TGC - The True Tale of Woe


Recommended Posts

I take it we'll never see you in 'Splash' then, Gerry... :biggrin:

By jimminee cricket yer won't - me last fear is some idiot will bury me at sea when I croak out - Brrr... Shudder!

  • Upvote 1
Link to post
Share on other sites
  • Replies 88
  • Created
  • Last Reply

Top Posters In This Topic

Top Posters In This Topic

Popular Posts

TGC: The True Tale of Woe "Tales of Woe, of a Nottingham lad" Currently a short portly-but-wobbly bespectacled 67 year-old, made redundant four times, dedicated NHS patient, with his new heart,

Tales of Woe, of Gerry, a Nottingham lad. Chapter Two: Mother's many Endearing Qualities 1) Losing Her Son On occasions (four), she went home from the public washhouse leaving him sat waitin

True Tales of Woe, of a Nottingham lad Chapter Three - The Dangers in the Back Yard Written as he remembers it, in his own words... Our row of soot covered old terrace houses, backed up lopsided

Posted Images

Re #26

TGC,

Its no use offering to put you in a "Morrisons Carrier Bag" with my breadcrumbs for the ducks, and sprinkling you on the Canal when I go on mi bike ride then is it? End up where your fears began. slywink

  • Upvote 2
Link to post
Share on other sites

Mick,

We have done the same thing. We inherited a bit of money and first thing we did was prepay funeral arrangements. I have to add, we couldn't have done it without the inheritance, but it takes the worry away for family. The only thing left for the kids to do, is have a weekend in Skeg and sprinkle us where we first met. And a good old party afterwards. :) :) :)

Link to post
Share on other sites

I already bought my plot in Canada next to my late wife. Told my current wife to FedEx me up there when my time comes. Save a bit of cash. When I go up there to visit I like to walk up and down on it. Might as well get a bit of use out of it while I'm still living.

I say, this getting a bit macabre isn't it? :-)

Link to post
Share on other sites

Re #26

TGC,

Its no use offering to put you in a "Morrisons Carrier Bag" with my breadcrumbs for the ducks, and sprinkling you on the Canal when I go on mi bike ride then is it? End up where your fears began. slywink

Crumbs no gal! Hehe! TTFN

Link to post
Share on other sites

Mick,

We have done the same thing. We inherited a bit of money and first thing we did was prepay funeral arrangements. I have to add, we couldn't have done it without the inheritance, but it takes the worry away for family. The only thing left for the kids to do, is have a weekend in Skeg and sprinkle us where we first met. And a good old party afterwards. :) :) :)

I dun mine this year, through Age Concern. They were very reasonable too.

Link to post
Share on other sites

True Tales of Woe, of Gerry, a Nottingham lad.

Chapter Five: Home Pleasures

Dad insisted that I came home from school, cleaned out the fire grate, chopped some wood, and laid the fire in readiness for his arrival home from work each night, after I’d done me paper round at Tarry’s of course.

He considered it a waste of money if I lit the fire before he got in. Also I was to ready a meal for him – but getting the money out of him was harder than climbing Mount Everest with two broken legs, being blind, and using a camel as a guide-dog!

Yes, I spent many an hour at the doorstep awaiting his arrival home, looking down the row of terraced houses past George’s stables, and the cobbled streets that time seemed to have forgotten about.

It could be anything from 1800hrs to 2230hrs when he would round the corner, ambling in his unrushed manner, sometimes after stopping off at the pub on the way home.

So if he'd eaten in the bar or chippie, and did not want his dinner - no, I couldn't eat it, it had to be saved until the next night - and believe me, even in summer, and bear in mind we had no luxuries like a fridge (actually we had no luxuries at all that I can recall), he did always eat it on the next night!

Then a quick boil of the kettle and saucepan for hot water, soak the pots, and off to the Grove for me light lighting job, then back to the hovel, usually to find Dad snoring away with his head next to the radio which would still be blaring out Round the Horne, The Clitheroe Kid or some such favourite of his.

Then back to the Grove to snuff out the lights.

Back to the flea-pit, get the pots washed, clean up a bit, then fill Dads ceramic hot water bottle, take it up and put it in his bed, then wake him (cautiously).

I’d retire to bed, and at 0600hrs, Dad would come in and clout me round the head, pull back the bedclothes and heavy railway overcoat, and demand I get his breakfast ready. This I did naturally.

Off to work he’s go, and I’d shoot off for me morning paper round

Then, off on my way to school.

Rush home, Clean out the fire grate, chopped some wood, and lay the fire in readiness for his arrival home from work...

The odd week-end brought the pleasures of bathing.

Dad worked with dray horses, and we only had a tin bath hanging on the viaduct wall outside, and that was used very rarely, and I mean very rarely!

I’d get the fire going, put all the kettles and pans on hte stove and fire to heat the water, then drag the bath into front room, and drop in the carbolic soap bar, and start to fill the bath – at which time Dad used to appear and get into it, while I refilled and reheated the pans with water for a top up later.

Dad’s booming voice would soon be singing Be My Love (Mario Lancer?), he’d call for his top-up, and I’d oblige. Then he’d call for more coal on the fire, and I’d oblige.

When he exited the bath, I could then get in it, while he got his shave, carefully and methodicallt strapping, emery papering his cut-throat before shaving and getting his usual cuts, and cursing.

Off he’d go upstairs to get changed, while I scooped out the dirty water from the bath until it was light enough for me to drag it outside and tip away the rest of the water – wipe it, drag it to the viaduct wall, and (comically to anyone watching) struggled to get it up hang on to its nail.

Back into the two-up two down hovel, top up the fire, clear away Dad’s wet towels and clothes, dry the carpet best I could... just in time for Dad to call downstairs for a cup of tea.

Once a fortnight we'd (Dad and me) go down to Portland Street baths, and pay 3p for a bath - glorious hot water, carbolic soap, luxury!… but all was not as good as it sounded.

The ladies in the bath-house were sticklers for you only taking 15 minutes for your bath, and they would bang on the door telling you in no uncertain fashion when your time was up!

Me being a little whelp, they admitted me for free to bathe with the adult, (that pleased Dad no end, savin’ money).

But Dad had other ideas, he would have his bath, then fetch me in to have my bath in his dirty and nearly cold water bath, by which time, every time, the witches were hammering on the door. And I had to use the towel he'd just used, dirty and wet!

But, it was still a heaven of a sort...

Link to post
Share on other sites

Damn me Gerry, you'll have me in tears next. It's like reading about Bob Cratchitt in Charles Dickens' book. All the poverty, squalor, deprivation and downright inhumanity of your appalling situation makes me appreciate just how lucky I was living in the apparent luxury of Garnet St , Bridlington St, then Bobbers Mill and Wollaton . Also, with kind and caring parents. It's good that you always add a light hearted and funny touch to your tales. Get a publisher mate and get it all in print.

  • Upvote 1
Link to post
Share on other sites

Gerry, never lose sight of the fact that you are one of us privileged baby boomers who were brought up in the lap of luxury and have never had it so good, luxuriating in our gold plated pensions and having to worry about whether we go on another world cruise or have a month in the West Indies, not to mention the problem of where to invest our brass for the best returns.

Bet you feel a lot less hard done by now don't yer!

  • Upvote 1
Link to post
Share on other sites

Commo, I don't feel hard done by actually, as a matter of fact, I reckon I've dun alreet you know.

I wus lucky, very lucky, in not being given any ambition, class or pride, and although a low low IQ, I've got a very high EQ.

So many around me were and are in a worse condition/state.

Havin' said that, I am a little, little being the word, disappointed in me physical gifts wot I was born with.

Hehehe!

TTFN all.

Link to post
Share on other sites

Damn me Gerry, you'll have me in tears next. It's like reading about Bob Cratchitt in Charles Dickens' book. All the poverty, squalor, deprivation and downright inhumanity of your appalling situation makes me appreciate just how lucky I was living in the apparent luxury of Garnet St , Bridlington St, then Bobbers Mill and Wollaton . Also, with kind and caring parents. It's good that you always add a light hearted and funny touch to your tales. Get a publisher mate and get it all in print.

I've thought about doin' this mate - but memories from school, about when I wrote a story fer the school magazine, 'Lost' it wer called, and they said I'd copied it, and would not print it, and the sods kept on to it so I couldn't send it to Boys Own later.

That shattered me!

The Gits!

I still wonder what a git is by the way - hope it's not a swear word?

Link to post
Share on other sites

The True Tale of Woe: A story of one Nottingham man's (Using the term loosely) utter failure, depression, frustration, and poverty, starting in August 1947

Chapter Six: ‘A Penny for the Pain’ and the ‘Great Escape!’

Dad, being Dad, he spent nothing if it could be avoided; he even used to pull my teeth out with his cobbling pliers.

Lifting me in the sink to catch the blood, gritting his teeth, taking a mega-firm grip, and yanking out the offending tooth (and often the wrong one), he'd rinse out my mouth, and… and for anyone who knew him might find this hard to believe; he'd give me a 'penny for the pain'!

The morning after one of Dad’s tooth extractions... Mother returned!

When dear mater returned to the fold, gloom returned, and I was most despondent and sorrowful. So much so, that on the first night she returned, I decided to run away!

Not exactly the best planned escape you've will have ever read about though.

I took a bag of Smith's crisps and a bottle of 'pop' in a Marsden's carrier bag, and legged it out of the back door while Mother and Father were in the front room arguing as usual.

The time being around 2030hrs. I had no idea where I was going, but seem to remember having set out with great determination that I was never going to return to the violence and anger at home again.

I ended up walking down Wilford Road to Castle Boulevard from Trent Bridge, and turned onto Abbey Bridge, which was the point where the fear and realisation of my situation suddenly gripped me, that I was not sure why or where I was!

I changed my mind, and started to walk back to Brookfield Place (my home), as I turned into Wilford Street, and it began to get dark, I started to panic, and began running.

That was when a black Triumph Standard car pulled up beside me, and a man shouted something I couldn't hear properly, and got the energy through fright, to run even faster… I turned down Traffic Street, and could hear the car following as it revved and suddenly the brakes squealed!

I shot up an entry, only to find it was a dead end, as I realised this, I felt myself being lifted into the air by a chap, and carried back out under his arm of the entry, then being slapped up against the wall by the very tall man… who said in a dominating, intimidating gruff voice, "Furse's had been robbed earlier tonight, what have you got in that carrier bag!"

It gleaned as another man joined him from the car, that they were bobbies.

I came clean, and told them I'd run away from home, but had got scared and was on my way back home, told him my address, and (as was the case in them days) he said he knew Harry (my Dad), and would take me home to prove if I was lying or not.

By now it must have been getting on for midnight.

They threw me in the back of the car, and we drove home, to find the neighbours curtains twitched, and lights coming on in the Terrace.

One police officer rattled on the door, it took a while to wake mummy and daddy up, but it seemed the rest of the occupants of the Terrace had turned out to find out what was happening!

The door opened, before anyone appeared I knew it was mother, as I saw the cigarette smoke curling around the doorframe... it appears that no one had missed me anyway!

Mummy in her own caring way belted me around the head with her slipper for getting the police involved, and then it was upstairs where I found Daddy peeling his belt from around his trousers on the chair… a couple of good clouts around the legs, preceded a good four more on the bottom.

That night I went to bed in pain and even more confused than before.

The pain of realising that no one had missed me hurt more than any tooth Dad ever pulled for me!

Tsk!

Link to post
Share on other sites

I Think alot of us have a book in us,and you certainly do Gerry,when i am waxing lyrical about times past my daughter always says write a book Dad,being a lot brighter than me she has offered to help.by the way Gerry she knows you,

Link to post
Share on other sites

Me 'elf stops me concentratin' sometimes I'm afraid.

And wiv me dwelling searchin' problems... ah well if I ever do get into a suitable independent dwellings and I'm not too old by then, you never know.

Your daughter knows me eh? Poor thing.

Hehehe, TTFN all the best.

Link to post
Share on other sites

The True Tale of Woe: A story of one Nottingham man's (Using the term loosely) utter failure, depression, frustration, and poverty, starting in August 1947

Chapter Seven: “Just one of Dad's famous 'Nice Walks'”

Dad thought it was a treat to take me on a marathon walk occasionally. We'd take no food, just a bottle of tap water.

We'd walk for miles and miles, always eventually stopping near an orchard in, Bingham, Plumtree, Ruddington, or Bunny, that sort of village like place.

Then him picking an apple or pear, then getting out his penknife and slowly, very slowly cutting off the skin, (which I got to eat) He'd slice up the apple, and I'd get my one slice... enough for a little un he'd say.

Then on the way back, he'd call in the pub, bring me out a bag of crisps (with a little sachet of salt, always Smiths), open the bottle of tap water for me, then disappear back inside the pub for about three days... well it seemed like that to me!

But at least he never forgot I was with him, and he always took me home - well someone had to do the housework!

Link to post
Share on other sites

The True Tale of Woe: A story of one Nottingham man's (Using the term loosely) utter failure, depression, frustration, and poverty, starting in August 1947

Chapter Eight: ‘Locked up in Queens Drive Police Station Cell’

On one of the rare occasions that I was able to sneak out and have some fun (as I thought at the time), I joined a mate, and we walked out to Ruddington, to an orchard I'd spotted while out on one of Dads marathon walks earlier in the month - with the mischievous intention of scrumping some apples for ourselves.

I was up a tree, dropping the illicit apples down to Jack... when the owner appeared from nowhere.

Jack legged it through a small gate, but that escape route was barred to me by the owners body by the time I'd got out and down from the tree - so I ran and jumped over a low wall of about 2ft in height, little thinking that the other side might drop to about 12ft!

By the time the owner, and newly arrived police officer (Where did he come from?) got down to me, the pain was slowly easing, and the bruising coming out on my face head, and shoulder.

I was unceremoniously handed up to the policeman - who told me I was to walk at the side of his push-bike back to Nottingham, and Queens Drive Police Station!

Telling me this he managed to skilfully and adeptly clip me around the head and ear-holes several times with his leather gloves, whilst pushing the bike with his other hand.

We arrived at the police station, and I was recorded by the desk sergeant, and unceremoniously placed in a bare wall station cell, with bars and door in the shape of a dome, with only concrete slabs to sit on.

It reminded me of the Sheriff's office cells in the Wells Fargo, Roy Rogers, and John Wayne cowboy films I'd seen at the flea-pits (The Grove, empire and Globe Cinemas).

But it still scared the hell out of me.

Eventually, some six hours or so later, a constable came in and removed me from the cell, telling me I was to go with Constable Merriman (and merry he certainly was not), to be taken home!

It seems somehow they knew when Dad would be home.

So out of the station, and along Kirkwright Street, again at the side of the constables push-bike. (A different constable this time) Who had the same excellently honed capabilities of catching ones ankle with his pedals, clipping your ear-hole, and giving your chin a hefty accidental regular clout with his torch that hung on his tunic belt, painful, but I had to admire his skills even then.

As we got nearer to home, the crowds gathered as the officer took the route there via the middle of the road, down the cobbles into Brookfield Place, by then we had a group of about 12 spectators following us, then of course he (the officer) had to shine his torch in all the house windows, and try out his whistle - thus the neighbours added to this spectator sport of 'ogling the downfall of young Gerry! '

He then proceeded to knock hell out of the front door, (this commotion ensured neighbours over the end wall would not miss any of the total embarrassment of young Gerry, and also join in the ever increasing number of spectators), the door was opened by an already mad Dad, because his young un had not been there to get his meal ready and light the fire when he got home, changing his face colour from normal colour, to red, blue, and back to red, as the Constable loudly explained to him: " I've bought 'this un' home 'arry, (twisting my ear-lobe as he pushed me toward my irate looking father), caught scrumping at William's orchard - will you deal with it?"

Dear father had got his belt off and in his hand before he'd finished replying: "Oh eye, yer can rest assured on that one Bert!"

Three days later, I could manage sit down again without too much pain from my rumps losing battle with the famous belt and buckle!

More to Follow – hey ho!

  • Upvote 2
Link to post
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

Loading...