Obtuse World #5

Episode 3…..Beswick proved to be strange initially. Moving to West Gorton in 1959 didn’t seem challenging in the least, after all I was allowed much freedom as a kid so bus rides or long walks down Gorton Road were okay, and in the flats and surrounding streets I soon made friends. In fact, walking from near Ashton Old Road to Birley Street School in Beswick during my formative years taught me that being occupied makes long journeys seem short, and having 4 older brothers meant we were never out of ideas. So, if you were around the Ardwick and West Gorton boundary you might recall seeing some weird snot-nosed kid kicking an old boot-polish in, tennis ball or even a large stone, hopping on one leg, skipping, avoiding the nicks, walking backwards without looking, or talking to himself, then that was more than likely me. Mind you, I had to stop eventually seeing as I could get in some of the local pubs by the time I was 14, my main task then was finding enough cash to buy a pint.

After writing to the Manchester Evening News and complaining we were offered and accepted a 3-bedroom maisonette with all mod-cons in Dollis Walk, Beswick, on a large housing estate known as Fort Beswick, paying homage to the similar housing project imaginatively named Fort Ardwick situated due south of us on Hyde Road. My in-laws had already been rehoused in Fort Ardwick, so we were readily prepared for what was on offer which was handy seeing as the estate was only half completed, which meant in many ways still a building site. Only a couple of the 5 promised brand new public houses were nearing completion so the plan was to continue travelling back to Gorton or maybe frequent the few pubs left standing when Beswick was only partly demolished; besides I was still committed to finishing the football season off with the Bessemer; someone once calling me ‘the third donkey,’ so I had a reputation to uphold.

Returning to our former area was a bind really, it wasn’t the comparatively short journey, but the despondency within when traversing the desolation of what once was a living, breathing, organic township. Brookhouse and Compton House flats still stood defiantly on the north side of Gorton Lane, with the Monastery urbanely towering over what was left of its people and parishioners but struggling to justify opening those massive gothic wooden doors. Thankfully a couple of the old pubs were still open so a couple of breathers could be taken on the long walk to our destination. Yet the more times we enjoyed a tipple nearer our new home, it became obvious that another part of our past was to be forever erased by those faceless and uncompromising town-hall vandals.

In fact, one or two familiar faces emerged through the Beswick throng accumulating nightly within the local ale houses, and familiar names and acquaintances soon pulled us into their weekend gatherings. I had also decided my amateur footballing days were over, losing all interest especially after hearing about an old teammate who was found whimpering whilst hugging a house brick amongst the scree of the now completely disappeared New Inn. He had been a regular patron for many years, and the only acceptable lure to help bring him back to his senses before he was thrown onto the back of a tipper wagon removing the rest of the shit was the threat of us all loudly singing Man United songs to him; they’ve no sense of humour these City fans. And I thought that if I didn’t stop playing immediately the roles could have been reversed, and it was well known City only had one song, bollocks to that being repeated in my ear constantly. Sadly, therefore my clumping days were over, so I gave my last tin of Dubbin to the captain and offered my boots free to any taker but was told repeatedly nobody else had 2 left feet; so, I donated them to the Clowns in Belle Vue Circus.

As time passed and we settled into life within the shadow of one of Manchester’s renowned World heritage sites, Grey Mare Lane markets, the local population was becoming more and more familiar as the Bulldozers crashed and burned their way east towards Denton and Audenshaw. Soon we had 5 new pubs within the boundaries of the estate, all these allied to those older versions which had survived the influx of Gortonians and lived to tell the tale. I also reconnected with many of whom 3 of my older brothers went to school with, and those I come to know while climbing the fretwork beneath the wooden bridge spanning the express railway lines between Beswick and Ardwick, even after as well as before electrification. Many friendships were made throwing bricks at the train drivers who launched an equal number of lumps of coal back thus ensuring we all had decent fires that evening. I recall one lad losing an arm, him being electrocuted whilst climbing to the very top trying to retrieve an old tyre some fool had slung over the humming wires. A tragic accident certainly, but the victim went on to earn a lucrative living playing the organ and supporting many a decent vocalist in surrounding areas. Human ingenuity at its zenith.

During weekdays in the Manchester areas public houses encouraged patrons to form or join Darts, Cribbage, Pool and even quiz leagues to encourage those cash-tills be kept ringing on these the quietest of nights. Snacks would be laid on and the camaraderie was compelling, but of course the only missing pastime was our national game, football. At weekends I would regularly take my son Simon to the local swimming pool, and of course visit our local shale football pitch evocatively named ‘The Donkey Common’ to watch opponents eagerly kicking lumps out of each other. Often my mind would slip back to school days when hearing cries from the watching few of ‘Toe bung it,’ ‘Don’t head the dicky’ and ‘kick him in the bollocks’ whenever there was a lull in proceedings. And if it rained heavy, before long fast flowing streams criss-crossed the pitch in hollows formed throughout the years, and of which the resident home team unthinkingly hopped across whilst unknowing opponents were often in danger of being swept away. During the local leagues formative years pub teams weren’t expected to provide football nets, and opposing goalkeepers were often sent on long walks to retrieve wayward cannonballs, often in danger of never returning, them often complaining, ‘Fuck off, he keeps kicking it down there on purpose’ and refusing to budge. I’d regale my son with stories about the times we from the streets on the other side of the railway line were challenged to play Ricky Worral’s lot who were domiciled in the terraces who’s many back doors surrounded the pitch. We would kick off and all ages were welcome, latecomers shared evenly, and when it became too dark to see each other the shout of next goal wins it went up but was rarely the case. Owning a ball in the 50’s and 60’s ensured you were the most popular kid in the area, and every Christmas, at least in our house, new football boots was the only acceptable gift. Dad would nail studs in the soles on his cobblers last, and if he knew we were to play on shale would instead nail bars (strips of hard leather) across the sole for grip.

It was while watching a game one summer evening I suddenly heard a familiar voice from within a group of lads standing behind the goals near the public toilets, where shouting loudly wry witticisms and insults was commonplace and sometimes very funny. It was just after the caseball went through the full backs legs and into the goal I heard, “Yer couldn’t stop a pig in an entry with them legs mate!” much to the merriment amongst those around him. ‘Now that was a familiar voice,’ I thought to myself and edged a little closer. My suspicions were correct, it was him, he had filled out somewhat, squat, muscular and yet wiry. I watched as he flicked the loose ball up and skilfully played ‘keepy-uppy’ before slamming it against the toilet wall and volleying it with his other foot to the waiting goalkeeper. I was impressed. Yep! It was Roote alright.

To be continued….. 

Politicians…. I do not think there are more odious shitheads, conmen, charlatans and distrustful bastards that walk our planet and breathe our oxygen than Politicians. I couldn’t wait to vote when I was young, my dad was a committed Communist and stressed how important it was to place your cross, because then if you wanted to bitch about government it wasn’t hypocrisy but your democratic right to do so. I would ask him who were the best then, both individually and party-wise and he would say “they’re all the fuckin same!” It’s no wonder I grew up schizophrenic. But as time passed and my voice deepened and I stopped pissing in the suff outside it slowly dawned on me that not voting is what the political class wanted me to do, to become apathetic and leave them where they were, with their snouts in the trough. So, I got mad and decided no matter how many barriers the twats placed in my way I’d pitch up at the Polling Booth demanding ‘a sharp pencil and list of wankers please.’ Initially I would put a cross by the stupidest or most foreign sounding name, until immigration outgrew the British birthrate and the majority of names nowadays all sound either made up, stupid, or unpronounceable. Our councillors strive to do their best, but when successful ‘it’s expected,’ and should they fail, they’re a bloody waste of space!’ But those elected to the House of Commons seem to quickly vanish from view, reappearing whenever your vote is required, like some long-lost cousin who suddenly found out Auntie Mabel has popped her clogs and wanting to know if she had remembered him in her will.

I don’t know if you’ve been watching this parade of tosspots giving evidence at the Covid Inquiry, a hard-faced obfuscating parade of mendacious mendicants (I’ve always wanted to find a reason to write that) I have yet to witness the like of in my 74 years on Earth. I bet somebody could have made a fortune printing XXX large T-shirts stating, ‘It wasn’t me Guv’ and standing outside the entrance; if it wasn’t happening before our very eyes the whole circus would seem implausible. I think they call it ‘neck,’ the audacity to sit there and lie through one’s teeth. What was it Tony Blair reportedly said when asked about life as a Politician? ‘If you can fake sincerity the rest is simple!’ Sums it up nicely doesn’t it? Not a single act of contrition or truthful apology has come our way. Just a litany of chancers who supposedly always did the right thing, yet somehow hundreds of thousands of decent people died a suffocating death. Thank Christ they didn’t take a wrong turn, buy the wrong PPE or give millions of pounds away without a seconds thought to bogus companies. Do you think that could be filed beneath the ‘Vested Interests’ heading? Who can hold the unaccountable, accountable? (another phrase I’ve wanted to write)

The older I get the more I understand who, why and how some see Politics as a wonderful vocation in life. I look back and remember being sent to see the Careers Officer at school who asked me what I would like to do when I leave? And there I sat gazing to my left at the grey slate rooftops of Higher Ardwick reeling off the type of jobs I knew about and the reputation of the type of company I wished to join. It’s crushing to be told to aim a little lower, after all I didn’t mention Footballer or Astronaut which I had dreamt of regularly for 14 years and decided to leave out. All I wanted was security, a few bob in my pocket and the chance to learn some extra skills, because my teaching at a Technical High school was primarily how to duck and avoid missiles, write repetitive lines and fart in class while blaming somebody else. Nobody explained to me about Eton, public school buggering, shagging pigs and a foot on the ladder to riches beyond my wildest dreams or else I would have got my head down and tried harder, after all, it couldn’t be any tougher than being taught by sociopathic schoolteachers who having survived the horrors of the 2nd World War saw my face on every German trying to bayonet him during armed combat and one of whom once told me he used to see me in his worst nightmares and regularly woke up strangling his missus.

So, in the interest of fairness after my denigrating of what at one time was a noble profession, one held in the highest esteem by those who rely on others. Where serving MP’s with honest reputations and the deepest concern for our population at large are willing to work unselfishly and sometimes without reward in the pursuit of fair-handed treatment and stay truthful to the last. Well then I feel I must speak up on their behalf. Offer equanimity. But there is the rub because firstly you will have to find me one, and good luck with that.

I repeat, no single act of contrition or apology has been forthcoming. Each phrase of condemnation is accepted with the proviso ‘we do our best, but if that happened then we must apologise.’ How good is that? The last word of a sentence which negates all that goes before it, what we shall call a non-apology disguised as remorse.

This Covid inquiry is replete with dysfunction and backbiting and fighting like rats in a sack which allows me to conclude by quoting our one and only assertive newspaper in its condemnation, ‘our country deserves better, but no longer expects it.’

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