Fifth series, episode 3

All five series are available here on the HebWeb.

The latest episode includes the comics we once read, a gig, Alan Fowler's Trades Club talk, an Adolescent review, Tech problems, the Rent Man and Shintin, and a Yorkshire Don Juan.

---

Spring Time

Yorkshire Water

OFWAT has fined our water provider £40 million for averaging 7 hours a day of discharging untreated wastewater into our rivers. Despite the fines, the BBC has found that the company intends to hike their charges by 41% in the next five years. It has been exasperating to read online posts blaming our underfunded council for the recent road closures whilst it was YW that damaged the main road and the council culverts.

Trades Club centenary talk

There was a packed audience at the Methodist Church to hear Alan Fowler’s history of the early years of the Labour club. Amongst the throng were old friends I hadn’t seen for a while. There was a lot of supportive laughter when Alan had temporary snags with the technology. But his witty asides and knowledge of his subject - not referring to his notes, in true AJP Taylor fashion - kept everyone enthralled.

Thanks to Jane, who over tea and biscuits told me she supported my stance on the flood defence scheme in the last episode.

Storyteller Simon Heywood used to read ‘Battle and Valiant and D-Day Lawson, Charley’s War, incredibly violent when I look back … I wonder why anyone bothered about video nasties.’ We both read The Victor, which always had a front page story of a Victoria Cross hero, who overcame great odds to defeat German and Japanese combatants. The Germans shouted, ‘Achtung!’ a lot. Can’t remember what the Japanese said.

Local author Jill Robinson liked ‘Sue Day, Belle of the Ballet.’ In my day, my sisters and me read Thelma Mayne’s ballet school. Miss Mayne was a fierce teacher, barking orders to her pupils as she tottered around with a walking stick. This prop was never explained, although it was no doubt a result of crippling herself by gliding around en pointe during her illustrious career. Did this encourage young girls to take up ballet? Well, not in my home town at any rate. I preferred The Four Mary’s, about four girls at a posh school. Mary Cotter, the least attractive girl was the comic turn and was always saying she was, ‘utterly, utterly disgusted’ over some minor faux pas.

Performance poet, Heather Wilson (aka H) wasn’t allowed comics as, ‘They taught you to read lazily,’ according to her parents. ‘But my friend Jenny had Bunty, and I craved it … especially the cut out dress on the back page.’

Pauline Wilde read Bunty and her sister read School Friend. Like me, ‘we all read voraciously, books and all … ‘We had no tv!’ Pauline bought her Aussie grandsons, aged 4 and 7, copies of The Beano at Oasis. They enjoyed hearing her read them at bedtime, ‘with long explanations!’

PW had the same liking for The Beano, especially Dennis the Menace, Minnie the Minx and Roger the Dodger. It’s interesting to see how working class kids are depicted as loveable pests in those comics.

Let George know your favourite comics.

Adolescence

What do young teenagers read these days if they don’t read comics or novels? Social media by most accounts.

I was impressed and appropriately depressed by Adolescence, the four part Netflix drama, admiring the tautness of the live take acting, directing, camera work and script in three of the episodes, but reckoned that they let this tight, obviously well researched, precision slip in the school episode.

Tough, sometimes unruly classrooms are a world I knew for almost fifty years, boy and man. But I think the Headteacher would not have exempted himself from fronting up in response to a murder involving two of his pupils. The press would have been more prominent, more of the kids and their parents would have been in shock. The procedures would have been tighter. The ugly chaos in some classrooms and corridors could still have been evident and actually made more telling if the school episode showed the same accurately observed mundanity of the lad in the police cell having to methodically give ten finger prints. But the rest of the series was gripping and tragic.

On Mothering Sunday, my daughter, herself a mum now, spent part of her career as a counsellor and administrator in FE colleges. She reckoned the school episode was spot on.

Btw: If you haven’t watched The Leopard (also on Netflix) catch up!

Low tech

I have recently been unable to transfer money from my account to new recipients and the bank tells me it is doing ‘everything in its power’ to overcome the issue. I thought it would be a minor technical issue. Perhaps a bug has crawled into their new IT system? Or maybe they’ve been attacked by Russian or North Korean ransomware?

Our energy provider contacted us before Christmas saying they must upgrade out meter before April. If we did, we’d get £300. So we booked a Wednesday afternoon in March to get the job done. Their man didn’t turn up. Nor did he ring us to say he wasn’t coming. So we wasted an afternoon. When I complained online, the company sent us £40 compensation. Two weeks ago they offered us a new date, in January 2025! Which I turned down, as reverse time travel has not yet arrived in Hebden Bridge. Nor has their engineer. But as March runs down they haven’t made another appointment. I wonder if this was their way of not paying us the promised £300?

At the garden centre, Kate said she was worried that one of the dark molehills on my face had a reddish tinge around it. So I called in at the surgery on the way home. You hear everyone’s business in the queue at the surgery. The man in front of me had received a message about a patch on his face but he could not send an image to the doctor because he’d dropped his phone and the screen was smashed. When my turn came, I was asked to send a snapshot of my ‘patch’. Three times I filled in my details, but each time I couldn’t find how to send the required image to the required place. All this fuss would not have been necessary if GPs were more easily available. Which raises the question, where have all the doctors gone? Turned into AI everyone?

Shintin

I had a gig in Clitheroe, in a community hub below the Norman tower. The organisers belonged to a group called Men Behaving Gladly. I got a message  before the event asking if I minded women being in the audience. I said I preferred it.

As the audience arrived, including wives, daughters and some poetry friends of mine, they had to bring in extra chairs. It had been a sunny day and we kept the windows open. Spring was on its way. The audience joined in the choruses to Fancy Man Stan without being asked, which is always a good sign. After the one hour session, I sold a few books and some people stayed behind to share their own stories with me. An 85 year old man, picking up on my childhood memory of hiding behind the settee when the rent man came round, asked me if I’d heard of Chinatown.

“In Manchester?”

“No! Round here. It was called Chinatown because when the rent man asked to see your mum, kids had to say, ‘Shintin.’”

The Yorkshire Don Juan

I left my Yorkshire home one fateful day.
For a salesman’s job on t’ streets of Liverpool,
But not long out of school, they tret me like a fool,
And had me selling, every day, ladies’ slippers and lingerie.

I met two merchant seamen, set to sail,
And asked what they missed most when out at sea,
T’ small un said, “Dis ale, but sometimes in a gale,
I miss me Mrs and me Mrs misses me.”

So we had a toast to their fidelity.
An’ t’ tall one said, “It’s true that, I agree.
We’ve got girls in every port,
And although we don’t go short,
I miss me Mrs and me Mrs misses me.”

So I told them that I sold from door to door,
Such items as a Mrs might be missing,
Special stuff for t’ bottom drawer,
But sometimes they wanted more …
And I started reminiscing about
This Mrs I’d been kissing.

“She’s a right big lass that lives on Daisy Street,
She wears size 10 slippers and those slippers
Are right full of feet.
In a flannelette nighty she looks like Aphrodite.
And when that Mrs kisses, I really know what bliss is.”

But t’ small seaman started to repeat.
“She wears size 10 slippers and she lives on Daisy Street?
She gets flighty in a well upholstered nighty?
Dat’s my Mrs giving kisses in dem slippers,
And dat nighty was a treat!”

T’ atmosphere in t’ Mermaid Inn grew tense,
I said, “Ooh, that’s a coincidence!”
Then t’ tall un said, “Before you do him in,
Your Mrs is a twin. It’s complicated dis is,
That twin lives near your Mrs.
Perhaps he never kissed her.
Perhaps he kissed her sister!”

A fog horn sounded mournful out on t’ Mersey.
As t’ small un came up close, nose to nose.
My heart wor pounding in my jersey,
I knew I’d get no mercy.
T’ small un said, “The question is.
Was dat flannellated Mrs,
Giving kisses in dose slippers,
Rose or Liz?”

Now, questioned under oath,
I would have answered, “Both!”
Instead, I took a gambler’s chance
And I chose, “Rose!”

Small un said, “Dat’s grim.
I’m married to Liz,
But Rose is married to him!”
And t’ tall un shook his fist,
Saying, “Do you want some of diss?
My biggest wish is, to feed you to da fishes!”

But t’ small said, “It’s alright son, we’re joking.
There’s something about a salesman dat’s provoking.
Our wives are quite petite,
They’ve not got size 10 feet!
But dose twin sisters, giving kisses in their slippers,
Were once, Misters!”
I said, “Run that past me again …”

“Rose and Liz, of Daisy Street
Were once called Reg and Ken.
You think you’re a Yorkshire Don Ju-in.
But you don’t know what you’re doing!”
And with many more jibes at me,
Those seamen went back to sea.

So enjoy your kisses while they last.
Here’s a toast both strong and tender.
To every lad and every lass,
And those who swap their gender!

For Peat’s sake
It’s good to see new proposals for the banning of burning on peatlands. As the Gov UK statement points out, ‘peatlands store carbon, improve water quality, provide valuable habitats for wildlife and help protect communities from flooding.’

As well as supporting rare wildlife such as the golden plover and curlews, peatlands are rich habitats for dragonflies with 25 of the UK’s 38 species found on upland peatbogs. Burning of peatlands actually emits rather than stores carbon.

Nature Minister Mary Creagh says, “The UK has 13% of the world’s blanket bog. Our peatlands are our Amazon Rainforest.”

Hopefully, this legislation for protection of moorland peat habitats is a sign that the application to plonk dozens of massive wind turbines on our precious Walshaw moorland will be refused.

---

Murphy's Lore, the book, is available to order here

If you would like to send a message about this piece or suggest ideas, email George Murphy

More Murphy's Lore

See the Murphy's Lore home page for over 150 episodes.

---