Chapter 6. Featherstone West Yorkshire England. Vikings and Celts. Rovers win the cup. God?

Fearherstone circa 1960

Hi and welcome back You will recall in Chapter 1: How to write your life story, I made a reasonable start, but tended to get my 1st and 3rd person - I and Colin- mixed up. A way to go but this blog is in the first person. 

Yesterdays history lesson made it pretty clear that most of us Wessie's have Viking DNA somewhere down the line. Add a dose of Celtic and I know understand why my beard was ginger yet all other hair, hang on, amost all other hair brown. My Movember tash of today still has traces. Judge for Yourself.

It is therefore important I spend a little more time on my formative years in Featherstone.

28 De Lacy Avenue, North Featherstone, West Yorkshire.

Dad has just scored the winning try in the Yorkshire Cup final, and the Yorkshire Post wants to portray him as ‘happy families’ if you know what I mean? Myself, on the left, brothers John, on dad’s head, and Mick. Mum and sister Mandy (still inside mum) comes later, please be patient. 

My world age 7.

‘Like many surrounding areas, Featherstone grew around coal mining. Coal had been mined at Featherstone since the 13th century and remains of bell pits can still be seen to the north of Park Lane at North Featherstone. In 1848, the opening of the Wakefield, Pontefract and Goole railway line through Featherstone provided the basis for large scale coal mining in Featherstone, by opening up new markets in the South of England and Europe. Featherstone Main Colliery was opened in 1866, followed by Ackton Hall Colliery in 1873. These were closer to what is now the main part of Featherstone, which consequently expanded. Ackton Hall Colliery was the first pit to close following the end of the miners' strike and this could not be contested as geological difficulties had made it impossible for the pit to continue production… Opened in the 1950s, Purston Park takes up a large area of space and offers a lake and a children's play area’ [Wikipedia]

Featherstone was also an icon in the world of Rugby League football as the most famous of giantkillers. Crowds of 15,000 would pack home games, the town’s population 13,000. The players were gods, cult heroes and loved by every girl in town. As I said dad, was captain and thats for later.

I remember the night before we left De Lacy Avenue, I slept in the lounge on a mattress, anxious and fearful of the future. North Featherstone had been home for seven years. We lived around a small crescent of four semi-detached bungalows around… Wembley stadium. My patch of grass [now parking] held many fantasies, size of two tennis courts, little did I know what was to follow. Our two-bed bungalow was outgrown, three boys: John one year old, Mick five, me seven and mum pregnant with Mandy. The bungalow opposite had a lovely old couple, Bernard and Anne, probably in their 40’s but to a child that’s old. Peter Beech, my age, lived next door, and Paul Leake, a blind lad who dad took to school in Sheffield. [Paul and I re-connected two years ago and chat often. He will read this [Hi Paul] on his speech translator].  I do remember my mother moving dad’s car, some photographer was coming, very pregnant and removing the wall to Pauls Garden. [So does Paul LOL] She seemed upset and dad, sleeping from working nights, said nothing, just cleared up the mess as we waited for a man from the local paper. Dad had scored the try to win the Yorkshire Cup final, he was also very good at hiding his true feelings. Mick looks anxious. He had just seen his mum drive into a wall, as you do when seven months pregnant.

I also internalise my feelings and emotions, always have done and still do, You?

Bernard and Anne, opposite, had a wall running the length of their boundary, the edge of the cemetery and All Saints Church, recorded in the Doomsday book of 1086. The wall also made a shortcut to Kevin [RIP] Rooney’s house. We explored the church, the graves, climbed the slag heap and walked to the park. Neville Waring was a friend of Kevin, he lived in a modern house, opposite the doctors, on North Close. Another friend Frank Nowosielfki [sadly he passed away 18 months ago RIP Frank] lived in Park Lane; a new house built on a slope. Classic semi-detached three bed, brick under tiled roof, but the rear is three feet above the ground. Perfect! A hatch opened, we crawled under the floorboards between the joists, made a camp and Franks’s mum sent us lemonade and cake. We went sledging down the adjoining bank, as the builder must have run out of money and left open fields. His dad was Polish, Frank joined the Navy and stayed. He now has OBE after his name, Om Frank.

But, best of all, the four of us played rugby inside our very own stadium; Wembley, Twickenham, Murrayfield but mostly Post Office Road, morning noon and night. Others joined in and life was such fun. Except after I kicked a ball through Bernard and Anne’s lounge window and ball games were banned.  Nor when I lay in an ant’s nest, playing hide and seek.

No28 top left. Please imagine no cars.

So there I was lying on the mattress, Friday, August 1960, we move in the morning, and a new life awaits. A new school three days later. Gordon Street Junior school in three days, new home, friends, I hope. A different view, middle not the top of the slag heap.

Gordon Street junior school, austere, red brick, pitched slate roof with timber sash windows. The dreaded secondary modern adjoined. The schools were flanked by playing fields to the east, railway line and allotments to the south, Featherstone Lane, becoming Station Lane to the southwest with row upon row of terraced cottages, two up, two down, no hot water and outside loo, running off the roads. Nan Mary and Grandad Wallace, dad’s parents, lived at 9 Robbins Terrace, my saviour on many a day. To the west was a black, half mile long slag heap of coal dust, filled 24 hours a day. My beloved north (Featherstone), the countryside by comparison to this, is now the past.

Neville Waring, two years older than me, was already at Gordon Street, even though he lived close by. We last met in 2019 and have stayed in contact. He sent me this message recently.

“I was aged about 8 or 9 years old at the time… It occurred as I was coming out of the school entrance, at the end of the school day, and entering the playground. My way was partly blocked in the entrance by a melee.  You, Colin were on the floor, basically in the foetal position to protect yourself from a group of 4 or 5 lads, of a similar age who were attacking you. As you were on the floor the attack was by kicking.  No idea how you were put on the floor, as that happened before I arrived. I remember getting out of the way and thinking that's not right. Due to age of those involved it wasn't particularly violent but not right. Wish I had been brave enough to help, but it was different times and you never wanted to attract attention to yourself.  Hope it helps. Take care” Neville.

Interesting as the shy (Yin) Colin emerges here, 'you never wanted to attract attention to yourself.' is what Neville saw in me.

[17 Alexander Crescent, Featherstone. NO BALL GAMES - tells the kids to stay at home on their phones instead. Please someone explain why we are destroying our childrens futures]

Photo 2020

 

Life was not easy in 1966 either, being punched, thumped and kicked was common, running away to the safety of 9 Robbins Terrace I perfected with side steps, swerves, hurdling over dustbins, bitten by a dog walking home after carol singing, attacked with a knife and caught bus to Pontefract for stiches in hand before telling anyone, a  man asked me to see what was in his pocket, it was long, pink and fleshy and then the babysitter arrived.  Oh dear.

Being tall for my age didn’t help. Being the son of Slam Lambert brought additional challenges.

The house opposite was occupied by the Barker family, loads of them; Gordon, Derek, Nigel, Melvyn etc. Their house was fun. They also loved rugby so were my saviour. Rugby happened on my new green (the one above without the sign) the school fields, in fact everywhere. Even better, I had a ball, discard from Rovers. Problem, I was seven, son of Slam and some lads were more inclined to kick me than pass the ball. I survived and almost discovered God.

Station Lane was our high street, Station Hotel, Post Office, station and pit entrance at the top, Post Office Road, Barclays Bank and Wakefield Road at the foot. Just down from Barclays was the Hippodrome cinema, Saturday matinee a favourite. One month, flyers and banners, calling all children and parents, the reverend Preacherman is proclaiming his wisdom on Sodom and Gomorrah. I am intrigued and attend. I sit right hand side, halfway down, next to the aisle. He explains how the city of Sodom became intoxicated on sand, sex and sausage rolls. Then explains how Gomorrah became intoxicated by gay abandon, girls and gin.  God politely requests they go into stage one lockdown, they refuse. Stage two, they refuse, stage three, same and then he destroys the lot.  A bit harsh, I thought and wondered if there may have been a different reason to destroy life as it was known?

After concluding and repeating his mantra he held a new shiny bible above his head and said, ‘This bible will go to the first person to say their name and asks a question about my talk’. I stood up, waved my hand, and said, ‘Colin Lambert. So, why did God destroy Sodom and Gomorrah?’ He was not a happy bunny, but I got the bible. It never occurred I had just announced myself to Featherstone in a different way; I was not afraid to open my mouth. 

My alter ego had just emerged in the form of Slam Jr. Oh ...

A book fell of my shelf yesterday. Just a coincidence.

Have a good day

Colin

Chapter 5: Storm Bert and the Wessie (pronounced Weh-zee): Noun: (Yorkshire, slang, often derogatory). A person from West Yorkshire

A  flag of West Yorkshire - A Yorkshire rose on a Nordic Cross

Hi all, I should have bee driving 310 miles to Sherborne Dorset, but storm Bert put stop to that. I should have been enjoying my Latte sat on a bench overlooking Bridlington Harbour harbour when a portly looking man on the next bench belowed into his phone;

'Efin Wessies, cum over Fridays in their efin cars with their efin kids and him over thi er - he points at a couple scoffing fish and chips- e's never givn me owt fo fact a let im park in me efin parking space every efin weekend. Efin pint or fish and chips wud be nice but nowt, all they ever say as leaving is, "see ya later" and their off. Efin Wessies"

I was planning to respond and say, 'excuse me old chap but I am a Wessie and live here'  but given my accent has gone all funny in fifty years down south I thought better of it.

Instead I sit at my new shiney, intel core ultra 5, all in one thingy typing. I need to know more about this tribe - The Wessie Tribe - to which I very firmly belong - as they clearly sound interesting.  Enjoy...

Did you know the Wessie Tribe would have come 8^th in the 2012 Olympics medal table had it been an independent country? Yorkshire claimed; 7 gold, 2 silver and 3 bronze medals. Yes there must be something in the water so lets go back in time to see where our trousers [Genes, silly] come from:

Lads [and lasses] from Yorkshire

Wessie (pronounced Weh-zee):  noun: (Yorkshire, slang, often derogatory) A person from the West Riding of Yorkshire.

In the ninth century the growth of all the Christian kingdoms of the English was disrupted by invaders from Scandinavia. Most of those came to Yorkshire across the North Sea from Denmark.  The Vikings first arrived in Yorkshire on November 1, 866, when they attacked the Anglo-Saxon town of York. The boundaries of Yorkshire, which were settled during the Viking period, and which remained until 1974, are roughly those of the Danish kingdom of York (Jorvik) which was ruled over by more than a dozen kings between A.D. 875, when Halfdan, the son of the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok, who founded the kingdom, ruled, and A.D. 954 when the kingdom was lost by Eric Bloodaxe. For the rest of the period until the Norman Conquest Yorkshire was re-absorbed into the English kingdom and the Danelaw ceased to exist. The subdivision of Yorkshire into three ridings or "thirds" (Old Norse: Þriðungr) took place during the early Viking rule. The West Riding was first recorded (in the form West Treding) in the Domesday Book of 1086.

See what I mean about the genes! Not easy to row accross the North Sea and jog 30 miles to York for a party on a Saturday night unless your made of tough stuff, me thinks.

In its later days the Kingdom of York became more and more dependent on the rest of England. The last of the English kings to reign before the arrival of the Normans in 1066 was Harold, son of Godwin, who was partly Danish. He lost his throne and his life after a reign of only 40 weeks, largely because he punished his brother, Tostig, for ill-treating the northern subjects into whose care Harold had placed them. Tostig’s offences included the murder of a local chieftain in Yorkshire, Gamel, in 1065. The names of Tostig and Garnel appear on an inscrip­tion on the sundial, which dates from 1055, which refers to the rebuilding of St Gregory’s Minster by ‘Orm the son of Gamel … in the days of King Edward and Earl Tostig’. Tostig formed an alliance with the Norwegian king, Harold Hardrada, and together they invaded Yorkshire in 1066. Having harried the coast from Cleveland to Spurn, they sailed up the Humber and the Ouse to Riccall, and from there marched on York. After defeating an English army under Edwin and Morcar at Fulford, they camped at Stamford Bridge and there awaited King Harold, on 25 September 1066. The battle of  Stamford Bridge marked Harolds death and the end of Viking rule.

Although Harold was the last Anglo-Danish king of England, the Anglo­Danish strain in the ancestry of the people of Yorkshire remained, and indeed remains to this day. Traces of Danish speech are still to be found, especially in the dialect of the folk who live by the Yorkshire coast. The Yorkshire open ‘a’ is Danish; so is the Yorkshire name for a brook, beck; and the Yorkshire use of gate for street. Many Yorkshire village names are of Danish origin, the -thwaites; the -bys; and most of the -wicks, -kirks, and -thorpes. On the other hand, the -leys, and the -tons and the -hams are of Anglo-Saxon origin.

Throw in the Wars of the Roses (too long a tale for here) and we arrive at the industrial revolution. The Industrial Revolution in Yorkshire began in the late 18th century. Inventions and improvements to manufacturing processes, together with certain benefits of geology and geography and the presence or otherwise of established practices and traditions, determined the progress of industrial change. One of the major natural resources in the county is coal and the large coal measures, covering over 3,000 square miles, stretching from the middle of the Aire Valley, southwards through Sheffield and into Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire, were important in establishing the West Riding of Yorkshire as one of the main industrial areas in the country. Another mixing of genes as the Celtic (ginger hair) and Viking combination paved the way for those future Olympic golds.

[A bit of me and a lot of https://www.wilcuma.org.uk/northumbria/yorkshire]

As you can see us West Riding of Yorkshire folk have evolved over many centuries to be the proud Wessie men and woman of today. I did type a different sentence but may have been censored.

I started this blog by saying every summer from 866 onwards the Vikings would invade our east coast. A different invasion started 980 years later in 1845 with the opening of the railway between the West Riding and the coastal towns of Bridlington, Filey, Scarborough and Whitby. I made my first Wessie journey to Brid by train age four, Acton Hall Colliery annual day out for the kids.

Bridlington expanded rapidly with a direct train line to the heart of Wessieland , Pontefract, Castleford and my beloved Featherstone all 90 minutes by steam train. 

I therefore say a big thank you to my fellow bloody Wessie’s, cos without you we wouldn’t have the beautiful Bridlington I see before me.

Might not be an olympic gold but what happens next shows just who's genes I possess. It's about to get scary.

Colin

Ps I am dyslexic and can't spell but thats ok.

 

Chapter 4: Normanton Grammar School: Lost and lonely, then fall in love!

                                    

Normanton Grammar School 

Colin’s school for six, lonely, yet unbelievable, years.

You will recall he wrote a coincidental story about a boat trip from Bridlington to London in the last chapter, for his 11+ resit.  That was early December 1965, and nothing heard by the end of term, all hopes of another life had been lost.  Then, clunk went the letterbox Friday 31st December 1965 and Colin joined the road less travelled with no turning back.

Normanton Grammar School. Brick built, slate roof, Dutch gables, stone mullions plus a grand entrance with bell tower. Architectural folly funded by ‘where there’s muck, there’s brass’ built circa 1910. Teachers in gowns, Hamilton, the headmaster often appeared on stage with red bits of loo paper stuck to his chin. He hated the PE department, even though they brought his school nationwide fame.  High ceilings, parquet wood flooring, austere and scary. Yet, every wannabee anything needed to be there.

Colin was there, one year, one term late, with no school uniform for a start.  Woolworths Pontefract, some grey trousers, a blazer and lots of red braid around his forearms and pockets. Oh, and his socks were the wrong colour. He felt, lost, alone, lonely yet in possession of a second chance.

Instead of the two-minute walk to the dreaded (remember the babysitter) Secondary Modern, his dad banged on his door at 0715; cornflakes, sugar, tea, half mile walk to Station Lane and the 0755 bus to Normanton.  He joined the first year although second year age – and size - missed out on the friendship groups formed during ‘freshers’ term, stood out like a sore thumb on the sports field and then had to play in the school team with the year above. Poor lad I really do feel for him.

You will also be aware of the emergence of his alter ego; who went to the headmaster, demanded a second chance, came second in the exams, wrote some ridiculous story about taking a boat from Bridlington to London and was affectionately known as Slam Jr, after his dad Slam Lambert captain of Featherstone Rovers, the giant killing Rugby League legends. In a nutshell there was Colin and Slam Jr, two sides of the same coin, Yin and Yang.

 Colin is the quiet, shy, lonely lad who felt like a fish out of water everywhere [even today if truth be told] whereas Slam Jr was not bad at Rugby, loves leaping about to Norther Soul music, get beaten up and now has a whole new world to explore.

They did make one friend, John Dyson, he also started late but the local secondary in his case. He was tall, athletic with flowing blond hair. Slam Jr would captain, and he would be the star player, ‘Dyson the fleet-footed brave’ [Daily Telegraph], when they won the National school rugby 7’s, beating Millfield in the final. But that’s all for later

Their first term a steep learning curve in many ways, why folk came into morning assembly, at the end, puzzled them, that Jewish was a religion and not someone stingy with money, another.

And then I fell in love...

Elisabeth was regal, red hair in a bun, bright, cow-like eyes that sparkled. Catching a glimpse of stocking and suspender under her knee length skirt sent me into the heavens. Only problem was, Lizzie, as she was known, was way out of my league; came top in the Latin, French and English exams and stood no nonsense from anyone. Lived in a posh semi on the edge of town. Nevertheless, my belly felt like jelly every time I saw her.  I can feel it now.

July 1965, school trip to Blue John Cavern Derbyshire. It is steeped in history and old mining equipment on view inside the cavern.  Guided tours are conducted throughout the cave system at short, regular intervals.  Each tour lasts approximately 45 minutes to 1 hour during which time a series of magnificent natural water-worn caverns are seen. 

I go to heaven.  sitting on a long, yet narrow, boat, in a long, also narrow, tunnel, total darkness but, sat next to Lizzie. High on her perfume, Este Laude, I turned my head towards her, she turned toward me, we were kissing, proper snogging stuff and it seemed to last for ever.  I fell head over heels in love with Lizzie. [still am but let’s keep it a secret] We chatted in the breaks, my belly went wobbly, still does, then, just before Xmas, she was hit by a car, crossing the road, on route to school and spent the next six weeks in hospital. I was mortified. Who could I tell and whose shoulder to cry on? I had no idea how to send her a card or how to go and see her. I eventually plucked up the courage to ask my dad if he would take me. By the time he agreed she was home and back at school. It took four long years before kissing her again. at a wild sixth form party with lots of LSD, but that’s for later.

Slam Jr made the U13 rugby team but alien rules (Rugby, League to Union). He came third in the 100yds on sports day and reserve for the school relay team.

Colin struggled in every subject, how does one catch up in Latin and French when starting a term behind?  He enjoyed physics and biology but by the end of his first year in the bottom form.

Meanwhile, Slam Jr discovered lots of leftover, free, milk outside the portable classrooms between the senior school (above) and the old girls’ school (now junior 11-15) alongside the hockey pitch. He would drink up-to six bottes most days and had to be quick as often sour by mid-afternoon in summer. Let’s say he was drinking two to four pints of full fat milk, five days per week, for seven months.  Say 300 pints of milk. What happens next was scary, very scary.

 Summer 1966 Bridlington Southcliffe. Family holidays.  We went to someone’s house to hear, 'they think it’s all over, it is now’ on a Black and White TV.  I loved my summers in Brid, as locals call it, sandcastles and dams from the drains. I built complicated dams where the incoming tide would merge with my home-made canals and lakes. By thirteen I was bored with dams but would walk, alone, for miles along the beach, exploring war bunkers and lookouts or cycle along the coast.

Saturday 27th August 1966 Barmston [OS: TA163591] Humberside

It’s a warm and sunny day, Slam Jr cycles to Barmston and our lives will change forever…

 

My Story Update: Chapters 1 to 3 - It feels good to be back

 

21^st November 2024. Bridlington East Yorkshire

Dad and I (Clifford & Colin Lambert) are snowed in.  My Flex Stretch & Groove (I teach the class) cancelled, day 82 no alcohol and playing with my new shiney white, all in the screen, black friday, new computer -with the money saved from not drinking - and here we go again. I feels lovely.

I was born into a Yorkshire mining town, famous for it's giant killing rugby team, Featherstone Rovers. My  dad was captain. I left for London age 19 with my 'Eyes Wide Shut'. I returned to Yorkshire, Bridlington, in 2022 with my eyes wide open. Here I chart my life story in an heartfelt, amusing, open, honest and at times tragic tale of love, life and adventure story sort of way. I also embrace the challenges faced by being a man, especially a Yorshireman, in this fast changing world.

I am blessed to share my journey with you. Om

Here are the first three chapters

1    Part 1.  https://colinlambert.blogspot.com/2020/10/om-to-my-daughter-emily-she-said-write.html

2.   Part 2.  https://colinlambert.blogspot.com/2020/10/my-life-story-part-2-escape-plan-is.html

3.   Part 3. https://colinlambert.blogspot.com/2020/11/my-story-no-6-bridlington-featherstone.html 

   

      Have a good day.

      Colin

 I   Ps. I am dyslexic and can't spell but thats ok.  

My Story: Chapter 3: I learn to write

Synchronicity (German: Synchronizität) is a concept, first introduced by analytical psychologist Carl Jung, [1920] which holds that events are "meaningful coincidences" if they occur with no causal relationship yet seem to be meaningfully related.

November 2013, I am 60, the proud owner of a Hallberg-Rassey 49 Ocean going yacht and sat with a beer and roll-up outside the Dickens Inn, St Katharine’s docks, London. We have just arrived from Bridlington. One could say heaven except my marriage of 36 years was imploding. My yacht Frangi is the second boat in the photo, blue band, the only visible bit, my cabin and loo. What happens next is scary or just a coincidence? 

November 1964. I am eleven years old, have no concept of education, let alone a grammar school one. On the IQ, scale my score was not good. On the emotional intelligence score: sexually abused by the babysitter, beaten up, attacked with a knife, a man asked him to hold his penis, bitten by a dog, to name few, he was even lower. No, surprise when I failed my eleven plus and arrived at North Featherstone Secondary Modern.  The headmaster said, on day one, ‘think of a trade, plumber, joiner, bricklayer…learn as much as you can, there is more to life than rugby’. Electrician was my trade, dad had taken over granddads (electrician at the pit) job on the side and I already knew the difference between a live wire and a neutral, no-way was I going that route. I still love playing with electricity, ‘that’s an interesting statement’, I just said to myself.

Every Thursday evening, after school, I went to the scout’s hut in Green Lanes, opposite the working men’s club, his grandads local and the chip shop. I wasn’t really scout material, but they had a disco.  After rugby, my passion (it still is) was dancing…

Northern soul is a type of mid-tempo and uptempo heavy-beat soul music (of mainly African American origin) that was popularized in Northern England from the mid 1960s onwards). I loved it and would dance week in, week out. My love of Northern Soul extended, into my mid-teens and the Mecca Locarno ballroom Wakefield. On stage, one week; Junior Walker on his knees, lying flat, saxophone screaming as he sings, I’m a soul man, with his All Stars. Every Thursday was soul night, bus, or lift, there and last bus home. Being big for my age, no-one questioned me when ordering a pint, not really for the alcohol, just a refueling and rest stop, before hitting the floor again. The dance floor was full of pure magic, cool dudes, gliding over the ballroom floor, sassy lasses, jiving with them, up, down, over the shoulder. I always danced alone, I would focus on their feet, legs and hips yet, at the same time, try and copy their moves. Slowly the rhythm began to flow and away I went. I also went to another soul disco, Tamla Motown heaven, Sunday afternoons, in Castleford, old cinema, opposite entrance to station, loved it. I spent every summer in Bridlington [Brid] from seven to seventeen, we had a caravan on Southcliffe. Just south of the harbor entrance is the Spa Theater, a magnificent Victorian ballroom with balconies, bars and .... A Northern Soul day every Sunday from lunchtime onwards. Over 18's only but no one questioned me. I discovered leather soled shoes could glide over the parquet floor, I was truly in heaven. One Saturday, in the Spa Bridlington, I was leaping about to, 'All right now, baby baby, it's all right now'. Paul Rodgers, Simon Kirk, Andy Frazer, and Paul Kossoff, were playing live six feet in front of me. The little-known band, 'Free' had just released what would become one of the worlds most played songs, Wriggles Spearmint chewing gum theme song even. I just had to dance, still do. Its how I met my wife …

Unfortunately, I stuck out like a sore thumb, in a scout’s hut, opposite a chip shop, in Green Lanes Featherstone, leaping about to, ‘I’m a soul man’. The three lads opposite thought so; the first one, pushed him, the second one, kicked him, as the third one, he discovered moments later, was the ‘Cock’ of South Featherstone School, went to punch me. I intercepted the punch and drove (rugby term, meaning pushed backwards, forcibly) him against the wall. The other two retreated. The music stopped, the dancing stopped and the scout master, nice man, intervened. The three lads were removed, and the dancing continued. 

I would normally pop across the road for a bag of chips, loads of scraps and tomato ketchup, before walking home, but I felt anxious. It wasn’t unusual to be bullied by complete strangers; came with having a famous dad, this time I knew, there more was to follow. The scout master drove me the quarter mile to home, 17 Alexander Road. As we rounded the bend, just before home, there sat the three lads. My heart was thumping, knees shaking as his headlights caused them to jump standing. They stared at us and walked away. 

Three weeks later -you will remember from Chapter 1 - the same lads greet me after a rugby game, beat me up, take my dad to the headmaster, come second in the exams and I am with my second chance to make the grammar school.

The entrance exam, re-take, was ain the lower school library on the first floor. Scary; I remember one question from the maths paper, ‘how many centimetres in a meter?’. No idea, I looked at my 6-inch ruler, ha ha, 15cm is half a foot, so 15 cm should be half a meter. Oh dear. The bit that got me in was the English paper. I was given an essay to write, entitled, 

My weekend.  

Two weeks earlier I had sat in an English lesson, for once listening to every word. Miss Higgs, tall, attractive, skirt just above her knee, said; "today we will look at an, Adjective Clause, last week I explained what an adjective does in describing a noun. This week on step further, I will explain; An adjective clause, also called a relative clause, will have the following three traits: One, It will start with a relative pronoun or a relative adverb. This links it to the noun it is modifying. Two, it will have a subject and a verb, these are what make it a clause, and three, it will tell us something about the noun and this is why it is a kind of adjective."  I thought about this for a while, then put my hand up, something I rarely did, and said, ‘Miss, is this what your trying to say: Colin ran onto the pitch, the evening mist gathering, as the temperature fell quickly. The grass felt soft, glistening in the floodlights, which gleamed, from their perch, high on the roof of the stand. He was to be greeted by a thunderous roar from the crowd?  I always was a fast learner, I just needed good teachers.

Two years earlier, I had been on a school day-trip to London. Buckingham Palace, Houses of parliament and the Tower of London. The coach was parked in East Smithfield, he must have walked through St Katharine Docks to board the bus home. Below is what I wrote (well sort of) in the entrance exam. The scary bit comes at the end.

“My Weekend started Friday, home from school, seconds before, 4pm. Dad is waiting; car packed, sleeping bags, food, bright yellow waterproof jacket and trousers, fill the back seats, as I climb into the passenger seat. We arrive on the quayside, Bridlington harbour, two hours later. We eat fish, chips and mushy pears, wrapped in old newspaper, with a wooden fork and our fingers. We step onboard a grubby, but solid feeling, motorboat, Cass Lass, moored at the end of a pontoon in the centre of the harbour. I climb down a short flight of steps into the saloon with wooden floor and lots of brass, a chart table, wheel and instruments. Forward of the saloon, over a thin, nine inch high step, in the floor, through a heavy door, is our cabin. Bunk beds, with a canvas cloth, hanging over the sides. I pick up the end.  A man shouts, ‘lee cloths, you tie yourself into bed with them’. I drop my sleeping bag and duffle bag on the top bunk. Opposite is a door, ‘that’s the heads’, the man shouts again. ‘its where you shit, shower and puke’. I’m dressed in yellow oil-skins, life jacket and hooked onto a steel ring, sat in the cockpit as three men sort the lines. The sound of twin, 300 horse power, Perkins, diesel engines made a throaty sound around the harbor, echoing off the outer walls, as the tide was still low. We bounce across the waves as we power into the North Sea, I remember the lighthouse at Spern Head, mouth of the river Humber with its characteristic, Fl W 15s.Oc RW, light sequence, away on our starboard side. Across the Wash, lights of Great Yarmouth, casting a haze of light pollution above the town. Below decks, into my sleeping bag and fall into a deep sleep for four hours. It’s 0500 as we enter the river Thames. The captain points out the sunken ammunition ship at the entrance to the river Medway. He says, ‘still full of live ammunition, it would destroy every window in Southend if it went off,’ Southend Pier is to starboard. We continue up the Thames, the tide now in our favor. We pass cargo ships, liners, docks, more docks and then Tower Bridge, gleaming like a jewel in the crown, comes slowly into view as we leave Greenwich behind. Out boat is tied to a buoy, its, 0800 and two hours before the rising tide allows us sufficient water to go through the lock into St Katharine Docks, where we will moor. We catch a train to Wembley to watch rugby and spend Saturday evening, walking across tower bridge, stopping to gaze at the Tower of London in all its glory, before a meal in the docks. Early night and sail back to Bridlington on Sunday.”

The essay was completed and the exam over. Three weeks later we broke up for Xmas and nothing heared.

It was not a happy time for me...

Notes:

St Katharine Docks took their name from the former hospital of St Katharine's by the Tower, built in the 12th century, which stood on the site. An intensely built-up 23-acre (9.5 hectares) site was earmarked for redevelopment by an Act of Parliament in 1825, with construction commencing in May 1827. Some 1250 houses were demolished, together with the medieval hospital of St. Katharine. Around 11,300 inhabitants, mostly port workers crammed into unsanitary slums, lost their homes; only the property owners received compensation. The scheme was designed by engineer Thomas Telford and was his only major project in London. To create as much quayside as possible, the docks were designed in the form of two linked basins (East and West), both accessed via an entrance lock from the Thames. Steam engines designed by James Watt and Matthew Boulton kept the water level in the basins about four feet above that of the tidal river. … [Wikipedia] Today, a flat in the dock can cost £10m.

Carl Gustav Jung. [Wikipedia] Synchronicity (German: Synchronizität) is a concept, first introduced by analytical psychologist Carl Jung, in the 1920;s which holds that events are "meaningful coincidences" if they occur with no causal relationship yet seem to be meaningfully related. During his career, Jung furnished several different definitions of the term, defining synchronicity as an "acausal connecting (togetherness) principle;" "meaningful coincidence;" "acausal parallelism;" and as a "meaningful coincidence of two or more events where something other than the probability of chance is involved." Jung's belief was that, just as events may be connected by causality, they may also be connected by meaning. Events connected by meaning need not have an explanation in terms of causality, which does not generally contradict universal causation but in specific cases can lead to prematurely giving up causal explanation. Though introducing the concept as early as the 1920s, Just a coincidence but in 1952, Jung published a paper titled  'Synchronicity – An Acausal Connecting Principle', same year Featherstone Rovers, played at Wembley and I was created. 

My story: Chapter 2: A different life is needed.

‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’

You will recall, in part 1, daughter Emily gave me a book, 'Write your life story...' by Ann Garthorp in 2010. Chapter 14 covers, how a novel works. She writes about, 'SET-UP' as a way of fictionalising your life story. She provides, by way of the example above, how Jane Austin starts Pride and Prejudice to illustrate the point.

It is thus an intriguing sentence, with the hint of a story line.  I came second in the end of year exams, and thus a second chance to enter the grammar school.. OK, here goes.

It is a truth universally known that a single man, in possession of a second chance, must be in want of a different life. 

Different from what?

‘Like many surrounding areas, Featherstone grew around coal mining. Coal had been mined at Featherstone since the 13th century and remains of bell pits can still be seen to the north of Park Lane at North Featherstone. In 1848, the opening of the Wakefield, Pontefract and Goole railway line through Featherstone provided the basis for large scale coal mining in Featherstone, by opening up new markets in the South of England and Europe. Featherstone Main Colliery was opened in 1866, followed by Ackton Hall Colliery in 1873. These were closer to what is now the main part of Featherstone, which consequently expanded.

…Ackton Hall Colliery was the first pit to close following the end of the miners' strike and this could not be contested as geological difficulties had made it impossible for the pit to continue production… Opened in the 1950s, Purston Park takes up a large area of space and offers a lake and a children's play area’  [Wikipedia]

Featherstone is also an icon in the world of Rugby League football as the most famous of giantkillers. Crowds of 15,000 would pack home games, the town’s population 13,000. The players were gods, cult heroes and loved by every girl in town. My dad was captain. This brought me his genes plus other baggage, some of which I had already discovered. The rest is for later.

Different from what exactly?   Firstly, becoming an electrician at the pit, no way. 

Featherstone was grim, except the rugby, which was fab, terraced houses off the main road from North to South. Railway station, miner’s welfare, rugby ground and pubs. Parallel to the road, Featherstone Lane, the slag heap. On top a chair lift, like the Alps but buckets and black, this one tipped coal dust, along the half mile stretch parallel to the road and houses. I lived in North Featherstone, 28 Delacy Avenue to age seven. Most folk had a handkerchief as snot infused coal dust constantly ran down your nose, I used my sleeve.  Had my mother’s undivided attention for four years until brother Michael appeared. I hated school, kept behind for not accepting said could mean sed and told I was stupid by my teacher. I would walk the full length of the slag heap every weekend to Purston Park to play on the swings or a game of rugby. As we passed Cresseys corner, we took a cut through, down to the railway line, past a row of gleaming new ‘up-and-over’ metal doors. I threw a pebble at one, nice tuneful sound. Each week I threw a bigger pebble until, one Sunday when a policeman, with my parents, awaited my arrival home. I had bought an ice cream and remember it shaking in my hands and dribbling down my leg. Possibly my first anxiety attack, the babysitter must have been the second on reflexion.

Aged six, second brother, John arrives. Aged eight, Mandy is born. Nine abused by babysitter. Eleven failed my grammar school entrance exams and by twelve,  cut a lonely figure, long since abandoned by mum with three others to manage. 

What happened was next was not a coincidence?

How to write your life story. Chapter 1

Om, to my daughter Emily.  She said, 'WRITE YOUR LIFE STORY'. and gave me the book by Ann Garthorp in 2010

Life with Emily was a ball of fun, we laughed, danced, once made a dance routine to a Puff Daddy version of Roxanne by Sting. I loved watching her play rugby, all the way to England U18’s.  She confided in me, even telling me, before her mother, she was in love with a girl. We were close but has since gone wrong in a spectacular way, I have never seen three of my five grandchildren and have no contact.

However, back to the good times. Emily nagged me, for many years, to write my life story. My Xmas present in 2010 was the above book. Just by co-incidence, the book was lying on my office floor yesterday.  I picked it up, opened and read. Page 164 ‘…there is only one thing that makes the reader turn the page -curiosity. In other words, they want to know what happens next.’ 

How about this for a start:

I remember running my hand over her thigh and feeling the flesh above her stockings. I didn't know it was abuse.  I did know it was all my fault! 

It took the train eight hours each way to visit my parents in Bridlington, Yorkshire, last weekend. Brid is now the largest Crab & Lobster handling port in the UK.  It’s also the holiday destination, where my family stayed, in a caravan each summer, for the first seventeen years of my life.  My first ever plane journey was aged 18, to play rugby for England schoolboys against France. Yorkshire holds many happy memories but one, which changed my life, not so happy. What doesn't destroy you makes one grow, a thought I still hold many years later.

New Year’s Eve 1962, at home on the sofa in my pyjamas, feeling unwell with flu.  I was trying to play the guitar Santa had delivered for Christmas.  Sister Mandy is 18 months old and my 3 and 5 year old brothers are all sleeping upstairs. She was not our normal babysitter, 15 years old, in the final year of the senior school and as it was New Year’s Eve must have been a last minute replacement.  She had clearly been on her way to a party; heels, stockings and the rest. This girl was in bloke speak ‘hot to trot’.  Someone had spoiled her biggest party night of the year and told her she was babysitting instead!  Now I would be upset, wouldn't you?  Before you all panic and say but she was only fifteen, my problem was worse, I was nine.

My parents were at Green Lane Working Men’s Club, 15 minutes’ walk away. The babysitter looked bored and fidgety.  A bit like how most teenagers would look if their mobile phones were taken away.  She was not a happy bunny. She stands, brushes her hair in the mirror, checked her eyes were still made up and looked at her watch.  She sat down again, sighed and glanced over at my attempt to play a C on the guitar. She stands again, brushes her skirt down, walks across the room on her high (well high to me) heels and sits next to me.  Slowly her hand reaches up to her buttons as she undoes her blouse.  She turns to me and asks me to stroke her breasts. I am not sure what to do or how exactly I should do it, but terrified, I comply.   She then asks me to stroke her legs and again I am becoming anxious but I obey. I feel stockings attached to suspenders for the first time. The fleshy bit at the top feels nice. I'm shaking.

She asks me to stand up, so she can lie on the sofa and then asks me to lie on top of her. At that moment in time I hadn't got the faintest idea of what was happening, but something inside me is being stirred.  The shaking intensifies and turns to panic. It's now a severe panic attack (the first of many to this day) and yet this particular one seemed to fill me with pleasure and fear simultaneously.  She asked me to move up and down on top of her and even though I still had my pyjamas on I was experiencing my first ever conscious arousal. She abruptly stopped and moved away. No further contact or conversation was ever had. I knew it was all my fault and I mustn't tell anyone. 

The next day was hell, the next week was hell, the next month was little better.  I was unable to walk past Gordon Street Senior School, our schools adjoined, and I was in the junior school. I was terrified. I can feel it now. It took me a further 18 years before I could openly talk about my secret or the guilt I carried with me. Sound familiar to any of you?

Why does sex still spark such fear and dread when it’s a somatic (nice word, look it up) response to our genetic make-up?  Who would have thought such a Catholic country as the Republic of Ireland would be the first in the world to legalise gay marriage. I do hold religion responsible for much of our sexual confusion. That’s for later.

So I entered my last year at Gordon Street junior school dazed and confused, but sexually alive. In those days there was no internet, and being so young the thought of buying a top shelf magazine terrified me (hang on, it still does) so the nearest I came to pornography was an old Grattan mail order catalogue I found somewhere.  The beginning of the catalogue contained the lingerie section with women in various stages of undress wearing heels, stockings and suspenders. Simple adverts but my sexual energy was now on fire. I decided that I should share my new found ‘porn’ with my friends at school and promptly ripped out half a dozen pages and took them into class.   Not a good move! Some girl screamed, the teacher discovered my stash, called me disgusting and sent me to the headmaster. The following morning I was humiliated and canned, on stage, in front of the whole school.  Unsurprisingly, I closed down to sex for the next five years.  That energy was about to be channeled elsewhere.

I remember, in my last months of junior school, going off to a special day somewhere by coach, finding it boring and just messing about.  It was actually part of my entrance exam (some new method with interactive stuff and painting) for Normanton Grammar School. I failed and was rewarded with a place at Gordon Street Secondary Modern School. The dreaded senior school, thankfully the babysitter had left. On the first day the headmaster said just because we hadn't made the Grammar School it did not mean good jobs were not available.  An apprenticeship should be the goal, learn a trade. I did think about being an electrician at the coal mine, same as my Granddad but by now the sexual energy was raging and I channeled it onto the rugby pitch with profound effect.

The school had a rugby team but only for the second year and above.  Undeterred by the fact I was in the first year I went along to training and secured a place in the team.  We played 11 games and lost them all. Game twelve was against South Featherstone who was top of the league and unbeaten. In a small town, with only two schools, we were arch enemies. I had this idea that if I pretended to pass the ball, then didn't (it’s called a dummy) and ran like hell, it might work.  It did, I scored, and we won. When I left to go home, I was attacked and beaten by four lads.  The last straw after many beatings over the previous three years. The next day I took my dad with me and went to see the headmaster.   I said to the head, ‘Ignore the black eye and bruises, I don’t want to be in this school any more I need to go to the Grammar School.’ He growled ‘At the end of the year the top two in the exams go and re sit their entrance exam’. My dad looked at me.  I smiled and said, ‘message understood’.  I took the exams and …

As I said earlier, ‘there is only one thing that makes the reader turn the page - curiosity. In other words, they want to know what happens next.’

Om to Emily, for buying me the book and Sheila for her magic.

Ps. Sheila was my wife. Sadly, she died in February 2020 from cancer. Her spirit is alive and her magic continues.

Click here for part 2.