written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label rolling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rolling. Show all posts

Wednesday, 22 April 2026

Blackpool Rock

I suppose I had better be a bit careful in writing about Blackpool as it is just down the road and most, if not all, of my colleagues on the Dead Good Poets site live there. So the most neutral thing I can think of is that hard lettered rock. I must have had one at some time or other and maybe in Gt Yarmouth or Brighton or other sea side resorts. I was more of a toffee apple sort.

There are various stories about how the first idea to make this form of rock but it seems the idea did originate in Blackpool. Or rather from a young man called Ben Bullock, an ex-miner from Burnley, who conceived the idea whilst holidaying in Blackpool. He began producing sticks of brightly coloured, lettered candy sticks at his Yorkshire-based sweet factory in 1887. He sent his first batch of lettered rock to retailers in Blackpool where it was a success.

An ex-employee of Bullocks Toffee Works, George Seniors was probably the first person to make Blackpool rock in the town in 1902.


Rock was being sold from stalls on the beach. Some stalls were regulated by Blackpool Corporation whilst others, below low tide mark, were outside their jurisdiction. Although illegal, hawkers sold rock from baskets in the streets whilst their accomplices warned of the approach of the police.

World War II had a huge impact on the confectionery trade. A sharp rise in the price of sugar, rationing, and a rise in the cost of the greaseproof paper created problems and by 1946 production was at about a third of its pre-war level. Some unscrupulous street traders duped customers with pieces of old walking stick in cardboard tubes whilst the Ministry of Food was ever-vigilant over any illegal supply of sugar into the factories or the selling of the end product without collecting the required coupons. Queues would form from 5.30am outside rock shops, so keen were visitors to use the family’s coupons and take home their traditional Blackpool souvenir.

Rationing of sweets continued until 1953 and then the sales rose spectacularly with up to fifty factories in the town making traditional rock. The 1960s and 70s saw new problems with first Purchase Tax and then V.A.T. Then followed a world shortage of sugar and, going into the 1980s some more food production legislation. I’ll cover the present day in a minute as I want to mention the following.

I was surprised to learn that machines are still unable to master the skills of making rock, even in the 21st century. Craftsmen of seaside rock are called Sugar Boilers and, as the name suggests, they start the process by boiling sugar and glucose in a copper pan heated to 300 degrees centigrade. 


It is poured out onto a cooling table, then pulled and separated into smaller sections. While the flavourings are being added, the remaining outer layer and lettering sections are coloured. Getting the lettering correct is a skill that can take up to 10 years to learn.

The letters are made individually before they are lined up and stuck side by side, with white filler in between. Square-shaped letters (B, E, F, K) and triangle-shaped letters (A, V) are made first, while round-shaped letters (C, D, O, Q) are made last to prevent loss of shape before the rock sets. The lettering, filling and core are rolled together before they are wrapped in the outer casing. The whole slab is then pulled, stretched and rolled into smaller, longer strips by machine and then, by hand, before being cut, wrapped and labelled ready for sale.


So, today orders come from all over the world - for sticks with place names, sports teams, charities, promotional logos and special events. The range of flavours available is equally varied - chicken tikka, pizza and prosecco are sold alongside the more traditional mint, aniseed and fruit varieties. The Coronation Rock Company make a presentation stick of rock for the celebrity chosen each year to switch on the illuminations.

Some of the above information comes from Kathryn Thompson, Showtown and The History of British Seaside Rock Sticks web site.


I haven’t got any stick of rock poems but I have the following that references Blackpool and the rocks involved in fracking .

Wakes

Smoke from excursions
would be shaping these fields
with whispers of summer
as girls in scarves
and boys with severe haircuts
got close
to catch what might be true.

In today’s paper there’s a sketch
of what might pass for a view
lines of track
cutting through acres
of cheap souvenirs of the Tower
drilling deep into memories
of the Pathe News
those kids would have watched
where nodding donkeys
gushed black oil
over guys in overalls.

As the train slows
for Pleasure Beach station
I shake off the past and present
tense for the future
where those donkeys strike
under pressure
not daring to nod
with their hooves planted
in fields of gas
as solid as candy floss
bought by the boys and girls
in their week of summer.

First published in ‘To Have to Follow’ by Julie Maclean & Terry Quinn










Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Tuesday, 24 May 2022

False Memory - The Way It Should Have Been


One of my nephews had a birthday last weekend. He is my sister’s eldest and was the first baby to be welcomed into the immediate family since she herself was born and the anticipated event had filled us with excitement for months. I found myself remembering his birth, which was thirty-six years ago and with pangs of sadness, discovered my false memory.

A Wednesday afternoon and I was at work. All was quiet, just three of us on the premises. The shop was shut, retail staff still observing half day closing. It didn’t affect office staff so we were busily working – actually, the work would have been completed already and we were probably taking it easy and having a laugh until we could lock up and leave. When my sister phoned to say things were happening, baby on the move, help wanted, my colleagues sent me on my way.

I drove to her house, a short distance from where I was on Dickson Road to where she was near Stanley Park. My false memory tells me that I packed her into my dark blue Austin Maxi, but I didn’t have that car anymore. I had a light blue metallic and rust Datsun Violet. I was sent on a quick errand on foot to a nearby shop for camera film – those were the days – and returning to my car, thought my sister was about to give birth there and then as for some reason, the passenger seat was flat. Luckily, I delivered her to the hospital before any other delivery happened and waited with her until her husband arrived from his place of work out of town. I went home.

This is where my recollection of events all goes funny, such a strong memory yet so false. By now it is early evening. I’m sat on the settee in the lounge, knitting a chunky-knit cardigan with thick needles. I’m doing a sleeve which is growing quickly and I’m thinking if I finish this piece before the baby comes, it’s a girl, if not, it’s a boy. I don’t think we had gender reveals at that time. My dad is sitting in his usual armchair, reading every word in the Gazette, sharing a few adverts in the classified section, items for sale, usually cars, and drawing a ring round them with his Parker biro. He’s wearing a denim-blue sweater that I made for him. He checks his yellow tea-cup, disappointed to find it empty. The phone rings in the hall and he goes to answer it. Of course, it was the happy news of the safe arrival of a perfect baby boy.

This is how I remember it. Or is it how I wish to remember it?

 My father had been ecstatic to learn he was going to be a grandfather and shared his news with anyone who would listen. A boy would be lovely after raising daughters, but of course a granddaughter would be loved and cherished just the same. Arthritis plagued my father. He blamed it on rolling barrels and lifting cases of bottles in the pubs. He relied on pain relief and some days he was better than others. Out of the blue, he suffered a heart attack. It was serious, but he rallied and after a couple of weeks in hospital, he was well enough to be discharged. The experience had scared him and he would need time to recover. He felt mentally shot and physically weak and told me how he hoped he would be strong enough to hold the baby when it arrived.

He didn’t get the chance. Another heart attack took his life nearly two months before my nephew was born. He was 62.

False Memory

Blue knitted jumper, nice
Subtly fragrant Old Spice.
Another pot of tea?
Empty cup.
I was sure he was there
In his usual chair
With an open Gazette
Close to hand.
On the table, his pen,
Should he need it again,
Circling classified ads,
Things for sale.
I thought he got the phone
But he’d already gone.
My mind playing cruel tricks.
Death’s torment.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x