There is no future now in Ince
Or elsewhere in the land -
We had it fifty years ago
First and second hand.
The first was when we had nowt
And we had it all to gain
And the second was our children
Growing on the lane.
And now it's all been done and got
The happy times are o'er -
We're in a cul-de-sac of time
With nowhere else to go.
The future then was Hotpoint
To get the washing clean
And a fridge to put the sterry in
To stop in turning cream.
It was a vacuum cleaner
And a carpet for the home
So we could sit in comfort
And walk on cushioned stone.
The future was tomorrow
And tomorrow was today
And life was so exciting
In Ince along the way.
The future was a garden
To cultivate and grow
And a motor car for transport
To own and have for show.
It was a television -
And a phone to ring and call
When we didn't have a thing
But now we have it all.
And what is left is apathy
And the wants of having more
Unlike the things we needed
In Ince not long ago.
We've got it, had it - lived the dream
And loved it all the way -
There is no future left in Ince -
We had it yesterday !
There Was a Man.
There was a man in Irish town
Who wore a funny cap -
A silver buttoned uniform
And a bag hung by a strap
Which swayed with a rocking motion
Gently side to side
With lots of various envelopes
Tucked away inside.
Our local friendly postman
Would come around at times
To bring us correspondence
And mail of various kinds -
Usually a voting form
Or a letter from the Board
Or a summons from the County Court
For a debt we couldn't afford.
And he pushed it through the letter box -
A hole in our front door
Where once or twice a year would fall
A letter to the floor
But the postman was a passing sigh
And a rare and fleeting glimpse
On the old cracked flags and cobbles
When I was young in Ince
And but for red reminders
And a free-milk coupons call
We scarcely would have seen him
At our house at all.
But he didn't bring us all this stuff
That comes around today
Like fearsome bills and junk mail
And parcels from ebay
With offers and promotions
Daily in a rash
In glossy coloured brochures
To part us from our cash
The postman then had feelings
And wouldn't hurt us so
By bringing postal menaces
From folk we didn't know.
Our home address was all we had
In Ince to call our own -
Our proud and humble residence
And a sanctuary we called home
And the postman had respect for it
And treated it that way
And not like some brick litter bin
Like they do today.
There was no domesticity.
There was no domesticity
Back at home in Ince -
That's just a long and fancy word
We'd only seen in print.
The house was den and shelter
To be daily washed and fed
With the basics for survival -
Jackbit, roof and bed.
The rest was immaterial
Except for keeping warm,
Safe and out of mischief
And well away from harm.
There was no plan or order
And the basic rules applied -
Don't use lip and answer back
And respect the world outside -
No telling lies or swearing
And making noise at night
Remembering to shut the door
And quench the landing light
No getting drunk and niggardly
In public or at home
And keep oneself well covered up
Even when alone.
Both male and female over eight
Were summoned by decree
To fetch the wood and coal in
And helped to make the tea
The old ones did the heavy work
And supervised things through
While the young ones ran the errands
And learned to make a brew
The male chopped up the firewood
To earn his daily keep
While the female took the pram out
To rock the child to sleep.
Living was unprocessed
In ince not long ago -
We did what was expected
And made to do no more.
Ambition was a foreign word
And hopes and dreams a myth
And intellectuality
We never bothered with.
Life was strict and simple
With none or little fuss
In the absence of direction
To guide and pressure us.
Our domesticity revolved
And moulded over time
In a manual existence
Around the mill and mine
So we knew where we were going
And what we had to do
In our simple domesticity
When our time was due
Just as our fathers did
And all the ones before -
To put bread upon the table
And watch the family grow.
There Were Two.
There were two characters Of Ince -
One of either sex
Who haven't had a mention
In my rhymings yet -
Yon Yowth and Yon Mon
Were two big household fames
Who lived in all the district
And had no second names.
"Go and ask Yon Mon for a leet
Or "Yon Yowth for the time" -
They always cropped up somewhere
In Ince along the line.
"What's up with Yon Yowth"
And "Yon Mon`s geet a cheek"
We heard them mentioned all the time
In Ince upon the street.
"Who does Yon Mon think he is"
And "Where has Yon Yowth gone"
Was a daughter and a mother
And a father or a son -
A neighbour or a stranger
Or anyone unseen -
A magistrate or doctor
And even the king or queen
Everyone was Yon Mon
And he lived everywhere
Just the same as Yon Yowth
But she had longer hair.
Yon Mon wore the trousers
And Yon Yowth wore a skirt
The second had a top and blouse
And the first a cotton shirt.
So now they've had a mention
On the world wide web
Its time to call them him and her
And put these two to bed.
There's Nothing like...
There's nothing like the sound and feel
Of a pocket full of pops
Tugging on the cricket belt
While running from the shops
With the Topper flapping in the wind
Free from worldly care
And the smell of a penny bubbly
Wafting through the air.
Twas never going to be this good
And I was yet to know
When I left those realms of innocence
In Ince those years ago
To venture out into the world
And mix with all mankind
And leave those penny dainties
And Beano books behind
To leave the coal and cinders
And ashes in the grate
For a gas fire in suburbia
To realize my fate
Twas never going to be this good
I found out to my cost
That what we sometimes leave behind
Can be for ever lost
And but for strong imaginings
It would be even so
But those times have never left my heart
From all those years ago
And often when I'm down and sad
I cast a backward eye
To Desperate Dan and Minnie Mouse
In the books of days gone by
And then I start to smile again
Just as I did then
And in an instant of delight
I'm all back there again.
There's Nowt Like It.
There's nowt like picking conkers
Alone and only me -
Shiny, smooth and lovely brown
Underneath a tree -
Lying in the lush, green grass
And hiding out of view -
Smiling in the sunlight
And wet with morning dew.
It's just like seeing gold to me -
Each gleaming, polished prize,
Wonderful to hold and feel
And a marvel to my eyes.
I put them in my pockets
And none will I divulge
And then keep on collecting them
Until my pockets bulge
And when I've got enough of them
I take them off back home
To share among the grandkids -
The ones that haven't grown.
We count them out in equal shares
And put them in a bag
So they don't stretch their pockets
And make their trousers sag
And afterwards they take them off
And keep them in the shed -
In a corner or a drawer
Or underneath the bed.
And that's the last we see of them
For another year or so -
They always end up in the bin
Or scattered on the floor.
But I love collecting conkers -
They're magic to behold
A sweet delight for mortal sight
Whether young or old.
I gather them each Autumn
And keep them for a bit -
Not for any reason
But just the sake of it.
There's One Thing.
There's one thing that I can't forget
And here's a tale for you
About one night in Higher Ince
And every word is true.
Twas when my father came home drunk
(In time off quite afar)
Worse for wear and jovial
From boozing on the Bar
When all the town lay fast asleep
And the night was calm and still
As he struggled o'er the cobbles
To his shanty on the hill...
My dad would not stop singing
And it filled my soul with shame -
"I'll take you home again Kathleen"
Swaying up the lane
Upon a Friday night in Ince
With midnight nigh the chime
Long after the bell's last orders
And way gone closing time
As we lay warm and snug in bed
And peace patrolled the shade
The piercing ballad startled us
With the racket that he made -
"I'll take you home again Kathleen"
In B flat major's height
With not another soul around
In the middle of the night.
I put the pillow on my head -
The noise was pretty bad
And prayed that it was someone else
And this man was not my dad.
An officer confronted him
When he heard the awful din
And told him keep the noise down
Or else he'd take him in.
And so he did for just a while
Then started off again
Getting even louder
As he staggered up the lane -
"I'll take you home again Kathleen"
The melody did roll -
How well he rattled off that song
With all his heart and soul
For Kathleen was his daughter
Born the day before
And he was feeling happy
To let his feelings go
And I feel guilty look back
To having felt that shame
Listening to that ballad
Swaying up the lane
For while he was a singing
And though he was my dad
He wasn't harming anyone
Or doing any bad.
There's Ten Good Reasons.
There's ten good reasons why a dog -
A horse or a family pet
Are preferable to a humanoid
And you'll agree I'll bet.
Number one they cannot speak
And give us zero flak
And secondly they stay at home
And do not answer back
Thirdly there are thankful
And don't complain or frown
And fourth they are so faithful
And never let us down.
They never moan of aches and pains
And that is number five
And number six they're just content
To live and be alive
Number seven's very true
And this there is no doubt -
They do not have relationships
And keep on falling out -
They're happy just to be with us
And have us just alone
And grateful for a master
Who feeds them well at home.
And that is number eight - and nine
They neither reap nor sow
But teach us more about ourselves
Than we will ever know
And last, not least - that`s number ten
And this is what I've found -
For comfort and companionship
They're good to have around.
We think they don't take notice
Of all we do or say
But they monitor our feelings
In silence every day.
They're, soothing, therapeutic -
Don't judge or condescend -
Their love is unconditional
And loyal to the end
So what more can you ask for -
Be quick and don't delay
Pop down to the pet shop
And get a friend today.
They Broke His Will.
They broke his will and confidence
In the blackness of the mines
And left him a bit contemptuous
And jittery at times,
And many hungry hours had he
In woeful days now gone,
Uncertain where his next meal
Would be coming from...
You can always tell an Incer -
He never leaves his food,
Comes across as giddy
And perhaps a little rude.
But that is just his camouflage -
He's had a bumpy ride -
It's someone else he'd like to be
And not the man inside.
He doesn't stop to think too much
Of what he's going to say -
He's basic and straightforward
And knows no other way.
Tact is not his noblest trait
And leaps out from the start -
He don't pronounce his aitches
But an Incer has a heart,
Who'll do anyone a favour
And tackle any task
And tell you what he thinks of you
Well before you ask...
He's blunt, but warm and friendly
In an Incer's way -
He'll stop and talk to anyone
At any time of day.
Though he seems a little ignorant
At times and don't say "please"
He will not "thank you very much"
For a hug and squeeze.
No, that is not an Incer's style -
He's ever on his toes,
Cautious and observant
But not too fond or close.
He's not the shrewdest man alive
And calls a spade a spade
And don't show soft affection
But that's the way he's made.
He comes from coal and iron
And the brawn of manly strife
And nobody can tell him how
To live and run his life.
The foundry was his playground
And the deep, dark mine his home -
He was reared on tripe and minerals
And that's the way he's grown.
So next time you are on the Bar
And pass the K.F.C
Take a sneaky look inside
And note the company
And if you see a hungry man
With greasy fingerprints
Who leaves some chips and nuggets -
Then he doesn't come from Ince.
They Cut Our Lectric Off.
They cut our lectric off in Ince
When I was a kid
But uncle Bob connected it
And it's a good job he did -
We hadn't any paraffin
And the candles were all spent
And the lectric money that we owed
Was used to pay the rent.
And we all sat in the pitch and gloom
For three nights in a row
In the depths of a bleak mid winter
In the flickering fire's glow
But it made us thankful for the light
And grateful for the main -
Twas a wonder and a miracle
To see it shine again
As we gloried in it's presence
And praised our uncle Bob
For lighting up our darkness
And doing a smashing job.
For we take the world for granted
And all that's good in it
Like a passing, careless trifle
And think what we deem fit.
Miracles are soon forgot
And wonders fade away
As the earth turns on it's axis
And night turns into day
But I won't forget our uncle Bob
For what he did that night -
He made us grateful for the main
And thankful for the light.
They Hid.
They hid amongst the undergrowth
And jumped from head to head
But Nora stopped them flying
And killed them instant dead -
She used a little lolly stick
To touch and part the waves -
And put a mark upon them
To send them to their graves
With deadly poison for the scalp
From the clinic shop
In a little bottle
To soak into the mop.
She frightened all the kids in Ince
And all the parents too
When the teacher gave us notice
The day the nurse was due.
A little stocky lady
Who never seemed to smile -
She made them scatter in the hair
And made them jump a mile.
The clean ones got a gentle tap
With a fine tooth comb -
And the lousy got a letter
And told to take it home.
For pesticide or blue unction -
Whichever the cure befits -
You could spot the ones with eczema
But not the ones with nits.
The smell was everlasting
And took the breath away
That we could even smell it
In the class next day
It was a day of reckoning -
A time of guilt and shame
Or smug exoneration
When the head nurse came
And like the fleeing head lice said
Just before they died -
"You can run from Nitty Nora
But you certainly cannot hide"!
They Never Grounded Us.
They never grounded us in Ince
Or sent us off to bed -
There was nothing in the bedroom
So we got a clout instead
Usually on the backside
Or a clip across the ear -
It stung for several seconds
But soon would disappear
If Johnny was a bugger
Then Johnny would atone
And he knew he had it coming
When his dad got home.
The worst part was the waiting
Listening for the door
For that was punishment itself
If we were due for more.
The three main misdemeanors
Were mischief, swearing, lip
For each we got due recompense
And that was the end of it.
No such thing as forty lines
Or doing extra chores
Discipline was swift and quick
As every Incer knows.
It saved a lot of trouble
In bargaining and pleas -
A cuff across the cranium
Or a slap across the knees
A belt across the backside
For doing grievous wrong
Never did us any harm
And didn't take too long -
The worst part was the waiting
In silent dread alone
Waiting for the consequence
When our dad got home.
They Used to Call It.
They used to call it Purring,
But not with cats and dogs
But a duel by adolescent men
Wearing deadly cloggs.
In the name of pride and chivalry
In contests brutal bold
They sorted out their differences
Just like the knights of old
But not with shields and lances
And sturdy trembling steeds
But kicks upon the shin bones
To make them swell and bleed
And this grim fray continued
Till one of them gave up
Or the blood was overflowing
And the shins too badly cut.
In days of old in Wigan
In High and Lower Ince
Folk would come from miles around
To hear them yell and wince -
Some came for a flutter
And some to see the pain
And others for excitement
On the land behind the lane.
What better way to vindicate
Than by a pair of feet
In a bout of pain and suffering
Off the civic street.
Twas a noble fix for dispute
That harried not the law
And saw the loser limp away
With shin bones bruised and raw
And this convinces me one thing -
That human ego's strange
And the men of Ince and Camelot
Never really change.
They'd Twitter.
They'd twitter on the rooftops
And cause the odd affray -
Squabble in the back yards
And fly around all day.
The place was never quiet
In the air and on the ground
With a thousand little sparrows
Chirping all around -
Flitting here and flitting there
Busy on the wing
And making such a racket
Because they couldn't sing.
But now the streets are silent
In Ince along the way -
I haven't seen a sparrow
For many a many a day.
They'd chatter on the chimney pots
And flutter round the eaves -
Walk along the sleepers
And gather in the trees -
Hop across the cobbles
And swoop along the backs
And take a bath in puddles
Upon the dusty tracks
But now I never hear a chirp
From our feathered friends
That flourished in the lazy days
Of pigeon cotes and pens -
They've all but disappeared
And now it's sad to say -
I've never seen a sparrow
For many a many a day!
Thinking of Myself.
Thinking of myself is a chore
But one I'm good at - nothing more.
Hang out the washing ? put up a shelf?
I'm too busy thinking of myself
The door needs attention but it can wait,
Change the lightbulb - it's a bit late,
Wash the dishes, feed the cat -
I'm far too busy for all that.
The tile on the ceiling is ready to fall -
Could do with a lick of paint in the hall.
The tap's been dripping for a year
But I'll get round to it, don't fear.
I'm just wrapped up in a world of wealth,
Thinking, thinking of myself.
Thinking of myself is a pain,
Chasing my tail again and again,
But not as bad as pushing a broom
Or bending down to tidy a room.
I keep on looking but it won't go away -
I'll fix that dodgy chair one day -
Clean the cupboard - oil that lock,
Put new batteries in the clock,
Earn approval, aim to please,
Perform these simple tasks with ease,
But that will not improve my health,
Not like thinking of myself.
Thinking of myself feels good,
Wondering whether I should or would.
It takes no effort just to think
Like washing dishes at the sink,
And more important, don't forget,
Thinking doesn't get you wet.
In any case, consider the worst -
Health and safety must come first.
So thus excused by cunning stealth
I'll keep on thinking of myself.
This House.
This house will be the death of me -
It's killing me each day
With noxious radiations
And poisons in a spray,
Perfumes and deodorants
And deadly microwaves -
It wasn't like this in our house
In the good old days !
Just six domestic hazards
Up in Ince we had -
A fuming, red-faced mother
And a cross and angry dad,
The squeezers in the corner
And hot, exploding coal -
One could squash the fingertips
And the other burn a hole.
The lanry and the pinnacle
We used to wash and bleach
And kept them on the pantry shelf
Safe and out of reach.
Apart from that - the house was safe
Apart from nightly chill,
Lumbago and bronchitis
And passing threats to kill.
The wind was free to come and go
Up in Belle Green lane
And they took the smells out with them
Every time they came.
To kill the flies in summer
We hung a sticky tape
Where they settled down for ever
As they came to congregate
The only radiation
Was from the pipes at school
And the waves came down the aerial
And rippled on a pool.
In Ince the air was fresh and clean
In between the smoke
And it was the cold and dampness
That made us cough and choke.
We knew what we were eating then
And saw it with our eyes -
We put it in some pastry
And made it into pies.
We knew what we were smelling
And knew how it should taste
Unlike this supermarket stuff
There wasn't any waste.
Yes, life was safer back at home
All in all I'd say
Free from waves and chemicals
In Ince along the way.
This is the BBC.
"This is The BBC Home Service" -
The wireless used to say
Upon a Sunday morning
In the times of yesterday.
It played us happy music
Each morning without fail
And spoke of wars and tragedy
Upon a worldwide scale.
A piece of furniture it was
That livened up the place -
With knobs for eyes and ears
And a speaker for a face.
It took a while to come alive
But when it did it boomed
And made us sing along with it
In the living room.
It told us tales and wonders
And brought us dreadful news
But kept us company all day
And cheered the household blues.
Phillips, Bush and Ferguson -
In wood and bakelite -
We'd switch it on and wait a bit
And watch the valves go bright
And listen to the orchestra of the BBC -
The Archers or Glen Miller
Or a Shakespeare tragedy.
How Much is That Doggy in the Window -
Jim Reeves and Patsy Cline -
Eddie Calvert and his trumpet
Were the favourites of the time.
It had a thousand stations
That had a different sound
Each one with it's own language
From all the world around.
And there we'd sit and listen
In the evenings - day and night
And watch the little bulb aglow
Behind the bakelite
To the modern wonder of the age
And I can see it yet -
That miracle of technology -
The good old wireless set.
Three Types.
Three types of dog we had in Ince -
Lassie, Prince and Rex
And none would have a dog lead
Put around their necks.
Lassie was a tenter
Who stayed at home all day
Growling on the door step
To keep the kids away
While Rex he was a snapper
Liable to bite -
A bit more unpredictable
And partial to a fight.
But Prince he was a trophy dog
Bounding, wild and rough
And wore a studied collar
To make himself look tough
And he was proud and serious
And stayed to fight his ground
To show his worth and metal
To other mutts around.
But then there is another type -
To mention, I forgot -
That's feisty Bob the terrier
Who liked to play it hot
Who went out with the shot gun
And went down rabbit holes
Sniffing out the badgers
And hunting rats and voles.
Brown ones, black ones, red or white
All mongrels - big and small
Without a lead or licence -
In Ince we had them all
To guard our backs and entries
And yards both night and day
To keep unwelcome visitors
And prowling feet away.
Their little lives were not in vain
And should not be forgot -
Fidelity and companionship
To us they gave a lot
They were our trusty sentinels
And harbingers of harm -
Our second sight and hearing
And early house alarm
Protective and obedient
While sacrificing all
Always prompt and ready
At his master's beck and call
Whistle - they'd come running
And call they would obey
In every situation
Any night or day
But should they not respond at all
To Lassie, Rex or Prince
They probably were pedigrees
And didnt come from Ince.
Thowd Mon.
Thowd mon cum wom drunk last neet
So thowd woman says -
And thas never sin owt like it
In all thi born days.
He favered like he'd bin in a feyt
When he staggered in fromt lane
He couldn't tek his shoes off
And he kept on fawin deyn.
We don't know where he`d bin ah neet
Bur he were in a state
Mi mother cawd him ah sorts
And he didn't retaliate.
He couldn't put three words together
And he couldn't ger up on his feet
So we stretched him eyt on the sofa
And left him theer fur the neet.
Tools Required.
Tools required - a saw and wood -
A hammer and small nails
With one or two elastic bands -
That's all that it entails
And soon we'll have a pea gun
Like the ones we used to make
But just watch where you point it
Or shoot it by mistake.
Cut the barrel to the length
And size as shown below
And plywood for the handle
And fix and nail it so
The trigger is the trickiest
And needs a bit more skill
To cut an L shaped piece of wood
The handle gap to fill
And keep it shut with elastic
To trap and hold the pea
Then take a little breather
And make a cup of tea.
A garter or a rubber band
Will launch and give the zap
Tied to the end of the barrel
And stretched to fill the gap -
That's with the pea enclosed in it -
But load it up with care
And always point it at the floor
And never in the air
And if the launcher's not too wide
Make a little pouch
With a piece of leather off a shoe
Or the fabric from a couch.
And that's the pea gun ready -
Job complete and done
For hours of happy shooting
And endless days of fun
So LIKE it if you've made one
In Ince - that all may know
Who pinched their mother's garters
All those years ago.
Twas a Day.
Twas a day like this in Irish Town
On an Autumn Sunday morn
When the sun crept o'er the slagtip
And smiled on the golden corn -
The little town began to stir
From it's nightly soft repose
As the rising folk of Higher Ince
Began to open their doors.
The sound of pans and kettles
And the latches of the doors
Would break the slumbering silence
As the sleepy folk arose.
First to rise was Major
To sniff the morning breeze
To the sound of chirping sparrows
Flitting in the trees
And on the pantry roof outside -
Purring in the sun
Another day to prowl around
For Ginger had begun
The flushing of the toilets
And the rattles of the chain
Reminded all that life goes on
Up and down the lane.
Soon the sprouts and carrots
Would be hissing in the pan
As mothers greased the Sunday roast
For the family and her man.
As - one by one in the cobbled street
The kids would venture out
Quiet at first, then growing loud
And the mams would start to shout.
The men went for their papers -
Wearing slip-on shoes
To check the football coupon
And read the weekly news.
The front doors of the corner shops
Would soon be open wide
Ready to accommodate
The family needs outside.
The pubs were getting ready
For another busy day
As the early rising ramblers
Of Ince went on their way.
Soon the place would spring to life
As the morning gathered pace
As the children of the neighbourhood
Began to yell and chase.
The bars would soon be buzzing
And the Sunday lunch on boil
As the locals took advantage
Of a Sabbath free from toil.
That was the scene in Irish Town -
When I look back with bliss
Upon an Autumn Sunday morn
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