A Lancashire Lullaby
or - home thoughts from abroad
Although we live in an age of equality of opportunity and prosperity on a scale previously undreamt of, driven by continuing advancements in science and technology, the truly mind boggling speed of change and hectic pace of life can be unsettling and seem increasingly bewildering to many. Lifestyles undoubtedly much better on the whole but we do seem to have lost some of the more intangible personal, social and quality aspects of life which were evident in earlier times, arguably the inevitable consequence of the headlong rush for growth and efficiency. By comparison, the late nineteen forties and fifties were clearly a much more optimistic, relaxed and pleasant era for that immediately post-war generation to grow up in and develop. The days of my youth in an industrial Lancashire, before and after prime minister Macmillan’s “never had it so good” speech, when life was less complicated, everyone knew everyone else in the neighbourhood, immediate family members worked in the local coal mine, cotton mill or in engineering, and men didn’t do childcare, set foot in a kitchen or dare interfere with matters domestic. Their better halves, mostly weavers, ruling their domain like modern day Boadiceas in hair rollers and mop cap, laying the law down with an iron hand and a fearsome tongue capable of delivering a withering caustic put down or a torrent of reproachful rhetoric worthy of any old time presbyterian preacher when husband or offspring stepped out of line or didn't do something properly (only two ways to do something, mother's way or the wrong way). Lionesses though with hearts of gold and so house proud, even down to the immaculately “donkey stoned” front doorstep, and quietly content knowing where the old man was at all times, down at the pen with the ferrets and racing pigeons or in the yard training the whippets for Saturday’s racing. In winter he could be found at the local Working Mens’ or Labour Club two or three nights a week and at the rugby league match on Saturdays with a post mortem and inquest back at the club in the evening to celebrate or drown his sorrows as the case might dictate. Sunday afternoon sessions too, discussing rugby league and football and “talking shop”, with miners musing on past achievements and disappointments, speculating about the recent call out of the Mines Rescue Team to an explosion, exchanging anecdotes about local characters, or reminiscing about lifetimes spent developing new shafts and tunnels to exploit the Plodder, Arley or Crombouke seams. A passion for mining so ingrained into the local culture, the club was never referred to by its proper name, but by its informal nickname, the name of a coal seam which outcropped in the adjacent field (The Ravine). Club membership had another benefit, the annual children’s outing to Southport in hired Corporation buses, with lunch at the Star Cafe and table service by waitresses in immaculate black and white uniforms. Naturally the kids were looked after by the women who enjoyed a good chinwag whilst the children enjoyed the Pleasure Beach and the men spent the day in the pub talking about rugby league and politics. A good time was had by all, the children arriving home worn out and happy.
This way of life is now just a dim and distant memory as I enjoy the fruits of a new and more sophisticated age, of the internet, social media, fancy cars and foreign holidays, but I still have a soft spot for that mythical age and my roots in Lancashire, the land of Uncle Joe's Mint Balls, coal mines and dark satanic mills, in whose pleasant pastures the holy lamb of god was seen and whose clouded hills were once “shone forth upon” by the “Countenance Divine”. Jerusalem might have been builded here but for the strict planning laws and objections from the locals. We have been upgraded now to city region status the boundary of my beloved homeland having been moved some eight miles north in the 1970s, as witnessed by Highways England’s “Welcome to Lancashire” sign on the M6 motorway near Charnock Richard, words which send a shiver down my spine as I struggle once again with my parochial tendencies each time I pass. Thankfully though my passport has not been revoked enabling me to visit whenever I feel homesick. I suppose it is early days yet for the new city regions to develop their own distinctive personality but this will come in time no doubt and to be honest they do share much of the heritage of which Lancashire is so rightly proud, a friendly people with lots of character, a lovely accent (mostly), and places with a wonderful tale to tell, some of them captured in images created by L S Lowry, Theodore Major and Lawrence Isherwood. Despite everything, modern life is quite nice really with the Mercedes sitting on the drive and a holiday in the Spanish sunshine coming up, call me sentimental if you like but its nice now and then to enjoy the occasional nostalgic journey to those rose coloured days and hear once more a folk song in the lilting dialect of a previous generation, a humourous lullaby from Fivepenny Piece, Mike Harding or the Spinners, whose legacy will hopefully live on to the amusement of future generations.
What follows is just one of those classics.
Palfreyman - August 2024
Bob Platt
Bob Platt weren’t a temperance fella
in fact he’d a likin’ fer beer.
Bur he ne’er used't go beyond’t limit
Except once or twice durin’t year.
His wife ne'er used to wait up for ‘im
Who’d leave ‘im ‘is supper all set.
And when he came in from The Wheatsheaf
E’d manage quite well tha can bet.
One neet he were later than ever.
E’d gone aw’t way wom wi’ Jim Wood.
So he gobbled up all that wur gooin
An’ turned in as quick as ‘e could.
"Did you like yer meat pie?" said ‘is missis
"Ah seed no meat pie", replied Bob,
"Bur a’ve had all that tripe fer me supper
Us tha’d left i’ that basin on’t t’hob”.
"Thi pie wur in’t th’oven yer clout yed!
It's a wonder as tha didna choke.
Dus’t know what tha’s just bin and etten?
A wesh leather ah’d put theer to soak.
Words by Eddy Crotty - Recorded by The Fivepenny Piece
