Take Four Northern Men...

...from a provincial city on the slide since the mid-1950s, a dirty city hammered by Hitler's bombers and then side-stepped in the post-war reconstruction. Liverpool, once a great seaport, was losing trade incrementally to container terminals and air traffic, its infrastructure was crumbling (the overhead railway and the corporation tram network were both closed down in 1957), unemployment was rising sharply, and opportunities were few - a situation which reached its nadir with the Toxteth riots of 1981, prompting leading government ministers to urge Margaret Thatcher to commit Merseycide, to abandon the working class of Liverpool to a fate of "managed decline" rather than waste taxpayers' money on the "stony ground" of the north-west! Scousers have a lot to hate the Tories for, but at least at that critical period on the city's timeline, Thatcher dispatched one of her party's more sympathetic politicians northwards to understand and address the problems of urban decay and disaffection. It was a turning point in the fortunes of the area. A quarter century later, Liverpool would be named European City of Culture for 2008 and millions of tourists would visit it annually - partly because of what Heseltine's intervention kick-started, but largely because of those four  Northern Men  of the blog's title: John, Paul, George and Ringo.

Here they are, pictured below with their wives, girlfriends and the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, at a transcendental meditation week-end retreat in north Wales in the summer of 1967.  Ponder the scene for a minute. It's a seriously atypical undertaking for a bunch of Northern Men, don't you think? Bucking a stereotype, wouldn't you say? 

What it doesn't show (off-page, 200 miles away) is their real guru, Brian Epstein, dying of an accidental overdose of sleeping pills mixed with alcohol that same week-end.. Some wheels were about to come off. As John Lennon reflected on Epstein's demise: "I knew that we were in trouble then. I was scared. I thought 'We've fucking had it!'"

Of course they hadn't, because they'd already made it in ways unimaginable to most northern men. They were about to embark on a magical mystery tour through the western counties, then on a sojourn to Rishikesh in India which would prove one of their most fruitful exercises, allowing them to write a wealth of new songs that would appear on albums nearly (but not) called 'Music From A Doll's House', 'Everest' and 'Get Back'. And even after they had renounced their Beatlehood at the end of the 1960s, they went on to cement a reputation as the biggest, the best, the most influential, most loved and most missed worldwide musical phenomenon of the 20th century (and maybe much of the 21st as well). It's quite extraordinary. So how and why did something so utterly transformative come out of a dour, done and dusted northern city? Well, all was not as stereotypical as it seemed...

Yes, this band of musical brothers were Northern Men, but dour, inarticulate, uncultured proto-beings, (a view of Northerners still held by many well into the 1980s per the views of Tory magnates outlined above), they certainly were not. Neither were they the four scruffy working-class lads from Liverpool of popular press fiction. 

Two of them (Lennon and McCartney) came from what would be considered middle-class backgrounds, from aspirational families living on green suburban streets, albeit families touched with grief, for both of their mothers died young while the boys were still in their teens. In an age before TV, they read books, they wrote poetry. Three of the four (Harrison among them) went to Liverpool grammar schools and one of the three (McCartney) even briefly toyed with the idea of going to university and becoming a teacher.  

But Liverpool had something no other English city (not even London) had in the late 1950s, an umbilical sea-link to the USA, the home of blues, country, jazz and rock'n'roll - and our four Northern Men lived for that music, brought over on 78s and 45s from across the Atlantic by the seamen of the city. They weren't alone. Liverpool, always a musical hotbed because of its large Irish immigrant community (Harrison, Lennon and McCartney all had ancestors across the Irish Sea), was full of young men swapping reading for listening to rock'n'roll, neglecting their studies, blagging cheap instruments from their parents, forming skiffle bands, playing at house parties. Some even forewent writing poetry and prose for writing songs - and that was what first set Lennon and McCartney and their Beatle brothers apart from all the other wannabees on Merseyside, that and their tenacious desire to follow in the footsteps of their American idols, to live the dream of becoming musicians rather than dockers, milkmen, plumbers or teachers.

That they had to quit Liverpool to complete their apprenticeship and forge their magic, in a city and a country still regarded with deep hostility by many in the UK, was an irony that should not be overlooked, and another significant bucking of stereotypes. Between August 1960 and December 1962 the Beatles played over 250 nights in the music clubs of Hamburg, sometimes turning in several sets a night. Their time in Germany was the making of them, for on their return to Liverpool they were not just streets but miles ahead of the competition and ready to take the sedate UK music scene by storm (and then the world).

The next step was not so easy, getting a recording contract, for all the record labels were in London and their executives had a collectively dismissive attitude to anywhere north of Watford. However, the persistence of another atypical northerner, their business manager Brian Epstein, eventually found them a home on EMI's comedy label Parlophone Records - and the rest really is history, just desserts for the Beatles, whose articulate wit, energy, lyricism, belief in equality and social change, endless creativity in song, on film, in books, saw them dismantle just about every prejudice concerning Northern Man that there was. They were at the forefront of a cultural shift in the 1960s, talismans of a post-war technicolour renaissance that saw no boundaries, that embraced experimentation, that exposed every stereotype for the lazy characterization it was. We still have so much to thank them for. 

I've no new poem to add to this week's blog, though 'Before And After Beatles' is germinating somewhere in the compost of the imaginarium; and an earlier poem, 'Beatlemania Was Born In Blackpool', remains the most read of all Dead Good Blogs. You can link to that one: here

Instead, I leave you with a musical footnote, a link to the song Lennon wrote about the Maharishi on that Indian sojourn. Just click on the title: Sexy Sadie (2018 remaster)

Thanks for reading. Keep bucking stereotypes, S ;-)

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Northern Man: Sub Species Homos Accringtonus

I first began my research into the Northern Male way back in 1972 when I was approached by one, quite unexpectedly, behind a building where I was hiding.  The hiding was another story, and one that I’ve recounted several times, so I’ll just leave that for another time.  It hadn’t occurred to me to pursue this line of study (after all, I was halfway through a degree in Graphic Design), but I found this creature so fascinating that I felt compelled to delve further.

 

Coming from London, Northern Male had been quite an enigma to me, most of my knowledge having been gleaned from watching Coronation Street, Kes and Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. This was such an alien world that I felt I was more likely to bump into Clint Eastwood in full cowboy gear than to see a real live Northern Male. Of course, once I went to Art college in Leicester, my world began to expand and I realised just how much variety there was out there.  Of course, I had encountered small groups of Males gathered together in their natural habitat, usually within reach of a bar, but at that time I didn’t make much of a distinction between Northern and Southern Male.  

 

It was 10am on Monday 28th January 1972 that my research began in earnest.  This was a species unknown to me so I was naturally rather wary.  I soon realised that this was a sensible approach as there were several incidents in the coming weeks that indicated just how persistent this particular creature could be. I guessed, from various clues, that this was a young adult male, possibly quite predatory.  I could see that this particular example was slightly different to the other Northern Males I had previously encountered.  By this time, my interest had allowed me to identify various sub species: Homos Yorkshirus; Homos Geordius; and Homos Scousus to name but three. However, it was difficult to pinpoint the origin of this example: the speech pattern was one that I had never heard before.

 

Having spent some time in close proximity with this creature, I was beginning to experience a building rapport, albeit it rather hesitant and disjointed. I could see he might be open to more intensive studying, and had a breakthrough one day when I managed to convey my interest in his origins.  Using his own strange language, facial expressions and hand gestures he indicated that he was from an area north of Leicester but South of Lancaster.  When I produced a map he stared at it for a while before grabbing it and pointing to Accrington. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might never have seen a map before, and I had quite a job to wrestle it from him.  This was the first time I saw the rictus grin - something I knew could be used in fear, although, in this case, he seemed to enjoy the wrestle and obviously thought it an exciting game.  I made a note to be careful in any future situations.  I was already beginning to notice that he would take every opportunity to get close, and I hoped I wasn’t making him too dependent on me.  I was starting to get a very basic understanding of his language when I decided to take him back to his place of origin. I hoped he might still have some links to others of the same species, and I was delighted when this proved to be the case.  One very elderly ascendant would have been a great source of information, if only I could have understood his language which was even more pronounced than that of the Northern Male (henceforth known as NM) I was following.  However, the visit was still useful.  I have drawings I made of some of the clothes and in particular, a pair of wooden clogs.  Such was my subject’s excitement I guessed he had also worn something like this as a young male. 

 

Shortly after the visit to Accrington I thought it might be useful to get the NM down to London and see how he reacted to being taken from his natural habitat.  I was also intrigued to see how my family might respond to this strange species.  I went ahead in order to warn my parents of what they were about to encounter.  The NM  arrived on the back of a lorry, which I gathered had been his last lift of a day long hitch hike.  My records indicate that I was proud of him for using his initiative, but rather disappointed to see that his only luggage was a toothbrush in his duffle coat pocket.  I made a further note to teach him about essential hygiene products. He was out of his normal habitat but adjusted well to a big southern town, and was soon giving my parents bear hugs and listening to my brothers’ music. 

 

We returned to Leicester together and I continued my research, making extensive notes of the very rudimentary language used.  There were words and phrases that I had to look up in books about dialects, but gradually things began to make more sense, and our communication improved drastically.  After about twelve months I thought my research might be coming to end, but it seemed that NM had other ideas.  I gathered that these males needed to find themselves a mate at a young age or they would be left behind in their place of origin.  This was not a desirable place to be:  the young males would be fighting for a position of power, something which occurred mainly at weekends, and especially Bank Holidays.  It was survival of the fittest. 

 

So, for that reason, and after much heart searching, I decided to let NM come and live with me.  It was on a trial basis, but he’s still here, nearly 50 years on, and my research has continued to the present day.  I am always learning, there is always some new element to surprise me.  My notes are now all filed digitally, and Homos Accringtonus (as he became) is beginning to get to grips with this technological age.  I realised pretty early on that he prefers physical activity, such as swimming, golf and going to the gym, where he meets other sub species and manages to communicate pretty well these days.  It also occurred to me years ago that Homos Accringtonus loses his ability to communicate coherently when he gathers with other Northern Males in their natural habitat, within reach of a bar. Training has been long and hard and it’s not over yet. 

 

The most interesting discovery I’ve saved till last.  It’s a relatively recent discovery, and I think you will see why Homos Accringtonus is a species unique in the world of Northern Males.  It is the ONLY species to prefer being completely naked whilst carrying out jobs around the home and garden. 

 

If you’re at all interested in different species of Northern Male, and in particular, Homos Accringtonus, then please look out for them.  They are easy to spot, very friendly and, these days, unlikely to bite.

 Homus Accringtonus AKA Northern Male AKA NM AKA The Naked Mower

I wanted a poem with East Lancs dialect and I found this one.  I'm not sure who it's by but I suspect a member of the Homos Accringtonus Species, some time last century.  Try and read it - it's not easy for a southerner, despite all my research.

                                                  'IT 'IM AGAEEAN 

Thanks for reading......... Jill

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Northern Man - The Best

photo of my maternal grandparents

My first thoughts on Northern Man were of my grandfathers and my father. Northern, Manchester born and bred, all passed on now. My paternal grandfather was in the army during WW1. He was just old enough to get called up and went to France or Belgium in the summer of 1918. He married in 1922 and raised his family in Rusholme, which I used to joke to my dad, made him an original Rusholme Ruffian. The family moved to Wythenshawe when the new estate was built c.1930, then to Northenden, which is the first house I remember. Giant daisies lined the garden path. I’d like some in my garden and one day, I’ll sort it out. His wife, my Nanna Hetty, was the gardener, though Grandad looked after the cutting of the grass. I didn’t know him very well, which might sound sad, but he wasn’t the sort of grandfather, or father for that matter, who endeared himself to children and grandchildren. Anything to do with children was his wife’s department. After he was widowed, he moved in with us. He helped out in the pub and kept himself to himself. It turned out to be a short term arrangement. He moved into a flat, with a lady. He is laid to rest with Hetty and their daughter, Peggy in Manchester’s Southern Cemetery, amongst the great and the good.

Laurence Stephen Lowry, a northern man, described himself as a ‘simple man’, not uneducated but meaning that he was ordinary, unremarkable. Well, that’s a matter of opinion. I’ve studied him and his work and find him extraordinary and a unique artist.

“I am not an artist. I am a man who paints.” He said.

The first time I saw his work I wept, full of emotion for this special man and his art. It was such an overwhelming experience. His paintings were on display in Salford University and I sobbed my way through the galleries a couple of years after his death. I’m probably the only person to cry at Brian & Michael’s song, ‘Matchstalk Men & Matchstalk Cats & Dogs’. It gets me right in the heart. The Lowry Theatre and Gallery complex in Salford is a fabulous monument to him.

Alan Bennett, oh my word, no, his words, all of them. He renders me speechless. I can read his work over and over, finding something new each time, then I want to snap all my pencils because he is genius and I have no place writing anything except a shopping list. The truth of The Lady in the Van is emotional and very much a stand-alone work, a masterpiece.  A quote from Untold Stories regarding his mother’s concern about Miss Shepherd taking up residence in her van on his driveway,

“I was a reluctant (and, of course, unpaid) landlord but what worried my mother on one of her rare visits to London was what the neighbours would think.

‘This isn’t Leeds,’ I told her. ‘They won’t think anything at all.’”

In Talking Heads he has been unafraid to tackle uncomfortable and taboo subjects. Food for thought, or if it’s too difficult, don’t read it and don’t watch the TV version. Sarah Lancashire played 'Gwen', a mother feeling attracted to her fifteen year old son, beyond motherhood. Alan Bennett takes us on a journey through her thoughts and emotions, edging towards sexual in feelings, but not stepping out of line. Exceptional from a very much alive Northern man.

My maternal grandfather was the direct opposite of my paternal one. When I was a child we played, we laughed, we got told off for being rowdy and too loud, and I don’t think we cared. He taught me Tiddlywinks and Snakes & Ladders. We played hide and seek in his pub, we moved furniture, anything. Times with him and my maternal grandmother were fun. Sometimes, he liked to be quiet and read a book for a little while. He’d been affected by WW1, though this didn’t become apparent until much later in his life. My aunt told me a story about him having a child, the result of a dalliance during his marriage. True or not, I’ll never know and it wouldn’t change anything. I loved my grandad. He cried his heart out at my mother’s funeral and now they share a grave.

Northern man, northern men, gritty like the women. The best.

My poem,

A Northern man, my grandad,
Reliable and always there.
I’m told he had his ‘moments’
But I loved him and didn’t care.
Nowt for me to fret about,
A serious ‘moment’ he had
Though he stayed put with my nan
And never set eyes on the lad.

I’d wear his precious Trilby
And put clips in his Brylcreemed hair.
My childhood, fun and laughter,
And a Jaffa orange to share.
Then the loss of his daughter,
Grandad’s heart broke when my mum died.
I sat with my Northern man,
To comfort him as we both cried.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe. Pam x

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