Yorkshire Almanac The Singing Organ-Grinder sees his new home of Leeds from the M62, and a terrible memory surfaces

9 April 2021: The Singing Organ-Grinder sees his new home of Leeds from the M62, and a terrible memory surfaces

Captain Oates in his socks, poor man, in John Charles Dollman’s Very Gallant Gentleman (Dollman 1913).

Leeds’s Singing Organ-Grinder. 2024. Ecce ericius. In preparation. Get it:

Unedited excerpt

If an excerpt is used in the book, it will be shorter, edited and, where applicable, translated.

9 April 2021 was a beautiful spring day, but as the removal van chugged east past Hartshead Moor Services towards Manhattan upon Aire I was suddenly swept back several decades to the same place in the very early hours of a bitterly cold and snowy morning. Graham, a partially-sighted giant, is driving me and an expat Yorkie guest drummer Dean back to Lancashire from a brass band contest. All are terribly drunk, and a pitstop is required at the draughty sheds then constituting Hartshead. Graham and I race into the gents’, while Dean, known as “whippet” for his slender figure and intellect, opts for a ciggy and a stroll through the freezing cave containing the shuttered retail. Dean has been supercilious and obnoxious all evening, and Graham zips up decisively: “Come on Trev, we’re going.” “What do you mean?” “We’re leaving the twat here.” We last see Dean in the rear-view mirror, plunging through snowdrifts on the slip-road in his green pixie-cowboy boots and pimp moustache, thin fawn faux-leather jacket flapping in the blizzard. No woollens, no mobiles. Did frostbite kill him on the hard shoulder? Or does he lurk to this day in some dark Brighouse caff, nursing his tea but thirsting for revenge? Dean, I want to apologise and make it up to you with some paid gigs: I’m looking for a monkey.

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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.

Comment

Please warn me if you spot Dean in this time-lapse video of the M62 between Manchester and Leeds:

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Comment

Please warn me if you spot Dean in this time-lapse video of the M62 between Manchester and Leeds:

Something to say? Get in touch

25 August 1840: Debating the teetotal vegetarian Frederic Lees at Rotherham, the Wesleyan James Bromley calls the pledge unchristian, and “alcohol-free” wine undrinkable

3 March 1867: Robbed by a young Leeds prostitute, the elderly captain of a Goole boat keeps his shirt on

1 May 1878: The Mercury quotes Clifford Allbutt (Leeds Infirmary) on the commendable beastliness of northerners

30 April 1872: MPs discuss drink, proverbial curse of the working class, with James Wetherell, Leeds’s chief constable

14 July 1969: A Leeds butcher buys a Ford Escort

19 May 1812: An Anglican Whit walk encounters a Nonconformist one at “Briarfield” (Birstall), amid Luddites and wars with France and the US, in the imagination of Charlotte Brontë

19 December 1958: A London dock strike features in Dick Whittington at ready-to-wear clothing manufacturer John Barran’s, Leeds

17 January 1865: At Leeds, temperance advocate Wilfrid Lawson MP calls for the sale of alcohol to be banned

21 May 1785: Aged 15, William Butterworth of Leeds runs away to sea and joins a slaver

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Comment

The boys’ departure date from Leeds is derived from SlaveVoyages.org, which says that the Hudibras, under Captain Jenkin Evans, left Liverpool on 26 May 1786. Butterworth’s 16th birthday wasn’t until later that year – ODNB gives his birth as 2 October 1769 at 55 Kirkgate, Leeds.

Butterworth’s final paragraph recapitulates his opening argument:

Strange are the vicissitudes of eventful time, and inscrutable the ways of Providence! In the sunshine of prosperity, therefore, bask not in heedless apathy! In the gloom of adversity, yield not to despondency! Cultivate the social virtues at home, in preference to seeking adventure abroad; for bitter are the draughts drunk from disappointment’s cup, and few indeed are the adventurers who have not drained its dregs from the bottom, though deep and capacious. Adventure promises much, but performs little. Covet not then, ye youths of Britain, to tread on such uncertain ground! Its paths are intricate, and, at best, dangerous! Here and there small plots of flowering shrubs delight the eye; but much more frequently extensive wilds, rugged and barren, present a dreary prospect, creating despondency and exciting alarm!

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