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Manmates Memory Lane Page 2- Memories form Manchester

See also Memories Page 1 3 4 See also Cinema Stories

 

Patricia's Memories (extract from email)

Hello Alan
Just in case the memory has failed me - Happy New Year to you and all Mancunians at home and abroad.
I was just thinking about Manchester and how in some ways it has changed and in others it hasn't. I heard recently that Manchester has a population of 7 million and that is twice + more than the population of Ireland. When I was in Manchester a couple of years ago I felt safe, just as I did when I was living there over 35 years ago now. Time and I have changed, but so much of the city has remained the same. The stores have different names on them, however, the streets have hardly changed at all. Albert Square is now pedestrianised, I remember getting buses from there, many years ago.
When I was growing up we lived at No. 40 Heywood Street, later to become Harpenden Street, Moss Side. It was great to go shopping on Alexandra Road, Woolworths was a haven for all us children in those days. The minute we got our pocket money around we went to buy sweets or a skipping rope, or some other such item. Being given the money from our mothers to go to the Corner shop - I think the name was Bradshaws' at the top of our part of the street, just over Raby Street was a great treat. Alas those shops have gone, as have the houses surrounding them. Where our house was situated was adjacent to a bomb site, which meant nothing to me at the time, but when I look back and think of the horrors of World War II it sends a shiver up my spine. I remember when I was very young we had a cat, just a tabby cat, whom I adored, one night my father decided that we would go to the pictures. It was the Cinema in Brookes Bar, probably a warehouse or something like that now. While we were walking down the road I looked back and there was the cat, following us. I told him to go home, but he continued to follow us. When we came out of the pictures, there was my cat, sat on the top step, and he did nothing else but follow us home again. I have heard of dogs doing that, but never cats, but my cat did.
We moved from there when I was sixteen years old to Ivygreen Road, Chorlton-cum-Hardy, and I was married in St. John's Church Chorlton-cum-Hardy on the 13th July 1968. Chorlton was better again than Moss Side. I loved living there and becoming a young woman in a pleasant and charming part of the city. It is still a pleasant part of the Greater Manchester area, and both parts of Manchester will always remain in my heart, and it nearly broke my heart to leave there in 1969 to live in Ireland. What a culture shock in more ways than one, which I won't go into here in much detail, just to say that in Manchester I could go down the road and get a bus within a few minutes to take me to any part of the city, and from there a train or bus to any part of the country, to a bus three times a week, which has now dwindled to once a week. However, I have learnt to drive now, so that does not bother me, but it did then.
I had better finish here before you are fed up with me rattling on, but those were the good old days, and the memories of the places are very strong, some faces are still strong, but putting the name to the faces is a problem now - the old age is setting in you know. I was known in those times as Pat Daly. How I hated to be called Pat, Patricia is much nicer. Goodbye and take care. You can of course use my email address, just in case anyone remembers me.

Patricia O'Driscoll 26/01/05

Many thanks Patricia

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Ted Knott's response to Maureen's Memories, extract from email.

Great article from Maureen, (below) I knew a Graham Sims who Im sure lived in Beaufort Ave off Burton rd and also knew the Robsons who attended St Cuthberts on Cotton Lane, also the Daly's and the Webbs and not forgetting the Gablers as well I can provide first names if Maureen wishes to know. Withington Baths oh what fond memories, Maureen you will find my story and picture of a few places in Withington on the site (see some photos of Teds...?), Graham Sims by the way was at the end of the second row far left Im sat down at the front (left) further down that row five stands the lad with a bush of fair/blonde hair it was Paul Roberts he lived on Palatine road 120 i think it was sadly he died in 1962.When I first left school I worked at the Post office on Lapwing Lane as a telegram boy riding a BSA 125 Bantam,finally another classmate Terry Eden lived in Northern Grove which is further down Burton Rd towards Barlow moor road opposite Nell Lane,thanks for your contribution Maureen.

Ted 19/01/05

Thanks Ted.

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Maureen's Memories, extract from the guestbook.

What a fantastic site, it certainly brings back a lot of very happy memories. I lived on Talford Grove, West Didsbury I went to St. Cuthbert's School in Withington, left there in 1958 then went to Fielden Park College.
Families I remember are: Towey, Pugh, Christie, Durkin, Wade, Sims, Kelly, Anderson, Faulkner.
Had very happy times playing on Beaufort Avenue with Ann Faulkner, her brother Billy, along with my brother Jim (he is now living in California).
So many childhood memories, not sure where to begin - conkers, marbles, whip & top, jacks, two ball, kick the can, hide and go seek, riding the homemade "bogie", fishing for minnows and sticklebacks, with a little net made from the top of your mum's old stockings! Going to the Saturday matinee at the Palantine, and remembering the cowboys Roy Rogers & Trigger, Hopalong Cassidy, the cartoons, the movietone news, butterkist popcorn, choc ices, and those drinks with a straw that tasted like very watered down orange juice.
Playing in Cavendish road park, going swimming at the Withington baths, and drinking hot OXO afterwards, and walking along Burton Road eating fish & chips. Roller skating on the car park at the Midland Hotel.
The fair in Wythenshawe park, the Belle Vue circus, and not to forget riding the BOBS!
Pantomime at Christmas time. The day trips to Blackpool, riding the donkeys, going on the rides at the pleasure beach and good old Blackpool rock! I wonder if that little man is still laughing outside the funhouse?
Bonfire night, remember a penny for the "guy"?, baking potatoes in the cinders, they never cooked thoroughly, but sure tasted good! Treacle toffee, parkin, Vimto, tizer, dandelion and burdock.
Comic boooks, Dandy, Beano, Schoolfriend, and Girls Crystal, Topper, how I loved the annuals at Christmas and Enid Blyton books, I went to Withington, Didsbury and Chorlton libraries, trying to read all the series of the Famous Five and Secret Seven.
Then when the teenage years came, it was the Plaza, Ritz, Locarno and the Belle Vue ballroom. Stilleto heels, winklepickers, (my mum always told me that I would suffer with my feet later on! - she was right!) Those huge net underskirts, bouffant hairdos, then the mini skirts. Thanks a million Webmaster for working so hard to cover such a variety of people, places, events etc., there is something here for everybody. Its amazing how much you remember, when you start reading the postings! I have a number of Mancunian friends who are now living elsewhere and will tell them about this great site, I know they will enjoy it, as much as I have!

Maureen Stephenson (nee O'Farrell),South Carolina, USA 16/01/05

Many Thanks Maureen.

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Keith's Memories, extract from the guestbook.

Living on the Rectory Road side of Abbey Hey Lane during the fifties we felt privileged. Friends and relations living in the 2 up 2 downs with long numbers to their addresses and cold trips to the outside privvy in winter didn't function in the same way socially. You had to open the front gate stroll up all of 25 feet to the front door before being admitted. In Sandown Street or on Ashton Old Road people always seemed to be passing by with a packet of something or an errand to run without any such 'formality'. Abbey Hey had one enormous avantage. Just a stroll away you got to the resers, the allotments, Debdale Park, lost golf balls and inevitably first contact with the opposite sex. I can still remember two sweet girls coming up to Raymond Singleton and myself with a bottle of pop that they just couldn't unscrew! We wouldn't have been more than 54 as a total age score, but boys can be oh so more naïve in early teens. The thrill of the summer holidays beyond Green Fold with a rare clear view up to hartshead pike and the sap in our veins led to nothing more than an embarrassed warm explosion of stickiness that we had to wash off thanks to those huge brass taps over from the rose beds in Debdale Park, in the shade, with the two brass bell shaped cups that dangles on chains. The girls had evaporated long before realising that we had got the message that we had barely even picked up upon. Saturday morning was Cross Street shopping. ( Mum was in hospital, I substituted for some years ) Half a pound of rody bacon from Adsega, eggs over the road from the short robust lady with dyed black hair. A stop at the biscuit shop where you just helped yourself in a pound mix which the shopkeeper would twist at their paper bag corners and bring to rest expertly on a barrel of robuster rich teas. Then the place that appeared and smelled like a hospital to me, the white tiled UCP tripe shop near Hyde Road with its honeycombs and cow-heels and all manner of starched and bleached apparel hanging or laid out by the white coated nurses or shopkeepers or whatever they might have been. One thing was certain, it was like the waiting room of a dentist's, just the place you wanted to be shot of quick. There was a place you could get a cup of tea more or less opposite, and a rather unbecoming record store with a not over friendly and no longer young shopkeeper, where some years later I entered with great trepidation, having wagged it, asking if he received the new black and white Beatles LP. He ceremoniously pushed a few boxes on the shelves behind him, struggled with the weighty treasure...he withdrew the lid... yes the four semi silhouettes mesmerising me. The new LP yet unheard.

Keith Elliott, France. 03/12/04

Many Thanks Keith.

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Bishop Billsborough Secondary Modern School

Hi Alan

I wonder if any of your friends on the Website have a picture of this School. It was and is still situated on Princess Road, Moss Side. Apparently it is now called Bishop Billsborrow - How the English has changed in England! I attended there from 1957-1961 and it was there I developed my love of English. I still have my book 'A New First Aid in English'. It was essential reading then, and should be so now. I recently obtained a new copy on Amazon.co.uk, and really very little has changed in it. Anyway, I would love to see a photograph of the school. Also Loreto College, where I attended as a primary school, I believe it is now a 6th form college. When I attended those schools I was known as Catherine Daly in Loreto - there were too many Pat's in the school I was told on my first day. Not a great start really. In Billsborough I was known as Pat Daly.
Thanks a million in anticipation.

Patricia O'Driscoll (extract form email) 25/11/04
To contact Particia by Email: tricia_od@yahoo.com

Many thanks Patricia

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John Morgan here, I have not been to the site for some time due to pressures from elsewhere, any way, I have just been trawling through the memories pages and read some stuff by other guys. Blimey!, we must have been a right lot of reprobates. I thought that maybe I was rather unique in the naughtiness stakes, and here we have proof that there were a whole mob doing almost the exact same things as one another.

Between pinching coal off the lines, swiping and setting off detonators, and having great adventures all around the canal and the general Gorton area, I am suprised we didn't all fetch up in a home for young thugs somewhere.

I know some of the locals did get incarcerated on occasion, but to be honest there were very few who actually did anything seriously wrong. But I suppose that is a matter of perspective. We all kicked balls against walls, but not all the walls were chimney breasts that showered poor old dears with soot from the vibration, ( that was funny though)I can just visualise the old dear doing her Laurel and Hardy act and chasing the little sods along the street.

It seems that my path never did cross that of some of the other correspondents, but my time spent in the area was rather limited, as I said on my other memory page. Maybe, had I remained a Mancunian or Gortonian, then as I aged I may well have met and befriended the likes of Fred Pickering, and others. Sorry boys but time is against us these days. I can't see us all getting together for goldfish angling or any of the other excercises we have all metioned in our memory scribblings, Maybe next time round if there is such a thing.

Best of good fortune to all our readers, hopefully our variety of memories will bring a chuckle to some, a longing for the old and long gone days, and that their lives will be brightened by what we have written for them to read.

John Morgan (extract form email) 18/11/04

Good to hear from you again John

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I wonder if any of your visitors remember the St Finbarr's Irish Centre. I used to live in Ivygreen Road, Chorlton-cum-Hardy, quite a distance away from St. Finbarr's. I remember that there were four girls who used to go there together. One girl that I used to go with was Nora Morgan who lived on or near Oswald Road, Chorlton. I have not kept in touch with her at all. One night at St. Finbarr's I met the man who was to become my first husband. It was April Fools night, and we never did find out who the fool was!!! It was a great place for the dancing to the big bands from Ireland that toured England at that time - around 1964/65. The music was always great and the dancing fabulous, and I am sure that many couples went in single and came out couples from that Centre.
My husband and I got married in St. John's RC Church, Chorlton, in July 1968 and when I went back there last year, it had changed slightly. I well remember that there were only two side aisles, now there are three aisles. much better, especially for weddings or funerals. Anyway to get back to St. Finbarr's, I well remember one night there, Michael and I had got the bus to St. Finbarr's, it was around Christmas time, things got late, we went to get the bus - no bus - no taxi, it was snowing, and I had to hobble all the way back to Chorlton in high heals, holding on to Michael's arm for dear life. We left for Ireland in August 1969, and I am here ever since. Michael died on 6th November 1992 R.I.P. Time passes but the memories of St. Finbarr's linger, even though the building doesn't.
I will be in touch again, with more memories of my life in Manchester. Take care

Patricia O'Driscoll 18/11/04

Many thanks Patricia

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Some memories of Gorton & Openshaw

I think John Morgan and I must have been ships that passed in the night, because we played in the same areas, did the same things and have similar memories of Gorton.

I moved from Haughton Green Denton , to a mid terraced house in Annesley Terrace Gorton, at the tender aged of three. The house was a two up two down, with an outside toilet and one cold water tap. It also had one threepin socket in the kitchen, which used to get so hot it burnt your fingers, pulling out the plug. It was a cold and damp house, full of drafts. When the inside doors were closed at the bottom they were still ajar at the top, they were so warped. The Manchester to Sheffield main railway line ran past the bottom of the garden, and when the fast trains went past, all the loose items in the house used to rattle, especially the handles on a chest of draws that were in the bedroom I slept in.

My father was a railway fireman eventually becoming a driver who used to work from Gorton sheds, so he would always be passing the house when he was at work. This was a big advantage during the war years and just after when coal was in short supply, because, unlike John, who used to hunt for spilt coal on the track, we knew when there was going to be coal available. My father had a code worked out, on the whistle, to let mum know when my brother and I, had to go down to the bottom of the garden and collect the piece of coal, that he would drop off the engine. I must also point out that this only took place during the winter months and when it was dark. Some times it would be so big we could hardly pick it up and get it through the railings (we had managed to break a piece off railing and by sliding it up, could get through the fence and then lower it back into place so it appeared to be sound). My father must have had a sound judgement of size, because it would always just slide through, just!

I attended Varna St School , passing through the infants, junior and seniors and left in 1951 without any outstanding academic achievements apart from the usual comments of "Frederick could do a lot better if he was not so easily distracted". It was here, that I fell in love for the first time. The object of my young desires was, Miss Baker! a second or third year teacher. The first of the young teachers to come out of college after the war, up to that time all the teachers had been people to old to be conscripted or medically unfit. She was about twenty I think, very pretty and curvaceous, smoked Sterling cigarettes and was able to take the skin off her mid morning coffee with one finger nail. I was most upset, when, walking along the passage outside the woodwork classroom and looking down into the classrooms across the hall saw Mr Owen snogging with her between a stationery cupboard and the blackboard. Love is cruel when you are 14.

The heamaster was a Mr Bradshaw, a tall thin man, who wore rimless glasses and had a very blue chin. He held prayers each morning and if there were gales he would have us singing the hymn Oh Heavenly Father We Pray to Thee. He had this amazing ability to be able to blow his nose on a brilliant white hanky, whilst either singing or reading from the bible.

Miss Holmes another teacher had a clockwork habit. At 3.50pm she would be sitting at her desk, which was raised on a frame so that the teacher could see all the pupils, remove her handbag from the desk, take out her lipstick and apply it to her lips, and then dab it on both cheeks and rub it round. When she had finished she looked just like an Aunt Sally Doll. She would then dismount from the desk, and go to the back of the blackboard and easel, where she would hitch up her skirt and play about with her stocking tops. I think because she couldn’t see us, she thought we couldn’t see her. We all had to stiffle our titters.

Mr Pennington was the P.T. and Technical drawing teacher. I liked him and thought he was a fairminded person. He stood whilst he taught and would play with the loose change in his pocket, which, unfortunately earned him the nickname of Old Pocket Billiards.

Miss Alton was the crafts teacher and could easily be coaxed into giving red marks. All that was required to get 2 red marks was to wet your shoes with a bit of rag so they looked clean and shiny, wet your hair and slick it down and as she walked out of her classroom, she would look at your hair going down the line of pupils giving out red marks and then walk back looking at your feet again giving out red marks for clean shoes. Two! before you had even got in.

Mr Butterworth was the Science and Math’s teacher and also a man of habit that could be manouvered. He was a bit of a train buff and at 3.40pm could be encouraged to rush to the window overlooking Gorton and Openshaw station, by the pupils nearest to that side of the class attempting to take furtive looks as the Sheffield Express locomotive sounded its whistle on approaching the station. He would always go for it.

I, like John used to spend a lot of time on the birdcage looking at the loco’s all lined up in the shed sidings, and, when the opportunity arose would nip over the wall at the Preston St end of the bridge and jump up on the loco’s. If you were lucky, in the tender there was two lockers, one each side and inside there would sometimes be a metal cylindrical case containing FOG SIGNAL DETONATORS ! Oh what joy. When I think back we were lucky we didn’t kill ourselves. We used to fasten them to bricks using the lead clips and string and drop them off any high spot, such as billboard hoardings onto the pavement, canal bridges onto the towpath edging, people would all come out to try and find the source of their annoyance and hold a discussion at the roadside on what it could possibly have been

The cut (Clayton to Stockport canal ) was another favourite haunt of mine, we** all used to prowl the banks armed with catapults looking for rats, floating bottles, sacks containing all sorts of dead animals and of course used condoms, they were all fair targets for our salvos of pebbles. When November came one of my favourite tricks was to wrap a strip of lead round a banger and light it, when the fizz began it was dropped into the canal from which a series of smoke filled bubbles would emerge followed by a thump and a column water would rise into the air, or alternatively using a catapult fire it into the air as high as possible, creating an airburst. In the summer months, we would go up the canal to Houldsworth Mill at Reddish much to the annoyance of the anglers trying to catch the gold fish that were to be found there and swim in the canal which was heated by the discharge of hot water from the mill . If there were too many anglers there, we would walk back down the canal towards the Bullshead, come off at the piggeries and go on to Mellands and swim there. Some of the lads would go to the camels hump opposite Hugons and swim there, the braver ones jumping off the hump. I wasn’t keen on that spot, it was a bit too mucky for me, although there was a few old barges to play on. The boilerhouse of Hugons was on the canal side and the coal was delivered by barge there, and the old chap from the boilerhouse would shovel it all ashore in one day, and there must have been at least twenty tons in it. At one stage about halfway through the unloading, the front or back end depending on which end he started from would come out of the water giving the impression it was about to sink.

We would set off from home with a bottle of water a few jam butties, across Peter Pan Park, or the balloon field as it was locally known because of the anti aircraft balloon that was sited there during the blitz, and slide under the fence onto the canal bank. The next part of the trek was to High Bank bridge where we would climb up the rotten brickwork and onto the road over the canal. It would have been easier to go up the steps at Abbey Hey bridge and through High Bank park but that would have been too easy. We would follow the dirt road through the allotments and onto the road that ran between the reservoirs to Debdale Park, and finally come out onto Manchester Road at Thornley Park. The walk continued up to Denton Station, where we would go down Oldham St to Windmill Lane and through the brick works, coming out at Denton Woods and walking down to Reddish Vale to the big sluice that was just up river from the sixteen arches. We would swim and play about for hours in that dirty stinking water (we didn’t know that three sewage works:- Dukinfield, Hyde and Denton, discharged into the River Tame in the four miles of river above where we swam). There would be dozens of people enjoying themselves. We would also go swimming in the River Medlock at shaky bridge in Daisy Nook, another dirty river but set in lovely scenery, the noise we used to make was tremendous.

During school holidays Manchester Corporation Transport allowed children to travel anywhere in the area covered by them for a ha’penny and we certainly got our monies worth. We would travel from Brooks Bar to Cheetham Hill just for the fun of it, to get maximum value.

Each Sturday we would go to either the Cosmo on Wellington St., the Plaza on Gorton Lane, the Rex aka the bughut (it’s no good trying to stand on your seat, the bugs in here can jump six feet) on Aston Old Rd or the Olympia on Hyde Rd. to the kids matinee as it was called. There would be a cartoon, a B class main feature with such stars as Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autrey, Roy Rogers or some other cowboy actor. The hero’s all wore great huge white hats (except Hopalong who always dressed in black and had a bright kneckerchief) and the villians wore black ones. When there was a fist fight and there always was, they would invariably roll over a small cliff or down a hill, at the bottom the hero would still have his hat on and be as clean as a whistle but the villain would disheveled, hatless and ready to be lead away to jail. This would be followed by a serial, such as The Clutching Hand, The Scorpion, The Electric Man or Flash Gordon. The first two frightened me to death and I would cover my ears so I couldn’t hear the creepy music. When we left the cinema, we would all be riding on invisible horses, smacking our backsides with one hand whilst holding the reins in the other and galloped all the way home.

I remember our local bobby who had a moustache to shame Hercule Poirot. It was square on his top lip and had waxed handlebars on it that stuck out at least two inches each side and were as rigid as iron bars and never moved when he was giving you a bit of his tongue, and this was pretty frequent, he knew us all by name and terrified us. He used to ride on his bike and defy gravity whilst travelling at one mile per hour without even a wobble and maintained a fearsome look on his face.

My mother would give me a few coppers and send me to gert some bread from the all night bakery on Croft Street,up the back entry opposite Ellis’s pie works, where my little brother and I would wait in the queue with our mouths watering because of the delicious smell, it must have been quite a torment for the neighbours.

Near St James church on Green Lane there was a haulage contractor called Thomas Lamb, who carried building materials on wagons drawn by huge horses. I remember this old carter who had a moustache similar to the local bobby but much more bushy and completely covered his top lip with little twisted bits at each end. He sat upon a bench at the front of his huge wagon, the lower part of his legs were encased in leather gaiters which were polished until they gleamed, and on his feet were clogs that were also shone. Across his knees he had a thick hessian sack, neatly folded and on his head a bowler hat, he looked straight ahead over the horses. The horses were in a team of four or six depending on the load, beautifully groomed and all sporting moustaches exactly the same as the carter with little twisted bits on the ends, I’m sure he must have done it. The horses used to be steaming and the breath coming from their nostrils sounded and looked like a steam engine as they pulled the load up the hill on Ogden Lane. They really were worked hard, I felt so sorry for them, but when they were coming back empty their gait was quite spritely. Eventually all the horses were replaced by Dodge trucks and another form of transport disappeared to join Clancy’s steam lorries which all ended up rusting in his yard at the end of Chapman St.

Bonfire night was a big thing in the Terrace, and we would be collecting from the end of September ranging far and wide, to obtain fuel for it, anything that wasn’t nailed down was fair game on our sorties including other peoples bonfires. We would pull all the tyres from the canal at the back of Halwyn Tyre Co. on Cornwall St. We never knew who threw them in, but we were very grateful for them. They would be secreted in the middle of the stack so no one could see them until it was too late and they were well alight giving off clouds of smoke and noxious fumes. Each year, someone would threaten to call the Fire Brigade if we did the same the following year, we always did!

The fireworks displays at Belle Vue were all observed from the top of the hoarding outside the Railway Hotel on Chapman St, where the six of us would be clinging on like grim death and cheering every rocket that rose into the sky until that final airbomb that signaled the end of the show. I only ever saw that huge Guy Fawkes sitting outside the Palmcourt entrance with the barrel of gunpowder between his knees. I didn’t think they set him on fire, I got the impression he was there to announce the arrival of the fireworks display, which, I think began at the end of October and lasted for one week.

I started fishing when I was nine or ten, and was given a lot of input by Harry Jewitt who used to look after the pumps that lifted the water from a reservoir that was fed from the cut, up to a tank on the top of the laundry building situated on Cornwall St. where it flowed by gravity to Gorton Sheds and supplied the locomotives and workshops. He built my first rod which was a 12ft cane and greenheart job, which gave many hours of good sport and fun. Coming out of school, it was a quick dash home via the LNER Athletic Club ground, a sandwich, and I was off to Mellands to fish in a little pool near the pipes that crossed the railway at the back of the crane works on Station Rd. Reddish. A couple of hours later I would be walking home with a square Smiths Crisps tin full of gudgeon, all destined for Harry Jewitt’s reservoir. I bought my bait and tackle from Arrowsmiths on Gorton Rd. who was always ready to help you with any problems. He had a huge dog (well it seemed big to me) I think it was a boxer, it had a peculiar habit of walking round the shop with the remnants of a crisp tin in it’s mouth that I’m sure it had tried to devour. I can still smell that shop in my mind and it must be the best part on fifty years since I was last there.

I think at this stage I will call it a day

but I may be back!!!!!

Fred Pickering

aka pickers

** The we would consist of :- Ken Bell, Royston and Dennis Barstead, Keith Jewitt and myself or any part thereof.

Some class mates:-

Alan Felstead, Keith Schofield, Billy McKellroy, Ronnie Greene, John Capper, Brian Deakin, Keith Threlfall, Fred Pickering (my cousin), Ken Austin. Billy Redfern, Raymond Chadwick, Glyn Williams, Billy English, Frank Allen, Ronnie Taylor, Leslie Hughes, Peter Allison, Frank or Alan Whittaker.

The girls:- Marjorie Naylor, Irene Buckley, Eileen Blair, Joan Bradbury, Jean English, Dora Meredith, Freda Deakin, Joan Wilde and Muriel Marchant.

Sorry for those I forgot, but memory does fade. 26/10/04

Many thanks Fred for your great memories. Please do come back with more!!!

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Winter Thoughts

Winter will shortly be upon us again and it brings back memories of the sport we used to all have on the croft at the junction of Railway St. and Chapman St. Anyone who can remember it during the war years will recall that tanks were driven along Chapman and Railway St, from either Beyer Peacocks or up from Whitworth St where there was a M.O.D. factory. The sets in the road used to get broken with the tracks of the tanks, and occasionally they would turn onto this croft that had an air raid shelter on it and tear up the soil into great heaps doing tight turns and then back onto the road to continue their journey to I don’t know where. The result of these sorties was to give us a great area to ride bikes on once it had settled and become compressed with all the feet that passed over this ground enroute to the many factories in that area.

Once the snow fell we would congregate at the top of the little hill with various means of sliding down it. There would be the lucky ones with proper sledges and the not so lucky ones with chair backs, card board boxes and bits of timber . Those with sledges would be the first, and got the snow compressed ready for everyone else. The hill seemed huge to me as a child, whilst in reality it was only about 30 feet long with a drop of about 10 feet, the aim was to go as far down the run off at the bottom as you could with out drifting off to the left and into the brook that came from a culvert under the hill (more about that later). There was another footpath, not as steep, but it was a bit longer, that ran back to the top of the hill next to the pavement on Railway St. and after it had been used by the kids to get back to the top of the hill, it became quite slippy and was developed as a second ride. It was however, a bit more perilous because it ran onto a dwarf wall, a little bit like a canal towpath with a drop of a foot or so on one side.

I would eventually go home, soaking wet and frozen through to the bone, with blue knees and chapped inside legs, those short pants were terrible . I knew what was coming next, a good hiding from my mum, and the dreaded Melrose on my legs. For the benefit of anyone who does not know what Melrose is I will explain. It was a medication developed by a child hater and consisted a solid block of something akin to wax that was applied to chapped skin, after it had been warmed ,(which did nothing to make it any softer, it was in fact more abrasive than sandpaper) it really did hurt. It was supposed to help in the healing process. Another thing we were subjected to, was a lump of camphor hanging on a peace of string around the neck to ward of colds.it took your breath away and stank like hell. Imagine trying to persuade a young person of today to wear mothball material on a string round the neck, I know what they would tell you to do with it!

My recollections of feeling cold, have just brought back memories of the poor men ,who used to drive past the end of the terrace along Chapman St., riding on red painted vehicle chassis, which I think were destined to become buses. They would be sat a little cab, the only shelter they had was the windscreen and a box surrounding them which appeared to be made of cardboard, had no top, and was open to all the elements. On the top of the chassis would be a huge concrete block, that must have wheighed at least a ton! The drivers would be wearing leather gauntlets that came up to the elbows, a greatcoat, goggles and an old fashioned leather flying helmet (like a spitfire pilot) there was no bare flesh in sight!

I wore clogs a lot as a child and in the winter when it snowed they would develop huge cloggies, much to the chagrin of those that used to laugh at my footwear at other times. Cloggies for the uninitiated is the build up of snow that clung to the soles of my clogs and could end up 6 inches thick making me the tallest kid in the class albeit only temporary because they would fall off and the process started all over again. We used to brag about the soles of our clogs, my brothers and I, because my father would cut the treads off tyres and nail them to the soles. We could have Michelin, Goodyear, Dunlop or Avon treads on our feet! The only problem with wearing clogs, was that I wouldn’t be allowed on the slides made in the school playground because it tore up the ice.

Going back to the culvert that emerged at the bottom of the hill. This water came from a sluice on the canal bank outside the L.N.E.R. club rear entrance, and ran for some considerable distance under ground . The sluice contained a series of thick pieces of wood that slid into grooves cut into the stone. It controlled the level of water in the canal and was used to drain the stretch of water that was contained in the aqueduct over Gorton & Openshaw Stn., when it was isolated for repair. One year someone, I don’t know who, removed one of these planks which released a greater volume of water into the culvert and as a result the lowers reaches of the croft flooded and became a skating rink overnight. All the kids were thrilled to bits with the ice that was formed and made great long slides.

Christmas day we would hear the choir singing over the speakers in St. James church steeple, it was lovely. It was a while before I found out that it was a record, and not a real choir singing, that spoilt it for me.

Each Christmas my mother would do a lovely scene on a mirror with snow lying about, people skating on the ice , houses, trees and some animals, it was magical to me and I used to think up little stories about what was going on there. The tree decorations would go less and less each year, because I would help her to dress the tree, and accidents did happen. On Christmas day the fire would be lit in the front room, and we would be allowed to play with our gifts in there, which was a treat, because the front room was a no go area normally. We could go out of the front door, but were instructed to come in the backway , but if we had been to the shops, we could use the front door to come back in. It was very strange and something I couldn’t understand.

In the terrace there was one gas lamp. It never worked because of the blackout. We used think it was there for us to swing on, using bits of rope thrown over the arms that used to stick out each side. I remember shortly after the war had finished, a man coming up the terrace with a handcart and a short ladder. He cleaned the glass in the lamp (no, we had not broken the glass!) and fitted a clock mechanism onto the end of the gas valve that stuck up into the lantern. "Are you going to light it, "we all asked, to which he replied "No, another man will come with the mantles and sort it out". Some days later a man came to the light, wound up the clock fitted the mantles and lit the pilot light and left saying "It will come on tonight". That night we were all standing by the lamp, parents included, when it lit up making a plopping noise. Everyone started to cheer and clap, it was certainly a night to remember!

Slightly out of sequence but because of relating the above paragraph I have just remembered a game we used to play. It required the use of a syrup tin, a hammer, a large nail and a supply of gas. Firstly the can had to be clean, then, using the hammer and nail, two holes were made in the can, one in the centre of the lid and one in the side at the bottom edge, the tools are now disposed of. Remove the lid from the can, and holding a finger over the hole on the side, hold it over a unignited gas ring on the cooker for a few seconds, turn off the gas and quickly replace the lid firmly on the can. Still covering the hole in the side, go out into an open space and stand the can on the floor, apply a lighted match to the top hole and retire. A small flame will burn on the top, using the gas supply in the can, which is being diluted by air entering the hole on the side. When the mixture of gas and air reaches the correct proportions, the flame will enter the can with a violent explosion, sending the can lid skywards. Did I say game?

Another game was played by obtaining a garden cane, about 4 feet long and splitting one end, a set of card flights were fitted, which gave it the appearance of a long dart, which in fact, was exactly what it was. Next a piece of string about 3 feet long was obtained, and a large knot tied in one end. Placing the knot about 6 inches from the flights, the line was passed round the back of the shaft and across top of the knot and pulled taut in the direction of the point, this would lock the line in a half hitch on the cane. Keeping the tension on the line by wrapping it around the first finger and putting your thumb on the end of the cane, it could be brought up from behind your body and as the arrow began to gather speed the thumb was withdrawn but still retaining the string on you finger continue the forward momentum using the string to propel the arrow and when the arm reached the top of its arc, the string would fall away from the arrow and it would soar to a tremendous height. The Australian aborigines use a similar method when hunting with spears but used a length of wood to extend the length and power of their throw.

I don’t want you to get the impression that I was a vandal and always getting into trouble, because I wasn’t all the time, just now and again. So before I get into trouble again I will close for now.

Fred Pickering. 31/10/04

Many thanks Fred for another great story.

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Harry's Memories

I was born in Ogden Lane, Openshaw and went to Varna Street school during the 1940's. Imagine my delight when I went on to the Internet and keyed in Varna Street School and up popped this wonderful site of memories of my childhood.

I now live in South Africa and married to a South African lady who when I tell her stories about living in Openshaw during the war said how terrible it must have been for a young child.
Nonsense! It was the most wonderful time of my life because as a child, it was all we knew. We made the best of every situation and were too young to care. It couldn't have been much fun for the parents though having to try and scrape a living with husbands and sons away at war.

Our day started, in Ogden Lane, with a loud banging on the upstairs bedroom window, this was the "Wakey-Up Man" who use to put out the gas lamps, in the street and for a tanner a week would bang on your window with his long cane to wake you up. I always remember the sound of the workers marching past our house on the way to "Hugons" factory at the bottom of Ogden Lane, I think they made suet. The workers all had clogs on and made a hell of a noise on the cobbled street. My mother would then get me dressed, give me breakfast and off to Varna Street school, which I might add, I hated with a passion. It wasn't Varna Street, it was school that didn't like me. My mother would take me through the school gate and off she went home. When she got home, I was already sitting on the front step of our house. I was 4 years old and already playing truant.

My Gran use to take me into Manchester, where we would go to a soup kitchen and for a penny we would get two big cups of hot soup and two "Dockers Wedges" of bread. Wonderful stuff!!!
I also remember seeing the big black German V2 rocket on show in Piccadilly, can anyone remember what year that would be? (John Morgans Answers)

We lived in a 2 up & 2 down with one tap of cold water and toilets outside. In the winter the toilet would freeze and we would have to take the "Football Pink" and a match to get rid of the ice before using the loo. This led to many a burnt bum.

There was a gate at the back yard and I use to climb on the gate and look up in to the sky, which was black with dozens of aircraft making a hell of a noise. In retrospect I can only think that these were German bombers on the way to bomb Trafford Park Industrial area.
Approx. 100 yards from our back door was the "Red Rec" which was a shale soccer pitch with a game every Saturday. Every time a player fell on the shale, he got up cut to pieces and covered in blood.

Then, there was, the railway, this was our playground. There was a railway hut along side the lines that housed the detonators used apparently when there was fog. We use to put them on the lines and hide, waiting for the trains to come. We knew exactly what times the trains would come past. As soon as a train came there would be an almighty explosion and we would run like hell across the Red Rec.
I often wonder how many famous trains like "The Flying Scotsman" and "The Mallard" we brought to a standstill.

My mother then had a wonderful idea of "Cleaning my blood". I could never understand how my blood got dirty? Prior to leaving for school she would give me a tablespoon of Syrups of Figs and off we went. I must tell you that this stuff worked quicker than the Germans marching through Holland. I never made it to school. This was the best laxative ever invented.

Mrs. Booth (bless her) was a widow and she lived opposite our back gate in a row of terraced houses where the two houses next door had been bombed. The council sent the workers to fix up Mrs. Booth's house and now she was living at the end of the row. Perfect, we now had a blank wall that we chalked goal posts on and proceeded to play soccer with a 12lb leather football. Unbeknown to us, Mrs. Booth, use to sit by the coal fire in the parlour and do her knitting. Every time we kicked the ball against the wall, a huge amount of soot use to fall down the chimney into Mrs. Booth's lap. Can you imagine this apparition covered in soot chasing us down the road with her walking stick as a weapon, hoping to beat us to a pulp.

I remember Ogden Lane being a very busy road particularly early morning and in the evening when the Hugon's siren used to signal home time. The road was always full with buses ( I think the bus number was a 53 0r 51, perhaps somebody can confirm this). There was very few cars in those days. As soon as the siren went off, you could hear the clip clop of the workers with their clogs on coming back up the road heading home. I will never forget the noise.

I still have tons of memories of my childhood which I will gladly share with you if you find it of interest.

Best Regards,

Harry Fleming 06/09/04

Yes, Harry! I am sure everyone will want to hear the stories, I know I will. Harry continues below...!!

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More Memories of Openshaw

The more I look at your web site, the more the memories of living in Ogden Lane, Openshaw in the 1940's come flooding back. If you travel down Ogden Lane from Ashton Old Road, the road takes (or use to) a bend to the right where there was a newsagents shop on the bend on the right hand side of the road. Our house was opposite the newsagents, no. 51. It had a large, front window, as it had also been a shop at one time. I still recall some of the names of families that lived very close to us.
Further down the road on the right was a Wilson's House, I think it was called the Royal Oak.* A childhood friend of mine George Bowers lived almost opposite the pub and I remember his dad, also George had a ventriloquists dummy which young George use to pull out when his dad was at work. George would call all the kids to his house and when we arrived, the house was dark with the curtains closed and George would bring in this coffin like box, placed it on the settee and very slowly open the box. Inside was this Archie Andrews look alike with big starey eyes and a mouthful of piano key teeth.
As if we wasn't already scared to death, George picked up the dummy, put his hand in the back and the eyes moved and the mouth opened and closed.
That was it, six screaming kids, all wearing world at war pullovers, white in the gills went tearing out of the house and disappeared into their back yards.
Needless to say, we kept going back for more.
George had the same birthday as me (3rd Dec.) but was a year older. I know that he went to Manchester Grammar School and I understand that he had a window cleaning business. If you are out their George, I would love to hear from you.

Harry Fleming 09/09/04

*The Royal Oak is still there.

Many thanks Harry.

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Here I am some fifty years on from leaving school, but still full of the memories of my Manchester/west Gorton past life.
At the bottom of Clowes Street, across Hyde Road, on the corner of Gray Street, there was a yard of some sort with a bank higher than the side of the road, there was gate that led one up to the side of the railway tracks. On this bank every spring a great show of those beautiful tall spikes of flaming red flowers, the Rose Bay Willow Herb, or Fireweed as it is called sometimes. They used to blossom there in a blaze of colour amidst a world of dullness. I was not very knowledgable in the way of plants etc in those days, I am referring to my age at about 7 or 8 up to about eleven. Anyway I made it my business to find out the name of the flower. This in turn led me to seek out other wild flowers and learn their names and the habitats in which they lived. I am now at 67 very knowledgable in all things natural, I have a great rapport with all living things and am reluctant to destroy any type of plant or animal. I still get great delight in discovering a 'new' (to me) flower and am constantly thrilled to see the birds in the garden of my home and about the countryside. I owe this life long pleasure to seeing that splendid swathe of colour on the corner of Grey Street all those years ago.

One thing that has left me bereft in recent times is the demise of an institution that I and I know many hundreds of others enjoyed, that was the Summer camps that Sunday Schools used to organise. Now please understand I am not in the slightest religious, quite anti in fact being of athiest tendencies, but the kids of my time used to love these outings.

I saw a letter on a web site recently that mentioned the great times the writer had enjoyed in Great Hucklow in Derbyshire. I know the place he referred to. I used to go ther myself as a child with the Union Chapel in Clowes Street. We always had a week in the annual school holidays at the camp site. Long wooden huts, and iron or wood framed beds. outside toilets which consisted of planks of wood with round holes where one sat to do the business. The waste dropping through into large smelly buckets. I can recall the smell of Jeyes fluid without any effort to this day. Recently my wife and I, being in the habit of slepping in the van, made a stab at visiting Great Hucklow, but the camp site was eradicated, the field is still there, but the wooden shacks have long since been consigned to the bonfire of history.

It was during those camping days that I got to know about Curlews, and Pheasants, Partridges and Hares, and all the rich plethorae of wild life in Britain. The banks of Wallpennywort, and what the heck did wort mean anyway, I learned a lot in those lovely summer days in Derbyshire.

Behind the camp, high up on the ridge we used to gaze in awestruck wonder at the gliders, or sailplanes as they are also called, as they took off into the clear blue skies above, they hitched the front of the 'plane to a long cable, which in turn was connected to either the rear of a vehicle, or I seem to remember in one instance to the hub of the rear wheel of a tractor. then at an appropriate moment the engine of the tractor would be revved up, or the car set off along the ground, in either case the 'plane would rush along until lift was achieved. Then, once high in the air, the release would be operated and down would fall the rope or cable leaving the silent machine to wander the skies wherever the whim of the pilot would decide. What a wonderful sight and delight to a young boy or girl. Having just come out of a war, and having witnessed fighter planes and bombers overhead, the fact that these machines had no engines was astonishing. What kept them up? this, in my case, led on to another adventure, finding out about science and the wonder of that again is still my constant companion.

Nearby was old leadmine workings, despite severe warnings of the danger involved by the possibility of tumbling down an unsecured shaft, the brave ones would slip out of camp whenever the oppotunity presented itself, to go hunting for lumps of quartzite stones that we could smash apart to see if we could find a deposit of galena or lead ore. This same stuff I used to take home in little nuggest to use with a coil of thin coper wire to make a crystal set. The little bit of galena would be stuck down onto a base and a thin length of steel wire would be tickled along the surface of the 'crystal' until a signal was picked up. I had the benefit of an ex USAF pair of pilots earphones at that time, and nearly always managed to get the BBC or sometimes other stations from overseas. I did pick up Israel once or twice. This was a new country in those days, so I was thrilled to bits when after I wrote to Tel Aviv, I received a card back from them telling me that MY report was wholly correct in all its details.
This was one of the many aspects of my somewhat imecunious lifestyle in West Gorton. Poverty stricken in money terms but as rich as Creosus in everything else.

I may tell you about the 'stink' bombs at a later date.


John Morgan

I really can't wait John. I am enjoying this. You should write a book about it...!

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Once again I take to the keyboard for some of my early memories.

Bennet Street flats, anyone remember them?, down by Beatties coal yard.
What an adventure I had down there.

Someone left a car in the front of the flats with the window open. Somehow a pigeon got into the car and was flapping about inside. Along comes me the hero of the hour and tried to get the bird out. The owner was not amused and chased me across the front area of the flats. I was just about to have my collar grabbed, when out of a ground floor flat a large woman came to grab me and swing me inside the front door. The man in chase tried to get her to let me out of the flat so I could get a thump no doubt, but the woman told him to sling his hook. She, being rather larger and somewhat more agressive won the day, and he backed off to his car. I hoped he liked the re decoration the the pigeon had done to his driving seat.

The woman took me into the flat and proceeded to ask me things about where I came from etc. At first I didn't think anything of it until her daughter and friends came in and started to undress, and I mean undress, right down to the birthday suit in fact.

The man that came in with the daughter proceeded to get to grips with her and we all sat and watched the floorshow for a while. It was not the first time I had seen overt copulation. I had spent some time on a farm and was very familiar with the antics of all manner of creatures in the throes of pre conceptual activity. But, theres always a first even at eleven years of age. That was the first time I witnessed it being engaged in by 'real' people.

Next to the flats was Beatties coal yard, another place for adventures to take place. We used to sneak in through a rear fence behind the flats, and spent many times sliding down the heaps of coal, leaving after the fun was all played out or when the cocky watchman chased us away.

Talking about that sort of character, places me once more in Gorton 'desert'. there we played Beau Geste, as we emulated the hero in the film of that name. The top end of the park was sectioned by stone walls built to look like battlements of a sort. We would hide from one another behind the dentured tops of the walls and using our catapults or bows and arrows, shoot at passers by, or gang membersof other gangs. The usual outcome, us being chased by angry folk to whom our silly game was an annoyance or was seen by rivals as outright gang warfare tactics. Oh! happy days.

After such an afternoon in the school holidays we may well then sneak across Hyde Road and filter through the Belle Vue Hotel grounds and along the miniature railway track side, plenty of bushes to cover our encroachment, until we got into the main part of the place. Sometimes if cash was available, and we a variety of tricks to pull to ensure that was so, we'd go into Sivori's for an ice cream. I was fortunate in there as I had been at school with the yougest Siv, and he or sister Rosie may be serving in there, which meant a free one for yours truly. The old man would have gone into a fit if he caught on . They were the greatest of people, and bore the indignity of being 'interned' during the first part of the war as 'aliens' with admirable acceptance. They were Italians, and therefore a so called threat to the national security. At the same time their eldest son was over in Europe in the British army doing his bit for Britain, what a farcical situation. I loved the Sivori's. I even fell for Rosie as a youth, but never mentioned it to her. She was running the cafe at the top of Clowes Street, opposite the Brook House Hotel, in the early fifties. I used to go in the cafe for a hot Vimto, and to stare at the love of my life, but was too damned chicken to speak on that matter. I doubt she would even remember me now. Pity really, If I was as forward then as I became later , she could well have been my wife, well, all things are possible aren't they?

Back to the 'cocky' watchman. In those days they were everywhere, on holes in the road, at gates to factories, yards and what have you. As we were fairly late to bed, usually about 7pm, and as places of work closed at an hour or so earlier than that, we ofetn went to sit at the coke brazier that seemed to be obligatory wherever a Cocky did his thing. Sometimes we managed to get a bacon butty off him, fried on a spotlessly clean shovel, and a cup of tea. usually in the lid of a billy can or an old bashed tin mug. I for one was in my seventh heaven in those days.

Another bit of nonsense was 'decking on', that was grabbing a hold on to rear of a vehicle, usually horse drawn, so that we could get free ride for a few yards or so. Sometimes we may travel a half mile or more, Then the driver would catch on and would chase us away, The next trick was to cross the road and wait fro a return ride back. The ld 'nosey' the rail way delivery trucks that had a single wheel stuck out front like a Robin reliant car, would be drumming up the street, noisy things they were, but went a darn sight faster than a horse drawn dray, the we had to run like the clappers to 'deck' on. I remember with sadness the day one of my school pals, at Armitage Street school, 'decked on a 'nosey' outside the school gates during play time. The truck was loaded with rolls of newsprint or some such no doubt being deliverd to a nearby printing works, the road was rather rough being cobbled, and rutted for some erason, anyway the holdings snapped and the roll of paper, being about a yard in diameter, rolled back off the rear of the bed, right onto Rodney. He stood not a chance, I think he lived for an hour or two, but certainly died as a result of the incident. That was the end of my 'decking on' I never did it again Another gerat pal was Johnny Scofield, he lived in the street behind my grandfathers barber shop in Clowes street. He went under with meningitis. How the heck I ever survived my child hood I'll never know. I was just as much up to mischief and exposed to the same bugs and viruses as the rest of the kids, but it all passed me by. So here I am today to tell you all about it.

More soon.

J Morgan

John, they just keep getting better and better. Many thanks I am enjoying them very much. Alan, the webmaster.

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lets get on with 'stink bombs'

Along the road from west Gorton, by Arrowsmiths shop, where you got parts for your bike, and also all the fishing gear you could ever hope for, was another road that went off towards Ardwick, Gorton Road I think it was, on the corner by the side of Ashbury Station was the Gorton Tech college. Anyway, along that road about a hundred yards or so was a long brick wall. Someone showed me and a few mates, (about ten yrs old at the time,) that over the wall were some old brick sheds that stored cans of old cinema film.

We had already found that this material could be turned into stink bombs, now we had a ready supply of the makings.

Taking a roll of film we would cut off about two feet or so and roll it up very tightly, wrap it in paper and put a twist on one end, like a toffee wrapper, the other end the paper would be tucked into the roll of film. Putting a match or maybe a lighter to the twisted end we would wait until the film began to hiss and splutter, then we would rapidly stamp down on it with a foot, The film would continue to burn but without flame, a cloud of acrid smoke would belch forth, to the annoyance of anyone (except ourselves of course) who happened to be in the vicinty. This was great fun in cinemas as you can well imagine. Needless to say, making ourselves scarce was of the utmost importance. The good thing about the trick was the fact that it took a few seconds for the effects to take place, which gave us time to move seats or get out of the place altogether. It was more fun staying though, just to see the chaos that often ensued.

I tried it on at school a couple of times, but the head of Thomas Street school was not amused, so I gave it up once the film stock ran out. No,... it was not that the film ran out, it was more that the yard keeper had the law on to us, so we were deprived of our makings. never mind, there was always something else to get up to.

Heres another 'naughty' memory. I became pals with a boy from along by Bayer Peacocks, I can't remember his name, but he was a member of a Roman Catholic family. We we walking down past St Francis church, 'The Monastry' one afternoon and a priest called out to the boy. We went over to the church doorway whereupon the priest began to berate the boy for failing to turn up to his duties as an alter boy for the last few mass's. The boy said something about it being a load of rubbish anyway, the priest responded by giving him a sharp smack across the side of his head. We ran off shouting abuse at the priest, probably the worst of it all coming from me. I was not a catholic, and my mother having been married to one once, my real father, had given me a healthy hatred of that faith, so there I was shouting all the nastiest things I could shout.

Later in the week, Friday, this boy and I made our way into the church carrying two small lemonade bottles up our jumpers. The priests were very busy on a Friday evening taking confessions, so were not too observant about two little street rats hovering about the font of holy water near to the main door. Surreptitiously we emptied our portable toilets into the font, and were off like rockets down towards Brook House flats. What a joke, silly little so and so's we were. I still have no regard for the church, be it catholic or whatever, but I must admit for a long time I had a guilt trip over that little stunt.

Arrowsmiths, now that was a name to conjure with. I remember old Alf Arrowsmith very well. He was a great old guy, very helpful to a youngster, always ready to give you the benfit of his vast knowledge about fishing and all that went with it. His shop was always packed to the roof with the most interesting of things, knives, rods, tubs of maggots and all sorts of bike things from wheels to hubs, from tubes to saddles. You needed, it Alf had it somewhere in that cave of delights. I seem to remember that his son opened a travel agency at the top of Clowes Street, about a few doors from the Beswick Co-op shop. For some reason I have it in mind that the firm later became a national chain under the name Arrowsmith Travel or Tours, but I may be wrong in that. It could just have been a co-incidental use of the name.

Just behind the old Gorton Library at the beginning of Belle Vue Street, there was a small shop we all called 'Pop's'

He was a fat old sort who used to sell penny chews and bottles of fizzy drinks etc.,
He knew my mother relatively well, so I was always ok for a bit of 'tick'. If I had empty pockets he would let me have a few pence worth on account. This put me in good stead with mates who didn't share the same facility. I was always good for sweets and pop. This was handy if we were off to a skirmish scaling the walls to Belle Vue in Kirkmanshulme Lane, the best place to get in without paying. Great on 'special' days when something was going on in there.

I must admit most of my memories are centred on school holidays, the rest of the year little happened, except for weekends of course.

My step father was into 'cars' and always had the bonnet up on some old banger or other. if not for himself, there was always 'mates' who must have thought the road in front of our flat was equal to either a racetrack pit stop or a general garage forecourt. Fo me it more akin to a scrapyard. But, as I knew nothing about the intricacies of cars and engines at the time I suppose my ignorance would only allow for that to be in my mind. One weekend. It could have been Whit or Easter, he decided to take us all to that wonderland known as BLACKPOOL. We were all very excited with this prospect of a visit to the seaside. 1947 or '48 it was, The car was an Austin 7, about the size inside of a cubicle in a public toilet. Into this miniscule space was crammed, He, driving, my mother holding baby Margaret, Grandmother with three or four year old Brother Ken on her lap and myself squirming about trying to find some way of getting a comfortable seat. We travelled the 40 odd miles to Blackpool in this fashion at about twny miles an hour, he never did drive very fast. We had a lousy day in Blackpool, it was dull and overcast most of the time, then about four thirty it began to rain. Of course we were all down on the beach pretending to be enjoying ourselves, no chance, Gran was grumping, mother was compaining it was too cold for the baby, and my brother kept wandering off to the edge of the sea. As for myself I had found some other little tykes to play with and was quite happy rooting around the bottoms of the piers columns looking for green crabs.

Finally step-dad decided it was time to get off home.
Guess what happened next! The old mobile scrap heap gave up the ghost. Fortunately we were somewhere near to a bus stop that was at the end of a route to Manchester. Anyway we got home about 11-30 that night. All I could hear was my mother and gran saying 'never again Bill,' Next time we go on the train. I think he really enjoyed himself that day, but the rest of us certainly didn't


More as the memories arise.

John 16/12/2003

Read John's adult Exploits, From South Wales to Al Jiddah

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