Our Pegasus

I wrote this poem for Peggy Gell’s birthday six years ago and read it at her funeral last month. She was a wonderful woman and I was lucky to know her – happy birthday Peg x

Its full title is ‘Lines written for Our Pegasus on the occasion of her seventieth’.

Seventy is not so old
When you’re into rock’n’roll:
Rockabilly makes you stronger,
Twist and shouting in Clehonger.
Charlie Bliss and a choc ice,
Wouldn’t a cup of tea be nice?
In rural Tory Hereford
Who’d have thought you’d ever’ve
Met a red-haired rock’n’roller,
Cockney Welfare State extoller,
Poet, jeweller, dreamer, Mum,
Who simply has to get things done?
Blink or slightly turn your head,
She’s painted the whole kitchen red!
Thank God she had that broken leg,
Or there’d be no stopping Peg,
Singing Elvis, popping pills,
Showing off her boogie skills.

A proper Champagne Socialist
Believing we should all insist
On a glass of fizz with lunch,
Or maybe lager, ale or punch:
Equality of booze for all!
A democratic rallying call.
A fan of lifelong education,
Peggy Gell has seen the nation
Go from stuffy RP voices
To PR twats selling choices:
Attlee, Bevan, Callaghan,
Barack Obama: Yes We Can!
Normally it’s those other pricks,
Stealing milk and closing pits,
Hacking phones and country supping,
Hunting foxes, pitch and putting.
Anyway, I am digressing,
Now is not the time for stressing
About the cunts who run the world.
We are here to celebrate
A woman I met at sixty-eight.
It’s a real thing of wonder:
She seems to me two years younger!
All energy and bright young eyes,
Hoeing weeds under summer skies,
Crafting a cascading rockery
And in general making mockery
Of the notion broken limbs
Are any bar to downing Pimm’s,
wielding heavy garden toolery,
general high jinks and tom-foolery,
Or indeed to ever being
What I’ve become used to seeing:
The youthful hostess with the mostess,
A real corker and no less,
Up for a drink and a good time
More than most at twenty-nine.
Peg certainly does cast a spell
And never moans about my smell.
And as this verse comes to a close
I should try and mention those
Dearest to our Peggy Gell
But undulating doggerel
Really does not convey well
Owt too serious, truth to tell
So please forgive my brevity,
And give your drinks some levity
It would take more than seventy
Lines, or years, to do justice to
Such a wonderful woman as YOU.


Len Doherty – “Biographische Daten”

Since reading Len Doherty’s fantastic novel The Good Lion (1958) following a recommendation on Steven Kay’s 1889 Books blog I’ve been fascinated by this important, enigmatic and unfairly overlooked Sheffield writer. Steven and I have been hatching plans to republish his final novel and I’ve been in touch with friends and family to find out more about his life.

Steve Eszrenyi got in touch because Doherty is one of the working-class writers he is writing a PhD thesis about. Steve has very kindly translated the biographical notes to the German edition of Doherty’s first novel, A Miner’s Sons (1955). They’re a good introduction to Doherty and the first of an intended series of Proletics posts about him.

Len Doherty was born in 1930 in one of the poorest areas of Glasgow, Scotland. The grim economic situation and the fear of unemployment were important influences in the development of Doherty’s  working-class consciousness.

Doherty moved at the beginning of the 1950s to Thurcroft, a small mining community in South Yorkshire. Doherty worked down the pit and also became a member of the Communist Party. As a miner, he was entitled to living accommodation and this helped the newly married Doherty considerably.

As a member of the local Communist Party group, he was opposed to the idea of union leaders working with, as he saw it, the capitalist apparatus of the state. He fought on a number of issues which directly concerned miners: the recently introduced and divisive wage system down the pit – piece rate for face-workers and fixed wages for miners below ground; the large compensation claims of the former mine owners which were paid by the Labour government, at the expense of updating and improving the conditions for the miners down the pit; the high handed attitudes of the mining officials who sought to impose fixed working hours; miners being locked out and the denial of strike action for miners. Doherty saw clearly that the class war still existed-despite claims to the contrary by others- and that the situation of the mine worker in the nationalised industry had not improved.

Down the pit, Doherty proved himself to be a class conscious trade unionist. It was not though the experiences of the conflicts that occurred day in and day out with management that led him to communism. It was rather the identification with the intellectual superiority of Dialectical Materialism over the ideology of the Labour Party, as well as the recognition that communism was somehow morally superior to the Labour Party which proved to be decisive. Doherty said about his joining the Communist Party: “We had a communist professor who came round and sold the Daily Worker and Peace News. It was through him and a few others that I became interested in communism. We had a lot of respect for these people, and the more they were put down, the more we sided with them. They were courageous people, who lived life according to their principles. It was more out of respect and admiration for these people than any other reason, that we joined the Communist Party.”

The time in the Communist Party ran parallel with the phase in his life where Doherty began to read a lot and write. He was hungry for any form of knowledge and he used this newly acquired knowledge in Union conflicts. Doherty was more interested in how the class war played itself out in the interpersonal conflicts, than in the historical aspects of it. Honesty, courage, respect for oneself were qualities which marked a communist out from all others.

In 1956, after the Hungarian Uprising, Doherty- along with many others- left the Communist Party. “I didn’t leave the Communist Party just because of the Hungarian Uprising, but the Khrushchev speech at the Twentieth Party Conference was one of the worst experiences of my life and was a decisive factor in me leaving the CPGB. Up until the moment of the Khrushchev speech, the Communist Party of Great Britain was fully behind Stalinism and I too was convinced by Stalin’s greatness. In the period of time after the speech, it became clear to me that things were not quite as they were made out to be and that the CPGB had the wrong take on things and that the members of the CPGB had been misinformed.

I just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that the Communist Party had in effect lied to me. It was exactly that- the deviousness- which I so disliked in other political parties. I simply had to step back from the CPGB and reconsider everything. Then the Hungarian Uprising happened which was a tremendous shock for many of us. We had always taken the stance that socialism could not simply be grafted on to a country, but that it had to develop and take root in the working class of a particular country. Otherwise it is impossible for true socialism to happen. It was the basis of all our discussions that the Soviet Union was not an aggressive power. Then we heard the news from Hungary and although the reports were sometimes biased, the Hungarian Uprising made a deep impression on us all.”

In the early 1960s Doherty gave up his job down the pit and became a reporter for the Sheffield Star. From 1968 he played an important part in the creation of the 44 Group which sought to bring together all the local councils to work with common aims. Doherty received a prize in 1969 for being the best provincial journalist of the year. He wrote many reports including one in 1961 about the French and Algerian negotiations, in 1969 about Northern Ireland and North Vietnam and in 1970 about the Middle East. A Miner’s Sons was translated into twelve languages.

In 1970 fragments from a bomb, which was intended for the son of Moshe Dayan, hit Doherty as he was in a bus coming from Munich to the airport. Since then and as a result of the injuries he suffered as a result of the bomb attack, Doherty has been unable to work. In 1972 he voiced his support for the miners’ strike and also wrote numerous articles about it.

Translated from Rudolf Wichmann’s “Biographische Daten” in Drum sind wir rot geworden: Der Roman der englischen Bergarbeiter (Köln: Verlag Gaehme Henke, 1974)

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I’ll post Steve’s translation of the Nachwort (Afterword) next week.

Salmon Pastures

A while back I saw this video of a salmon trying to make it up Aldwarke Weir near Rotherham shortly before going for a run through Salmon Pastures and the little maze of streets in Attercliffe between Staniforth Road and the River Don. It got me thinking about cobbles, scales and the past and present of the area and I wrote a little poem about it.


Glinting in bright winter sunlight, cobbles
reappear, wet, through cracked tarmac. A
Halal butcher, a strip joint and the
Office of the Diocese huddle against

Workshops whose sounds and smells have filled the air
Since obnailed boots scratched sparks along these lanes
And pithead gears auled ancient istory up
From underfoot to fuel forge fires at Firth’s.

Flexing furiously against the force
Of weir water and centuries of works’
dirt, silver scales shimmer. Soon they will be
at Salmon Pastures, proving that the past

Presses into the present as sure as
The rich cannot enter heaven.

I was well chuffed that Now Then printed it alongside the winning Off the Shelf short story entry, Sarah Peacock’s excellent ‘After the Fire’.

It’s the first time I’ve had a poem published and I’ve been overwhelmed by the response. One of the great – and unexpected – results has been people sharing their knowledge and memories of the area. Here are a few examples:

  • indentures stated that ‘little mesters who had their workshops in Salmon Pastures weren’t allowed to feed their apprentices salmon more than three times a week
  • Oh Sheffield and Rotherham used to be aglow, I’d park my little Renault 4 for a few minutes to watch white hot ingots of iron cooling outside a foundry on my way home on a winter’s evening
  • I liked watching the rolling mills, long red hot snakes yards and yards long
  • there was ‘a wee train loaded with hot pig iron crossing the road at Brightside
  • sturgeon were caught in the Don up to the late 1800s and fish passes are now being installed on the weirs to help fish return upriver

Thanks to everyone whose comments I’ve shamelessly pilfered from Facebook! Please do comment below or drop me a line if my poem sparks any memories for you.


The kind of cobble thing I’m talking about ©David Ash – thanks Dad!


A salmon trying to make it up Aldwarke weir

Ray Hearne: Joe Mather and Me

Ray kindly took the time to write a few words for Proletics about how he came across Owd Mather, what he found so inspirational about the radical balladeer and how his songs spring from – and add to – the ‘people’s tradition’.


I came back from Essex University in 1981 with a head full of Shakespeare, WB Yeats, TS Eliot, Seamus Heaney, Tony Harrison and Pablo Neruda. I thought I knew a bit about literature and poetry.

I’d got myself a job as ‘Tutor Organiser’ for Rotherham, my home-town, for the Workers’ Educational Association (WEA) with the ambition of ‘liberating’ literature and poetry from the vaults of the rich and distributing it promiscuously around the borough. Ray Fisher was the WEA’s District Secretary and he had a passion for what he called ‘local literature.’ Ray had a copy of The Songs of Joseph Mather and he used to let me borrow it.

It seared across my mindscape like a lightning flash, or maybe it just meandered like a murmuration of starlings and installed itself into chemical permanence in my bonce. I was supposed to know something about English literature and here were people who spoke and thought a bit like me, yet nobody mentioned them. That’s where my next literary education began.

Mather inspired me. I came from an Irish house and a childhood filled with hymns and ballads. Here was a bloke, uneducated except that he seemed to know the bible back’ards, making up his own songs and ballads about his own experiences and his own community: dark, dogged, highly charged with political insights, telling the stories of his own people in crafted versions of their own language and idioms, and performing them in the hope of earning a few bob at fairs, markets, race meetings and public gatherings generally.

Nobody knows anything about the music he employed. He might have sung everything unaccompanied; he might have worked ad hoc with musicians, a fiddler perhaps; he might have composed his own melodies. Far more likely it has always seemed to me, he was one of the few bobbydazzler South Yorkshire embodiers of the ‘people’s tradition’.

By that I mean he heard, adapted, borrowed, chopped, changed and tailored the tunes and melodies that he heard from other singers, either local or passers through. That for me is how the people’s tradition has always worked. It’s mucky, grubby from pawing by innumerable gentle and powerful dirty hands; a vibrant, dynamic and exquisite vehicle capable of transmitting as great an artistic experience as any other art form Radio Three might mention. Its most marvellous exponents include Shakespeare, Robert Burns and the yet-to-be equalled Ann On.

Mather’s flat-vowelled, late-eighteenth-century Sheffield demotic, with its overtones of biblical rhetoric and phrasing, filtered through an ancient stand-in-the-street-and-sing-it ballad tradition, confirming some of my deepest intuitions about human songs and their roots.

The very first time I read ‘The File-Hewer’s Lamentation’ [listen to Ray’s version below] it seemed to arrange itself to the tune of ‘The boys of Mullaghbawn’ on an old cassette-tape I’d somewhere acquired of songs by Paddy Tunney. No one knows the source of the original tune, though the words we have seem to pertain to the United Irishmen’s 1798 rising. I like to think either that Joe picked up a variant of that very tune listening to some itinerant Irish labourer looking for work in the alleys of early industrial Sheffield, or even more pleasing is the idea that the same Irish singer heard Joe’s song and took the tune back to Ireland where it became ‘The boys of Mullaghbawn.’

I was also struck by the staggering courage involved in composing and singing publicly, ‘God Save Great Thomas Paine.’ To sing such a piece, just after the French Revolution and during what some historians have called ‘the English reign of terror,’ calling for the overthrow of kings and aristocracy and championing democracy, is an act of such breath-taking bravery as to be barely believable. That he was singing this song and others with similar sentiments to fellow Sheffielders in the streets gives us insights into the local culture. Sheffield was considered ‘disloyal’: ‘barracks and bastilles’ were built and militias were recruited. The ideological battle for the next fifty years was made articulate between the plain English, common-sense, Republican ideas of Paine – ‘The People and Reform’ – against the flowery, murderously oppressive polysyllables of the turncoat Burke and his ‘Church and King,’ to whom the common people were a mere ‘Swinish Multitude.’

All that and more, emblematised in the words and defiant singing of a bloke from Cack Alley, just off West Bar, known to locals as ‘Shitten Entry.’

So when I was offered an opportunity to set some of Joe’s pieces for the Festival of the Mind I was delighted. It nudged me towards doing what I should have done years before. I was able to bend tunes to fit six more pieces in addition to the two above, most of them emerging from my small but well-mellowed crock-full of Irish airs and melodies. Though my attitude to the provenance of each of the tunes remains open and flexible, sceptical and even mischievous, if you like. Who is to say that the above wandering Irish man was not a woman? Ann On herself even? Gathering sheaves of tunes during her dalliance with Joe before making her way back over the water to share them with all and sundry. I could swear that when I hear such as ‘Biddy Mulligan’, ’Patrick was a Gentleman,’ ‘Rosin the Bow,’ ‘The Dean’s Chapter,’ and ‘Kevin Barry,’ I can detect clearly beneath them, as sure as I’m plinking on this banjo, Mather’s own tunes donkeying their beneficent ways through the beaming and appreciative crowd.


Listen to Ray’s version of ‘The File-Hewer’s Lamentation’ here:


If you like what you hear you can get the CD for six quid – find out more here.

Dennis Skinner: Nature of the Beast

A couple of years back I wrote a post about Shut Out the Light’s fantastic Still Ragged, a documentary about The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. In it Dennis Skinner provides a typically passionate and straightforward critique of zero-hours contracts, arguing that they are the modern-day equivalent of the insecure employment that blights the lives of Tressell’s characters.

The filmmakers obviously got on well with Skinner: they’ve spent the last two years making a documentary about his life. And what a life. Skinner was born between the wars into a big mining family in Clay Cross, Derbyshire. His dad had been blacklisted following the General Strike in 1926 and Dennis followed in his footsteps, going into the mines – and the Union – when he left school. Skinner was a gifted scholar with a sharp wit and was quick to master the skills of a pitman and a union rep, going on to get elected as a councillor in 1960 and MP for Bolsover in 1970.

Since then he’s been the scourge of Tories in the House of Commons, stymying bills from Enoch Powell and Anne Widdecombe (on stem cell research and abortion, respectively) and delivering brilliant parliamentary put-downs, earning himself the title The Beast of Bolsover. Examples in recent years include him telling Jeremy Hunt to ‘wipe the smirk off his face’ and suggesting that rather than the economy, the only things growing in the 1970s and 80s were the lines of cocaine in front of George Osborne.

Behind the headline-grabbing one-liners, though, there’s a serious and thoughtful politician and a kind and decent man. Skinner’s socialism was formed through the mining culture he grew up in and 22 years down the pit. He actively supported the 1972 Rent Rebellion in his home town (he had two brothers on the Council) and the 84-85 Strike. As an elected representative he’s fought tirelessly for his constituents, embodying the ideals of hard work and selfless public service that underpin his politics.

Skinner is Labour through and through. He’s proudly on the Left of the Party but he believes in supporting his colleagues from across the Labour spectrum. As a principled left-winger who has consistently spoken out against the dodgy patronage of Parliament, his honesty and integrity are beyond reproach and he has lessons for us all about socialism, solidarity – and singing (as demonstrated in this moving clip about Skinner singing with the elderly in his constituency).

Skinner’s story is an important and timely one. As the Labour Party rediscovers its socialism, Dennis Skinner’s long memory can help its members to understand the rich political tradition they inherit. If you have a few quid to spare, please chip in to help Shut Out the Light finish their film and bring the compelling story of this real-life working-class hero to the big screen.


The Songs of Joseph Mather – Ray Hearne CD


Firstly, thank you very much indeed to everyone who came along on Monday and helped make our celebration of Joseph Mather’s life and songs such a great occasion.

Ray and Robin Garside also produced this fantastic CD of the Songs, which you can get for a fiver (plus a quid for postage). These sold like hot cakes on the night so get yours quick to avoid disappointment!

To order, please drop me an email with your postal address to j.windle@sheffield.ac.uk and then transfer £6 to me with your postcode as the reference (s/c 07-04-36, account number 13264065). Email me if you need to pay by cash or cheque.

I’ll be writing a proper post about the project soon.

All the proceeds from sales of the CD will go towards a project I am working on with Steven Kay to republish the classic Sheffield novel The Good Lion by Len Doherty.

Finally, massive thanks to Ray for arranging these songs and bringing them to life so brilliantly – I for one hope to see him perform them again soon!

‘Osgathorpe, behold!’-Strange Trains and Poetry on the Sheffield and Rotherham Railway

I learnt two fascinating things about the Sheffield to Rotherham railway last Friday. The first was the the 16.24 from Sheffield is invisible, as are all its passengers. Along with a fellow inhabitant of this reality I stood and watched as no train departed from anywhere except the LED screen on Platform 1A. At the information desk we were shocked to discover that  it had definitely left because the computer system – triggered by censors in the tracks, no less – said so.

Glad to have narrowly avoided a trip to the Rotherham of a parallel universe, when I did eventually get there I met up with Ray Hearne to talk about a project we’re working on (more on this soon). It just so happened that Ray had a copy of Ebenezer Elliot’s ‘Verses on the opening of the Sheffield and Rotherham Railway’ which he very kindly gave me (you can find it on page 65 of this excellent collection of Elliot’s poems edited by Agnes Lehoczky and Adam Piette for the PlastiCities project back in 2012).

This is a remarkable poem for a number of reasons. Familiar places are vividly brought to life through enraptured, Romantic eyes and returned to the final days of their pre-industrial innocence. The poet stands ‘on war-marked Winco’s side’ less than half a mile from the brand new railway and calls on the surrounding settlements to see ‘with gladdened eyes’ the ‘triumph for mankind’ represented by the ‘towering vapours’ that trace the new trains’ progress:

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The note is my favourite thing about the whole poem. It tells us that Osgathorpe is ‘A beautiful eminence between Sheffield and Winco-bank, and, like the latter, overlooking a landscape of equal beauty’. My mum lives on Osgathorpe Road and I was brought up round the corner and I love it, but ‘beautiful eminence’ isn’t a description many people would recognise. It transports us back to a time when Sheffield’s industry was concentrated in a small centre whose outlying areas remained largely unspoilt.

Sheffield1832 from wikipedia

This 1832 map shows Burn Greave, Grimesthorpe and Wincobank were sparsely populated, semi-rural areas overlooking the Don Valley and the villages of Attercliffe and Darnall.


The view over the Don Valley is still a beautiful one in its own, post-industrial way: the vast steelworks away to the north-east, the incinerator, the railway arches and Supertram lines, Park Hill flats and the neatly laid out streets of the Manor. Elliot reminds us that not so many generations ago, if we strip back the layers of history, this was a stunning, idyllic valley (the otters and salmon who are returning to it remind of this, too).

Another remarkable feature is Elliot’s scattergun approach to the exclamation mark, a piece of punctuation now associated with the excitable emotion of acronym-heavy text-speak. The above stanza – with a fairly modest six occurrences – shows perfectly that inveterate texters and shouty copywriters in our own time are working with a long-established textual means of conveying intensity of feeling with a sense of wide-eyed innocence and youthful excitement. OMG! Literary pedigree!? WTF! LMAO!

In all seriousness, though, its sheer excitement at the potential of new technology is what is so remarkable about the poem. For Elliot, the Sheffield to Rotherham Railway is a harbinger of a new, fairer world and proof that the human ‘Mind shall conquer time and space’ to ‘Bid East and West shake hands!’. ‘Tyrants of all lands’ will ‘wither’ before the revolutionary power unleashed by advances in transport and communications, heralding a new world free from oppression.

This utopian vision chimes with the most hopeful and optimistic assessments of the power of technology in our own time, such as in the predictions of a post-work world of full automation by the likes of Paul Mason, Nick Srnicek and Alex Williams. The poem’s most striking relevance to contemporary debates, though a bit more modest and mundane, lies in its advocacy of the democratising power and freedom-giving potential of public transport. Remembering the world-changing optimism of the early days of the railways can help us to re-energise our arguments for renationalisation now. Our ancestors forked out the £100,000 that paid for the Sheffield and Rotherham Railway in the first place and we deserve a cheap, efficient, public and accessible train service that doesn’t depart Platform 1A into a parallel universe.


There’s a petition to stop the sell-off of our stations here.

ebenezer elliot

Elliot had excellent hair too