a tart; she learnt her trade during the black out of the Second World War. It was then that she discovered American soldiers would pay handsomely for a few hurried moments of sex with a then pretty girl who didn’t much care what they did to her as long as she got her few bob for the job. British Tommie's were among her patrons too, but she preferred the yanks because they treated her well, and gave her presents.
I’m not being unkind by calling her a tart, this was how she referred to herself, and was I think proud of her profession. Once when in the dock for attempting to solicit whilst being drunk and disorderly, or was it being drunk and disorderly whilst soliciting? Whatever the charge was it left the magistrate in some confusion. Wishing to clarify the matter for legal reasons he asked her what she was doing staggering round Albert Square at three in the morning with her skirt tucked in her knickers calling a copper a knob head and telling him to get his hand in his pocket and pay up.
Her reply was typical of how she spoke about herself. “I was out earning your worship, just had one toddy too many”. “I see,” said the Magistrate “your saying you are a lady of the night?” “I’m a tart your honour, day or night”. The Magistrate was lenient with her that day and she was only fined a fiver, whether it was for being drunk and disorderly or for soliciting I can’t say, but it was one of many appearances she made in court over the years for plying her trade.
Nora had bright orange hair that shone like copper wire, and green eyes that in later years turned more of a muddy yellow specked with red. But those that remember her in her heyday say that she was a stunning looking girl, if just a little common, with a mouth to rival that of a sailor. She spoke with a broad Manchester accent punctuated by swear words that would shock hardened Dockers. Her tone changed though when ever she was brought up before the beak, not wishing to offend her judge’s she would affect a posh accent using lots of H’s which apparently helped her not to blaspheme.
She could drink like a fish, and spent a good deal of her time in Yates’s wine lodge in Piccadilly, or The Queens hotel just across the road knocking back hot toddies (Australian white wine with hot water, sugar and lemon). In those days the floor of Yates’s was bare wood scrubbed clean every morning. But by closing time it would be soaked in spilt wine, covered in dog ends and the odd farmer blow from visiting dignitaries. Many times after drinking one too many Nora would keel over and crack her face on the floorboards, which over the years fashioned her nose into a bugle any boxer would be proud of.
In the course of servicing the lonely and forgotten men in the district, she met and married a Totter named Norris. He had the second floor of an old run down warehouse in Ancoats where he dealt in the recycling of rags and old oil. I can’t imagine what he did with the old oil, but his efforts more than covered the living allowance, allowed him to put a few bob away each week and still left a little over for entertainment. So it was surprising that Nora carried on trading flesh for pennies when she really didn’t have to. Norris apparently turned a blind eye to Nora’s indiscretions saying, “Everybody needs a hobby”.
The older Nora got, the more she came to rely on the contents of her make-up box, which by the time she was in her forties was the size of a walk in wardrobe. Time, and the ravages of handbag swinging under the railway arches meant she had to get up earlier in the morning to erect the scaffolding that enabled her to reconstruct the look she had found so easy to achieve with just a splash of cold water and a little lippy when she was a young girl.
My brother and I were sampling the light ale in a pub in Ashton one night when in walked Nora dressed in a Salvation Army uniform shaking a collection box. Considering that she was a representative of that worthy association she looked out of place with her bright orange hair, devil red lipstick and skirt half way up her arse.
She recognised us, came over and sat down. Giving a secretive wink she told us that she had rescued the uniform from one of Norris’s rag boxes and doing the pubs and clubs a couple of nights over the weekend was a nice little earner for her now that customers were a bit thin on the ground. She didn’t get away with this little scam of hers for long, whether God grassed her up, or she just crossed the path of real Salvationist's who stripped her of her uniform I don’t know, but she was soon up to her old tricks outside Belle Vue Dogs.
That was in the eighties, Norris died from Emphysema in ninety-one the result of breathing in rag dust for years. Before his death the rag business had been in decline and was closed down shortly after the funeral. Nora who had no real interest in totting and who had looked at the rag business as just a cheap way of supplementing her wardrobe, continued despite her failing looks to try to interest men in what she had to offer.
Sadly it wasn’t a lot. Towards the end of her career as a streetwalker she had begun to plaster her face in white powder, draw unequal and bizarre eyebrows near her hairline, and apply deep red lipstick with a trowel. This plus her bright orange (Copper coloured wig) hair had the effect of scaring rather than attracting men.
I met this singular woman again this morning when in Martins Bakers buying my lunch. Nora was stood at the counter eyeing up the cream cakes. She turned to look at me her bizarre appearance was made even more bizarre when her lips cracked into a smile to display huge yellow teeth and a tongue that darted from one cracked tombstone to another as though she were counting them.
Its hard to imagine that she was (despite always being promiscuous) the darling of American GIs in the forties and a much sought after drinking companion for lots of men after those heady days of fun when she was known as “The copper top tart”.
Glossary (For my American pals)
Copper: Policeman
Beak: Judge
Docker: Dockworker
Knob head: Idiot
Farmer blow: The act of ejaculating snot from the nose one nostril at a time.
Totter: Rag and bone man who collects old rags from houses
Bugle: Nose
Nora has always been a tart; she learnt her trade during the black out of the Second World War. It was then that she discovered American soldiers would pay handsomely for a few hurried moments of sex with a then pretty girl who didn’t much care what they did to her as long as she got her few bob for the job. British Tommie's were among her patrons too, but she preferred the yanks because they treated her well, and gave her presents.
I’m not being unkind by calling her a tart, this was how she referred to herself, and was I think proud of her profession. Once when in the dock for attempting to solicit whilst being drunk and disorderly, or was it being drunk and disorderly whilst soliciting? Whatever the charge was it left the magistrate in some confusion. Wishing to clarify the matter for legal reasons he asked her what she was doing staggering round Albert Square at three in the morning with her skirt tucked in her knickers calling a copper a knob head and telling him to get his hand in his pocket and pay up.
Her reply was typical of how she spoke about herself. “I was out earning your worship, just had one toddy too many”. “I see,” said the Magistrate “your saying you are a lady of the night?” “I’m a tart your honour, day or night”. The Magistrate was lenient with her that day and she was only fined a fiver, whether it was for being drunk and disorderly or for soliciting I can’t say, but it was one of many appearances she made in court over the years for plying her trade.
Nora had bright orange hair that shone like copper wire, and green eyes that in later years turned more of a muddy yellow specked with red. But those that remember her in her heyday say that she was a stunning looking girl, if just a little common, with a mouth to rival that of a sailor. She spoke with a broad Manchester accent punctuated by swear words that would shock hardened Dockers. Her tone changed though when ever she was brought up before the beak, not wishing to offend her judge’s she would affect a posh accent using lots of H’s which apparently helped her not to blaspheme.
She could drink like a fish, and spent a good deal of her time in Yates’s wine lodge in Piccadilly, or The Queens hotel just across the road knocking back hot toddies (Australian white wine with hot water, sugar and lemon). In those days the floor of Yates’s was bare wood scrubbed clean every morning. But by closing time it would be soaked in spilt wine, covered in dog ends and the odd farmer blow from visiting dignitaries. Many times after drinking one too many Nora would keel over and crack her face on the floorboards, which over the years fashioned her nose into a bugle any boxer would be proud of.
In the course of servicing the lonely and forgotten men in the district, she met and married a Totter named Norris. He had the second floor of an old run down warehouse in Ancoats where he dealt in the recycling of rags and old oil. I can’t imagine what he did with the old oil, but his efforts more than covered the living allowance, allowed him to put a few bob away each week and still left a little over for entertainment. So it was surprising that Nora carried on trading flesh for pennies when she really didn’t have to. Norris apparently turned a blind eye to Nora’s indiscretions saying, “Everybody needs a hobby”.
The older Nora got, the more she came to rely on the contents of her make-up box, which by the time she was in her forties was the size of a walk in wardrobe. Time, and the ravages of handbag swinging under the railway arches meant she had to get up earlier in the morning to erect the scaffolding that enabled her to reconstruct the look she had found so easy to achieve with just a splash of cold water and a little lippy when she was a young girl.
My brother and I were sampling the light ale in a pub in Ashton one night when in walked Nora dressed in a Salvation Army uniform shaking a collection box. Considering that she was a representative of that worthy association she looked out of place with her bright orange hair, devil red lipstick and skirt half way up her arse.
She recognised us, came over and sat down. Giving a secretive wink she told us that she had rescued the uniform from one of Norris’s rag boxes and doing the pubs and clubs a couple of nights over the weekend was a nice little earner for her now that customers were a bit thin on the ground. She didn’t get away with this little scam of hers for long, whether God grassed her up, or she just crossed the path of real Salvationist's who stripped her of her uniform I don’t know, but she was soon up to her old tricks outside Belle Vue Dogs.
That was in the eighties, Norris died from Emphysema in ninety-one the result of breathing in rag dust for years. Before his death the rag business had been in decline and was closed down shortly after the funeral. Nora who had no real interest in totting and who had looked at the rag business as just a cheap way of supplementing her wardrobe, continued despite her failing looks to try to interest men in what she had to offer.
Sadly it wasn’t a lot. Towards the end of her career as a streetwalker she had begun to plaster her face in white powder, draw unequal and bizarre eyebrows near her hairline, and apply deep red lipstick with a trowel. This plus her bright orange (Copper coloured wig) hair had the effect of scaring rather than attracting men.
I met this singular woman again this morning when in Martins Bakers buying my lunch. Nora was stood at the counter eyeing up the cream cakes. She turned to look at me her bizarre appearance was made even more bizarre when her lips cracked into a smile to display huge yellow teeth and a tongue that darted from one cracked tombstone to another as though she were counting them.
Its hard to imagine that she was (despite always being promiscuous) the darling of American GIs in the forties and a much sought after drinking companion for lots of men after those heady days of fun when she was known as “The copper top tart”.
Glossary (For my American pals)
Copper: Policeman
Beak: Judge
Docker: Dockworker
Knob head: Idiot
Farmer blow: The act of ejaculating snot from the nose one nostril at a time.
Totter: Rag and bone man who collects old rags from houses
Bugle: Nose
Technorati Tags:manchester, ancoats, ragbone man, yates's wine lodge, queens hotel, courts, salvation army
Generated By Technorati Tag Generator
Labels: ancoats, courts, manchester, queens hotel, ragbone man, salvation army, yates's wine lodge
5 Comments:
Here in the US if you called someone a tart it wouldn't make a dent in their reputation. After "bitter", "fruit pie" and surely countless other names, you might find prostitute or whore. Althought whore now seems to apply to any starlet in Hollywood wearing no undies, knickers to you. (Knickers is so much kinder)
So we call them pros or prostitutes. No confusion there. The English are polite even with their name-calling.
Reading your post made my evening, I really enjoyed it - almost felt that I was there, in the square, with the copper tart, she had her dress tucked into her knickers and I... well, I enjoyed the post
Every town and village seems to have one. Great read Dave.
Anji: Spooky sent me. I'm glad he did, I really enjoyed your post.
suzy
Strange how words have a different impact in other countries, Knickers is a somewhat harsh
but comedic term here, undies is far softer and has yummy undertones, I think!
spooky
Thanks for your kind words, glad you enjoyed it, Want me to get you a date with her?
Mike
Your right though Manchester seems to have more than it needs. Thanks for visit.
Anji
Spooky has great taste, have had a quick look at all your blogs, will go back later to read
more closely, and bang a link up to you all. Glad you enjoyed it Anji. Most of my posts are
in that vein,You might like "The Angel of Manchester"
Post a Comment
<< Home