Staley Street

Your place to talk about your Bootle memories
the top of audely street
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the dairy in humprey street has today i believe closed its doors for the final time to await demolition.
staley street and the dairy side if humprey street i am told will be the first demolished.
the langton dock goods yard
warbaby
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Joined: Sat Mar 15, 2008 7:25 am
Location: Victoria, Australia
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Thanks "top of Audley Street" for this info. I regularly visited that dairy as a small girl. First it was Hanson's who subsequently sold out to Reece's. They employed a lovely couple called Renee and Fred to manage the dairy. In Hanson's time I used to take a jug up to THE dairy for our daily milk. Mum gave me a protective cloth cover with beads to keep it weighted down and strict instructions to make sure I covered the jug with it for the short journey home! I remember THE dairy having the first icy poles (red and green) what a delight!! I was considered a "good little messenger" visiting White's the grocer and asking for credit until family allowance day (Mr.White always crossed biscuits, jam or sweets off the list!) and purchasing the spitfires and chips on the rare times we could afford them. I am ashamed to admit that I usually stooped in the nearest shop doorway on the way home, opened the packet on my knee and ate a few chips!! One of the perks of being the family messenger - the other was purchasing the bread from Scott's and picking some choice bits off the crust on the way home!!

Warbaby
Pauline Darwin
Posts: 4
Joined: Fri Aug 15, 2008 9:52 am

maureenbrown wrote:I lived up Monfa Road/ Ainsdale Road, and Mr Pratt used to come up will his horse drawn cart, selling vegetables, and other things too. He really was a hardy character, flat hat, and of course, the moustache. Does any one remember the name of his horse.I think Mr Wild from Hanlon Avenue, took the round over after Mr Pratt and his horse retired.
Spensleys was where we went for our sweets.Were they two sisters who had it.Always had nice clean wrap round pinnies on.i had my ration book for my sweets, and a handfull of pennies, this would be about 1952/3
I went to Orrell School, and each week, we would take money in for stamps, because we were encouraged to save.I was the one sent to the postoffice to get all the stamps.
The chemist by the Coronation was not owned by Mr Higham, but Mr Massam.
On that block, was Dooleys shop,bread, ham,cakes,pies,biscuits and so on. The shop was always open Sundays, and always packed.I think the lady's name was Marie.Next was the Co-op where my mum did her weekly shop. I can still remember my mums divi number 113226......They used to have the overhead money carriers, which we all assosciate with the early co-op. Then we had the "Wine Stores". Then there was a butchers, but I dont remember the names any more. most important for any child, the sweet shop, where we would bye Reeces ice cream lollies, and Wessex fireworks.Boxes were 2/6 and 5 bob, and you got loads in them. bangers, roman fountains, mount vesuvius, depth chargers, snow drops, flood lights, golden rain,,rockets, pin wheels, and rip raps..theres loads ive forgotten.
Then there was the cobblers, a busy little shop, which had a smell all of its own...no it wasnt feet,but leather.
Then there was the barbers.. was it Swellwells, or something like that, then Mr Massams the chemist, where we would take our prescriptions.
My mum use to buy me white rain shampoo sachets, and a scented bath cubes, for bath nights.My dad used to send me there for his Gillette razor blades, which we used to take out of his razor, sharpen our pencils, and put the razor blade back.My dad liked the extra strong mints, which were kept in apothacaries jars behind the counter.Lastly on the block was the chippy, and at the front of the shop was a big sloping fish slab. Ive forgotten a lot of the names, :roll: but they are still there, buried in my brain, and they will come to me. :idea: When they do, ill let you know, unless some one else can fill in the gaps. I lived in that area from 1950 untill 1968.
Hi Message body

I only joined recently and am amazed at what I am reading - fantastic.

My name is Pauline Darwin nee Green and Mr Jimmy Pratt was my Great Uncle . His last horse was called Susan. He lived in with his wife _ Auntie Lizzie who was Little Auntie to my Dad Tom Green - he had 2 Aunt Lizzies - the other one was Big Auntie!

If I am not mistaken the lady who did the toffee apples may have been this Auntie - Lizzie Harris or Lizzie Harrison.

Uncle Jimmy died when he was I think 93 and was given a Military funeral
in Bootle cemetery. His coffin was draped with the Union Flag and a high ranking officer from the regiment he served with in WW1 led a salute at the graveside. Uncle Jimmy was in a Highland regiment and I remember a picture of him over the fireplace in the back room with him in his tartan trousers.

My cousins the Greens lived in 56 Staley Street - Flo (rip) John, Jim(rip),Bill,Bob and Alan, their Mum & Dad were Agnes & John Green and their Uncle Charlie Green also lived with them. Uncle John served in the tank regiment in WW2 and often led the Bootle May Day procession in his tank.

If any one remembers them please let me know

Once again - what a fantastic site. I am in work at the moment doing this shh. Once I am on it I keep finding things that I remember . I was born in 1947 and do remember a lot of things from when I was very small

Keep up the good work

Pauline
frank delamere
Posts: 1028
Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 8:26 pm
Location: dublin, ireland

hi PAULINE, glad to see, that you are enjoying the site, it can be quite interesting at times. enjoy it

frank
Pamsy
Posts: 837
Joined: Fri Jul 21, 2006 8:24 pm
Location: TENNESSEE

[quote="georgewiliam"]Liverpoollady---- Sadly, we moved up to Sterrix Lane in 1952/3, and I am sorry to say that I don't remember your family
I managed to make a pilgrimage to the old place last year--staying with my Sister Viv (the last ime I tried it was 3 years ago and I finished up in Aintree Hospital for my efforts). Viv and I had our foto taken outside 31 for old time's sake.

Hi George, did you know a KEEGAN family that lived on Sterrix Lane?
PAM KEEGAN BENICH
Keegan, Carruthers, Rigg, Copland, Lobb, Hough, Mee
born in Bootle
georgewiliam
Posts: 116
Joined: Sun Apr 29, 2007 3:32 pm
Location: Iver Bucks

Hi Pamsy----sorry can't help with Keegan---checked with sister Viv and she too is unable to help. It could simply be that we lived at the Stand Park end----only remember Pat Tole who lived t'other side of Sterrix Ave.
Pauline Darwin----when I opened the Staley St thread, I mentioned Jim and John Green. John was the elder but Jimmy was in our age group and as such we all trooped around together. I well remember their Dad and when he came home from the war. I believe he was in the 40th Tank Regiment who had a rough old time in North Africa.
Some years ago when I used to travel on business to Cairo, I picked up a book from the airport bookshop which had been written by a German soldier telling his experiences in the North African campaign. It was an absolute revelation as he described the action with the 40th Tank. In Bootle, we all knew that the 40th had taken a real towsing but in the spirit of the times, heavy casualties were largely accepted and not many questions were asked------you would be lucky to get a reply anyway
warbaby
Posts: 38
Joined: Sat Mar 15, 2008 7:25 am
Location: Victoria, Australia
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I also remember the Greens from Staley Street. Jim was a friend of my brother George. I remember their Uncle Charlie too and Flo who cared for the family after their mother died. How interesting to revisit these memories! I did not know the Greens were related to the Pratts. I remember shopping for green groceries at Mr Pratts 'retail outlet' at the rear of their house in the back entry of Glynn Street - I thoought that was where I bought toffee apples??? Wherever, I can still see the toffee apples turned upside down on the tray!!

I attended Orrell school with Brenda Unsworth (Mr. Pratts's grand daughter), I heard that she eventually married and moved a bit further south - ? Stoke on Trent or somewhere in that region.
garthur
Posts: 90
Joined: Fri Sep 22, 2006 2:24 pm
Location: Southport

Haven't been on forum for ages but clicked on tonight after talking to Oz uncle, Pete. Both of us realised it had been ages since we'd read the postings!

I was amazed to read all the info from GeorgeWilliam about Staley Street and surrounding area. And then, after reading a post from War Baby who mentioned Lily Farnworth from 18 Staley Street, I got the urge to add a few personal bits (oo-er, Matron!). Mrs Farnworth is still very much alive and kicking! She's 95 or 96 and has moved to Clayton-Le-Woods to be near her daughter Lilian. My sister, Sylvia (nee Jones) is married to David Farnworth!

Our own Mum, Elsie Jones (nee Lyons) was brought up in Humphrey Street. They later moved to Thornton Ave. I remember the shops on Monfa Road being called "the bottom" and the shops on Orrell Lane being called "the top" (now that's original!!)

Have to ask, was the Cousins referred to earlier in the postings, Billy Cousins?

My dad, William Jones, was a bricklayer - worked for the corporation.

Aah, memories.... Oh, and I went to school with Colette Pratt. And I remember there being a family of Greenhalgh in Mount Avenue...was it the same family as the Monfa Road one?

Glenys
lily8
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Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2007 8:57 am
Location: Far North Queensland Australia

Where is Georgewilliam ??????
georgewiliam
Posts: 116
Joined: Sun Apr 29, 2007 3:32 pm
Location: Iver Bucks

Liky----thanks for asking after me. In truth, I fell off my perch recently and it has taken some considerable time to clamber back up. I am still a little wobbly but getting there so stand by for more reminiscences----I will get to it soon.
lily8
Posts: 10062
Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2007 8:57 am
Location: Far North Queensland Australia

Hi Georgewilliam sorry you have been poorly and do hope you are soon back to yourself. Personally your memoirs have brought a great deal of happiness and not the least to say are a Ripping Good Read.
Just take your time in getting yourself well and we all look forward to many more installments of "Georgewilliams Tales" when you are up to it.

Take care our friend

Cheers
Lily
georgewiliam
Posts: 116
Joined: Sun Apr 29, 2007 3:32 pm
Location: Iver Bucks

Hi Lily, just for you---The following is part of my input to the Old Boy’s Magazine which had called for ‘potted histories’ of chaps who had survived going to Bootle Grammar School for Boys and how they had fared subsequently. I found that most ‘histories’ were as dry as dust, full of self-congratulation and boring.
I was quite surprised when my endeavours were included. One or two extracts from the, as yet incomplete, saga have already been posted on the Forum so please forgive the repetition


Having been put onto life’s conveyor belt in late September1937, now approaching the end of the run and about to topple into the recycling bin, I felt the urge to put finger to keyboard to reminisce about school days and share memories of that halcyon time and my subsequent experiences .

Having served my apprenticeship at Orrell Primary Infants and Juniors, I arrived at BGSB in September 1949 with some misgivings as to what I had got myself into; well, I need not have worried. According to our Latin master who had a way with words, we were all thick, knew nothing and had learnt nothing thus far. Along with his penchant for calling us guttersnipes (or was that someone else?) he quickly dispelled any views that we might have held about being or feeling superior to our old school chums just because we happened to have passed the scholarship. That certainly stopped us feeling cocky.
I remember the tortuous lists of irregular Latin verbs he would set for homework and the pseudo ones we made up; the most memorable of these concerned the ‘verb’ thrillere. As the Latin lessons developed other wonderful expressions were generated such as ‘tauri excreta cerebum vincit’1, ‘copulate Jacobe, me in asbestos’2, ‘me filia dux belli’3. ‘A prima luce, agricola puellam in fluvium jactat.’4 In later years and when stated with authority, such expressions came in handy to demonstrate that I too had had the benefit of a classical education.
More vocabulary was assimilated and to my relatively immature and unsophisticated mind, the image of a Roman soldier, not only wearing hob nailed sandals but bristling with armour and squeaky leather bits, actually withdrawing his gladius5 from his vagina6 before doing the business with it was------almost unbelievable.
He stated that Romans did not dance as it was considered unmanly resulting in my being the best wallier in the business, even now, I could still wally for England.
In my advanced years, I still can’t understand whether his interesting approach to our education was intended to help or hinder.
I can’t help wondering if all this had a subliminal effect on my life.

1 Bull**** baffles brains 2 4Q Jack I’m fireproof 3 My son, a general 4 at dawn, the farmer threw his daughter into the river
5 Sword 6 Scabbard

Foreign languages and French and our French teacher who was a little round person whose girth was the same as his height. This corpulence was topped by a little round head with a little round nose on which were perched little round black-rimmed spectacles. His nickname was ’Piggy’ which gave rise to an observation by one of the wags in the class-----Piggy is wise, sage, so wise, sausage (it was funny at the time). Another wag job---Where’s the boss? Ou est le maitre? he’s with his girl-friend, Il est sur la maitresse.

As an aside re. foreign languages, the expression ‘guano‘ or ‘guano blanco’ is a useful counter to those irritating people who insist on good morning greetings comprising guten tag, bon jour, etc. It usually gets a positive response, very few realise what you just said.

I must admit that I did not like school one bit, I always found it to be a tad too competitive and over disciplined with Waffen SS teachers and I include the female members of staff in that description. I remember when one particular teacher lost it and flung one of the lads onto the top of a book cupboard from where, for the rest of the lesson, a pair of round bush baby eyes set in a very worried face peered down onto the rest of a chastened class.
In the geography room above the Physics Lab there hung a world globe teaching-aid which, via a set of pulleys and counterweight, could be pulled down from the ceiling for closer inspection/demonstration of countries, continental elements and so on.

One fine day, the teacher was giving forth in a jolly manner in the mistaken belief that he had the whole class grinning and smiling at his whimsy. His cheerfulness really did not match the excessive grins and mirth from the assemblage and he should have smelt a rat. As he rambled on, the globe was gently rising and falling above his head as one of the lads seated by the wall surreptitiously raised and lowered the counterweight of said globe in sympathetic movements to his patter. Indubitably, the intensity and gravitas of school life was beautifully undermined by this perfect heckle.

I did quite well academically until the fourth year actually peaking in Class Three Alpha when I came first in the end of year exams only to receive as a prize, a crappy old book called ‘Adam Beade’ authored by a female named George Eliot. To this day, it remains unread. The chap who came second got ‘The 39 Steps’ which is a damn sight better book than my metaphorical wooden spoon.

It was during the course of 1953, I began to lose interest in academia such that by the end of the next year, I more or less dropped out. Whilst waiting for the GCE results in , for which I had no great hopes, I decided to earn some extra money to supplement my astounding salary as the first paper-lad on the Sterrix Lane Estate (now that is a real claim to fame). During this time, I met Margaret, my wife to-be.
So it came to pass that I took up a fill-in job at Dickinson Brothers, who had the highly original trade name of ‘Dibro’ and manufactured toy watches. Their Dickensian workshop was situated opposite the Litherland Tram Sheds behind the Coliseum Cinema (later named Essoldo). My job was to convert a machine punched flat strip of tinplate to give it a sort of W shape in cross section. This was achieved using an ancient and very manual fly press.
Another operator then fed the W’s between two engaged, slightly offset metal wheels which transformed them into circles to become the bodies of toy pocket watches. As piggy in the middle of two powered processes, I got teed off trying to whack out up to 1000 W’s an hour such that after two and a half days, I respectfully advised the foreman that he could shove the job where the sun don’t shine (or words to that effect).

What next? Can’t remember how I did it but somehow or other, I got an interview with the then editor of the Bootle Times for the post of junior reporter. As it happened, he had taken on another chap a few weeks earlier and coincidentally we had the same birth date. Blow me, I actually got the job and now we had to toss up for which of the new boys was to seek deferment from National Service. As I remember, I lost and was to take the early turn.
The fundamentals of the job were spelt out---48 hour week but the hours could split all over the shop including weekends attending auspicious evening events such as covering the Police or Mayor’s Balls. Pay was to be £3 8s 0d plus expenses. In all, that seemed pretty good, then came the bombshell; I had to go to night school in my own time and learn shorthand. I didn’t mind the night school in my own time bit but learning shorthand was an out and out challenge to my manhood. Shorthand, like dancing, was for girls not red blooded men. So, that was that! Latin master’s influence?

It was about this time that the GCE results came out. The resounding crash heard all around the estate as I fell off my mother’s carefully constructed special George pedestal was awe inspiring. I was ordered to attend night school to gain a pass in mathematics to accompany the physics, chemistry, English language and French.

What a novelty, the night school tutor was one of our retired former masters who, whilst a master at the school along with most of his cohorts, had majored in terrorising us. When he was looking for an easy session, one of his particular treats was the employment of ‘regulars’ . A ‘regular’ comprised multiplying a stupid sum of money, say 11¾d, by 3, then 5, etc up to 11 in a column then making subsequent divisions by 3, then 5, etc up to 11, finally adding up all these answers and dividing the total by 15733 (I think). After all this effort, you were supposed to finish up with the sum of money you started with ie: 11¾d. This was all accomplished by hand and long division etc-------no calculators; it would take up the whole lesson while he read his Beano or got over what ever he had been up to the night before.
At school, I can only remember him acting oddly on two occasions. The first was when we were in the transition of singing God Save the Queen after George VI kicked the bucket in 1952. He revealed the difficulty he’d had as a schoolboy singing ‘God Save the King’ after Queen Victoria had carked it in 1901. Golly, we thought en masse, you were a schoolboy! Queen Victoria, good grief, nobody could be as old as that (suddenly, I feel very, very old myself).
The second occasion was when he lobbed a board-duster across the classroom requiring us to take particular note of what was happening. His intention was that we should all admire the mystery and magic of the parabolic curve described by the duster as it flew through the air. The act was wasted; all that I could see and I guess it was the same for the rest of the class, was our sobre-sided, austere and strict maths teacher having a sudden attack of something. We were more concerned with his actions rather than the behaviour of the duster. In the end, he had to tell us what he was going on about.
The next occasion I saw him in an entirely different light was at the night school session mentioned earlier------------he smiled----------he was affable---------blow me down, he was actually human! It was at this time I came to realise our masters were not rejects from the Gestapo for being a bit too naughty but were only playing the parts of martinets which I suspect was necessary for good discipline--------all actors except possibly, one.

Then I became a milkman working for Harold Baines who was in fact a BGSB OB This was a jolly life if somewhat arduous. I can’t remember how I came to work for Baines Dairies, I cannot believe that, maybe, I was benefiting from the old boy network but most likely, Harold just took pity on me.
The job specification was as follows: Start work, 05.30---as a member of a 3-man crew, deliver milk around the Sterrix Lane Estates at a gallop using hand-crates loading and unloading from the back of a low-level ex-military lorry. 09.30 having completed milk deliveries, return to the dairy and have ‘lunch’. 10.00 start work in the dairy preparing for the next day’s activities. Dairy work comprised, operating the bottle washer, humping churns of milk around the place to fulfil various processes, stacking crates of milk into an enormous fridge, delivering bulk supplies to Baines Shops and so on. All hard graft but all over by 14.30 when it was time to go home.
This business took place for 6 days of the week. On your day off, I selected Sunday, you only worked the delivery round. One more twist was the need to collect the money from the various households on Friday evenings taking about 3 hours to complete. Remuneration overall was £3 10s 0d.

Now, no fool me, I still had my hand in on the paper round, my brother Rob did the weekday deliveries and I did the Sunday round followed by collecting the paper money for the week and selling pre-ordered cigarettes. For three hours work I was paid the princely sum of 15 shillings. As a rate for the job, it far out weighed that which was paid for my magnificent endeavours as a dairyhand.

Nowadays, the thought of a 16 year old not only collecting cash but also flogging cigarettes would be seen as an act of supreme masochism as he would need to enjoy being mugged for the cigarettes before the job or mugged post the event for the collected cash. The delivery of cigarettes was seen as a social service and not considered, in any way, as an untoward activity. The brands on offer were, Woodbines, Players Weights, Players Medium, Senior Service, Capstan and Capstan Full Strength; not a filter-tip amongst them. The vast majority of my customers must be dead by now but whether or not they died of an over indulgence of ‘unprotected’ cigarette smoking is up for debate. No doubt they were not necessarily in the best of health when the grim reaper called but for goodness sake, who is?

Christmas 1954 was a good time. The tips from the good folk of the Estates provided a welcome boost to top up the readies over the festive period. Sometime in January, one Friday evening having collected the milk money, my girl friend talked me into going to the pictures instead of turning the cash into Mr Baines as the delay incurred would interfere with the start of the film programme. Foolishly, I went to the pictures-------only excuse is that hormones tend to overcome sweet reason and logic. Next day I really got it in the neck from old man Baines as he thought that I had done a runner. Cutting a long story short, Baines Dairies and yours truly parted.

Now what to do--------National Service is just around the corner so let us give that some thought. National Service pay was 20p/day for 24/7 for the 2 year stint whilst the pay for Regulars was 35p/day, requiring a minimum signing-on term of 3 years. To my mind, to volunteer was the way to do it yielding almost double-bubble for half as much time more over that which was compulsory. All this required much thought, however, it turned out to be a big mistake to disclose my aspirations to the Man from the Pru.

Continued………
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Glenys
Posts: 1440
Joined: Tue Mar 21, 2006 5:43 pm
Location: North Merseyside

Georgewilliam,

Wonderful way with words. Can't wait to read some more.

Some years ago I met Mr. & Mrs. Baines, also their son, Graham - my family were also in the retail milk business.
Lived Linacre Lane, Trinity Road & Knowsley Road.
Kathy John Moorcroft
Posts: 3119
Joined: Sat Sep 23, 2006 5:42 am
Location: New South Wales, Australia

Georgewiliam, lovely memories could sit and read them all day,

glad you are feeling better and look forward to reading more.

I have just been on another forum, and they are building a big Lidl store on the site of the old 'Dibro'.

Cheers KATHY..
lily8
Posts: 10062
Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2007 8:57 am
Location: Far North Queensland Australia

Just sitting down with a nicely brewed cup of coffee and enjoying "Georgewilliams Tales" what a start to the day eh? With your permission George I would like to print out your postings for inclusion in a family history (not for publication).
As you know Gt Grandparents lived in Staly Street and it is lovely to think that their GT GT Grandchildren will have via your "tales" a living and breathing account of Staly Street life.

Thanks Georgewilliam

best wishes
Lily
georgewiliam
Posts: 116
Joined: Sun Apr 29, 2007 3:32 pm
Location: Iver Bucks

Hi Gang, many thanks for the warmth of your expressions and interest in my musings. I look upon the Forum as an open house where recollections of the past are captured and all sorts of information is freely exchanged-----Lily, please feel free
georgewiliam
Posts: 116
Joined: Sun Apr 29, 2007 3:32 pm
Location: Iver Bucks

Having packed in the job with Baines Dairies, this segment covers my internalised judgements regarding which arm of the Forces should I join all coupled with a number of home grown thoughts on some of the mysteries of life.

Recapitulation-----

Now what to do--------National Service is just around the corner so let us give that some thought. National Service pay was 20p/day for 24/7 for the 2 year stint whilst the pay for Regulars was 35p/day, requiring a minimum signing-on term of 3 years. To my mind, to volunteer was the way to do it yielding almost double-bubble for half as much time more over that which was compulsory, but which arm of the services should it be?

This became a very straightforward decision when taking into account the probability of getting harmed. Reasoning went: Army---very high probability of being shot at. Navy-----high probability of being shot at and/or drowned. Air Force-----I could see myself much in the role of a ‘Knight’s Squire’ ie. paying attendance on and supporting murderous ’Pilot Sirs’ in their planned, purposeful and detached deeds of destruction and slaughter. In the Army or Navy, it would be me who would be the object of such mischief. Except when in retreat (common to both Army and Navy personnel other than it is somewhat tricky trying to run away on water), simply keeping the tools of Sir’s trade in good working order should not, of itself, put me into harm’s way in any significant fashion; so the RAF it was.

However, it was a big mistake to disclose my aspirations to the Man from the Pru.

Having decided to volunteer for the RAF, I disclosed my plans to the weekly visiting very chatty Man from the Pru. He really did like to chat to anyone about anything he could get his mind around and I guess my intentions came up whilst conversing with his other clients. On a subsequent visit to our house, he declared that one of his customers, as a serving member, would be happy to give me some Air Force careers advice and guidance. I took up the offer to find that the advice was being supplied by a Motor Transport Driver Mechanic (MTDM) who reckoned that MT was the best trade in the whole of the Air Force providing a magnificent grounding for the eventual return to Civvy St, after all motor vehicles will be around for a long time and jobs would always be plentiful.
This seemed to make some sort of sense; he then advised that I should sign on for a minimum of 5 years this being the basic requirement for trade union recognition of having served a proper apprenticeship. Thus, in planning for the future when leaving the Service to seek gainful employment, a recognised apprenticeship would be an essential element for joining a trade union which was, of itself, a pre-requisite for getting a job. Trust me to meet a trainee union shop steward nutter and I was unwise in the principles of Catch 22..

I vaguely remember going to a recruiting place situated part way down St John’s Lane. Some days later I had to present myself for a medical to a sort of central clearing house in Pownall Square via Cockspur Street which was one of those miserable little roads leading off from Tithebarn Street. What an experience! As a potential volunteer I did receive a little respect insofar as the medical that I underwent was ‘private’ ie: I was on my own. Totally naked, I was shuffled from one cubicle to another wherein was sat a pervert. Each pervert seemed to specialise in the inspection of dangly bits, orifices various and anything else which could be squeezed or prodded. After all these indignities, I was declared A4G1 which apparently meant that I was no good for air crew duties but deemed excellent for ground crew cannon fodder .
As I finished my solo round, I could not help but notice the treatment of the best of Liverpool youth which was about to be screened for National Service. These wonderful chaps were queued each behind the other, all were sporting the latest haircuts (DA, Tony Curtis, sideburns etc.) with such hirsute arrangements crowning rows of skinny, snow-white, blue-veined naked and spotty bodies. Facial expressions were a mixture of bewilderment, humour and fear. In such circumstances, any attempts to look like a typical Liverpool hard-knock was totally futile.
These fine fellows were now to receive the attentions of the cubicled perverts on a production line basis---no dignity----no privacy and I suspect, no hand washing by the perverts between ‘inspections’.

The procedure performed above was a finely honed act carried out to reinforce deference as a precursor to entering the Services as a low-life nonentity. It is to be remembered that in those days, authority was to be respected and everyone was expected to know their place within the established pecking order.

Authority was represented and demanded by anything in uniform or if in business, it was represented by a bowler hat; its contemporary is the ‘suit’ and steel tipped click-clacking Oxford shoes. A bowler hat plus round glasses was more prestigious than just the hat but bowler hat, round glasses and a moustache was tops. Another serious contender for authority was the Cap and Gown which was sported by a very select group. Right at the bottom of the pecking order was the Oik.

Being an Oik had certain advantages one of which was that an Oik could always blame someone else for the outcome of a poor decision since he/she rarely contradicted advice/guidance/instruction proffered by those above. An Oik who did not accept this conformity was either a socialist, a communist or a criminal Thank goodness all that nonsense is now largely over and done with. These days persons in business, for instance, can no longer demand automatic deference to their status whatever they may think and they have to have earned the respect of others otherwise they have little or no authority.

What parochial lives we had in 1955 but in all conscience, twenty to thirty years earlier, the average Oik lived out the whole of his life without leaving his town or village unless he had been in the forces or gone to sea. In remembrance of my erstwhile English master bringing to our attention the magic of ‘Gray’s Elegy’---“Many a flower will blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the desert air“ ----Oiks could comprise beautiful people and beautiful minds condemned to going nowhere. Any trips undertaken outside Oikdom were usually as part of a family holiday and rarely undertaken as solo excursions by young virile Oiks.

As an example, a few weeks after my medical, I received a letter asking me to report to Pownall Square, bringing fresh clothes, some toiletries etc as I was to be whisked off to join the RAF. I said my goodbyes to the family and on arrival there, I met up with another dozen or so potential heroes. In answer to the question of how many of us had made a long train journey on their own, ie not escorted by Mum/Dad or other adult, only one guy put his hand up and was promptly delegated to be party leader with the responsibility of delivering the rest of us to the induction camp in Bedfordshire. He was not a natural leader of men and not too happy about the fact that we all now deferred to him; it would be his fault of things went awry. The rest of us were pleased to be off the hook; we had our proxy adult and were only just happy to accept being looked after

So here we are at RAF Cardington, a mighty establishment for the induction of the unwary. The main memories of the place fall into a number of categories namely, the Welsh, what big hangars there are here and strewth, I’ve gone and done it.


The dozen or so heroes from Pownall Square were augmented by a daffodil ( or whatever the collective noun is) of Welshmen. The Heroes and the Daffodil were accommodated in a large wooden hut wherein there were some 30 job-lots of furniture each lot comprising a bed along with a tall and small locker for the exclusive use of inmates. Up until this time, I had given no thought to a concept of British tribes and I was amused to be labelled as a member of the ‘Scouser’ tribe by the Welsh persons. Its not that I did not know what scouse was insofar I had consumed it at very regular intervals and knew it to be a nourishment. From this moment on throughout my RAF career, I was known simply as Scouse an epithet I rather enjoyed but for one aspect which was that Scousers are supposed to be rough tough hard-men and I, most definitely, was not but I was obliged to pretend to be. Most of the time I got away with it which demonstrates that an image can be more threatening or unreal than is the actuality.

The Welsh persons were happy to be called ‘Taffies’ with individuals being Taff or Taffy followed by a surname of which there were so very few They all appeared to belong to a Jones or Hughes or Williams or Davies clan; there were no Smiths or Blenkinsops or any of that rich diversity to be found in English surnames. I began to wonder that, maybe, they were all closely related and possibly in-bred.

Over the course of the next few months, other tribes were encountered, who were namely:- Jocks, the Glaswegian segment of which sounded like rough old motorbikes with their heavy emphases on the letter ’R’ so much so that ‘world’ became ’worreld’, ‘first’ became ’forrest’ etc. Cockneys (the term cockney was applied to anyone who pronounced ‘London as ‘Landan‘). Yorkshire Tykes (Tykes lost the war but would not accept Lancashire’s victory, therefore supremacy, claiming that no such event is recorded in their history books). Geordies--persons described as sounding much like Jocks but with their teeth kicked in whereas a Jock was described as a Geordie with his brains kicked in. Brummies came from Birmingham (Brummagem---Brum for short) whose accent was not quite as strong as persons from Wolverhampton (nominally labelled Yow-yows ------yow meaning ‘you’). A phonetic example of the accent --- ‘yow cum frum Wulvramten?’.


A legacy of Britain’s dalliance with airships were two enormous hangars wherein were built Airships R101 and R102. The fatal crash of R101 on her maiden flight in October 1930 put paid to any further interest in dirigibles; R102 was scrapped. To give an idea of the size of the hangars, they each could accommodate an airship of length -just under 800 feet with a girth of just under 200 feet. The hangar doors were absolutely amazing.

The purpose of RAF Cardington was to assess the incomer’s capabilities then sorting them into a trade group structure to produce a well balanced homogeneous fighting force (that was the theory). At that time there some 22 trade groups ranging from Airframe and Engines at the top end to the RAF Regiment at the other. The regiment comprised soldiers in blue uniform with responsibilities for airfield defence, lining routes for dignitaries and generally marching about being shouted at by their NCOs. Between these extremes were the clever dicks in wireless, radar, aircraft instrumentation, armourers, clericals, accounts, cooks, sick-bay attendants and so on In short, a singular institution; a complete cross section of working life; almost a village all controlled by a very rigid feudal structure..

For no particular reason I had decided that I would like to become enlightened in the mystery of Radar and given that I could pass the aptitude tests, chose to become an Air Radar Mechanic . I was found to be acceptable and offered the position which required me to sign on for a four year stint with two years in the reserve.
It was at this point that things went very very wobbly but this fact was completely unknown to me at the time; I remembered the words of the MTDM trainee trade union shop steward nutter. With the arrogance of a seventeen year old who has done his research and really knows the ways of the world, I declared to the officer conducting the interview that in order to receive trade union acceptance of having done a proper apprenticeship, I would like to sign on for five years (also meant four years in the reserve). I well remember feeling pleased with myself as I observed the Mona Lisa smile that briefly flickered across his countenance, the slow nod of his head as he gave forth a long breathless ‘hhmmmm-yes----- well done------sign here‘. I did and was well pleased.

It was some considerable time later that realised that I had been well and truly led up the garden path in that five years apprenticeship etc was a load of old cobblers-----far from admiration at my wonderful declaration, my interviewing officer’s reactions had been his best efforts at suppressing mighty guffaws.


Well, the next thing was to take the Royal Oath to bear allegiance to HM, her heirs and successors etc and having done that, I was in but in what I was not quite sure. For example, we were asked to make out our wills--------will! what do you mean---WILL ? Good grief I am but seventeen, I have my whole life ahead of me, what could possibly happen to me?

The discussion became more and more bizarre. ‘Do you have any interesting scars that may be described in your documentation?’ ‘I have a biggish job on the back of my head from a playground accident‘ I advised. ‘No good‘ was the matter-of-fact reply-----‘we need scarred torsos for identification‘. ‘What do you mean?‘ says I. ‘If we find an arm or a leg, apart from being able to see if it’s left or right, we cannot tell who they belonged to---see one and you’ve seen them all and we just cannot tell if the ex-owner is a late ex-owner or otherwise, indeed it also depends on how much is available for a reckoning---definitely, limbs are no good‘. He continued ‘the scar on the back of your head is of no particular use insofar as on the front of your head we would have a face---you could be recognised from that‘. ‘How come I could be in bits‘?. A small pause for thought then the terse reply ‘ blown up‘! Eek, I am but seventeen and undergoing a severe reality check.

The Forces appear to have but two sizes in issued kit namely 2-4KEN Big and 2-4KEN Small and occasionally, there is produced an interesting hybrid. I was once issued with some cold weather gear, string vests in fact, which were extremely long ie down to my knees but with miniscule armholes that severely restricted the blood flow to the upper limbs. With the excess material tucked into the trousers not only did I suffer extreme heat in the nether regions along with a couple of almost unusable freezing cold arms, I looked like a light bulb with legs---not quite the image of an alert well-trained gung-ho equerry to a mighty warrior--I suppose that I could have chuckled the enemy to death. A colleague had the opposite in string vests; the armholes were so large that they disappeared into his waistband leaving a swathe of uncovered flesh each side of his chest. They were, however, of normal length. I believe the so-called manufacturer had re-invented the tabard of yore.
In no time a tall, we, the Heroes and the Daffodil set about swapping items of uniform and other bits of kit to produce for each other a better fit. Having done that, we were more-or-less set for business but for the service haircut. Away went the Tony Curtis’s, the D.A.s and so on leaving us all with a small sprout of hair on the very top of the head with said sprout surrounded by a gaunt grey rim of stubble showing were skin had not seen the sun for many a year.
At the end of all this, yours truly, who, with a twenty-eight inch waist and weighing in at just under eight stone, was set up with his brand new itchy uniform. With a very large round flat service cap and my very skinny body, standing to attention, I looked not unlike a long-shanked blue drawing pin.
With these experiences, I became convinced that established service personnel took great delight in carrying out practical jokes on any person who is unwise to any emerging situation or predicament and in time, I found that this was so true; Indeed, I enjoyed laying it on for any blokes who were new to the Service.

A short time was spent at Cardington enjoying facilities such as the RAF Cinema, Astra by name, where for sixpence a full screen presentation was available. This, along with tea and sticky buns and other NAAFI fare made life quite exciting. As I write this, I cannot believe how easily we were satisfied with our lot. We were not allowed to salute officers because we had to be taught how to do it properly and we must not offend the Queen’s Commission by doing it wrong.
So it came to pass that we were shipped out to the indoctrination camps for instruction in the ways of The Service and so I arrived at RAF Padgate, just outside of Warrington for two months ‘square bashing’. Many years later when visiting friends in Australia, my wife and I were taken to a place with the Aboriginal name of Tidbinbilla, it was a place were boys become men-----thus was Padgate.

Continued……..
lily8
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Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2007 8:57 am
Location: Far North Queensland Australia

Georgewilliam thanks for your permission to use some of your "tales" just reading the latest installment great stuff!!!!!
Cant wait for next chapter,

Cheers Lily :D
whacker66
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Joined: Sun Jan 06, 2008 8:55 pm
Location: south wales

Hi Georgewiliam..hope this finds you well and recovered, we chatted earlier in this thread about "bobbys" Blakeos as you called them, could the tall man in this pic be the gaunt man you mentioned behind the counter? love your post's by the way

Image
Peter
tine
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I remember in the 70's my mum put one of my dresses in the shop for dry cleaning, It was round the time that the fashions were 40's inspired.
My mum couldn't help but laugh when she gave me the ticket....it had been charged at Senior Citizen rate :D

Tine
Campbell, Duffy, Davies, Melia, Gibson , O'Donnell, Owen and Evans Families.
georgewiliam
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Location: Iver Bucks

Hi Whacker 66---thanks for your kind remarks and the photo, any idea of it's date? The chap you point out could very well be the person I described in an earlier post as being gaunt except that he does not look (please excuse any clumsiness in my words) enough careworn. As a kid in the late 40s, my memory is of a man with deep lined features who had not had an easy life. If the date of the photo is somewhat earlier than, say, 1947-8, there is enough of a resemblance for him to be one-and-the-same. I hope this makes sense.
whacker66
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Location: south wales

Hi Georgewilliam , thanks for your info, the photo was taken 1935/36 so your explanation could mean it may be him...
Peter
lily8
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Location: Far North Queensland Australia

Hi Georgewilliam I do hope you are feeling a bit better now, if you feel up to it could you do a memoir on A Bootle Christmas of old???
I love to read your tales and I know many others do to.

Best Wishes

Lily
georgewiliam
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Whacker 66 sorry not to have responded before now---I believe it could be him---was there any particular reason as I remember, for him to appear so frazzled, or was it simply that times were not kind to most people
Lily, again---thank you for your kind thoughts
I was wandering around the corridors of my mind, as you do and opened the door on a memory of the outside privy in Staley Street which I have referred to in an earlier post. I was remembering the scrubbed pine seat which extended from wall to wall, the circular lavatory pan with is dead-centre hole and the lead pipework showing the sites of incidental pipe freezes and their repair, each site marked by a bulbous obtrusion of Grade B solder where the plumber had employed his skills.
Each Christmas, Dad removed the privy door, placed it across the sofa from arm to arm to make a platform. It was then covered by a tablecloth to disguise the fact that it was the privy door onto which Mum and Dad set out our presents. As a centrepiece, there was placed a decorated pre-war Japanese artificial Christmas tree with green raffia leaves; to our eyes, it was all magical. One year, we were not allowed to touch the toys as the paint was still wet. It appeared that Father Christmas’s Elves had been very busy that year working overtime to get all the toys finished------we believed every word. Years later Mum said that with cash being short, Dad had made our toys not finishing until long gone midnight on Christmas Eve.

One special toy Dad made was a wooden steamship which simulated the action of being hit by a torpedo. It comprised a hull into the base of which was screwed a mousetrap that was triggered by a short dowel protruding from the side of the hull. Ages was spent gently placing the decking and superstructure onto the hull, including the funnel. Glass marbles (ollies) representing torpedoes were flipped at the ship aiming at the dowel protrusion. A successful hit triggered the mouse trap which ‘exploded’ the superstructure in a quite spectacular fashion----it was great fun!

As I think about it now, what does it say for a nation which can turn the travesty of the death of mariners and the destruction of thousands of tons of shipping into a jolly toy. Remember, all this death and destruction was actual and real----not fantastical computer games no matter how realistic they may be.

I started this post with the intention of describing the different types of lavatories I had encountered in my lifetime--------like the German one which has the exit in the front of the pedestal ie: back-to-front to ours---works a treat but is surprising to the eye. I will return to the subject later unless someone is interested in starting it as a new thread.
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IRENE H
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GEORGEWILIAM, Thought of you to day, the sad news is they have just started pulling down staley street.. its very sad :cry: :cry: but we have to make way for progess i guess .. take care [irene]
georgewiliam
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It is some 2-3 years that I started to put down my experiences of school and early days in the RAF. Initially, it had been my intention to introduce into the call for 'potted histories' my personal view without that element of cleverdickitis which seemed to prevail in the majority of histories
I posted up copies of episodes 1 and 2 on our forum for general viewing and the interest shown was most gratitying. Below is episode 3 which has lain fallow for about 18 moths when the muse buggared off (still await its return) sees yours truly at square-bashing et al

PART 3

Having been issued with a service packed lunch (a paper bag containing a doorstep sandwich plus an orange), we suffered an interminable train journey from Bedford to Warrington during which the aforesaid packed lunch was consumed. We disembarked from the train, mustered and climbed into the backs of RAF trucks to be whisked off to the camp. At this point, spirits were high and there was much jollification with raucous laughter and a great feeling of well-being. I had recently seen the film ’The Colditz Story’ and I saw our arrival at the camp much the same as when the prisoners arrived at the castle with jolly shouts of ‘all change’ which I performed in a posh accent in the manner of Richard Wattis in the film Thus, in the middle of our whooping and ‘all changing’ excitement, the world suddenly stopped turning as we were surrounded and attacked by a number of seriously disturbed yelling madmen; these turned out to be our Drill Instructors (DIs).

I do not know how the DIs did it but whatever it was, they were really good at it. We recruits, about one hundred and fifty in number, were transformed within two minutes from happy carefree individuals to a single, terrified, cringing mass of lost boys all seeking a cuddle from mum

We were bawled at to enter the barracks, claim a bed by dumping our kitbag on one, then back outside for more shouting, screaming, standing to attention, standing at ease (no chance) and marching to and fro. The effect of all this seemed to decouple the brain from the rest of the body leading to strange and unusual behaviour. Chaps were swinging arms out of kilter with legs eg left arm, left leg instead of left arm right leg. Out of kilter marching produced a rather wobbly gait which then caused a DI to approach the offender to within two inches of his face to make it understood by expressing mighty obscenities and spittle that he wasn’t quite doing it right. This extra attention induced further uncoordinated spontaneous spastic reflexes in the offender causing collapse into a wild-eyed gibbering heap--not a pretty sight.

With grimacing faces, wild eyes and tightened sphincters, we were made to run in single file to the bedding store where blankets, sheets and pillows were thrown at us over a counter then back to the barrack at high speed clutching for dear life our bedding bundles. These were dumped onto the bed claimed earlier then back outside having grabbed knife, fork, spoon and mug for a swift march to the cookhouse to be fed the evening meal. The cookhouse was full of chaps, old hands as it were, who having been in the Air Force for between two and six weeks were obliged to welcome the new boys with hooting, hollering, singing, banging tables simply making as much noise as possible; all with no let up from our DIs. At this point, I felt that the world had gone completely mad and I had made a big, big mistake.

After the fun in the cookhouse, we returned to the barrack where our corporal DI emerged from his own little room deciding to introduce himself to us proffering, in his own inimitable fashion, guidance on the business of stowing kit, making beds, personal hygiene and so forth. Indubitably, this man was as Moses, a messenger with his tablets of stone containing instructions from on high that had to be obeyed. Obey we did without demur. That night, down the barrack from me, one chap was quietly sobbing. None of us thought this was in anyway untoward or a reflection on his character as we were all on the edge ourselves. In a funny way, it helped us to bond, no doubt about it, if we were all in the same boat we might as well go in the same direction and pull on the oars together.

Over the next two weeks we were introduced to Physical Training Instructors (PTIs) who had to be called ‘staff’. These were a strange group of muscular and muscle bound persons who delighted in making us do silly things which were entirely in keeping with our silly service issue PT kit of white cotton vest (size 2-4 KENBig) and dark blue baggy shorts. To this day, I still maintain a deep suspicion of men who take an obsessive interest in their fitness and musculature, to my mind, it is not quite manly.
Characters from the RAF Regiment, who were actually relatively sane compared to the maniacal DIs, gave instruction in the dismantling, cleaning and assembly of the Bren Gun and the cleaning of our 303 rifles.
Two weeks at Padgate and having completed a cross country run in the morning wearing army boots and dressed in the silly PT kit , we were allowed off camp on a 12 hour pass. I caught a Crosville bus from Warrington to the Pier Head then home to the family and girl friend for a few hours. As it happened, I wasn’t feeling too good such that by the time I boarded the bus for the return journey, I felt decidedly ropey. At Warrington, I made my way to the Padgate bus stop but collapsed whilst seeking the assistance of a corporal who represented to me a figure of some authority and who might be able to help me in my predicament. Thinking that I was drunk he made a lot of effin and blindin noises but on realising that I wasn’t drunk, he was indeed helpful. When I came to, I found myself in the Padgate Sick Quarters, a sort of mini-hospital where another window on life in the Air Force was opened.


It appeared that I had a pre-existing condition of anaemia. This, coupled with the simultaneous attack of pneumonitis and acute bronchitis conspired to chop my legs from under me; so much for the depth of examination of the medical I’d had at Pownall Square.

Sick Quarters gave an insight into the real RAF without the pressures imposed by the prescribed DI driven brainwashing. Apart from a few oddities, life was relatively pleasant. None of the staff shouted at us except when they had been given good reason. For example, a fellow Scouser in the bed opposite confided in me that he was would have nothing to do with National Service and he was determined to work his ticket---that is, get himself thrown out. One of the lads on entering the ablution area was drawn to choking noises coming from one of the toilets to find matey dangling from the high level cistern by the laces from his boots. The toilet door was open so that the would-be suicide should not be missed. Suicides at square-bashing camps, whilst rare, were not unknown and Padgate had it‘s fair share; as anywhere, they were not good for morale and were always taken seriously. Matey having been rescued and shouted at was confined to a bed under close supervision then shipped out to God knows where within a short while. None of us believed that he actually intended to commit suicide--toilet door open, choking noises starting some time after another was present in the area but I suspect that in his mind, an attempted suicide was a good enough reason for the powers-to-be to show him the door. A cunning plan?--possibly but had the person drawn to the choking noise had been in hospital for ,say, temporary deafness, the outcome could have been quite different

Two weeks in Sick Quarters followed by two weeks sick leave saw me restored to health and no longer anaemic, it was now time to rejoin the indoctrination programme. The fellows I had originally joined with were in their last week as I joined a new intake just into their second week of fun. This time, however, having glimpsed the real Air Force and knowing that I could not be executed for getting things wrong, I was able to accept the happenings in an objective manner to find that the whole situation absolutely hilarious. When marching we were obliged to make as much noise as possible by simultaneously crashing the steel tipped heels of our boots onto the roadway. Never enough noise was made according to one DI, who declared at the top of his voice that he could make much more noise by banging his member on the wall of the drill shed. The willingness of my colleagues to please a grown man carrying on in such a manner coupled with his casting aspersions on the marital status of our parents was surreal
I decided to buy a motorbike the cash for which was to be from a £200 bounty for signing on for twelve years. Whilst the rest were off to a lecture, I approached and entered the sergeant’s office wherein was he and two other DIs taking their ease. For no apparent reason, the DI with the noisy member decided to give me one mother of a dressing down before I even opened my mouth. Even the sergeant was taken aback by the vehemence of the attack. For my own part, even with my new outlook on the RAF, I felt most uncomfortable. When the DI finished, the sergeant enquired why I had come to see him to which I replied that it was my intention to sign on for a twelve year term and how did I go about it. He advised and I left but with ears still ringing from the dressing down, I rejoined my colleagues at the lecture with no further thought to extending my current commitment. The intervention of the DI with the noisy member had brought me to my senses in making me question why I should trade a further seven years of my life for a £200 second-hand motorbike----God bless him.

Around the fourth week when we had become ‘moulded’ the DIs eased off explaining that it was important that we became fit, disciplined and swift to obey orders hence the novelties endured on arrival. One explanation centred around being, say, under imminent attack where if there was an order to ’duck’ we would; a civilian would say ‘why’ and that would be too late.

The Summer of ‘55 was exceptionally warm which along with an easing of the more extreme machinations of the DIs made life at Padgate more bearable. Our response to discipline was being reflected in our abilities to march about, salute (with and without rifle), order and trail arms, fix bayonets, shoot bullets and so on, we became more and more proficient.

During the bayonet fixing/unfixing drill an incident occurred when a particularly dim Scotsman who, despite the best efforts of the God-Bless-him-DI-with-the-noisy-member, just could not get hold of the technique. The bayonet in question was little more than a ‘spike’ which clipped onto the end of the gun by applying it at 90degrees, given a twist to lock it on where a satisfactory click was heard indicating job done. To remove the bayonet required feeling for a small serrated catch at it’s base, easing it back, twist 90 degrees then off. This procedure was choreographed to numbers shouted out by the whole gang .
The DI with the noisy member stood back to admire his fine ‘bayonet fix and unfix’ lesson. It became apparent, however, that wee Jock was pretending not to have his ‘spike’ still on the end of his gun. The DI, showing remarkable poise for him, approached wee Jock and without hooting and hollering, took him through the procedure again.
Start again, “fix-------bayonets” came the order--no problem. “Bayonets --------unfix“--wee Jock with bulging eyes and muscles could be seen struggling manfully to remove his ‘spike’ but no use; the DI and the rest of us looked on at his ever increasing frantic attempts.
The DI, now a little exasperated took wee Jock through the routine once more even to grinding Jock’s finger into the release catch to reinforce the point that this is the first act which unless done, no amount of pulling and tugging will ever get the bayonet off.
Start again--------again failure.
At this point the DI completely lost it, bouncing up and down on the spot, berating Jock’s parentage and accusing wee Jock of personally taking the mickey out of him. He was so enraged and focussed on either wee Jock’s ineptitude or perceived dumb insolence that he did not notice the rest of us were all over the place in helpless laughter not only at the sequence of events but mainly the intensity of his implosion. Wee Jock did get it right eventually.

All good things must come to an end so it became time to leave Padgate fully equipped with the ability do all the tricks in the marching/saluting/how to grovel book. We were even able to recognise an insane order such as the one which demanded that ‘all bedding shall be aired outdoors each Saturday------in case of inclement weather, it shall be done the day before‘.
After a passing out parade I was back home on leave for a week or so before posting to RAF Yatesbury for trade training.



The journey by train comprised getting off and on a series of pre- Beeching lines and differing types of rolling stock. I boarded one train somewhere in the Midlands for Didcot which was to be the next change and much was made about making sure I sat in the right carriage. The arrival at Didcot, was abnormally quiet, all was peace and tranquillity with the twittering of birds, sighing of the wind, none of the normal train noises, just our single dead railway carriage sat on the track at an empty platform.
Good grief, I thought, how is it possible to lose a whole engine and carriages without there having been some kind of excitement; was I dreaming; was I dead? It transpired that our carriage was designed to be uncoupled en-route and brought to a stop by a guard applying it’s brakes. I never knew that such a thing existed; we certainly didn’t have them in Liverpool.
Onward, Didcot to Chippenham, then the final change to Calne on ancient rolling stock, probably Victorian, via Stanley Bridge Halt and Black Dog Halt. At a ‘halt’ the train would stop to drop off passengers who had let the driver know beforehand and pick up those who stuck their hands out as for hailing a taxi or bus.
Directly opposite Calne Station was the massive ‘Harris Sausages’ factory which outdid in scale our Richmond Sausage works. On to public transport for the run to RAF Yatesbury where we were allocated a decrepit wooden billet in a largely decrepit camp. The place simply looked worn-out having seen far better days.

There are times in life when you undergo an experience which sets you up for the rest of all time, sort of engenders a new philosophy; such happened to me whilst undergoing trade training. We had been taught the basics of electronics and had moved on to the servicing of real radar equipment being shown a typical workbench set-up for the repair etc of a particular radar unit. My goodness, it looked like an altar. There was the unit under test surrounded by a plethora of ancillary stuff which was used to perform the checking and test functions. To my surprise, this new experience was taken on board with little or no fuss. I then remembered my first ''altar' and 'cor lummy' impression to realise that a person should never be overwhelmed by encountered complex and/or difficult matters-------they are difficult or complex only because you do not yet understand them-----so find out.
Tishymouse
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Joined: Fri Mar 06, 2009 1:12 am

Have absolutely loved reading about all these memories. I descend from the Greens at 56 and lived there myself from 1976 until 1989. When I moved there only Bob (my dad) and Charlie lived there. Sadly, Charlie died from lung cancer in the early nineties. Bob now lives in Coventry. All of the other brothers are still local as far as I know. # 56 is still hanging in there despite most of the street being demolished now. I went back to see it just before the demolition team moved in, the street was blocked off and I had to scale the fence in the early hours but well worth it. It's in a sorry state now but still has the same brick fireplace and purple bathroom suite from when we lived there! Does anyone remember Wirral Tool Hire and part of the street being used in Brookside in the eighties? Barry Grant and Terry owned it. It should be listed, surely, having been a part of the most famous Liverpool soap ever! It was also on Northwest tonight (Look North in those days) when the memorial garden at the top of the street was built. [/b]
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Glenys
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:D Welcome Tishymouse,

I am sure you will enjoy our fab site.

Glenys

:wink:
Lived Linacre Lane, Trinity Road & Knowsley Road.
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Bonesy
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georgewiliam, just stumbled on your posts fascinating reading. your writing paints a vivid picture in my mind. cant wait for your next instalment.

Regards Bonesy
rivermersey
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Image
Staley Street part of the "New Heartlands" re-development.
Looking towards Monfa Road.
Born in Bootle 1960 lived on Bailey Drive then the old roan.
lily8
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Location: Far North Queensland Australia

Thanks for the photo River imagine if those bricks could talk!



Lily
Tishymouse
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Had a chat with my Dad and Uncle Alan over the weekend - apparantly the Greens were the first to have TV and crowds of people would fill the house to watch it. They were also the first to have a car - some kind of Bedford van - they would pack it with kids and head off to Wales - anyone remember this? :?: :?:
gabbii1960
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Joined: Thu Apr 30, 2009 7:45 pm

those pics of the mother of george williams and the other pic were absolutely great!!! I would be extremely grateful for any other pictures that anyone cud send to me about bootle in the may blitz.. thanks lots and lots :):)[/u]
afegfost
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Location: england

I have been reading the memories of staley street. They have xcertainly brought it back to life for me as I was passing it the other day and it was not there!!!.

My name is George Foster and we lived at 44 Staley St. My mum Maisie , Dad George and the kids Pat Joan George(me) Ann, Linda, John and Susan. There is 21 years between Pat and Susan the youngest. I was born in 1948 and lived in Staley till I left to go to college when I was 18.

Names of people of my era included Bill Bobby and Alan Green - Gordon and Derek Loughlin and Geraldine - Derek and Robert(Bob) Greenhalgh - Alex and Peter Blythin. The Luptons at the bottom of the street (Teddy) - Roches - Selbys - Ashcrofts - Peter next to the Greens in 56. Georgie Revell who stayed in Staley almost to the very end

I remember most of the stuff included in the postings and would like to add making slides in winter starting from Monfa Road and getting almost half way down Staley to number 44. Going on bike rides to 'the stream' which I think was in the Old Roan and now Switch Island.

Listening to Ray Charles LP s in the Greens and Mr Green playing the piano .


I am sure other stuff will come back.

george
afegfost
Posts: 7
Joined: Tue Sep 25, 2007 5:13 pm
Location: england

Some further information re my previous posting. It was avery closely knit community. My Nan lived in Arvon St. My Grandada worked for Denny Mott and Dickson in Seaforth in the later working years of his life. In the war years he managed a Snooker Hall on Stanley Road if my memory serves me well.

Anty Amy lived in Mary Road and Uncle Arthur (Mears) - Anty Ivy Keeling and Uncle Jim lived near the top of Mary Road. Our Joan - a sister - when she got married to Frank Wooliscroft from Aintree Road opposite Bootle Stadiujm - lived on Monfa Road for a few years.

A Miss Munro lived in 46 Staley for a very long time - I remember her having a gas mantle - and she made coconut ice and treacle toffee and had lived in the house almost all her life. Wow what memories.
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