58. Neil Roystone

A proud Grimethorpe lad who has a way with words

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. 

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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. 

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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

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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. 

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