Saturday, March 07, 2009

25 Years

Way back in 1984 I was eleven years old and the coal miners of England were on strike. Well, some of them were.

Those who weren't would have their homes targetted, windows broken, grafitti daubed on walls: "SCAB BASTARD" is the one I remember. I wasn't sure what bastard meant at the time, but I knew it was not a nice word. Now, I can't understand how breaking a strike would question one's legitimacy.

The children of scabs would have to have police escorts to school. I'm glad my dad was not a miner. I saw some adults do some pretty hideous things to each other, and worse still, to kids. Even kids did hideous things to other kids, throwing stones at each other, putting excrement in emptied crisp packets and throwing them at each other. These were kids of eight or nine, kids in my class at school. I didn't get involved. My dad wasn't a miner. I hated what was happening. I didn't understand any of it, but I knew it was all wrong.

The riots of that time have been well documented and I choose not to write about them here, since I didn't experience them first hand. But others did:

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Never Been A Boat Yard

No boats, just pipes. The whole yard was full of pipes.