G.A. Milnthorpe's Blog, page 2
September 18, 2018
Miners' Strike
My Dad was a miner in and around the Strike of 1984. A pretty monumental piece of British history, and my Dad was involved…although I was never really sure to what extent due to his relentless and consistent refusal to talk about anything.
He only ever talked to me about it once. I’d taken him to my local pub, a mile away. He grumbled the whole way because a pub did not count as “local” to him if it was more than 200 metres away. I bought him a pint of warm, country beer, which he didn’t like and we settled into the pub, which he also didn’t like, as he thought it looked like a barn. “They need some wallpaper in here…”
But perhaps the exhaustion and the booze and the country air got to him because, for the first time, he told me a little bit about the Miners’ Strike.
I’d been reading a book about it you see…
I wanted to talk about the socio-economic impact of it all – the towns that would be abandoned, the generation of men that would be cast adrift, the millions that the government put into the industry to keep it afloat.
I wanted to talk about the changing nature of government – how historically the government had seen it as their role to subsidise industry for no reason other than to keep people in jobs and to keep communities together.
For me, whose only experience is of the market led, non-interventionist style of government, this seemed a foreign concept. I wanted to talk about how that might affect our respective expectations of, and resentment towards, government, or life even.
He preferred the smaller details:
“I used to go three miles to work, go down a shaft and then walk almost back to our house underground.”
Or, “there’s no toilets down there you know.”
Or “we weren’t allowed to call anyone a scab when we went back to work – so we called them Henrys.”
“Why Henrys?”
“No idea.”
He was also convinced that there were seams and seams and seams of coal left to be mined and that the closure wasn’t a financial decision – it was a political decision designed to break the Unions.
The Barnsley crest has a miner on one side and a glassblower on the other. Not that many people would probably associate Barnsley with glassblowing – it’s from a different time. I wonder how long it will be before the mining also slips into history?
He only ever talked to me about it once. I’d taken him to my local pub, a mile away. He grumbled the whole way because a pub did not count as “local” to him if it was more than 200 metres away. I bought him a pint of warm, country beer, which he didn’t like and we settled into the pub, which he also didn’t like, as he thought it looked like a barn. “They need some wallpaper in here…”
But perhaps the exhaustion and the booze and the country air got to him because, for the first time, he told me a little bit about the Miners’ Strike.
I’d been reading a book about it you see…
I wanted to talk about the socio-economic impact of it all – the towns that would be abandoned, the generation of men that would be cast adrift, the millions that the government put into the industry to keep it afloat.
I wanted to talk about the changing nature of government – how historically the government had seen it as their role to subsidise industry for no reason other than to keep people in jobs and to keep communities together.
For me, whose only experience is of the market led, non-interventionist style of government, this seemed a foreign concept. I wanted to talk about how that might affect our respective expectations of, and resentment towards, government, or life even.
He preferred the smaller details:
“I used to go three miles to work, go down a shaft and then walk almost back to our house underground.”
Or, “there’s no toilets down there you know.”
Or “we weren’t allowed to call anyone a scab when we went back to work – so we called them Henrys.”
“Why Henrys?”
“No idea.”
He was also convinced that there were seams and seams and seams of coal left to be mined and that the closure wasn’t a financial decision – it was a political decision designed to break the Unions.
The Barnsley crest has a miner on one side and a glassblower on the other. Not that many people would probably associate Barnsley with glassblowing – it’s from a different time. I wonder how long it will be before the mining also slips into history?
September 3, 2018
Tell me what you want....
I was thinking about “want” the other day. (I had a long holiday). What is it that we want…? Really, really want – as that famous group of spicy philosophers once asked.
How can someone want two seemingly contradictory things…you want to stay slim, but you also want to eat the doughnut. You want a well-funded NHS but you also want to pay less tax. You want to be an attentive father but you also want to watch every single game of the World Cup. You want to reduce immigration, but you also want enough nurses to attend to your aged grandparents. You want to support local farmers, but you want to buy cheap milk.
Which want wins? Is it the one that requires the least effort? Or the one that’s more fun? Is it the one that makes you feel good? Maybe the winning want is different on each given day – one day you might have that doughnut, another day you might not. One day you might refuse to buy something from Amazon on the basis that they avoid paying tax, but then the next day you see that they have a really good sale on.
Maybe it’s more of about what you don’t want…you want the doughnut but you don’t want to look like one. You want the sexy lady from accounts, but you don’t want to hurt the wife. Or in reverse….you want to be a woman of integrity, but you don’t want to miss out on all that fun that everyone else seems to be having. You want to be someone you can trust, but you don’t want to miss out on that amazing bit of gossip.
I don’t know the answer, you’ll have to ask Mel B. Well, maybe not…if I remember rightly she just wants a “zigazig ah.” Gibberish.
How can someone want two seemingly contradictory things…you want to stay slim, but you also want to eat the doughnut. You want a well-funded NHS but you also want to pay less tax. You want to be an attentive father but you also want to watch every single game of the World Cup. You want to reduce immigration, but you also want enough nurses to attend to your aged grandparents. You want to support local farmers, but you want to buy cheap milk.
Which want wins? Is it the one that requires the least effort? Or the one that’s more fun? Is it the one that makes you feel good? Maybe the winning want is different on each given day – one day you might have that doughnut, another day you might not. One day you might refuse to buy something from Amazon on the basis that they avoid paying tax, but then the next day you see that they have a really good sale on.
Maybe it’s more of about what you don’t want…you want the doughnut but you don’t want to look like one. You want the sexy lady from accounts, but you don’t want to hurt the wife. Or in reverse….you want to be a woman of integrity, but you don’t want to miss out on all that fun that everyone else seems to be having. You want to be someone you can trust, but you don’t want to miss out on that amazing bit of gossip.
I don’t know the answer, you’ll have to ask Mel B. Well, maybe not…if I remember rightly she just wants a “zigazig ah.” Gibberish.
August 13, 2018
Tantric Price Decreases
You know those creepy scenes of Benny Hill chasing opportunity-deprived ladies round an enclosed space in his classic and now slightly disturbing 1980s comedy show…? You remember the comical speed and the look of greed and the cheeky little look on his face of, “I can’t believe I’m getting away with this….!”?
That how the energy companies act when the wholesale price goes up.
They’re as well organised and slick as that crazy council in the north east who bizarrely pride themselves on being the first to declare their election results.
I can just imagine the Chief Executive of Centrica or EON or Powergen standing on his or her desk with one eye on a stopwatch and another eye on their end of year bonus projection shouting: “Go, go, go, go, go, let’s get that price increase out there NOW!”
But when the wholesale price drops…those Chief Executives are altogether more calm…
“Does anyone fancy a latte? Maybe a game of Monopoly or a chat about penguins? We can do that price decrease thing tomorrow….probably…”
Tantric price decreases.
That how the energy companies act when the wholesale price goes up.
They’re as well organised and slick as that crazy council in the north east who bizarrely pride themselves on being the first to declare their election results.
I can just imagine the Chief Executive of Centrica or EON or Powergen standing on his or her desk with one eye on a stopwatch and another eye on their end of year bonus projection shouting: “Go, go, go, go, go, let’s get that price increase out there NOW!”
But when the wholesale price drops…those Chief Executives are altogether more calm…
“Does anyone fancy a latte? Maybe a game of Monopoly or a chat about penguins? We can do that price decrease thing tomorrow….probably…”
Tantric price decreases.
July 20, 2018
There are some idiots on the pitch...
As the members of Russian punk protest group, Pussy Riot, stormed the pitch during the World Cup Final, the commentator said something like “some idiots are on the pitch.”
Quite right. Idiots. Imbeciles. Nincompoops.
Wat kind of dipstick does that? Invading the pitch during the single most important football game in the entire sporting calendar? Get off. I want to watch this game….there’s some serious stuff going on here. That guy seems to have seriously hurt his ankle judging by the way he’s rolling around in complete agony …oh no, he’s OK. Those guys are having a cuddle in the penalty box in stark defiance of Russia’s policy on sexuality…oh no, the referee has told them to stop.
Curtailment of human rights. State oppression. The suppression of free speech. The imprisonment or assassination of political adversaries. Only idiots would protest about these things during a football match. Time and place, people!
Rather than disrupting the big game itself they could have handed out a strongly worded pamphlet to people as they went into the stadium, and perhaps tried to get a rousing chorus of “we shall overcome” going during half-time. They could have even organised a protest march where they held placards saying stuff like, “we’re a little bit worried about how things are going.” They could have even sent a petition to that nice Mr Putin – he seems a nice man.
I hope they’ve learnt their lesson. I certainly have.
I was planning to protest against the government’s handling of Brexit at the local under 9’s badminton competition, but I know now that it’s not right. I’ll maybe wear a wristband instead.
Quite right. Idiots. Imbeciles. Nincompoops.
Wat kind of dipstick does that? Invading the pitch during the single most important football game in the entire sporting calendar? Get off. I want to watch this game….there’s some serious stuff going on here. That guy seems to have seriously hurt his ankle judging by the way he’s rolling around in complete agony …oh no, he’s OK. Those guys are having a cuddle in the penalty box in stark defiance of Russia’s policy on sexuality…oh no, the referee has told them to stop.
Curtailment of human rights. State oppression. The suppression of free speech. The imprisonment or assassination of political adversaries. Only idiots would protest about these things during a football match. Time and place, people!
Rather than disrupting the big game itself they could have handed out a strongly worded pamphlet to people as they went into the stadium, and perhaps tried to get a rousing chorus of “we shall overcome” going during half-time. They could have even organised a protest march where they held placards saying stuff like, “we’re a little bit worried about how things are going.” They could have even sent a petition to that nice Mr Putin – he seems a nice man.
I hope they’ve learnt their lesson. I certainly have.
I was planning to protest against the government’s handling of Brexit at the local under 9’s badminton competition, but I know now that it’s not right. I’ll maybe wear a wristband instead.
July 9, 2018
David Davies (the Brexit Bulldog) has Inspired Me...
One morning, I said to my wife: “That’s it. I want a divorce.”
She said, “Ah, that’s a shame. We’ve been getting on well. We both seem to be prospering. I thought this marriage was good for us.”
She’s a sweet talker…
“I will admit that it does have some benefits,” I said, “but you’ve been infringing my sovereignty for too long. I just want to be my own man for a bit, take back control…make my own decisions.”
“Like what….?” she asked, rather distractedly. If truth be told I don’t think she was paying that much attention to me – she was sorting the kids, organising the packed lunches, doing some work emails on her phone and listening to classical music.
“Well, for one thing, I don’t want these people coming round here every Sunday, in my garden, expecting me to barbeque for them.”
“Which people?” she asked.
“Those people we had here at the weekend. You know the ones I mean. Don’t make me say it.” She didn’t respond, as she was signing a petition against the curtailment of human rights in China, so I had to say it. “Those foreign ones…”
“You mean Lutfa and Amir…? Our neighbours? The people who take our kids to school three times a week? The ones who let us use their holiday home whenever we like…?”
I decided to ignore this oversimplification of the facts as it wasn’t helpful to my Divorce Narrative. She knew as well as I that our garden was overrun with…people…at least one weekend per calendar month.
“And I want to do my own thing,” I said. Nay, demanded.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Like…erm…I want to go fishing. In my own pond.”
“You can go fishing whenever you like, darling,” she said, rather too sweetly. I think she was getting a bit exasperated. She put down the Neighbourhood Watch report that she was reading and looked at me as I carried on waving my hands in air with sheer, unbridled feeling.
“Not in peace and quiet I can’t. You told those kids from next door that they could use it. They’re there all the time…fishing my fish. I want my fish back. I bought those fish and I won’t have any Tom, Dick and Harry catching them.”
“They’re just children…”
“Hitler was a child once you know and before you know it he was invading Poland. I’m not having the same thing happening to my back garden.”
My wife just shook her head and sighed. She could see that I had made my mind up. And she knew that when I had made my mind up I had indeed made it up.
In her distress she started to fill out a form on her laptop, with a view to sponsoring a child currently in abject poverty.
I bestrode the metaphorical rostrum:
“Here are my demands. Firstly, I will retain a key to this house and I will come and go as I please. You can visit me at my new house if you like; as long as you give me 48 hours’ notice and you sign the visitors’ book on arrival.
“Secondly, your mother will be required to babysit the children at my new house if I want to go out. It would also be helpful if she could continue to do some household chores whilst she’s waiting around for me to come back from wherever I’ve been. More than likely I will have been out for a drink with that saucy American woman from down the road.
“Thirdly, whilst I appreciate that you might eventually get re-married or cohabit with some Turkish or eastern European fellow, you must under no circumstances, allow him to make use of your private health cover. I should remain on that policy in perpetuity as you know my back could go at any minute.
“And finally, sexual intercourse should continue until at least 2022 and perhaps after that, depending on whether I’ve been able to organise a replacement provider.
“Those are my demands, and I will not compromise on them.”
My wife, who during my impressive opening gambit of negotiation, had been pruning some pot plants with a view to increasing the natural biodiversity in our garden gave me a little smile.
“Well maybe we can discuss that later. Why don’t I help you pack your bags?”
She said, “Ah, that’s a shame. We’ve been getting on well. We both seem to be prospering. I thought this marriage was good for us.”
She’s a sweet talker…
“I will admit that it does have some benefits,” I said, “but you’ve been infringing my sovereignty for too long. I just want to be my own man for a bit, take back control…make my own decisions.”
“Like what….?” she asked, rather distractedly. If truth be told I don’t think she was paying that much attention to me – she was sorting the kids, organising the packed lunches, doing some work emails on her phone and listening to classical music.
“Well, for one thing, I don’t want these people coming round here every Sunday, in my garden, expecting me to barbeque for them.”
“Which people?” she asked.
“Those people we had here at the weekend. You know the ones I mean. Don’t make me say it.” She didn’t respond, as she was signing a petition against the curtailment of human rights in China, so I had to say it. “Those foreign ones…”
“You mean Lutfa and Amir…? Our neighbours? The people who take our kids to school three times a week? The ones who let us use their holiday home whenever we like…?”
I decided to ignore this oversimplification of the facts as it wasn’t helpful to my Divorce Narrative. She knew as well as I that our garden was overrun with…people…at least one weekend per calendar month.
“And I want to do my own thing,” I said. Nay, demanded.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Like…erm…I want to go fishing. In my own pond.”
“You can go fishing whenever you like, darling,” she said, rather too sweetly. I think she was getting a bit exasperated. She put down the Neighbourhood Watch report that she was reading and looked at me as I carried on waving my hands in air with sheer, unbridled feeling.
“Not in peace and quiet I can’t. You told those kids from next door that they could use it. They’re there all the time…fishing my fish. I want my fish back. I bought those fish and I won’t have any Tom, Dick and Harry catching them.”
“They’re just children…”
“Hitler was a child once you know and before you know it he was invading Poland. I’m not having the same thing happening to my back garden.”
My wife just shook her head and sighed. She could see that I had made my mind up. And she knew that when I had made my mind up I had indeed made it up.
In her distress she started to fill out a form on her laptop, with a view to sponsoring a child currently in abject poverty.
I bestrode the metaphorical rostrum:
“Here are my demands. Firstly, I will retain a key to this house and I will come and go as I please. You can visit me at my new house if you like; as long as you give me 48 hours’ notice and you sign the visitors’ book on arrival.
“Secondly, your mother will be required to babysit the children at my new house if I want to go out. It would also be helpful if she could continue to do some household chores whilst she’s waiting around for me to come back from wherever I’ve been. More than likely I will have been out for a drink with that saucy American woman from down the road.
“Thirdly, whilst I appreciate that you might eventually get re-married or cohabit with some Turkish or eastern European fellow, you must under no circumstances, allow him to make use of your private health cover. I should remain on that policy in perpetuity as you know my back could go at any minute.
“And finally, sexual intercourse should continue until at least 2022 and perhaps after that, depending on whether I’ve been able to organise a replacement provider.
“Those are my demands, and I will not compromise on them.”
My wife, who during my impressive opening gambit of negotiation, had been pruning some pot plants with a view to increasing the natural biodiversity in our garden gave me a little smile.
“Well maybe we can discuss that later. Why don’t I help you pack your bags?”
July 5, 2018
A small Tribute to the NHS
As my Dad lay dying, I desperately wanted him to wake up, just for a moment, so he could listen to the woman in the next bed. She had woken up; confused and scared.
“Sandra!” she cried. “Gary! I want to go home. Get me a taxi. I’m going home. Sandra!”
A nurse, calm and quiet, edged over and tried to comfort the confused lady.
“You can’t go home sweetheart. It’s nearly midnight. You’re in Barnsley Hospital.”
“I know where I am. Gary, get me a taxi. I’m going home.”
“Gary isn’t here, love.”
“Sandra then. Get me a taxi Sandra, I’m not staying here.”
Had my Dad been awake he might have said, not quite under his breath, “shut up, you daft old bat.” I said as much to him, but I’m not sure he heard.
The confused lady kept shouting. “They’re trying to keep me here Gary. Gary, help me! Get me a taxi.”
The lovely nurse did her best to calm the confused lady. She even tried to be stern, although it was on the sweeter side of strict. “Come on now, it’s after midnight, you’re disturbing people.”
“I don’t care…Sandra get me a taxi.”
The nurse tried a new tack. “Here love, the doctor wants you to have this medicine. It will make you feel better while we wait for that taxi.”
The confused lady responded: “Get away with you. I may be sick BUT I’M NOT DAFT. You’re trying to put me to sleep.”
I laughed. The nurse laughed. And my Dad would have laughed. But he was already on his way; having been beautifully cared for by the NHS in the last few hours of his life.
That is only a small summation of the NHS: caring, dedicated, full of integrity and with a smile on its face. It’s an institution we should treasure.
“Sandra!” she cried. “Gary! I want to go home. Get me a taxi. I’m going home. Sandra!”
A nurse, calm and quiet, edged over and tried to comfort the confused lady.
“You can’t go home sweetheart. It’s nearly midnight. You’re in Barnsley Hospital.”
“I know where I am. Gary, get me a taxi. I’m going home.”
“Gary isn’t here, love.”
“Sandra then. Get me a taxi Sandra, I’m not staying here.”
Had my Dad been awake he might have said, not quite under his breath, “shut up, you daft old bat.” I said as much to him, but I’m not sure he heard.
The confused lady kept shouting. “They’re trying to keep me here Gary. Gary, help me! Get me a taxi.”
The lovely nurse did her best to calm the confused lady. She even tried to be stern, although it was on the sweeter side of strict. “Come on now, it’s after midnight, you’re disturbing people.”
“I don’t care…Sandra get me a taxi.”
The nurse tried a new tack. “Here love, the doctor wants you to have this medicine. It will make you feel better while we wait for that taxi.”
The confused lady responded: “Get away with you. I may be sick BUT I’M NOT DAFT. You’re trying to put me to sleep.”
I laughed. The nurse laughed. And my Dad would have laughed. But he was already on his way; having been beautifully cared for by the NHS in the last few hours of his life.
That is only a small summation of the NHS: caring, dedicated, full of integrity and with a smile on its face. It’s an institution we should treasure.
June 29, 2018
Barnsley in my Veins
My Dad died recently. And as I walked around Barnsley on the day of his funeral, I said to myself: “I suppose this could be the last time I ever come here...”
My father-in-law said: “you must come back, you’re a Yorkshireman, a Barnsley boy…it’s in your blood.”
It got me thinking. Is there such a thing as being connected to the land? Does that connection run within our veins? Is there an inherent sense of dwelling - spiritual or emotional - within our blood? Are we born of a place, rather than just in it?
Wasn't Adam formed from the dust?
It’s not something I have ever thought about before. But it’s been on my mind for a few weeks.
When I went away to University it was a case of running away from Home. I wanted to escape. I wanted to change. I wanted to grow.
Ever since, if truth be told, I have kept my distance from the land of my birth. Perhaps unhappy memories don’t seem that unhappy when you put space and time between them. Difficult relationships are easier to deal with via text message rather than face to face. Frustration can be hidden, contempt can be swallowed, pain can be submerged – in physical detachment and emotional remoteness.
So why do I keep thinking about Home?
Maybe I just want to belong. Maybe I want Yorkshire to be in my veins, so I can say I’m a Yorkshireman. Maybe I want to have Barnsley in my blood, so I can be a Barnsley boy.
Or maybe I just want to remember my Dad – a true Yorkshireman if ever there was one – and feel connected to him in death in a way that perhaps I wasn’t in life.
I don’t know the answer. I just know that it won’t be long before I go back.
“Sure, cried the Tenant men, but it’s our land. We measured it and broke it up. We were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it’s no good. It’s still ours. That’s what makes it ours – being born on it, working it, dying on it.” John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath.
My father-in-law said: “you must come back, you’re a Yorkshireman, a Barnsley boy…it’s in your blood.”
It got me thinking. Is there such a thing as being connected to the land? Does that connection run within our veins? Is there an inherent sense of dwelling - spiritual or emotional - within our blood? Are we born of a place, rather than just in it?
Wasn't Adam formed from the dust?
It’s not something I have ever thought about before. But it’s been on my mind for a few weeks.
When I went away to University it was a case of running away from Home. I wanted to escape. I wanted to change. I wanted to grow.
Ever since, if truth be told, I have kept my distance from the land of my birth. Perhaps unhappy memories don’t seem that unhappy when you put space and time between them. Difficult relationships are easier to deal with via text message rather than face to face. Frustration can be hidden, contempt can be swallowed, pain can be submerged – in physical detachment and emotional remoteness.
So why do I keep thinking about Home?
Maybe I just want to belong. Maybe I want Yorkshire to be in my veins, so I can say I’m a Yorkshireman. Maybe I want to have Barnsley in my blood, so I can be a Barnsley boy.
Or maybe I just want to remember my Dad – a true Yorkshireman if ever there was one – and feel connected to him in death in a way that perhaps I wasn’t in life.
I don’t know the answer. I just know that it won’t be long before I go back.
“Sure, cried the Tenant men, but it’s our land. We measured it and broke it up. We were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it’s no good. It’s still ours. That’s what makes it ours – being born on it, working it, dying on it.” John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath.
