Reminiscences
Stories from your
time spent in the town.
A warning to Yvette Cooper MP
about
council workmen.
By David Clegg
I feel
it is my duty as a Knottingley resident of some 42 years to warn our onwards and
upwards MP Yvette Cooper and make her aware of council workmen and council
logic. It could be the thorn in her side and the weak link in the chain that
brings her ever nearer the front door of No 10 Downing Street. And what if she
wanted the door painting. I have a cautionary tale to tell her. In the 1960's,
my nanna, Jane Dickinson of Southfield Road on Englands Lane estate, was lucky
enough to receive a letter from the council informing her that she was to have
her front door painted. This was something the council did to wooden doors every
fifteen years or so, usually about two years after dry rot had set into the
woodwork, thus ensuring the burrowing destructive worms had a nice new shiny
waterproof home in which to wreak havoc and do their worst. To the home owning
youngsters of today with their indestructible UPVc frames it is hard to imagine
what a visit from council workmen is like. A bit like a visit from "Ground
Force", but without the force.
My
nanna had a maroon coloured door. Dark purple to you and me. The council decided
to liven up Knottingley and paint my nanna’s door Gambodge. More
of this later. It's a game isn't it; why oh why oh why does the council powers
that be have such daft names for colours? Light blue, dark blue magnolia and
white should suffice for most households. Anyway the council came to paint the
door. The painter was a wonder to behold. He existed in, it seems, another
slower, less hurried and fretful dimension to us. His brushstrokes were smooth
and meaningful as though every stroke was pulled from his soul. Every tender
movement was carried out with such care and deliberate slowness that a job that
would have taken me or you an hour tops, slapping paint all over took him all
morning. Every ten minutes or so he would step back and gaze at the door,
studying, contemplating, deep in thought. A bit like staring at one of those 3D
pictures but the picture never comes. After many hours of almost comatose
painting he inhaled then exhaled deeply. The job was done. But then a look of
puzzled bewilderment slowly came over his face. He had the look of a man who had
just seen the sasquatch or was a struggling contestant on the Krypton factor.
The dark maroon was showing through the mustard yellow of the new coat. That's
what gambodge is by the way. A mucky, mustardy, yellow. But what a wonderful
word "Gambodge". My Uncle Richard Dickinson was so taken with it that
he called my sister Zena "gambodge" for years. Gambodge. Sounds like a
lost tribe. The Gambodge of the Upper Limpopo.
The
council workmen took another deep breath and declared that he would have to come
back and give it another coat and that we should look upon this as an enormous
favour and act of philanthropy on his part as he was only really allowed, by
decree of the council elders to put one new coat of paint per door. He would
come back when the paint had dried. This involved waiting for about a month. If
a jobs worth doing........ Anyway he returned and repeated the whole slow
deliberate painting process. Four coats it took, over a period of about four
months until the gambodge finally covered the maroon. All I'm saying Yvette is
that if you decide to paint the black shiny door of number 10, first of all
don't let the council do it. Give Ed a brush. And for Gords sake don't paint yer
door Gambodge!
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Is
it too late for Knottingley's Olympic glory?
By
David Clegg
If only Denise Lewis
lived on Broomhill Estate. If only Steve Redgrave practised rowing on the Aire
and Calder canal. I fear our Olympic bid will come to nought and the nearest us
'Knottla' folk will get to that upside down land of the Wallaby is by watching
television and drinking Fosters lager. It's all because they closed
the "Corner " Pub.
[In living memory no
one ever called it the "Sailors Home".] Throughout the years the
"Corner" tried to keep up with trends and fads. Chicken in a Basket,
Eyeball-Eyeball meetings for CB radios enthusiasts (sometimes meeting people as
far away as Beal-the CB radio wasn't the best idea in the world). Then the
"Corner" had the bright idea of installing a pool table. Trouble was
the room wasn't big enough and the wall got in the way of using a normal sized
cue. Custom made mini cues were provided to take that tricky next to the wall
shot. But we were a proud bunch of drunken adolescents and we refused to use
these. Instead we were in favour of the overarm topspin pool shot.
This involved holding the pool cue almost vertically to avoid the wall and
thrusting downwards with incredible speed and accuracy to pocket the ball, or
more likely to send the ball speeding off around the room where it would almost
certainly cause mild concussion upon striking your best friend on the temple, or
remove plaster from the nearest wall. Use of this shot was a specialised, well
practised art form. Even Paul Newman in the famous film noir "The
Hustler" couldn't use this shot. What makes it all the more remarkable is
that it was very difficult to re-create the atmosphere of the film noir
in the "Corner" as "Disco Tex and his Sexolettes" was
blaring out from the jukebox. Playing pool and remaining upright was a minor
miracle given that most participants had consumed more than a big bucketful of
Whitbread's finest.
To avoid the
difficult pool shot some bright spark non-Knottingley people cannily suggested
that the side window on the opposite wall be opened so that the end of the cue
could be poked through to make the shot. We just smiled that special knowing
smile that Yorkshiremen sometimes do. We knew that as soon as they opened the
window they would be instantly overcome and partially paralysed by the noxious
fumes from Drapers pig farm situated behind the pub. Somedays it was so bad it
looked like a scene from the battle of the Somme-men in gas masks playing pool.
Only joshing !
And that is why we
will never make the Olympics . They closed
the "Corner". We had experts at the overarm top spin pool
shot. But alas like glassblowers at Bagley's glassworks and Sailors at Harker's
shipyard they are a thing of the past, relegated to the mists of time when they
closed the "corner" pub. There is of course the undeniable injustice
of Pool not being an Olympic sport. It's an outrage. I may write to my MP and
protest in the strongest possible terms.
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The
fish shop with no name
( re letter from Richard Bailey 28.06.00)
By
David Clegg
I need a new suit.
No doubt about it. I need some money spending on me. Funny thing is my Sue
thinks I look better in jeans and a shirt. Women can be funny like that. I'm
still the same glorious (?!?*) person inside my clothing. It's a bit like that
with Knottingley. Of course we need more resources and money. I can't help
thinking that for every pound sterling we gain we lose a little bit of our
unique town. Do we really want a sanitised glass and chrome
let's-be-like-America shopping mall ? It could be anywhere. Corporation
owned shops, where everything is nice, nice, nice, but just the same, same
,same. Old Aire street, even in it's days of decline in the 1960's held a unique
role in the identity of the town. The Habro, Yorkshire Penny bank, The old
Library. It's the differences that made it special. Even Hill Top had its
special shops. Who can remember the pies at the "Golden Gourmet"? Mr.
Sharpe( I think) the chemist, & Charlie Tate’s. The best example is
Barkers Fish and Chip shop on Spawd Bone Lane. For years it never advertised. A
stranger driving by, trying to find the "Ancient Shepherd" or
"Green Bottle" could be forgiven for never ever recognising that it
was a chippie. None of your fancy kebabs and burgers.For years I thought chicken
and mushroom pies were exotic (hence my love of the Golden Gourmet). It just
sold fish, chips and peas. Good food for the people of Knottingley. It was all
we needed and it was just for us. No flashy neon signs, no money spent on
advertisements at all. The fact that only ‘Knottla’ folk knew about it was
wonderful, it seems to equate with a time and a community that is rapidly
disappearing. We were never stupid enough, as the cliché goes, to "leave
our doors open", but we knew our neighbours, we knew their families, in our
streets and in our town. We didn't need to spend money on a flashy
sign. ( I note that the shop is now closed after gaudy two inch high letters-
proclaim the existence of the "Golden Chip" or something. "Proves
my point me Laud" I think !!). Gotta go now. Going shopping for a new suit.
We can't fight change, but I shall insist on wearing mucky pants under me suit.
(Submitted by David
Clegg, Knottingley resident for 42 years)
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