v Bramley (home) 10th Jan 1970

I’m a man,
Yes I am and I can’t help but love you so
I'm a Man - Chicago - #8 Jan 70


Quarter to six on a saturday morning in January is no time to be setting out for work, even less so when its bleedin freezing, damp and thick of fog, the young man pulls the lapels of his sheepskin coat closer to his chin and it makes no difference, the chilled damp air pervades everything and already he is regretting volunteering for this saturday morning overtime which meant that he couldn't have his usual skinfull down the Cardigan Arms last night and got called a big puff by the lads when he left them in the tap room at 10pm with another round fresh on the table.

Just for the hell of it he holds his arm out straight in front of him, stretches it as far as it will go. Yes, the voice inside of his head confirms, you can just see your hand in front of your face in this fog, but only just.

He hurries on down Lumley Road and onto The Village Street towards Burley Road, he is late, he knows he is late but he isn't going to run in this fog, a lad could easily run into a lamp post in this fog, George the Quality Controller at work did that once last year, denied it of course, said his black eye and busted nose was the result of a pub fight, but one of the typists at Woodheads had watched from a seat downstairs on a number four bus as he had run into a bus stop on Kirkstall Road, running after a bus that didn't stop for him, shaking his fist at the driver he was when SMACK he went right into the bus stop, the typist could hardly tell the tale for laughing later on in the canteen and when George the Quality Controller turned up the next day with his black eye and busted nose and tried to tell them all about the fight he'd been in they had all laughed for ten minutes or more, collective hysteria it was, the young man had had to take himself off to the bogs to break the spell and he counted himself lucky that he hadn't literally pissed himself laughing that day.

He won't make it to the clock for six, he knows that, he'll be quartered again by that old bastard in the timekeeping office, even though he's volunteered for this shift, but its time and a half on a saturday morning so why should he care, work six hours till dinnertime, get paid for nine, knock off at twelve then off to the Cardigan Arms for a session before picking up a bag of chips and a walk back up this very hill to watch the rugby this afternoon.

If its still on that is, its getting bloody thicker down here he tells himself, the fog always settles on Burley Road and further down the hill on Kirkstall Road especially as thats right on the river, if its still this thick this afty they'll call the rugby off and the young man hopes that they call it off in plenty of time for it to be broadcast on Radio Leeds so that he can stay in the Cardigan all afternoon and spend his time and a half earnings in the bookies next door.

His heavy steel capped work boots don't click and ring on the pavement this morning, everything is dulled by the fog, there is no traffic noise, nothing at all except the wrap around cold dampness seeping thorugh the young mans sheepskin into his dark blue working overalls beneath so that he'll be cold and wet all morning stood at his lathe and he'll be cold and wet in the pub and at the rugby ground all afternoon and he hopes that his mums got a good fire going in the grate when he eventually gets home because that will be the first chance he'll have all day at getting some warmth into his bones, he should have stayed in his pit this morning, wrapped up in the old eiderdown, this is bloody stupid volunteering for this, bloody stupid.

He's fifty yards away from the bus stop when he suddenly hears the roar of the bus engine behind him, close behind him, the gears grind and the engine note rises and whines as the bus driver changes down a gear, ready to stop at the bus stop if anyone is there but in this fog he can't see that far yet and so he starts braking just in case, and he passes the young man without noticing him and despite the young man calling out to the conductor stood on the rear platform to "wait for me you bastards" the conductor does not ring the bell and the driver does not spot anyone at the bus stop and so he accelerates away leaving the young man running behind still twenty yards away.

The bastards, the young man curses again, he'll definitely be late now, definitely be quartered, might even get sent home if he's more than half an hour late, bollacks, and for the umpteenth time this morning the young man questions himself as to what he is doing here at this time on a saturday morning when he could easily still be in bed.

He sets off walking down Kirkstall Road, its a good fifteen minute walk to Woodheads but theres no other option, the buses are only every twenty minutes at this time on a saturday morning, he doesn't wear a watch to work, he's seen the photos that the union rep circulated that time about what happens when watches and rings get caught up in lathes, so he won't know what the time is until he gets to the Burtons factory clock, assuming that he can see it through this bleedin fog which he swears is getting thicker and he does the arms length test again - there, can't see your hand in front of you now, what the hell is he doing here ?

Its ten past six when he gets to the works entrance and he's got his excuses ready for Wilkinson, the miserable bastard of a timekeeper that will be stodd next to the clocking-on clock waiting for him, probably holding his card out ready for him with a sarcastic look on his face and a sarcastic comment to match, it'll make Wilkinsons day this will, knocking quarter an hour of him at time and a half.

He opens the big wooden door into the factory and the swirling denseness of the fog which has dulled all external noise so far in the young mans morning is instantly replaced with a bedlam like cacophany of banging, clashing, hammering, screeching and wailing of steel plate as it is cut, beaten, heated and moulded into shapes as specified by the management, strange shapes, pieces of steel moulded into something that not even the machine operators could tell you what, just that they are part BS376328A/98E, 20 dozen required by end of shift, no tolorance other than that stated on specification and drawing, everything inspected by George and his cronies in QC.

Being inside the building is a mixed blessing, its nice to be out of the freezing fog and even though the factory is not yet warm, its dry, and the noise of productivity will at least prevent that miserable bastard Wilkinson from hearing the outside door open and close, now if he can only just sneak past the old bastards office door he might find that one of his mates has already clocked him on this morning.

Wilkinsons office is a wooden room just ten yards inside the building from the entrance door. Its half glazed so that the old bastard can see whats going on in the factory and also spot anyone trying to sneak in late or sneak out early, the young man has little or no chance of trying to avoid Wilkinsons eagle eyes as the clocking on clock is mounted on the outside wall of Wilkinsons office giving him the perfect view of any shirkers.

The young man steps silently up to the first window of Wilkinsons office, presses himself against the wooden wall and ever so slowly leans forward to peer through the window, if Wilkinson is in there he'll duck down and crawl along underneath the windows, get changed, start his lathe up and then come back in an hours time and tell Wilkinson he forgot to clock on, but to his suprise he doesn't see Wilkinson in there, and while he stands there pressed up against the glass, both hands cupped around his eyes to eliminate the glare from the overhead flourescent lights he jumps in fright as a hand taps him on the shoulder from behind.

"You looking for me Enright ?" and instantly the young man relaxes, its not Wilkinson behind him, but his mate Gordon doing a very poor impression of Wilkinsons miserable flat Yorkshire vowels.

"Yer daft bastard, ah nearly shit meself then" the young man turns to face his friend, "where is the miserable bastard anyway"
"Hasn't come yet, probably the fog, we're going to quarter him when he turns up"
"Thank christ for that, I missed me bus cos the bastards wouldn't stop for me, so did ah get clocked in then ?"
"Aye, I did your card with mine, you were five minutes early this morning"
"Cheers pal, I owe you one, going to 'Cardigan later"
"Aye if you're buying"
"Reet, best get started then before the bastard turns up eh ?"
"Your lathes running already"
"eeeh Gordy, you think of everything, what would ah do without you eh ?"

And the young men clap each other on the back and laugh as they walk down the length of the factory to the bank of lockers where the young man can leave his sheepskin coat and start the work that he started twenty minutes ago when he wasn't here - according to the company records anyway.

Its nearly twelve and Eric is ready to knock off and go to the Cardigan when Wilkinson the timekeeper approaches him from behind, clipboard and his time and motion stopwatch clutched in the crook of one arm. other hand thrust firmly in his brown overall pocket.

"Now then Enright"
"Aye up Mr Wilkinson"
"A little bird tells me that your lathe was running all by itself this morning"
"No, never Mr Wilkinson, why would it be doing that eh, thats daft that is"
"Aye lad, running all by itself for twenty minutes and not hide nor hair of you to be seen"
"I don't understand that Mr Wilkinson, no, thats not right, did your little bird tell you where I was ?"
"My little bird Enright, my little bird tells me that you rolled in at quarter past six, what do you think of that then eh ?"
"I think your little bird needs his eyes testing Mr Wilkinson, I was 'ere at five to six, 'ave a look at me card, its in the rack there"
"I've looked Enright, I've already looked, I think there was a bit of callyfudgery going on this morning don't you ?"
"I don't even know what that means Mr Wilkinson, see, I was here at five to, came in, started me lathe up and then I had to go to bogs, gippy tummy see, its a bug I think"
"Bollacks"
"No its true, I've had trots all morning"
"I don't believe you Enright, I'm quartering you, you know that ?"
"You can't quarter me for having shits Mr Wilkinson its not right"
"I can do whatever I like Enright, and I know for a fact that you were late this morning and you got someone to clock you in, you're lucky I don't give you your cards right here and now"
"Ah bloody didn't Mr Wilkinson, ah wor 'ere at five to, and I wor on t'crapper until twenty past, you can't quarter me for bog breaks, you know what union'll 'ave to say if you do"

Mention of the union stops Wilkinson in his tracks, so he changes tack,

"Well just don't let it happen again thats all, I've got my eye on you and your mates Enright, alright ? So what have you done since five to bloody six then eh ?"
"Don't forget I've had shits an all Mr Wilkinson, ah've hardly been off crapper all morning"
"Thing is Enright, you're here on time and a half this morning, time and a bloody half is what this company's been paying you to shit your load in our own toilets, and I bet you've used all the bog roll and all haven't you ?"
"Well, ah've got to wipe me arse Mr Wilkinson"
"Well I think you've a bloody nerve asking for time and a half for this morning you cheeky little bugger, I bet you've only put in an hour at best, and you're asking for six hours at time and a half ? You must be bloody joking lad"
"Not my fault Mr Wilkinson, its a bug see, in fact we thought you must 'ave it too seeing as you weren't here at six either"

Wilkinson stares long at hard at Eric and strolls slowly over to the steel mesh bin where the fruits of his labour have been placed for this morning, to his suprise there are more finished parts in there than he expected, truth is of course that Eric hasn't spent all morning in the toilets at all but has been working steadily since half past six, not breaking any records, not really producing one and a half times his normal rate, but working steadily never the less, the story of the stomach bug is a well known and well tested worker vs management ploy, something that Eric was taught by the older men on the shop floor when he was a first year apprentice - never raise their expectations, never let them think you can do the job quicker, and when Wilkinson has his stopwatch in his hand slow right down because if you do the job quicker than the rate that your workmates have already set then Wilkinson will apply it to them too, and you'll be right up shit creek then, your name will be mud.

The siren finally sounds for the end of the shift and Eric hits the stop knob on the control panel and before the lathe stops turning he's wiped the last of the machine oil off his hands on an old rag and he's turning to head for the lockers and onwards to the Cardigan Arms with Wilkinsons final words hanging in the air between them, "I'm watching you Enright, don't forget that"

And as Eric turns his back he answers with a "fuck off you twat" under his breath, the Cardigan is waiting, not a minute to lose and by the time they reach the factory door he and several of his workmates are running and the first man hits the door and bursts out into the yard and into....the fog again.

Bloody hell, its thicker now than what it was this morning.




Chapter 2 (continued)
v Bramley Sat 10th Jan 1970

He'll never love you, the way that I love you
'Cause if he did, no no, he wouldn't make you cry
Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye - Steam - #9 Jan 70

He takes his half finished pint and wanders to the back door of the Cardigan Arms, stands there are stares woefully out at the 20 yard square, opaque pocket of Burley that is visible through the fog, he's not sure whether its getting worse or not, one thing is for sure, its 2pm now and he and his mates need to make a decision - go to the match or stay in the Cardigan for the rest of the afternoon.

He'd rather go to the rugby this afternoon because he's spent most of the money he has with him, this morning's overtime was welcome but he won't get that until next week, after tax, and he only had enough in his account to cash a cheque for five pounds yesterday afternoon. His mother will wait for her board money though and he's just spent nearly two pounds in The Cardigan in the last two hours, the rest of the fiver is waiting at home for tonights trip into Leeds, bird hunting in Tiffany's, and he's hoping that three quid will be enough to catch himself a good one, one who won't let him pay for the taxi right the way to her front door then run inside and leave him on the doorstep without so much as a peck on the bloody cheek like that one did the last time, he had to walk home from Wortley that night as his last five bob had gone on the taxi fare.

"Is it clear yet Eric" Big Dave asks from the corridor behind him.
"Nah, just the same as it was this morning"
"What do you reckon"
"Reckon we should go Dave"
"What if its off ?"
"Go to the Oak"
"Aye, alright"
"Everyone else ready ?"
"Think so, are we going now ?"
"When I've finished me beer and bin to t'slabs, aye"

And after he's sunk the last of the beer out of his glass and he's visited the toilet Eric and his three friends leave the Cardigan Arms and make their way slowly up Burley Hill, constantly peering ahead at the grey wall of cloud that dances provocatively twenty to thirty yards in front of them and as they climb higher up the hill and closer to the ground they find that the thirty yards has become forty, then fifty and as they turn into the south stand car park behind the ground they are relieved to see that the floodlights are already lit and appear to be piercing through the cloudbase so that something like normal visibility is accomplished on the pitch.

Its damp, the clagging, clinging wetness that they have ploughed through and inhaled as they puffed and panted their way up the hill has settled deep into their lungs and in the warm humid air of the southstand bar, they and everyone else in there hack and cough their way through a pint of tepid Tetley bitter served by a tall swarthy barman known to Smiffy as "Peter" from the Kirkstall Forge finishing shop.

Peter is friendly enough and informs them that the game won't be played today in this fog and if it is then they won't see anything and the group are undecided as to whether to go up to The Oak or not, in the end its Smiffy who decides for them because he has had to pay to get in today, not having a season ticket like the others, and so they finish their beer, buy a programme from the spotty youth who stands outside the southstand bar and take up their places in front of Eddie Warings ladders in the middle of the southstand.

To their dismay the fog has come down again and they can't actually see all the way across the pitch, the floodlights do their best to pierce the gloom but offer little in the way of extra visibility, its a damp, dark and claustrophobic and a miserable way to spend a saturday afternoon.

And then amazingly, out of the gloom, they see a human form trotting towards them across the pitch and then another and Atkinson and Langley take up their positions on the wing in front of the southstand ready for the kickoff - they are the only two players visible to the small crowd in the stand on this ludicrous day for playing rugby league and as the game progresses they have to guess what is happening on other parts of the playing field by the muffled cries and occasional cheers from what they assume is the rest of the 4000 crowd in other parts of the stadium.

They find that walking up and down the length of the southstand in what they believe to be following the play of the ball will allow them occasional glimpses of the action and its only when they are at the far eastern end of the stand that they can view the scoreboard and although they only vaguely see one of the tries they retire to the southstand bar at half time with a score of 11-2 in Leeds' favour.

"Who's the subs lads ?" Kirkstall Forge Peter behind the bar asks.

Big Dave consults his programme,

"Eccles and Briggs" he informs the barman.
"Briggs ? Who's he ?"
"Dunno"

Someone else shouts from further down the bar that he scored a try whoever he is but no-one knows who he has substituted or why and the only other thing that the lads learn is that Atkinson has scored two tries and is on a hat trick for the second half, this knowledge is digested greedily by the inhabitants of the southstand bar

"Its a bloody farce is this" Smiffy comments.
"Agreed" Big Dave concurs
"We'd do better in t'Oak" Gordy mentions
"Good call Gordy, this beer is crap" Eric adds
"Oak then eh lads" Big Wayne decides
"Hang on lads" shouts Kirkstall Forge Peter from behind the bar, "I'm coming with you"

Its a short walk up St Michaels Lane to The Original Oak and they gather in the downstairs bowling green bar with four pints of bitter, sit around a small round table on small stools and stare out of the window as the evening darkness descends and the fog thickens for the night so that even the yellow floodlights on the bowling green can hardly penetrate the denseness.

"Christ its going to be thick tonight" Eric mutters
"We still going to town" asks Big Dave, incapable of making a decision on his own
"How the bloody hell are we going to get to town in this ?" asks Eric
"Ah know, its bad isn't it" murmurs Big Dave
"I'm off to Tiffany's, don't care what the weathers like" Gordy interupts
"D'you reckon buses'll be running ?" Wayne asks
"Aye, buses allus run"
"They didn't run when it snowed last year"
"Its not fucking snowing though is it yer daft bastard, its just fog"
"Its thick though, maybe they won't run, I don't think they'll run"

It suits Eric to have a night in the Cardigan again because he doesn't think the three quid that he's got stashed at home will last long in Tiffany's, not with a bird in tow it won't, if it was just the lads then maybe, but birds want fancy drinks, bloody expensive fancy drinks with umbrellas and bits of fruit in, three quid won't buy many umbrellas and fruit.

"Think I'll stop in t'Cardigan tonight" he informs the others.
"Aye me too" Big Dave must be skint too
"Yeah" Wayne concurs
"You miserable bastards" Gordy is upset "I'll go on me own then"
"You on a promise or summat ?"
"No but I'm not stopping in t'Cardigan again"
"You are aren't you"
"I'm bloody not"
"Is it that blond one from last week ?"
"No its bloody not"
"I'll bet"
"Its not"
"Yer too keen Gordy, she'll have her hands on yer wallet afor you know whats 'appened"
"Am not seeing a bird"
"Course not"
"Am not"
"No ah know you're not"
"But am bloody not"
"no ah no"
"Bastards"

"Downey's dad has that Hong Kong flu you know" Wayne offers as a change of topic, "He's right bad"
"Aye its bad they reckon"
"Aye, Downey says he's got narrow eyes now, its bad when your eyes go all slitty like"
"Is that how they tell ?"
"Aye, sure sign its Hong Kong flu, slitty eyes"
"Yeah I've heard that too"
"Ger-away, is that real ?" Gordy is the gullible one
"Yeah, ah've heard that too, starts off like a bad cold, then slitty eyes is next, its bad if he's gone that far"
"Bloody hell, I didn't know it got you like that"
"Oh aye, it can get worse than that an all"
"Ger-away"
"No Gordy it can, sometimes you start putting your hands in your sleeves like this..." and Wayne tucks his right hand inside the open left hand sleeve of his coat, and his left hand in his right sleeve, "...then you start tork rike dis, heroo engreesh, you wan chow mein"
"Fuck off"
"No, is true engreesh, Downey-dad is proper chinaman now, eat onry bamboo shoot"
"Fuck off you're having me on"

The three of them are in hysterics now, pulling their eyes into slits and putting on the Benny Hill chinaman impression from the TV, Gordy is still not sure though, the Hong Kong flu epedemic is on the news all the time now and its supposed to be really bad, maybe it really does turn you chinese ?