Keep On Running

Once again I'm struck by the way in which a theme - Keep On Running - selected and sequenced months ago, manages to chime with the latest breaking fiasco in the legacy of the lunacy that was Brexit. I refer, of course, to the shortage of HGV drivers, 100,000 is the figure being bandied about, since the UK left the EU and made European workers less than welcome here. British workers didn't rush to fill the void, disproving the notion that migrants had been "taking British jobs". This is a scenario that was flagged up in 2016 in the run-up to that infamous referendum, so the haulage industry and the government have  had five years to plan to avoid this happening. The former were concerned about the cost of improving pay and conditions for drivers; the latter were in denial that there would ever be a problem.

There have been empty shelves in supermarkets for several months, sometimes due to logistical issues in the supply chain and a lack of HGV drivers, sometimes due to another shortage of EU migrant workers in a different sector of the economy, on British farms and market gardens. Fruit and vegetables have been left to rot unpicked, milk has been poured away when there was no transport to collect it. Most growers highlight the crisis but their appeals, too, go unheard. As a result, they are scaling back planting plans for next year - so either produce will be in short supply again or we will look to import more from Europe. And of course the net effect of all of this is that the price of food has been steadily climbing for months and inflation is now set to rise at double the rate originally forecast by the Bank of England.

The irony of the latest labour shortage is that the government is proposing granting 'temporary' visas to European truck drivers - talk about trying to have your Brexit cake and eat it too. Oh, and there may be a shortage of turkeys and brussels sprouts at Christmas. The hot rumour is that Boris Johnson in person has asked Brazilian President Bolsonaro for a special deal to supply the UK with Brazilian turkeys! What a joke. What an enormous carbon footprint. What a shitstorm! 

Britain after Brexit

For how long can this bunch of incompetents (the Conservative government under BoJo) keep on running on empty? There never was a proper plan, never a decent roadmap, just a naive (or deeply cynical depending on your perspective) desire to arrive at some phantom land of hope and glory. I long for the squealing tyres of a major u-turn, but I suspect we're stuck with this nonsense for decades to come. 

It's not just Brexit. That was merely the metaphorical car-crash waiting at the end of forty years of careening privatisation and deregulation under the Tories' laissez-faire capitalism. That fact partly explains why our domestic fuel prices are three times higher in the UK than in continental Europe, not just now with the hike in  gas and oil prices, but consistently over decades since the sell-off of the key utilities under Thatcher; why our manufacturing sector has shrunk by 75% since the 1970s; why our public transport networks are fragmented and expensive to use compared to the continent; and why our state pensions are only a quarter of what they are in France, Germany, Italy or the Netherlands. 

How many have conveniently forgotten what the Mayor of London said in 2013?: "...most of our problems are not caused by Brussels, but by chronic British short-termism, inadequate management, sloth, low skills, a culture of easy gratification and underinvestment in both human and physical capital and infrastructure." Those are telling words, spoken not by Sadiq Khan but by his predecessor, Boris Johnson. Suck the irony out of that one.

On to less bitter musings. Forton Services (near Lancaster on the M6) boasts a Grade II listed building - see below - in the hexagonal shape of its elevated restaurant and sunroof. Completed in 1965 at the dawn of the new age of the British motorway network, the Pennine Tower as it was known was built to resemble an airport's control tower. It housed an American-style waitress service restaurant-diner with stunning views over the local countryside and a sunroof. Owned by the Rank organisation, it aimed to provide space-age facilities for the new breed of motorway travellers as they headed to or from the Lake District (and all points north or south).  

Forton services, M6 Lancaster

It also became very popular with local families and courting couples who would take to the motorway specifically to dine in the tower or enjoy a beer on fine days on the sunroof (all before the drink-driving laws and the breathalyzer were introduced). I first encountered Forton in its prime when visiting friends at Lancaster University.

It was stunning and futuristic, a symbol of  the brave new world that the 'swinging sixties' was ushering in, a consumerist age of espresso machines, tubular chrome chairs, formica-topped tables and neon lights. The carpark still boasted Austins and Aston-Martins, the occasional Bentley, E-type Jags, Hillmans, Morrises, Rovers, Sunbeams, Triumphs and Wolseys... and Minis of course, with not a French, German or Japanese vehicle in sight.

Sadly the tower soon proved more white elephant than cultural totem. Overtaken by new safety regulations (there being no alternative exit from the restaurant in case of fire) and undercut by the proliferation of burger bars and coffee shops, the Pennine Tower was permanently closed to the public in the 1980s. It has been used since, by Moto who took over Forton Services, as an elevated store room.

Hopes were raised in 2012, a quarter of a century after its closure, when the tower was granted Grade II listed building status that preservation and renovation might follow. Nearly a decade on, all that has happened is one lift-shaft has been restored and the exterior has been repainted in its original colour. It stands as a reminder of aspirations under-realised in a country that since the end of World War II gave us the illusion of moving forward while actually progressing less quickly than all of those around us, for the reasons Boris Johnson articulated above. No wonder so many are seeking solace in the 'memory' of a more glorious past. Still, we keep on running and maybe, eventually, the lesson symbolised by Forton will be learned. I thought a concrete poem, topped by an acrostic, would be fitting testament. Here goes...

Service

Station

Formed of concrete, chrome and glass, formica tops

On every space-age dining table in this spectacular eyrie of a

Restaurant designed to make Englishmen think we're on the very brink.

Trough of  Bowland and sparkling Morecambe Bay  seducing with views

Of this green and pleasant land even as asphalt ribbons unfurl.

Never mind that environmental time-bomb a-ticking

as perched

on high in

hexagonal

splendour

that fluted

reinforced

pillar,  like

a mythical

atlas, holds

 us heavenly

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Talking Funny

Some coincidence, given this week's theme of dialects, that we have just been paying our last respects to Stanley Holgate, local Lancashire dialect poet, who died earlier in February in his eightieth year.

Affectionately known as Stan the Man (or 'Stanza Man' if you read the Blackpool Gazette), Stanley Holgate only began writing poetry in 2011 after the death of his wife Marlene. They had been together for over fifty years. Although he had a large extended family and was never on his own, he said there was a profound sense of loneliness in the aftermath of Marlene's passing and he just took to writing as a solace. "A poem appeared and then another and it progressed from there."

Stan joined a number of local writers' groups and found himself attending four poetry classes a month. "I can have a poem rattling around in my head and it just keeps me sharp. I just enjoy it so much." In a little over four years he amassed a body of 700 poems, a good number of which were written - and performed - in Lancashire dialect; fascinating for a southerner like me to hear for the first time after my arrival in Blackpool.

He built up a deserved reputation for his poems in local dialect and was invited to join the Lancashire Authors' Association - a whole group of people talking funny and working creatively to keep the unique dialect and idioms of Lancashire's oral tradition alive (much of which, to these outside ears, sounds to be derived from French - not implausible given that the Poultons, local dynasts, arrived with the Norman conquest).

The poem below, which is best read out loud if you can manage it, won Stan the Lancashire Authors' Association Writer of the Year award in 2015.

The lad fared grand as owt. Go Stan!

Somebody What's Special
What sooart a thing is looanliness?
It's not summat tha con touch.
It 'ovvers aw rewnd th'eawse at neet,
Ah wound'd mind so much
If that's weer id ended,
Bud id follas thi like a gooast
An' comes an' sits beside thi
When tha least expects id mooast.

Like when tha'r in a busy street,
Er ridin' on a bus,
Er in a café full a fooak
Id still comes after us.
It's geet nowt to do wi' creawded shops
Aw't faces tha con see.
It's when somebody what's special
Is  no longer theer wi thee.

                                   Stanley Holgate 2014

Thanks for reading. Have a brisk one, S ;-)

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Dialects. Use them - or lose them.

Th'all 'ave to forgive me Lanky dialect today.  Tha' knows I'm a sandgrown 'un wi' watter in me boots but lately, I've bin a bit of a clothead, forgettin' me Lanky roots. I was fair havin' kittens about writin' t'blog terday but t'penny dropped yesterday, 'bout heawf an hour after I got 'ome. I was spittin' feathers and dyin' fer a reet gradely cup a tae by't time I geet 'indoers, tha knows.  I'd been at the crem' seeing off a fellow poet and Grand Lancashire lad and it were fair bucketin' down.  I looked like a dreawned rat.  Anyway, I put wood in'th'ole and it suddenly dawned on me, that I am a native Lanky speaker an' all.

Enough of that for now.  Don't want to lose you all. I need to explain.  I was born in Blackpool, the daughter of a publican, who moved us first to St Helen's when I was four and a year later to the outskirts of Liverpool where we lived until I was eleven. I had developed a soft, scouse accent by then but as any true city born Liverpudlian would tell you, with rising intonation and a rolled 'r', 'Maghull is in the country!"  Unfortunately, arriving back in Blackpool to attend Elmslie Girls Grammar School, with any degree of Liverpool accent was never going to win me house points. The emphasis on the 'ck' in 'Blackpool' went down like a French kiss at a family reunion. 

To add to the 'scouse' twang, Dad had taken a pub in a small village and most of the locals used a lot of Lancashire dialect.  Expressions rolled out of them like a foreign language. 'It'll be reet' or 'es in'th elbow room', would send me in to fits of laughter. The girls in the kitchen and a couple of the bar staff spoke in this strange dialect and I thought it was hilarious.  My two older brothers called them, 'woolly backs.'

In the village was a small, 'sells everything' shop.  They had the most clutter I had ever seen in my life. The owner, Mary Smith was a Lancashire dialect poet and was also the proud holder of the title, 'Worst Singer in The World', for several years running. Mary posted some of her poems on the shop door.  I recall one that was intended to stop people dropping litter, although I doubt that anyone reading it would really get the message. So here I was, a sort of Liverpool girl, living in a Lancashire village, attending a posh girl's school where only 'received pronunciation' would do. The solution.  Electrocution lessons: Worked a treat! 

The poem this week was commissioned by The Imperial Hotel, Blackpool, for a pamphlet entitled, Visitors in Verse.' It is a work to celebrate some of the many famous characters who have stayed in the hotel. There is a George Formby convention here every year.  So here's a tribute from a Lanky Lass to a very cheeky Lanky Lad.

Ooh Mother It’s George Formby

A cheeky little chappie,

‘A Lad fra’ Lancasheer’,

Strummed his banjolele,

Buck-toothed for ear to ear.  

Leaning on a lamp-post,

A little lady walking by,

A beauty known as Beryl.

By ‘eck she caught his eye.  

She became his missus

And managed his career,

He was soon the Nation’s favourite,

The ‘Chaplin over ‘ere.’ 

He made a good few movies,

Some at Ealing studios,

Singing ‘bout what he could see

When he was cleaning windows.  

With his little stick of Blackpool rock,

He said he liked to stroll,

Along the promenade,

‘Cause he was such a happy soul.

And when the wind was bracin’

He was often heard to say

To anybody listenin’

As he went on his way.  

“Turned out nice again then, hasn’t it?” 

 

Thanks for reading.  Adele

                                                                      

 

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Is this a question? A last stand from Lancashire.

Good afternoon readers,

As a Proud Northerner, I am often accused of being abrasive, brash, rude, offensive and well, you get the point. I must offer a reason for this- I'm just too Northern sometimes. I have no problem starting conversations on public transport and admittedly, find amusement on the Tube in this way. I always have a comment at a checkout, something my long suffering girlfriend has now grown to live with but despite my trying to tone this down there are just some things that can't be shifted.
Now don't get me wrong, I can change aspects of this. I've mellowed massively since going vegan, I don't play my music over about eight without headphones, I try and pronounce my vowel sounds when she thinks we're somewhere posh and I'm sober more often than I even see a good pub these days. I also haven't insisted we get a whippet, yet.
But those Northern things- the decent ale, the meat and two veg meals, showing friendliness to any passer by in the street whether I know them or not- they are hard habits to kick and so, despite being a vegan that has shrunk in size from a Peter Kay lookalike to being compared to a bloody figure skater on the telly (Jason Brown?), I insist on holding on to a few things. I like my homely words. I like my stodge. I like my knowing where everything stands.
On that note then, the answer to the most ridiculous question it is possible to ask me- 'what's for tea'. I call it

The Lancastrian's Last Stand

Friday night means tea is chips with gravy,
pie and peas, served with a buttered barm.
The listing order signifies proportions
you once said being Northern gave me charm.

It doesn't mean a bap, a batch or teacake -
they aren't the terms for bread I will accept,
the word is barm lass, and the chips go in it.
What a question! Glad that's off me chest.


Thanks for reading,
S. 

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