Three Anniversaries in 2005

The UK has seen two important anniversaries in 2005. The most recent one, and probably the most important from my viewpoint, was the 200th anniversary of Admiral Lord Nelson’s stunning victory at Cape Trafalgar. All EFL teachers should bless his name and the date 21st October, 1805, for had he lost, the dominant world language would probably now be French and we’d not have work. More here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Trafalgar
The other anniversary was of an altogether more sinister event, the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, which was discovered on November 5th, before it could be executed. In the event it was the plotters who were executed, after excruciating interrogation and unspeakable torture. British people commemorate the event by terrifying their pet animals on November 5th with outdoor pyrotechnical detonations and large bonfires upon which a human effigy is burnt, sometimes of The Pope. It is the only time of the year that public fireworks displays are permitted, except on the occasion of a Royal Wedding. More here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gunpowder_Plot
From a personal point of view, 2005 also marked another anniversary, one which many people would rather forget. This was the final failure of the Miners’ Strike on March 3rd 1985 when the NUM (National Union of Miners) delegates voted by 98 to 91 to call it off, before it collapsed entirely. The strike had begun a full 12 months earlier, at Cortonwood near Barnsley, Yorkshire in response to an NCB (National Coal Board) announcement that the pit was to be closed. This was to be only the start of a programme of closures across the industry which would involve the loss of 20,000 jobs. Would that was all that eventually came to pass.
Just over a decade before a Miners’ Strike had been credited with bringing down the Conservative Heath administration. This was nonsense of course, there had been a Miners’ Strike and the Government had handled it badly but it was the voting population of the UK which had decided the fate of the government. Margaret Thatcher, into the 5th year of her leadership and having won a 2nd successive General Election coming off the back of a military victory in The Falkland Islands was in no mood to have such a fate befall her administration. She appointed a tough American mine manager, Ian MacGregor, as Chairman of the NCB and began to stockpile coal at power stations in preparation for a showdown with the leader of the NUM, one Arthur Scargill.
Arthur Scargill was a complex character with a deep conviction that his cause was just and true. He was also a most appalling egotist, on a scale to match his rival, Thatcher. Before gaining the presidency of the NUM in 1981 he had rarely been out of the news as ‘King Arthur’ the fiery leader of the Yorkshire coalfield. Under the guileful leadership of the previous president, Joe Gormley, the miners remuneration had gradually increased, to rank among the highest of the country’s industrial workers. Scargill was in no mood to let this slip and when he got wind of a ‘leaked’ document outlining the government’s plans for the coal industry there was always going to be a showdown.
In the end the Miners lost, of course. Scargill’s refusal to call a strike ballot had given it a less than sturdy start and unprecedented levels of violence between pickets and police outside colliery gates soon eroded public support. The public of course, are dependent on the media to give them a fair and balanced account of what is going on in the country. From what I experienced and heard about, it is my belief to this day that standards of reportage during the 1984-85 strike plumbed new depths. Margaret Thatcher prided herself on being a champion of ‘freedom’, but the methods she put into play to break the strike were straight out of the manual of Josef Stalin. The following is an excerpt from a novel I wrote about some of my experiences of the time. The main character has just sat down in a bar beside his friend, a NUM convener. He has been out of the country for a while and is somewhat bewildered. The events described are based on an incident which took place in late 1984 at Easington (which also featured in the movie ‘Billy Elliot’). I make no apologies for the local dialect.

So how’s it gannin’?”
Jacky sighed, a deep, careworn exhalation.
“Not ower grand I’m afraid. The bugger has gone on far ower lang noo. We’re startin’ to loss people. The’ just cannat afford it man. There’s others that’ll hang oot for ivver like. It’s startin’ ter get nasty noo Christmas is cummin’. Specially if yer’ve got bairns tha’ knaas.”
He drained his pint and stood up.
“Shall aah get yers one in?”
Jamie finished his off and nodded. Bloodaxe blinked and looked uncertain. Jamie made his mind up for him.
“Just a half for him Jack, he’s a bit slow wi’ isself the day. Howay, I’ll gi’ yer a hand to carry.”
They walked over to the milling bar, where some of the familiar faces had a saturnine cast to them. Others, not members of the NUM, were somewhat less jovial than usual. It was affecting everyone. The miners, champions of the labour movement a decade before, were losing, riven by internal factionalism and browbeaten by a government with no-one’s best interest at heart save the plutocrat. It was sickening. He saw his darts teacher, Geordie, sitting on a corner stool, brooding blackly. He made a move to approach him, but Jacky laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Divven’t bother Jamie lad. He’s one o’ the walkin’ wounded. If you’re not in the miners union you’re agen us, in his book. He’s gone reet queer these past few weeks. I wouldn’t like to see him stot yer one.”
Jamie glanced at Geordie’s brawny forearms and massive ham-like fists. Too bloody true he wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of him. He shook his head in disbelief. How could this happen? Jacky spoke quickly to him as they stood waiting at the bar.
“There’s families divided, fathers agen sons, women winnat cook for their men, people months ahind on their mortgages & hire-porchase. The’re startin’ to blame us, the union men, for causin’ this. The’ canna see past the end of the’ noses man. If the bliddy Tories win this, the’ll dae what the’ like for the next ten yor. Just watch an’ see. The’ll be a whole generation that’ll nivver work.”
Jamie felt helpless. What the hell could he, an impecunious mature student, do?
The beer arrived and was borne back to their seats where Bloodaxe was sitting, a little flushed. Jamie opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. At length he managed to get it out.
“The police stopped me on the way to college this morning Jacky. It was about six-thirty on the Durham road--I was going to the early morning kendo practice. I wasn’t speeding or anything so I wondered why it was. Half a dozen of the bastards in two cars. They asked me which mine I worked at. I told them I wasn’t a miner but a student. They said ‘You don’t sound like a student’!”
Bloodaxe snickered. Jamie had already related the story to him.
“They were after flying pickets, Jacky. They didn’t believe me and wanted a look in the back of the car. ‘Course it looks great--full of armour and wooden weapons. Fortunately, I had my student’s union card and me MAC/BKA licence on me. But surely, they can’t stop people from travelling where they want? Are the Tories re-defining civil rights now?”
His friend nodded sadly, deep brown eyes sunk in ravines of wrinkles.
“Aye, Aah knaa. One or two people ‘ve said the syem thing tiv us. The’ve had a mandate from Thatcher man, dae what yer like, but brek the strike.”
He paused a moment then added,
“D’yer want ter see for yersel’ what aah mean?”
Jamie put his beer down. He looked at Jacky strangely. What could he mean?
“Aye, that’s reet yung ‘un,” Jacky went on. “Cum an’ stand on a picket line wi’ the lads and see what gans on. See how much them lyin’ bastards in the papers are mekkin’ up and the bliddy telly!”
Jamie closed his eyes and began to think rapidly. This could be dodgy. Was Jacky serious?
Earlier that year, before he had returned from Japan, there had been mass picketing at Orgreave Colliery in South Yorkshire. It had turned very ugly, with lumps of brick hurled at police, who charged down the rioting miners with horses. At least that was the way the TV news showed it. It had even got on the NHK news in Japan for about thirty seconds. Jamie still had a clipping from the Guardian in the breast pocket of his jacket from September which accused the TV media barons of reversing the footage shot by their cameras. As a result, the watching world had seen rioting miners attacking mounted police, who subsequently regrouped and charged down their assailants--when in fact the reverse had been the actual order of events. The ITN had denied doing this, in fact they had screened edited BBC footage. The BBC had made ‘no comment’. Since that time, violent incidents involving pickets and police had appeared in the media with increasing regularity, especially in the tabloids. Control the media—control peoples’ minds. Nineteen Eighty Four. He made his mind up.
“All right, yer’ on. When?”
“Monday morning OK—six o’ clock?”
Sod it. College was finished. He’d be back early enough to get down the dole and sign on.
“Righto.”

And so it was he found himself standing in the freezing fog of a dark December morning, waiting for a car on a hill. It was deathly silent, not even a bird was calling. He shivered and hunched his shoulders, trying vainly to garner some warmth from the stub of a roll-up in his fingers. Dim headlights stabbed through the gloom and the silver-grey bulk of Jacky’s old Ford Granada loomed into sight. It pulled up alongside, rust bubbles decorating the tops of the wing panels. Way past its best. He got in and felt the warmth from the heater hit him. Jacky grunted a ‘Good morning’ and pulled away carefully. Metro Radio chirped away quietly in the background as the big car moved slowly through the misty landscape. Jacky remarked how the fog would work to their advantage in that they could avoid the picket patrols more easily. There was no actual law against secondary picketing, which was what Jamie was about to do, but neither was there any law against the custodians of the law detaining you for a while if they felt like it.
After about forty minutes they were at their destination. Jacky parked his car in a side street and got out. He went to the rear of the big car and opened the boot, retrieving from it two white safety helmets and a Nikon camera. He gave one of the helmets to Jamie saying,
“Purrit on laddie, might save you a cracked skull if the Owld Bill get stroppy wi’ them truncheons.”
Jamie did as bidden, tightening the chin-strap above his Adam’s apple, wondering if Jacky was jesting. They went out onto the main road and up to the pit gates, where a sullen group of about twenty pickets had gathered. They all wore similar garb, donkey-jackets or parkas with fluorescent ‘Support the Miners’ badges and wellies or heavy steel-toed boots. A thick-set bearded man nodded to Jacky as they reached the group, giving Jamie a suspicious glance.
“Whe’s thi’ marra Jacky? Norra reporter aah hope…”
Jacky laughed sarcastically.
“Nor, not one of them bastads. This is Jamie Duggan from the University of Durham--cum ter see what really gans on these early mornin’s.”
With the odd raised eyebrow the group acknowledged his presence. Then a shout rang out from down the road.
‘“Here the buggers cum!”
Jamie hopped up on a low wall in front of a house and looked over the heads of the pickets. In the distance he could see a white Ford Transit with POLICE emblazoned across its front end. It also had substantial wire mesh shields over the windscreen and heavy black ‘roo bars on the front end. Its roof light flashed ominously, a searing electric blue. Beside it were serried ranks of police officers with heavy helmets and face covers, riot-shields and batons. Jamie watched, his stomach stiff with sudden fear. It was very real and up-front all of a sudden. At first glance he had thought the pickets were unarmed, but then he noticed a small heap of half-bricks and other missiles beside the wall. He looked at Jacky who was standing a few feet away. Jacky glanced back at him.
“Looks like the bastards means business the day. If any aggro starts, get thisel’ away ahind that waal.”
“But…”
“Nae buts! It’s not thy fight yung ‘un. Just watch oot for thi’ sel’.”
Jamie nodded and looked up the road. About twenty metres short of the pickets the Transit van stopped. Behind it was a large cream-coloured coach, flanked by mounted police. The riders wore padded riot jackets and helmets not unlike those of Cromwellian New Model Army cavalry. Even the horses were armoured, with thick plexi-glass head shields. The doors of the van opened wide, like bat-wings and the police arranged themselves in ranks alongside it, totally covering the road. Riot shields turned forward, they began to advance, slowly at first, beating a tom-tom rhythm with the batons. At about ten metres they broke into a charge, howling like banshees, batons flailing. The pickets fell back under the onslaught, some trying to reach the pile of missiles in a desperate attempt to fight back. Jacky leaped up on the wall and pulled Jamie down behind it, who was riveted with fear where he stood. Then he stood up and calmly started taking pictures with his camera, his mouth set in a thin, hard line. Jamie peeped over the wall to take in the scene. It was not an even contest. The forces of law and order definitely had the upper hand. Two miners lay in the road, bleeding from head wounds while a third tried to staunch the flow. Two police were struggling desperately with the bearded man, riot shields and batons discarded behind them. He dispatched one of them with a knee to the groin then ripped off the helmet of the other and decked him with a vicious head-butt between the eyes. Behind them the coach swept through the pit gates unopposed, the pale, frightened faces of the blacklegs peering out through misted up windows. The cause was lost.
“Watch thi’sel’ Jamie!” came Jacky’s urgent shout.
Jamie looked round and dodged. The baton whizzed past his ear and cracked off the bricks on top of the wall. He staggered back in shock as the armoured figure stumbled, trying to regain his balance. He heard the click and whirr of the motor-drive camera behind him, catching it all, freeze-drying the edifying spectacle for posterity. The policeman mounted the wall and came at them. But he did not use the baton. Instead, he snatched the camera from Jack’s grasp and tore it open. Then he pulled out the film, exposing it to the early light, and ground it underfoot. Jacky stared back at the man, eyes narrowed with hate. A whistle sounded and the police began to withdraw, their work done for the day. Their assailant laughed mockingly and vaulted back over the wall, swaggering back to join his triumphant mates, leaving bruised and broken bodies behind them. No arrests were made or attempted. It was purely an exercise in bloodying the enemy on behalf of the Iron Lady and HM Government.
“Aye,” murmured Jacky. “The fuckers are really gannin’ theor ends noo.”
Jamie swallowed hard. He could scarcely believe what he had just witnessed with his own eyes. It was like something out of a nightmare—but it was real. He felt a lump in his throat and tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. Jacky grinned wryly at him and picked up his camera where it had been dropped.
“Aye,” he said. “That’s worrit’s like up the sharp end these days.”
A woman in a quilted dressing gown came out of the house. She had curlers in her hair and puffed hastily on a cigarette.
“Are ye aal reet Jacky? Ee yer knaa—it’s gettin’ bliddy serious this. Ivvery bliddy mornin’, bliddy World Waar Three ootside thi’ front door…”
“Aye, Doris, aa’m aal reet. Divven’t knaa aboot some o’ the lads like. Mebbe’s we’ll ha’ ter gan doon the Informary…”

Jacky dropped him off outside their apartment at about half-eight. Hiroko was picking the milk bottles off the step when he walked up the path. She looked relieved.
“Where have you been? I thought the kendo was over for the term.”
“No pet, I haven’t been to kendo. Different kind of battling.”
He gave her the story over breakfast. She listened, tight-lipped, as he went through his experience, leaving out no details. Then she gave him a long lecture on how he should mind his own business and keep out of other people’s fights. It would do them no good at all if he got himself arrested.
“You can’t spit against heaven Jamie!”
He took it all, nodding agreement. She was dead right of course. But. But…
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Bad feelings from the strike exist to this day in the former mining communities, which are all but non-existent today. There is an estimated 300 year’s worth of coal resources remaining underground which will never be mined. What a waste...
If anyone is interested in this book, further details can be had at:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0738899186/qid%3D1131797371/026-3630151-7303646
or here :
http://www2.xlibris.com/bookstore/bookdisplay.asp?bookid=11648