Neil Roystone is a self employed bricklayer, who has always loved writing and the clever use of the English language but never really started in earnest until around 8 years ago. He writes about anything and everything, and finds much of his inspiration from his upbringing in the mining community of Grimethorpe. Since Thatcher’s destruction of the mining industry in the 1980s that community now only exists within Neil’s cherished memories.
Poems
Never Forgive, Never Forget Welcome to the North When did you Last Use a Phone Box? Gerve's Magical Candy Emporium Man vs Menopause Once there was Hope
Never Forgive, Never Forget
In the middle of the street is where we would sit. In our scruffy shorts and rotting shoes. Surrounded by forsaken coal. Our vantage point overlooking the pit. Everyday when the steam whistle sounded We'd gather together, a group of expectant young lads. Paying homage to the seam on which we were founded. We'd stare at the flat caps wondering which one's were our dad's. Like emperor penguins shuffling home from the sea. Our fathers wearily trudge home home from the pit. No one more happy to see them as we. In the shadow of the miner's bravery we'd sit. My father too once sat here, beneath same charcoal skies. Willing his father to emerge from the smoke. Seeing the coaldust still framing his eyes. Hearing the pride in his voice as he spoke. He spoke of blistered fingers, broken limbs, his black dusty world. Great sacrifice for future security. Hope leaked from his eyes as his message unfurled. Love filled his heart for his mining community. A lifetime in a darkness bereft of stars. Entombed within a seam of black gold. Heavy black lungs, blue coaldust scars. Men of steel now just broken moulds. I never made that journey underground I never felt the colliers fears and pain. Headlamp I would gladly wear as a crown. Miner's blood runs like a river through my veins. For the privileged bastards that tried to destroy us. They'll never understand the strength of our will. A miner's pride still binds us together, We'll never surrender our spirit they tried to kill. For mining is still burrowed deep in our hearts. Filled with a rich history they tried to steal. They tried tearing our families apart. All they managed to stop....was the pit's winding wheel. <<<
Welcome to the North
Where rolling green hills meet with smoking chimneys and old cotton mills, relics from our industrious past. Where folk are not scared of work or getting covered in dirt, cos they know... where's thez muck thez brass. Where the morning frost bites yer toes and the Atlantic winds howl in from the west. Where the men swear like buggery about the cold arctic air ..wwhilst only wearing a vest Where we can still walk down cobblestone streets through rows of old blackened pit houses Where the women drink like squaddies and laugh at their men folk..who think they still wear the trousers. Where the sarcasm will draw the wind from your sails and bring political correctness to its knees Where the little things matter and one of lifes pleasures ...lays in a tray of fish chips and mushy peas. Where every penny earned is treated like a tenner, where a dropped pound coin never hits the floor. Where wallets and purses are safe inside pockets, that are tighter than a submarine door. Where good humoured folk love to hold court, tell tall tales and revel in past glories. Where proud folk never forget ...where hatred still burns for the Tories. Where your welcome will be as warm as toast, on an open fire, with home made bread Where friendships are forged over a pint of best bitter, served with a proper froth head Where a community spirit still thrives, random acts of kindness can accost you without warning Where a passing stranger you've never seen before, will smile and bid you good morning. Where freely spouted pearls of wisdom will stop and make you think A pig in a poke, a spade's a spade, a nod's as good as a wink. Here is where the winning matters, not the taking part, not interested in 2nd, 3rd or 4th We're winning at life.. These are our people.. These are our streets.. We're proud to be from the north. <<<
When did you Last use a Phone Box?
As British as fish n chips Or steak n kidney pie Iconic and much admired Easy on the eye Essential service for everyone always held in high regard Stood there proudly on display like a regal Coldstream Guard The humble British phone box Once so prominent Pride of the high street, deep red and dominant Adorned with the royal crest, the seal of approval of a queen The smallest dens of iniquity that Britains ever seen Often used by teenagers as refuge for a grope and a kiss Even though they were a drunk man's toilet and often smelled of piss. Always littered with tab ends From kids hiding, having a smoke The handset was always left hanging The phone was sometimes broke There was always someone's name and number, offering the caller a good time It was always worth to spend two pence To hear the embarrassed, stuttering reply A favourite haunt for sniffing glue, kids getting high as a kite The windows always had calling cards from ladies of the night Now mainly ignored, abandoned on our streets In a state of disrepair, unloved and obsolete Queueing in the rain, waiting to make a call Twentieth century innovation, communication for one and all. This was our internet! the high street telephone booth 24 hr access to the talking clock The internet cafe of our youth. Surfing the telegraph pole highway long before the Millennials were born And much like the internet used for silly pranks and porn. <<<
Gerve’s Magical Candy Emporium
We'd take our pocket money, my friend and I, we'd run through the streets clutching the silver coin in a vice like grip. As our steps quickened we would quiz each other on the objects of our desires, pear drops or cola cubes? wine gums or midget gems? As we drew nearer our words became faster than our feet in an indecipherable, breathless rap of excitement. Suddenly we were at the door of Gerves, a little brick built hut with a solid wood door and an old stained window covered by wire mesh. As we pushed open the door all talking ceased, we were in the presence of old man Gerve and his cavern of wall to wall glass jars of sugary treats. He stayed put on a wooden stool behind the counter, as always resplendent in a three piece suit, a gold chain hung from his breast pocket. His lips curled in a knowing half smile as he looked at us, like two baby owls in a nest, mouths agape and heads constantly turning in wonderment, all was silent as if paying our respects in a museum of glass jars It was like Willy Wonkas' factory shop and we had a golden ticket.. There were hard boiled sweets of every conceivable kind With a rainbow of colours which would dazzle your mind. Pear drops n cough drops, lolly pops and cop cops, aniseed balls big enough to make your gob stop. Cola cubes n bulls eyes fizz bombs and choc limes. Jelly babies n jelly tots, liquorice strings tied up in knots Translucent, chewy sugar coated jelly shapes of fun. A kaleidoscope of sherbets that fizz on your lips and dance on your tongue. Fruit salads n black jacks even candy cigarette packs. Trays of assorted toffees that you struggled to chew, they would stick to your teeth like they were covered in glue. Chocolate bars, chocolate stars even chocolate cigars, milk chocolate, dark chocolate and of course the classic white chocolate mouse. Popping Space dust, little candy rocks that explode in your mouth. Footballs and golf balls snooker balls and then some A myriad of balls dedicated to chewing gum. Nuts and fudge and sticks of rock and chewy nougat by the block and rows and rows of flavoured fizzy pop. Our wandering eyes never stopped. All these treasures and more as two little owl chicks still stood there in awe. Gerve never said much, he didn't have to. He was a wise old wizard presiding over a kingdom of magic, casting his multi coloured Glass jars of spells to excited children knowing we would return again and again.. for the magic would never wane The visits to his emporium were simply intoxicating <<<
Man vs Menopause
It started while she was peeling potatoes at the sink, something wasn’t quite right, I could see she was sweating profusely, which worried me She'd only done three tatties Her hair was wet and starting to stick to her forehead Little beads of sweat had started to tickle her puffy crimson cheeks She’d stopped peeling, Her eyes were closed Her head bowed, She looked in pain, Maybe she’d peeled off some skin with the peeler? But there was no blood, Just a sense that, although it was six o'clock getting tea ready wasn't the main thing that was occupying her mind. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand trying desperately to regain her composure, Her defences were breached as a tsunami of emotion left her floundering in a sea of confusion Then the tears started, not a howling deluge More a tiny shower of frustration I looked at her lovingly and thought “Best get them sausages out of fridge” But I knew that sausages weren't to blame here. I looked at her again, she was sobbing now Her red face a saturated mixture of sweat and tears, with a long string of snot dangling from her nose like a miniature quivering stalactite This wasn't her finest hour. Her vulnerability plucked at my heartstrings like a cherub on a harp. She needed some reassurance, some loving words to make it all better She needed her husband My head was in a spin she seemed so upset l really ought to help with the dishes after tea that would cheer her up.. No! I needed to be bold, really step up to the plate.. Maybe I ought to offer to buy her a dishwasher I put the sausages back in the fridge. and turned to face my beloved I reached out my hand to her trembling shoulders not yet sure what soothing sentiment would wipe away the tears and get tea back on track The static of my loving touch, or maybe the threat of contact caught her attention, she sniffed sharply, the long string of snot shot back to the safety of her right nostril. Her narrowing eyes met mine All of a sudden tiny droplets of spit splattered my face as she snarled at me. "Piss off before I fucking stab you!” I stood there Motionless, Mouth agape like a blow up doll.. Technically she could only really scrape at my skin with the peeler but that didn't detract from the conviction in her face. They say that women are the weaker sex, but at that moment I felt like a post coital praying mantis. I instantly regretted asking her when tea would be ready No words were needed I looked down at the eggshells that had been my carpet for the longest while. They call it the change, I thought that was just an over dramatic misuse of language but my mind started racing. Wondering what the hell would she change into As I put on my shoes to go to the chippy.. I pondered the plight of the caterpillar and longed for the day when I would see the colourful wings of the butterfly <<<
Once There Was Hope
Once there was sulphur and smoke that stained the air, cooling towers dominated the landscape, standing proud belching out their fog like chainsmoking doormen Now the skyline is clear for miles, the air is clean but there's an eerie silence like the past is still grieving. Once there was industry... men of steel working shifts miles underground to extract black gold to heat the nations homes, we used to sit and watch the winding wheel at the pithead as it turned bringing our father's black faces back to the light, back to the bosom of their grateful families. Now there are steel and glass boxes where people go to answer telephones. Like battery hens clucking instructions from a pre written script to frustrated consumers, minimum wage, zero hours, but at least their hands are clean. Once there was a community hard working people filled with pride for their surroundings, the only time they had their hand out was to give something.. As poor as church mice and would gladly share with you their last piece of cheese. Now there are kids having kids because it's too hard not to, existing in once proud council houses, surrounded by rotting fencing, weeds as high as their waist.. no pride, just the sour taste of entitlement that oozes from their ungrateful pores. mothers taking the kids the short journey to school still dressed in pyjamas, rushing home fag dangling from their lips to watch the social underclass embarrass themselves on Jeremy Kyle. Too stupid to see the irony. Once there was a future… the sound of children playing in the park echoed around the village. The sound of laughter and singing and men taking the piss out of each other wafting through packed pub windows Queues at the butchers Queues at the bakers The constant chimes of three resident ice cream vans competing for the children's affection. Now there are pizza and kebabs, long lost pubs and decaying recreational facilities, morons on motorbikes churning up the turf of playing fields, skinny, scruffy looking dropouts knocking on neighbours doors then scurrying away clutching a fistful of whatever the latest shit he needs to keep him from robbing their homes Once there was a dirty, smelly coal pit, for over a century it cast a shadow over, nurtured and sustained a village for generations of families, an industrial coral reef for a fragile working class ecosystem Now the village still stands, the reef long gone, the houses now home to a whole generation that cant remember coal littering the streets or the smell of sulphur in the air, can't remember going next door to borrow a cup of sugar, or going five doors down with 10 pence to ask to use the phone, they have no idea what it feels like to have everything taken away from them or the heartbreak in seeing a once thriving community in terminal decline. Central heating takes the chill from a room but the flames from a coal fire warm the soul. once there was a pit, once there was hope. <<<
Our Son whom we are so so very proud of,speaks his mind and says how it is but very loyal to his working class roots,well done Neil x