A Yorkshire Almanac Comprising 366 Historical Extracts, Red-letter Days and Customs, and Astronomical and Meteorological Data
Norman Harding. 2005. Staying Red. London: Index Books. Reproduction by kind permission of Index Books. Get it:
.As usual, many of the chorus and townspeople were members of the Communist Party. At a point in the proceedings Baron Fitzwarren had a shipload of merchandise that had arrived at the docks. At this time there happened to be a much publicised dock strike in London. The producer Len Waite thought that it would be good idea to be up-to-date and introduce this into the panto. The Baron called all the townspeople together and announced that there was a strike at the docks and he would need volunteers to unload his ship. As soon as the townspeople took a step forward to follow the Baron to the docks, I stood up and shouted from the audience “Don’t cross the dockers’ picket line! They are your brothers! Don’t be scabs!” Geoff Emsley and Les Dixon took up the cry from the stage: “I will not cross the picket line!” The majority of the townspeople went off stage left instead of stage right. Loud applause from the audience, except from the two front rows that were occupied by the Barran family, board of directors and management. There was always a do after the panto. The usual dancing along with a bit of Christmas cheer and youngsters hiring out their bike shed key, half a crown a time. I shared a taxi with Dick Whittington’s cat and Widow Twanky. I was obviously put off at the right place on the corner of Poole Road and Cross Gates Road, where Mr Atkin, the father of my friends John and Marion, spotted me attempting to count the stars in the sky. He escorted me round the corner to 93 Poole Crescent and saw me safely inside. Anyway that’s the story I was told.
To facilitate reading, the spelling and punctuation of elderly excerpts have generally been modernised, and distracting excision scars concealed. My selections, translations, and editions are copyright.
Abbreviations:
Dock strikes were frequent in London at the time, so I haven’t yet managed to confirm whether this was 1958.
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Every year the workforce at Barran’s put on a pantomime the weekend before Christmas. Thursday night was for relatives, nurses from the local hospitals, pensioners and so on. Friday night was for the employees and the management. As near as I can date it, in 1958 the production was to be Dick Whittington. As usual, many of the chorus and townspeople were members of the Communist Party. At a point in the proceedings Baron Fitzwarren had a shipload of merchandise that had arrived at the docks. At this time there happened to be a much publicised dock strike in London. The producer Len Waite thought that it would be good idea to be up-todate and introduce this into the panto. The Baron called all the townspeople together and announced that there was a strike at the docks and he would need volunteers to unload his ship. As soon as the townspeople took a step forward to follow the Baron to the docks, I stood up and shouted from the audience ‘Don’t cross the dockers’ picket line! They are your brothers! Don’t be scabs!’ Geoff Emsley and Les Dixon took up the cry from the stage: ‘I will not cross the picket line.’ The majority of the townspeople went off stage left instead of stage right. Loud applause from the audience, except from the two front rows that were occupied by the Barran family, board of directors and management. The curtain was closed to allow a clean start to the next scene.
There was always a do after the panto. The usual dancing along with a bit of Christmas cheer and youngsters hiring out their bike shed key, half a crown a time. There were always one or two humorous moments. Gilbert Taylor (who was still shop steward at the time) fell asleep on the train, missed Micklefield station and ended up in Hull. Frank Stockdale made a number of attempts to mount his bicycle and finally managed to get his feet on the right pedals and went off down Chorley Lane. He turned left on a short cut that took him into Victoria Square and had the misfortune to fall off his bike right outside the police station. He was late home. I shared a taxi with Dick Whittington’s cat and Widow Twanky. I was obviously put off at the right place on the corner of Poole Road and Cross Gates Road, where Mr Atkin, the father of my friends John and Marion, spotted me attempting to count the stars in the sky. He escorted me round the corner to 93 Poole Crescent and saw me safely inside. Anyway that’s the story I was told.
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