Coal

I’m penning this prose from within the hallowed walls of my partner Sarah’s living room. A bright and airy room which she has decorated in the minimalist style she so says she prefers. I reckon if truth be told, though, the chamber is only minimalist because she’s not yet worked out how to shop-lift a six foot wall unit!

My Ossett beau is earning extra pennies by working a twelve hour shift this Easter Bank Holiday; after all, that six foot wall unit isn’t going to pay for itself. I’m at her home dog-sitting for her German Shepherd, Zella. The sable haired beauty (Zella, not Sarah) requiring food, a walk and the bathroom.

Footnote – Clearly, Zella doesn’t literally use the bathroom. I used the term as an analogy; saving me from using cruder terms to describe her toilet habits… Even if we could train her to use the toilet bowl, she’s a bloody big dog; making lifting her onto the seat prohibitive.

On the village’s main thoroughfare, a few hundred yards from my current location, the annual World Coal Carrying Championship is currently being run.

I’m unsure how globally diverse the participants are, or if anyone has traveled from New Zealand to participate. However, I’ve no intention of mocking the title’s claim it is a world event… After all, they are only doing what the organisers of the baseball World Series boast about their winners… This despite no one outside of North American give a shiny shite about baseball.

I can hear lots of screaming from the Gawthorpe crowd as contestants head towards the winning line. My original aim of bolstering the throng by one turned into rank indifference when the heavens opened… Consequently, I have concluded yours truly is purely a fair weather coal race attendee.

Looking out of the window at passing participants in their distinctive coal dust splattered shirts, evokes memories of weekly coal man deliveries in my 1960s/70s childhood. Days when a fella as black dust smattered as chimney sweep Bert (Dick Van Dyke’s character) in Mary Poppins would sling a bag of fossil fuel in the family coal bunker.

Unlike Bert with his unconvincing cockney accent, the coal man possessed a strong Geordie accent. If truth be told, I found the chirpy chap very difficult to understand. What he meant with his typical greetings of “Hoo’s tha’ deeing?… Gitsy getten, the naz, as weel.” still baffling me to this day.

I suspect my Yorkshire born and bred mother was equally as baffled with the fellas verbal frontier gibberish. Ordinarily mum would engage everyone in a lengthy conversations, however, she appeared to realise a coherent natter with this fella would be futile.

I’m unable to recall the fossil fuel delivery man’s name; I do, though, recollect he used to hand out coal dust covered Spangle boiled sweets to the kids. For those who chose to eat these tarnished kets, it looked like they’d eaten a full box of liquorice Pontefract Cakes.

As the 1970’s evolved most of the homeowners around us changed from coal/coke heating to North Sea gas. This change meaning you didn’t have to wait for half hour for the fire lighting and living room to warm. A godsend during the north east of England’s cold winter morns.

The gradual phasing out of coal men as demand dropped robbing local kids of coal covered Spangle boiled sweets…. To my mind a contributing factor to the demise of Spangles manufacturing in the early 1980’s.

To close, yesterday I was accused by someone of having a one track mind. A slur to which I responded “Well, I may have a one tracked mind, but I’ve got an eight track cartridge player!”

No, they didn’t laugh either.