ATHERTON POEMS
by Dave Dutton.
Most of these poems are in my book Lancashire Laughter and Tears - available on Amazon.
SOME ATHERTON CHARACTERS.
Everyone felt sorry for Billy Milk. He delivered groceries from house to house with a horse and cart in the 1950's. He had a shock of white hair and was bent double, like one of Lowry's Matchstalk Men, but even more so. His was a very hard life. The kids used to "plague" him by jumping on the back of his cart and getting free rides. Not that it went that fast. His horse looked older than he did - like a bag of bones on scaffolding.
One day, I had my roller-skates on when Billy's horse and cart turned into our street and I grabbed hold of a rail on the back. The sound of the skates on the cobbles spooked the horse and it "took boggarts" (ie. it took fright). It set off at a gallop which belied its age and condition and left me clinging to the back with my mam looking on open-mouthed and in shock. I managed to let go near the top of the street and careered to a halt into the factory wall. Needless to say, I never did it again.
Here is my tribute to Billy - and his old horse.
OWD BILLY MILK
There were an owd mon who ah recaw a lung lung time ago,
He were owd as owd Methusalum and 'is 'air were white as snow;
From dooer ter dooer he sowd his wares, it were one long stop and start
And't kids aw cawed him Billy Milk - the mon wi' the 'orse'n'cart.
In Wintertime when darkness fell and't snowflakes they were droppin',
Then through aw't sleet in't cowd cowd street, owd Billy's 'orse come cloppin'
And from his owd ramshackle cart, owd Billy sowd his goods-
And his back it were bent two double, through carryin' sacks o' spuds.
Owd Billy's 'orse were lahk 'imsel - it were just a bag o bones.
It were one smaw step from't gluepot as it plodded ooert cobblestones.
An folk would aw poke fun at it, cos it were so owd an' slow-
An' eaw it poo'd yon 'eavy cart, no-one'll ever know.
Owd Billy and his trusty steed, they booath went 'ond i' glove
It were't th'only thing in't world tha sees as showed him any love.
They slept on't flooer o't stable deawn on Billy's mesther's farm,
And they 'uddledt up tergether, just fert keep each other waarm.
But one neet poor owd Billy's 'orse tried fert struggle up a broo
And for his owd companion, it proved too much fert do.
Its heart give eawt and wi' a flop, the owd 'orse fell stone dead.
And Billy knelt and stroked th'owd lad and tears o' grief he shed.
Wi no-one left fert show him love, owd Billy faded fast
And soon him and his 'orse'n'cart were shadows o' the past.
But they had no peace i' this life - they were each on 'em 'ard-pressed.
And thur betther off so-wheer they are. They booath desarve a rest.
The "Mad Major" was the name given to a local man who for reasons best known to himself always dressed up as a soldier. He was harmless enough and his baggy uniform provided a splash of khaki colour on the streets of the town. - especially on Remembrance Sunday when he took the salute on the Obelisk. He carried a swagger stick under his arm - it was a sawn-off snooker cue. Sometimes, he used to sleep in the subway of Bag Lane Station. I once saw him as far away as Blackpool.
THE MAD MAJOR
It's Armistice Day. Thowd sowjers are marchin'
Bi't time they get Cenotaph, their feet'll be warchin'
There's ceawncillors, clergy and loads of owd sweats
There's scouts and girl guides and the brave Dunkirk Vets.
They're huffin and puffin but they'll get theer int th'end
But who's this we see as they come reawnd the bend?
Standing on't th'obelisk i' battered breawn boots
It's "Mad Major" Tommy who's tekkin't salutes!
He's dressed aw i' khaki and officer's cap
And as aw eyes turn on him, there's no preawder chap.
His "rifle's" a feeshin'-rod fettled wi glue
But he showders it like he's just won World War Two.
And nobody says nowt or tries't move him on,
He's dooin no harm - he's an Atherton mon.
What matters it if he ne'er served in an army?
He's aw theer wi his mint balls - it's us lot who's barmy!
THE MAGICAL TOMMY ROACH
Tommy Roach was one of life's natural characters. A proud former Desert Rat, he always wore his army beret at a jaunty angle and could be relied upon to put a smile on your face, whether you wanted one or not!
He had been a professional magician on the stage and never left home without a trick or two in his blazer pocket.
Many's the time he could be seen up Market Street with a crowd round him laughing and gasping in amazement as he performed his favourite "disappearing fag" trick which involved it disappearing into his ear and re-appearing down his nose!
Tommy couldn't help himself making people laugh. In the front garden of his run-down terraced house, he would push old light bulbs into the soil to form rows and when some unsuspecting passer-by went past, he would draw on his pipe, nod at the garden and remark:" I see t'bulbs are coming up early this year..."
His house was something else. When he got a hole in the guttering, he put another gutter underneath it to catch the rain. A downspout finished halfway down the house.
He never dusted. He kept his food in plastic bags hanging on a clothes rack in the kitchen. When I asked why he said:"To keep it away from't mice. Mind you the beggars cawnt half jump!"
He slept downstairs and his television "remote control" was an old brush which he used to poke at the controls.
For security purposes, he had a bedstead frame in his lobby and barbed wire round the windows - plugged into the mains supply.
Wherever he went, he picked up pieces of old slate which he used to take home and paint pictures of a surreal nature on them. Sometimes, he would display all the pictures at the front of his house.
Once, when a neighbour who he didn't see eye to eye with, passed away, he stood at the front of his house playing "We'll Meet Again" on his accordion and waving a Union Jack as the funeral procession went past.
When my son Gareth was a baby in his pram, Tommy peered inside and remarked:" Eee - he favvers his dad." As I beamed proudly, he muttered "Still, as long as he's healthy that's aw as matters..."
You had to laugh. That was how it was when Tommy was around.
We could do with a few more like Tommy Roach in Lancashire...
TOMMY ROACH
He's mekkin em laugh in Market Street
He's little kids aw reawnd his feet.
He's pooin' a cig from eawt his ear!
He's mekkin hankies disappear!
He breetens life o' working folks
He's geet a million crackin' jokes
Neaw yer see him, neaw he's gone.
It's Tommy Roach - the Magic Mon!
Whenever I ask anyone if they remember the Cuckoo Mon, they always look quizzically at me. But once I do the actions, accompanied by the "Cuckooo" shout in the poem, it stirs a memory in people who were around at the time. Particularly anyone who was a young mother at the time...
T'CUCKOO MON
T'Cuckoo Mon they cawed him
I never knew his name
As he shuffled aw deawn Market Street
"Cuckooing" were his game.
Fer every time he came across
A babby in a pram
He'd bend deawn wi a beaming face
Then turning to its mam
He'd slowly lift his walking stick
This funny little gent
And then he'd bawl eawt CUCKOOOOO!!
It'd echo aw reawnd Bent.
I don't know why he did it
But it allus browt a smile
To every little kiddy's face
And that made his life worthwhile.
Self-explanatory really. I remember him from the early 1960's. T'Cuckoo Mon must have been in his eighties - a round jolly-looking old feller who would stop when he saw a baby or a small child, bend over to stroke their heads before raising his walking-stick and and yelling CUCKOOO! at them.
What I want to know is, how do you start to do something like that? Perhaps it was something he remembered from his childhood. I think it gave him pleasure seeing a child smile at his silly shout. Mind you, it frikkened a few an all...
There's a vacancy going up Market Street for T'Cuckoo Mon. Any takers?
Everybody in Atherton remembers Johnny Orsi. His picturesque little ice-cream van used to trundle round the streets of Atherton for what seemed generations. He must have spoken to nearly every person in the town.
He served kids, watched them, grow, served their kids and their grandkids.
"Any raspberry?" he would ask as he dolloped the cornet with his delicious ice-cream.
It was always a treat before you went on Atherton Park to call in at Orsi's just off Stanley Street for a delicious tub or a cornet.
It was proper ice-cream made by people of proper Italian extraction. The Orsis had come to town many years before to dispense their particular brand of the home-made confection.
I wonder how many cornets they sold in all that time? Probably near a million.
Wonder what became of that van?
JOHNNY ORSI
"Johnny Orsi's cummin mam
In his likkle ice-cream van!
Can I have a ninety nine?
Or a nuggit wafer will do fine.
Or mun I have a frozzen Jubbly
An orange lolly would be luvly.
A double cornet would be grand
But it allus melts aw deawn mi hand.
Perhaps I'll have Pendleton's Twicer.
We aw know that there's nowt that's nicer.
I'll have a tub wi raspberry on..."
"Too late yer pie-can - he's just GONE!!"
When the factory chimney belonging to Howe Bridge Mills at the corner of Mealhouse Lane and Bag Lane, was knocked down, I went to watch.
There were scores of people there including some, I imagine, who had worked at the mill and who came away more than a little heavy-hearted and sad that this familiar landmark had been taken away. It reminded us that the cotton industry which, along with the pits, had been the life-blood of the town was in decline and it was one less link with the past.
It reminded me of a public execution. So I attributed a personality to the old chimney and went home and wrote this poem in memory of it.
FOR A DOOMED FACTORY CHIMNEY.
Creawds o' folk have come fert watch thi dee,
Owd familiar friend.
Th'art useless and unwanted dosta see.
Thi life mun end.
Preawd tha stonds like one o't th'upper crust.
Soon tha'll be gone.
And of thi memory, there'll be nowt but dust.
Like mortal mon.
For years tha played a leading part on't stage
And played it well.
And saw th'awf-timers through to ripe owd age
Just like thisel.
Whene'er tha breathed, tha breathed life into't place
But that's in't past.
When Progress says "I dunnot like thy face"
Tha's breathed thi last.
Here comes thi executioner deawnt street.
Thi life is dun wi.
I'm sure tha'd try't escape if tha'd but geet
Some legs fert run wi.
Creawds hushed and silent neaw and then comes one
Almighty crack.
Tha topples o'er and then tha's gone
Wi brokken back.
And th'eyes that watched thi faw neaw fill wi tears.
Folk realise.
Theaw were a symbol o' their workin' years.
Neaw dead tha lies.
An epitaph fer thee I've written deawn
I'll say it clear.
Here lies t'body of a forgotten cotton teawn
RIP Lancashire.
NO CAROLS THIS CHRISTMAS.
On the Pretoria Pit disaster which happened on the borders of Atherton and Westhoughton, December 21st, 1910 when 333 men lost their lives. According to Dr. John Lunn, 28 were from Atherton. We used to play on the site when we were children. The Ruckings we called it. They were the spoil heaps which still stand today overlooking a housing estate. As a child at St George's Infants I used to think that "the purple-headed mountain" we sang about in "All Things Bright and Beautiful" was the Ruckings!
We would drop a brick down a hole in the concrete which sealed off the mineshaft and count the seconds as we listened out for it splashing into the water. Little did we know we were standing over the site of a tragedy which brought such great sadness to the area on that long-ago Christmas.
NO CAROLS THIS CHRISTMAS
There'll be no carols this Christmas
And not for a very long time;
Christmas died this mornin'
Down the Pretoria Mine.
We gather round the pityard.;
Our heads in silence bow.
We were wives this morning.
We are widows now.
A cold wind in December
Blows from a sky of grey.
Below us lie our menfolk;
Cold as Christmas Day.
We'd made our plans together
Our Christmas we'd enjoy.
But now my bonny collier
Is a broken Christmas toy.
How can I face the childer?
How can I make them see?
That Christmas died this morning.
Christmas died with thee.
There'll be no toy soldiers for Tommy,
No dolls or ribbons for Jane
Without my bonny collier
I can never face Christmas again.
So think of my poor childer
No father to admire.
He died so you could gather
Around your Christmas fire.
There'll be no carols this Christmas
And not for a very long time;
Christmas died this mornin'
Down the Pretoria Mine.
AN ATHERTON A TO Z...
A IS FOR ATHERTON - A PROPER LANKY TEAWN
B IS FOR BLACKLEDGE'S WHOSE CHIPS WERE GOLDEN BREAWN.
C'S FER CHOWBENT CHAPEL WHEER ME AND'T WIFE GEET WED
D'S FERT MUCKY DOGGY BRUK, FILLT WI DOGS WHAT'S DEAD.
E'S FER GOOD OWD EKKY FLECK WHEER'T SCHOLARS ARE SO BREET
F IS FER THE FORMBY HALL WHERE WE DANCED AW SETDY NEET.
G'S FER GREASY JOHNNY WHO BATTERED HIS FLAT CAP
H IS FER HEAW BRIDGERS WHO ALLUS LIKED A SCRAP
I 'S FER ICKY T'FIRE BOBBY. (WHO THE HELL WERE HE?)
J'S FER JACK LOWE'S CLOOERS SHOP, WI'T SHUTTLE WHIZZIN' -WHEEEEE!
K'S FER KIDDY'S KORNER WHICH WERE FULL O' BELTING TOYS
L'S FERT LITTLE HOLLOW, FULL O' TOFFEES FER GIRLS AND BOYS.
M IS FER THE MAYPOLE AND'T TROLLEY BUS OUT OF TOWN
N'S FER NAILS WHICH LONG AGO MADE ATHERTON RENOWNED
O IS FER THE OBELISK AT TH'END O' MARKET STREET
P'S FERT PUNCH BOWL PETTIES, WHICH ALWAYS SMELLED SO SWEET.
Q IS FER THE OWD QUEEN'S YED - A PUB OF FORMER DAYS.
R IS FER THE RUCKINS WHEER WE SLID DEAWN ON TIN TRAYS.
S IS FERT SAVOY'S BACK SEATS WHEER WE WENT FERT SMOOCH AND SLOP.
T IS FER THE TEMPERANCE BAR, TOP FIELD AND THOWD TOP SHOP.
U'S FERT UNITARIANS - AN INDEPENDENT LOT
V IS FER THE VALLEY - ONCE A PLEASANT LITTLE SPOT.
W IS FER WALKING DAY WHEN'T KIDS GO THROUGH THEIR PACES
X IS FOR THE KISSES THAT THEY AW WIPE OFF THEIR FACES.
Y GO ANY FURTHER? ME RHYME IS NEARLY SPENT
Z JUST STANDS FER ZEBRA - AND THERE'S NOAN O' THEM I' BENT!
OWD THRUMBLE'S OWD THROMBOOAN
(Winner of the Lancashire Dialect Society Poetry Competition)
Brass bands are a great feature of Lancashire life. In their own way, they contribute so much to the culture and the atmosphere of a town.
On a walking day, when the churches, chapels and Sunday schools parade, the first you know that the "scholars" are approaching is when you hear the strains of the band in the distance.
"DAH-DAH-DA-DA (DA-DA!); DAH-DAH-DA-DA (DA-DA!)" You know the tune I mean....
The crowd ready themselves for the procession. Then you see the banners above the heads of the spectators floating in the air like the sails of a galleon... Mind you, you can't help laughing when it's a windy day and the banner carriers struggle to keep their feet.
But it's the band seems to set everything up just right.
This poem was loosely based on a gentleman called Bert who played in a brass band and lived at the end of our terraced row. Poetic licence has been taken with the facts.
There's an owd mon lives at th'eend o't street
We know as just "Owd Thrumble"
He's a mon who dun't ameawnt ter much
In fact he's nobbut 'umble.
Yer wouldn't turn yer yed fert gawp
If yer walked past him in't lone.
But the thing as folks all know him fer
Is Owd Thrumble's owd thrombooan.
Cos him and his owd insthrument
Are two peighs in a swod.
He'd rayther part wi't missis
Than part wi that, by God.
And when there's nowt on't telly
Or't weather's ooercast,
He teks his owd thrombooan eawt
And he dun't hawf lerrit brast!
His lungs is lahk two bellowses
And his lips is made o' flint.
He blows that 'ard deawnt meawthpiece
As it meks his eyebaws squint.
His faces terns blue, and his tung does too
As't blood to his yed goes rushin'
And his cheeks swell eawt lahk casebaws
Mon! He'd frikken Peter Cushin'!
Black Dyke and Brigeawse, Bessies too,
He's played wi't best of aw.
But they secks him, cos his high-notes
Meks aw't plaster faw off't waw.
Ter't Silver and Brass enthusiasts
He's known througheawt the land
And they caw 'im "Owd Titanic"-
Cos he dreawns aw't rest o't band.
When he comes fra werk, he has his tay,
Then eawt cums th'owd thrombooan,
An fer two-thri eawrs, he worries it
Lahk a bulldog wi a booan.
At hawf past eight, he pikes off pub
And staggers wom at ten
Then he gets his owd thrombooan eawt-
And lets it brast agen!
One neet, he staggered wom from't pub
Wi a booatload under't skin
E sucked instead o' blowin't thrombooan-
An 'oovered t'babby in!
His wahf leet eawt a piercin' skrike
And't neighbours yerd her sheawt
"Wist hafta send a ferret deawn
Fert get the bugger eawt!"
When Thrumble's tryin't practice scales,
It's lahk a donkey brayin'
An next dooer's dog jumps straight deawn't bog
And th'ens have aw stopped layin'.
Tha couldn't caw 'is music "canned",
It's rayther moor like "tinned"
It seawnds just like a helephant
What's troubled bad wi't wind.
Ah feels sorry fer 'is family-
Fer them there's no relief.
Poor budgy's awlus yedwarch-
And't tomcats gone stone deef.
His owd thrombooan's seen betther days,
It's like us aw, by gum.
It's owd an bent an has moor dents
Than a one-eyed jeighner's thumb.
An when Owd Thrumble drops off perch
An' thraycles off Up Yonder,
He'll tek 'is owd thrombooan wi him-
There's nowt o' which he's fonder...
An when't Good Lord anneawnces: "Ey!
It's Judgement Day morn morn."
Owd Thrumble's Thrombooan ull caw Last Thrump
-COS IT'S LOUDER THAN GABRIEL'S 'ORN!
IN MEMORY O' GRAN
A young man, married now and with a family, remembers his grandmother.
Ah see thi still, Sittin' theer
Quiet and gentle in't thowd armcheer.
Watchin' o'oer me wi a smile,
Fingers tappin' all the while.
Though owd age had dimmed thi seet
Love shone eawt thi eyes so breet.
And in me memory still tha bakes
Parkin, hotpot, Eccles Cakes,
Singin' Lily, prater pie,
Recipes from years gone by
Thi brand-new pinny full o .fleawr,
Oh wilt come back fer just one eawr?
Tha wouldn't lahk it neawadays
Cos theaw 'ad moor owd-fashiont ways.
So here among thi other posies
I lay to rest this bunch o' roses.
But better far, me poor heart speaks
To see some roses in thy cheeks.
Ahst av ter go, neet's drawin' in
And't childer's mekkin such a din.
It breyks mi heart. Ah wish tha'd known 'em.
Often thi photograph ah've shown em.
Often thi photograph ah've kissed.
Know this owd love; th'art sorely missed
1955- 1995
I used to love playing out when I was a child. You could never get us in. In those days of virtually traffic-free streets, we played Rolly 1-2-3; British Bulldog; Piggy; Sheppy Custard; Jack Jack Shine Your Light; Red Rover; I Draw a Snake Upon Your Back; Marps (Marbles); Jacks and Dobbers; Kick Out Ball; Tick; Three Pops In; Queenie; Finger Thumb Or Dumb; What Time Is it Mr Wolf? and lots more until we called a truce by shouting"Filly-loo-tin Milk!". I've never been able to work out what that meant but it did the trick...
We had Bogeys (the ones with wheels on), which we used to race down Millers Lane and down steep hills on the Top Field where Hesketh Fletcher School now stands. We'd play cricket down our back and the bails were the rings round the drainpipe. We couldn't half hit the ball straight.We had to because if it went in Owd Mother S****'s back yard, that was the last we would see of it.
On Howe Bridge Mills football ground in Flapper Fold, we'd play for hours climbing up the trees round the pitch and up and down a long metal cylindrical structure about 20 feet long with two tunnels one on top of the other. Never did find out what it was but it didn't half hurt your knees. Sometimes, we even watched the football. I broke my leg once playing football at Atherton Collieries ground - and I wasn't even on the pitch!.
In Summer, we played on the putting green on Atherton Park or seeing how far we could jump off the swings without breaking our necks. We'd rub the slide with greaseproof bread wrappers to make it go faster.
We'd climb anything - from trees to factories. Once I got stuck on top of the roof of the Coffee Pot in Bolton Road and had to be rescued by Atherton Fire Brigade.
We flew kites, arrows made of cane, balsa wood aeroplanes and helicopters that whizzed in the air when you pulled a bit of string.
We'd ride all the way up Rivington Pike on our bikes and explore the "Chinese Gardens". I wagged school once to go up there with my mates. Unfortunately, the Journal took a picture of us and I got found out, resulting in a good telling off from my mam.
We could even pass a good half hour popping tar bubbles on hot summer days. We didn't have a telly. We didn't have a computer - we just had a good time.
This poem reflects the difference between then and now.
1955
Street's alahv wi childer, playin' childers' games
Sheawts o' joy and laughter, rattle window-frames.
Whips'n'tops'n'kick-eawt cap, Hopscotch, knock'n'run
Swellin' eawt the seconds till't grown up game's begun.
Neighbours sit on' t dooerstep wi time fert ' ave a chat
Greetin' one another wi tawk o this'n'that..
Stage we play eawr lahvs on is a cobbled't street
Echoin' ter't clatter of eawr clog-shod feet.
Solid cobblestone and clog, clog on cobblestone
Alder wood on cobble stood, giving way to noan
There' a continuity reachin'' eawt from't past
Lahk those sturdy cobblestones, it is beawnd to last.
1995
Street lies quiet an' empty neaw Childer play no moor.
Shut away from childer's games behind locked front dooer.
Dull-eyed they stare in silence while a flickerin' image plays
And they're watchin' people murderdt in fifty different ways.
Angry guns are blastin' greyt big holes in New York Cops.
Is seein' people slaughtered moor fun than whips'n'tops?
Yesterday's happy childer are mams'n'dads today,
Too busy watchin't telly fert teych kids eaw fert play.
Eawtside on't cowd pavement, a dog howls at the moon.
Were eawr childhood just a dream - did we grow up too soon?
Echoes slowly dee away. Only one thing's sure.
They'n tarmacked o'er me memories. And't cobbled street's no moor...
SEAWND O'T SEA*
A veteran of the Atlantic convoys takes his young grandson on a trip to the seaside and the child's innocent gesture unlocks a nightmare. (Winner of the 1982 Lancashire Dialect Society Poetry Competition)
Row on row they come in hard.
Angry waves tup promenade;
Snarlin', smashin', spittin', strikin'-
O'erhead a seagull skrikin'.
Each wave dees upon the rocks,
Shattert in a million drops;
Diamonds of the sea so wild,
Each reflects a mon and childt.
'Uddledt gether, stayin'' waarm
Grandad keeps the lad from harm;
Salty-soaked an' flecked wi' spray,
Each views t'sea a diff'rent way.
Little boy picks up a shell
Tossed on't promenade bi't swell.
"Sithee grandad war ah've fun!"
"Aye lad, come on-it's time't go wom".
Back awom an' far from't sea,
T' childt sits on his grandad's knee.
He taks his little shell so dear
An' presses it ter't th'owd mon's ear.
"Neaw then grandad-what con't hear?"
Th'owd mon's eyes grow wide wi' fear-
An empty shell's awakkent dreams,
Fillt wi' feigher an' dead men's screams.
North Atlantic- Forty Three,
Torpedo makes its way through't sea.
White faced sailors 'owd their breath-
One heartbeat away from death.
A searin'' blast-then't sea's aflame
Fillt wi' men who skrike God's name,
Wi faces brunt, they choke an' gasp
Tossed lahk rag dolls in't th'ocean's grasp.
Desperate men claw one another
An' former comrades feight each other
Fer bits o' wood that float on't sea-
Fer who's fert live, an' who's fert dee.
Suddenly, a voice breyks through.
"Grandad! Grandad! What's to do?!"
It shatters neetmares in his yed
As th'hungry sea reclaims its dead.
"Nuthin's wrung lad - aw is well"
"But Grandad - what did't hear in't shell?"
"Nothin' owd love fert bother thee.
It's seawnd o't sea. Just seawnd o't sea..."
The Savoy Cinema in Atherton is now a Snooker Club. In the late 50's and early sixties, it was the main place in town for recreation : apart from the Palace Cinema, the Punch Bowl Temperance Bar (anybody for a hop stout?); the back room of the A1 Chippy and the Zambezi Cafe that is.
On Saturday mornings was the tradition of the Tuppenny Rush when the majority of the town's kids would flock in great excitement to see films specially put on for their enjoyment at a vastly reduced rate.
First of all there would be a cliff-hanger serial starring - Shazam! -Captain Marvo or the inimitable Flash Gordon (Can Flash escape the clutches of Ming the Merciless. Tune in next week!!!) Of course he did and we always did.
Then Tom Mix (Blimey, how old must those films have been?!) or Lash Laroo or Hopalong Cassidy but our favourite was always Roy Rogers and his trusty steed Trigger who had more brains than the government. How we cheered when Roy decked the baddies. Then it might be a cartoon feature or, joy of joys, the Three Stooges showing us hundreds of different ways of how to poke each other's eyes out.
One indispensable piece of our armament was the Pea Shooter through which we propelled pigeon peas at the fire extinguishers at the side of the screen during the boring bits - resulting in a very satisfying succession of "Pings!" There was a myth that if you hit the screen hard enough, it would burst into flames. Try as we might, we never achieved this ambition.
The was usually accompanied by the frantic bald-headed cinema manager -"Torchy" - running round flashlight in hand in a useless bid to find the culprits and resulting in us shouting to him: "Put thi' torch out - it's melting me lolly!"
I remember once being seated on one of the front rows and dropping my peashooter on the floor of the Savoy. Feeling round in the dark, I managed to retrieve it only to find it was dripping wet through. The reason?
The kids in the seats behind had peed on the floor and the slope of the room carried it down to the front. I wiped the peashooter on my sleeve and continued to bombard the fire extinguishers. Antibiotics? Who needed 'em?
This is in memory of those brilliant times.
SATURDAY COWBOYS
Half past nine on a Saturday morning
Birds are singing and dogs are yawning.
There's a great excitement in the air.
Down along each cobbled street, there comes the sound of tiny feet.
All games are stopped, no time to stand and stare.
Sixpences they're clutching tightly, little eyes all shining brightly.
Happy laughing kids without a care.
As they skip and dance along, they start to sing a special song and Saturday Cowboys sing it everywhere.
They're singing: Mister Mister why are we waiting, Saturday Cowboys don't like waiting
Come on down and give them doors a push.
We wanna see Lassie and Rin Tin Tin and Charlie Chaplin makes us grin.
Saturday Cowboys love the Saturday rush.
Saturday Cowboys rush to the pictures
Clutching lollies and Dolly Mixtures,
We'll get there faster if we run.
I've stuck me six gun into me sock and the usherette's in for a nasty shock when a plastic bullet hits her up the bum.
Doors fly open and in they stumble, through the dark they feel and fumble
Every Cowboy's got his favourite seat.
Then they hear the Manager shout:"Oy - make less noise or I'll chuck you out!"
And they don't want to miss their Saturday treat.
Cos they're singing:Mister Mister why are we waiting, Saturday Cowboys don't like waiting
Come on down and give them doors a push.
We wanna see Lassie and Rin Tin Tin and Charlie Chaplin makes us grin.
Saturday Cowboys love the Saturday rush.
Smoking "Woodies" and strikin' matches,
Cheering't cavalry and booing th'Apaches
Watch Roy Rogers shoot that baddy dead.
I've told me mam that when I'm bigger
I'll buy a horse that's just like Trigger and fill that pesky rentman full of lead.
Suddenly the lights go on
The show is over the West is Won.
No more tomato ketchup to be shed.
Half past twelve on a Saturday morning, birds still singing and dogs still yawning
Saturday Cowboys eyes are tired and red.
But they're singing:Mister Mister why are we waiting, Saturday Cowboys don't like waiting
Dinner's ready so give them doors a push.
Hi Ho Silver away we go,
Galloping down the Road-e-o
Saturday Cowboys have been to the Saturday Rush.
Saturday Cowboys have been to the Saturday Rush.
Saturday Cowboys have been to the Saturday Rush. Yee ha!!
(Saturday Cowboys was a song written with my old mate Bernard Wrigley, alias the Bolton Bullfrog, to celebrate those happy days...)
All poems copyright Dave Dutton. Use with permission only please