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.

SALMON PASTURES

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.

SONY DSC

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

s300_salmonataldwarke2_copy

A salmon trying to make it up Aldwarke weir

Advertisements

The Purging of Spence Broughton, A Highwayman

Why is the robbery of the Sheffield and Rotherham mail over 200 years ago still of interest and significance today?

Rob Hindle’s beautifully presented pamphlet from Sheffield’s own Longbarrow Press narrates fragments of the life and death of Spence Broughton, whose body was gibbeted on Attercliffe Common in 1792 and hung there for 35 years. Broughton’s story is vaguely familiar to many from the area, not least because it was immortalised in the name of a particularly scenic stretch of the Ring Road and on the panelled exterior of the city’s most gruesomely kitsch pub, The Noose & Gibbet, which has a plastic Broughton festooned in a grubby England flag swinging outside…

The sequence opens with the voice of authority, Mr Justice Buller, decreeing that Broughton’s ‘body should be suspended between earth and Heaven, as unworthy of either’. The following page is a Post Office notice offering ‘a Reward of ONE HUNDRED POUNDS’ for the capture of John Oxley, Broughton’s accomplice. What follows is Hindle’s multi-voiced imagining of Broughton’s story followed by a sequence of Illustrations, short poems that elaborate on the themes of Broughton’s tragic life and set them in the social and historical contexts of the period.

Hindle’s lines are clean and controlled, narrating each episode with an understated sense of unfolding drama. The simple seven-liner that introduces the first and central poetic voice closes with the image of the gibbet, ‘the forged outline of a man’. The second uses rhythm brilliantly to convey Broughton’s agonising final moments. The first quatrain is brutally monosyllabic other than eyes that ‘ogle’, whose strangled feminine ending conveys expiring life. In the second stanza the creaking rope and desperate, dying beats of Broughton’s heart are evoked by the simple description of his head and hands in the last moments before his final, convulsive crisis, when ‘the bones of his feet / make the dance of the Tarantella’.

 

This second poem also introduces another voice, Broughton’s own, which appears in darker, marginal font and functions as a way of complicating the narrative by offering different and at times dissenting perspectives. This technique enables Hindle to present sympathetically Broughton’s descent into a life of ‘dissolution’ and his powerless perplexity at the cruel indifference of the law towards the poor.

Woven into the narrative is a reference to Broughton’s contemporary Joseph Mather (who I’ve written about before and will be returning to this year…), whose ‘Spence Broughton’s Lament’ was composed in response to the letter Broughton sent to his wife asking forgiveness. Mather hawked his songs at mass public events and it’s likely this one was composed in a rush to be sung and sold to the huge crowds – reportedly 40,000 people (more than the entire population of Sheffield at the time, suggesting both exaggeration and attendance from across the whole region) – that gathered for Broughton’s gibbeting. In Hindle’s ‘A Lads’ Wager’, written in excellent dialect (have ‘nayo’ and ‘ayjers’ appeared anywhere else?)  a mischievous ‘Mathers’ feeds a bowl of ‘curdlin’ broth to the rotted corpse. Also included is a poem about the potters who snapped off one of Broughton’s fingers with a stone and worked it into the handle of a cup.

Broughton’s own voice becomes more prominent as the sequence progresses, taking a whole poem of its own to deliver his account of the robbery and quote at length from the victim’s testimony. The Illustrations section expands Hindle’s attempt to give voice to the marginalised: ‘A Great Battle at Waterloo’ is voiced by a soldier ‘sick of wars, sick to death of generals and officers’. They movingly expand upon the themes of poverty, injustice and the brutality of an arrogant British elite, conjuring historical events from a refreshingly bottom-up perspective. It is this retracing of well-trodden paths through modern history in the shoes of the 99% that makes Broughton’s tragic life seem so close and familiar to the contemporary reader.

You can buy Rob Hindle’s The Purging of Spence Broughton, a Highwayman here for a fiver.

There’s a video of Rob Hindle and Ray Hearne reading from the sequence here and you can listen to a couple of them on Soundcloud here.

spence-pamphlet

 

 

Interwoven Histories – working-class writing and immigration

Working-class writers have for centuries understood the interwoven histories of their own position within British society and that of colonised people overseas. The radical rhetoric of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries drew parallels between the plight of the African slaves who picked cotton in the American South and the children who carded and spun it in the ‘Dark Satanic Mills’ of the North of England. I’ve just started a piece examining the continuities of this tradition in two post-war writers’ treatments of ethnicity, racism and immigration. Like so many of the issues that I’m interested in, The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists provides an early and important twentieth-century example. At the beginning of the novel Owen and his colleagues are sitting on upturned buckets, slurping tea from jam jars during their lunch break. One of the decorators, Easton, is reading the Obscurer, which provokes in him

a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he began to think that it was about time we did something to protect ourselves … The papers they read were full of vague and alarming accounts of the quantities of foreign merchandise imported into this country. The enormous number of aliens constantly arriving, and their destitute conditions, how they lived, the crimes they committed, and the injury they did to British trade.*

When he was writing in the early 1910s, Tressell was dismayed by the way in which those in power distracted the people from their own colossal greed and corruption by blaming foreigners. It’s a sad statement on our own times that a century later the right-wing press are up to the same dirty tricks. Another subject of a previous post, Jack Hilton, was disarmingly honest about how he was brainwashed by such racist propaganda, describing how the foundations were laid during his education:

What a fighting chance we were given to understand the happenings of world significance – it was not a dog’s chance. It worked out this way. 1st: Heaps of God; 2nd: England first – the world nowhere; 3rd: Blatant swagger; one good honest Christian blue-eyed English schoolboy equalled twenty infidel Japs …

Having been schooled in the bigotry of British imperialism, Hilton was swept up by the anti-German feeling of the First World War and later flirted with eugenics, a despicable and discredited philosophy not a million miles from Boris Johnson’s. True to the enduring internationalism and anti-racism of the radical working-class tradition (stretching back to Joseph Mather and beyond), Hilton came to see the working-class movement as related to the anti-colonial struggles of his day. Gandhi visited Lancashire whilst Hilton was writing his first book and slept on the sofa of a Labour family in Salford. Renewed interest in the historical theft of common land – linked to the Mass Trespass of Kinder Scout in 1932 – forged a more concrete connection between these twin struggles and in the post-war era working-class writers continued to show a progressive interest in the intersection of class and colonialism.

gandhi

Gandhi in Lancashire

Writers whose work was shaped in the post-war era by these interwoven histories include Sheffield’s own Len Doherty, Shelagh Delaney (whose A Taste of Honey, in Colin MacInnes’s memorable phrase, was the first play to portray black and gay characters ‘without a nudge or shudder’), Alan Sillitoe, Stan Barstow (whose narrator Vic says of a racist character ‘she could hardly open her mouth without showing everybody what a stupid, bigoted, ignorant old cow she is’), Buchi Emecheta, Jeremy Sandford, Linton Kwesi Johnson, the list goes on…

The project I am starting looks at two more whose lives and works traverse British inner cities and former British colonies. In the pages of these writers’ work we find out much more about the changing nature of the working class and the spectrum of working-class responses to immigration than we ever can from the journalists and politicians who blame immigrants for everything from putting too much strain on the NHS (it would collapse without them) to roasting swans.** And indeed more than we can from phenomena like the BBC’s White Season of a few years back, which managed to be racist by labelling all white working-class people racist – a pretty spectacular feat when you think about it. What we find in these books is what many people from diverse neighbourhoods know through their daily lived experience – what Paul Gilroy has described as ‘demotic multiculturalism’ – which is that the working class co-authored multiculturalism alongside immigrants, largely from the colonies. The history of immigration into Britain following the Second World War – and in many areas before the war – is a history of immigration into working-class areas.

SONY DSC

Grave of a Muslim miner killed at Beighton colliery in 1922, Bunrgreave Cemetery, Sheffield

Working-class writers deal with the realities of what this means. They don’t shy away from appalling racism or seek to present a rose-tinted view of things, but nor do they ignore the rich history of tolerance and conviviality that many contemporary commentators ignore and efface. The tradition of internationalism and radical anti-racism in working-class writing constitutes an eloquent historical response to the absurd and offensive notion that the working class is somehow inherently racist or intolerant.

In our own times, as recent work by Beverly Skeggs, Stephen Garner and Owen Jones has shown, there is a worrying trend for journalists, politicians and academics to vilify working-class people in ways that are sinisterly reminiscent of the how ‘racial others’ have been demonised since the beginning of the colonial era. Working-class writers often intuitively understand this and deliberately position themselves alongside the ‘other’. In the opening sonnet of his brilliant collection The School of Eloquence, Tony Harrison connects his exploration of working-class history – and his search for an identity and a voice to express it – by analogy with Aimé Césaire’s founding text of the Négritude movement:

…I call these sixteen lines that go back to my roots

my Cahier d’un retour au pays natal,

My growing black enough to fit my boots.

With these lines – and the dedication of the poem to members of the Angolan independence movement Frelimo – Harrison aligns his own project with that of the anti-colonial poets of Africa and the West Indies. It is this interwoven history that I will be exploring in my current project.

*pp. 41-3 – as a member of the Association of the Ragged Trousered, I have copies of this book to give away. If you’d like one, please email me your address and I’ll post one to you.

** ‘SWAN BAKE: Asylum seekers steal the Queen’s birds for barbecues’.The Sun has removed the article from its website but Nick Medic’s Making a Meal of a Myth details its complete lack of any factual basis.

Tommy Youdan: Music Hall Hero

On Monday the 8th of September I sent this article – Tommy Youdan: Music Hall Hero – into Now Then (a great, beautifully produced free Sheffield magazine that’s had the good taste to publish a few of my articles in the past). The following day, on route to The Tumble near Abergavenny to see Sir Bradley Wiggins and the Tour of Britain, I got a call from Point Blank Theatre asking me to be… Tommy Youdan in a production about Harvey Teasdale at the Spiegeltent in Barker’s Pool for the Festival of the Mind. I ended up leading the Tour of Britain briefly over a famous road climb later on, so it was a pretty surreal day all-round.* This post is a slightly longer version of that Now Then article and I will post shortly about how and why I ended up being Tommy on stage and my experience of researching, devising and performing in the piece.

In 1844, Engels wrote that ‘immorality among young people in Sheffield seems to be more prevalent than anywhere else’. In fact, early music-hall was transforming working-class culture in Sheffield by introducing a huge variety of popular and ‘high-brow’ entertainment to affordable venues. One of the key figures in its development was the tenth son of a farm labourer from Kirk Sandal, near Doncaster. Tommy Youdan was born in 1816 and followed older brothers to Sheffield to look for work. After being a labourer, a silver stamper and a beerhouse keeper, in March 1849 he opened Youdan’s Royal Casino at 66 West Bar: it was so successful that it was enlarged twice that year to hold 1,200 punters and a stage big enough for elaborate shows. Despite its size and nightly entertainment admission was still free, suggesting drink was the main attraction.

But Youdan had grand plans and wanted to offer high quality, affordable entertainment to his working-class clientele. The 1843 Theatres Act required licences for all sorts of dramatic performances, and theatre managers were on the look-out for infringements so they could inform on music-hall owners who were encroaching on their turf. Youdan used phrases like ‘illustrated ballad’ and ‘duologue’ to describe operas and plays so he could offer a wide range of entertainments without a licence. It didn’t always work: in 1850 he was fined £20 for eighteen nights of ‘operatic performances’. The fact that Youdan could pay the fines shows that the working-class appetite for music and drama made it a lucrative business.

In the same year he changed the name to the Surrey Music Hall, a bold statement of intent because Sheffield’s foremost respectable concert room was the Music Hall in Surrey Street. The range of entertainment on offer was huge, from high-grade musicians, opera and ballet to animal acts, comics, ventriloquists, dramatic readings and ceiling walkers. Youdan’s blend of low prices, classy surroundings and programmes mixing high-brow and popular entertainment was so successful that it spawned a rash of copycat venues. When a rival took over a massive former circus in Blonk Street, opening it in 1851 as the Adelphi, Youdan responded by investing £5,000 on expanding to a capacity of 3,000. At Christmas 1851 he advertised his ‘ELEGANT ESTABLISHMENT’ as ‘the EMPORIUM OF ECONOMICAL INTELLECTUAL AMUSEMENT’.

The Adelphi got a theatre licence in 1852 and its manager and the Theatre Royal’s owners repeatedly took Youdan to court for staging unlicenced shows. Determined to prove his respectability, Youdan made himself a popular public figure through charity work and canny PR. He gave beef and blankets to the poor, hosted an open-air tea for 2,000 old ladies to celebrate the end of the Crimean War, offered train tickets to London and trips to the St Leger festival as prizes to his customers, leant his house band for public events and bought a menagerie of stuffed animals for educational display. But even his philanthropy got Youdan into trouble: in 1856 he advertised the sale of a 4-ton ‘Monster Twelfth Cake’ in portions, some containing medals entitling the holder to a cash prize. Cautioned by the authorities under the Lottery Act, he was forced to sell off the soggy, undercooked cake with no prizes.

Tommy Youdan 25 march 1865 after the fire

The only surviving photo of Youdan, centre in top hat, with his company after the fire.

In 1858 Youdan’s popularity and public spirit got him elected as a Town Councillor and a member of the Board of Workhouse Guardians, positions in which he worked conscientiously to improve conditions for the Sheffield poor. The following year he took on the lease of the Adelphi, removing a major competitor, and used it as a warehouse. This turned out to be his saviour when, in 1865, the Surrey Music Hall burnt down. He reopened the Adelphi as the Alexandra New Music Hall and eventually got his theatrical licence, allowing him to bring the greatest stars of the day to Sheffield audiences at affordable prices.

the burning of the surrey theatre 1865

The Burning of the Surrey Theatre, 1865

Not only did Youdan revolutionise music-hall, he also had a hand in the early development of the next great mass entertainment, football. He donated the trophy and prize money for the Youdan Cup, the first ever cup competition, featuring twelve teams from the Sheffield area including Pitsmoor, Broomhall, Heeley, Norton and the winners – and only team still going – Hallam FC (who still have it now). Even though he had retired in 1874 and died two years later – leaving £25,000 to his niece – The Alexandra was popularly referred to as Tommy’s right up until its demolition in 1914. Because of Youdan’s vision, drive and ambition, Sheffield had a much richer music hall culture than most other industrial cities. His love of popular entertainment and his desire to improve the lot of the city’s poor led him to have an important hand in the development of music and football in the city, two passions that its residents still hold dear.

thos youdan esq

The Youdan Cup presented to Hallam FC in 1867

* MOTORBIKE COP: You’re gonna have to pull over, there’s a race coming through

ME: I know, I’m winning!

MOTORBIKE COP pulls unimpressed face, speeds off.

The Evergreen in Red and White – Review

Steven Kay’s self-published debut novel, The Evergreen in Red and White, is about the first professional footballer of Romany descent, Rabbi Howell, and his final season at Sheffield United in 1897-8. Kay has dedicated a post on his blog to reviews of fourteen Sheffield novels – a great reading list for anyone interested in the city’s representation in fiction – and invites a review of his own effort. So here goes…

The action starts with a friendly in Glossop in such horrific conditions the teams agree to play half an hour each way. United are preparing for an ambitious tilt at the title and Rabbi and his best mate Mike discuss how long they can expect to last as professional players. United’s matches punctuate the narrative, sometimes from Rab’s point of view in italicised passages and always true to contemporary reports from United’s most glorious season. There is fascinating detail about football history: players are forbidden from training with the ball to make them hungry for it on match days; they are confined to the club house the night before games to keep them away from pubs and music halls; managers travel in first class whilst players go in second. Kay is clearly a die-hard Blade and has meticulously researched the club’s finest year. There is much here for fans of football history more broadly, too, but the novel has more to it than that.

sheffield united 1891 2

Sheffield United in 1891-2: Rabbi Howell is 2nd from the right on the middle row.

Rabbi returns from matches to a fractious home life where there is no enthusiasm or respect for his profession. Having been cheered by thousands of fans, he is sneered at by his father-in-law for playing ‘schoolyard games’ and becomes increasingly marginalised in a household that is dominated by his wife’s family. As in many novels of working-class life, there are sharp contrasts between the predominantly feminine domestic sphere and the macho worlds of mining, manufacturing and match days. Having turned pro, Rabbi has far more time on his hands than his brother and father-in-law who still work at the pit, and spends it walking over Wincobank, smoking his pipe and strumming his Spanish mandolin. His estrangement from family and ordinary working life, compounded by away matches and training camps at a hotel in Matlock, make Rabbi restless and unhappy whenever he isn’t playing. The Evergreen imagines how these tensions played out through Rab’s playing career and private life using what little evidence remains about his life.

Rabbi and his wife, Selina, are from Romany families who have recently left the old nomadic life to settle in ‘chooreste-gav‘, or ‘knife town’, the Romany name for Sheffield. Rabbi was the first Romany player to be capped for England and Kay presents his hybrid identity with skill and sensitivity. Rabbi’s speech switches between Sheffield and Romany dialect and he brushes off his team-mates’ jokes about gipsy spells and Egyptian ancestry with the kind of good humour in which they are made. Prejudice, though, plays a part in the management committee’s treatment of Rabbi at the end of his United career – something which, to avoid spoilers, I won’t go into here.

jubilee decorations

Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee celebrations feature in the novel. With a healthy dose of republicanism…

The other character that is meticulously researched and lovingly brought to life by Kay’s prose is Sheffield itself. Rabbi’s home in Brightside  is a short walk from Wincobank Woods, which overlooks ‘the Don valley and its majestic array of chimneys’. Sheffield is painted as a friendly, bustling place where the clanging and hammering of industry provides the backdrop for a vibrant cultural scene. Crowds flock to football matches and music halls and a scene in which Rabbi visits the theatre – to see Henry Irving and Ellen Terry, stage superstars in their day – captures the class anxieties of a rapidly expanding city. Kay does a good job of evoking late-19th-century Sheffield and giving its inhabitants genuine depth and humanity without over-romanticising, a difficult balance for a historical novel to strike. Readers from Sheffield will enjoy encountering familiar places and well-written dee-dah dialect; it’s great to see industrial Sheffield come to life on the page and have well-drawn working-class characters walking its streets.

This is the best Sheffield novel I’ve read for a long time and anyone interested in the city’s history will find it a fascinating and entertaining read.

Ray Hearne’s Songs of South Yorkshire – ‘the language of ordinary people’

I first met Ray Hearne at Sing-Folk-Speak at the Greystones Pub last year, where we had a bit of a natter in the interval and established that he’d gone to De La Salle College in Pitsmoor, just round the corner from where I was born and brought up. When Now Then magazine asked me for a follow-up piece to my article about Joseph Mather (there’s a longer version on this blog here) I immediately thought back to that night, where I’d been lucky enough to hear Nancy Kerr sing Mather’s alternative national anthem, God Save Great Thomas Paine. It struck me that Ray was a modern-day Mather, singing songs about industrial South Yorkshire and the great injustices of our times just as Sheffield’s original radical balladeer had done 200-odd years ago. I tried to track Ray down before I wrote the piece but he was away in the States, so it appeared in Now Then in this form, minus the final few paragraphs that I’ve added since meeting Ray for a couple of pints on Westgate in Rotherham.

Hearne was brought up in the Parkgate area of Rotherham. The son of Irish immigrants, he was steeped in the folk tradition and, like Mather, uses its centuries-crafted tunes as the scaffolding for distinctly contemporary content. The parallels don’t end there: both balladeers try to make the folk tradition speak to (and for) the specific locality of South Yorkshire and its industrial past and present; both adopt an unabashedly radical stance and repeatedly return to the importance of working-class representation; both combine a radical internationalism with a proudly local focus; and both achieve a potent mixture of melancholy and humour in their songs.

Hearne’s two albums to date – Broad Street Ballads and The Wrong Sunshine – are on the No Masters Co-operative label, which promotes the development of traditional and radical songwriting. The long list of folk luminaries who have performed and recorded Hearne’s songs – including Kate Rusby, Roy Bailey and Coope, Boyes & Simpson – is testament to his craft as a songwriter. Hearne himself is a great performer, yarning between songs with warmth and humour. His delivery is crisp and crystal clear in his beautiful Rotherham accent and he switches skilfully between seriousness and a warm, humorous tone. Recent songs include one about a murder in Attercliffe and one about the annual mock beach in the centre of Rotherham.

Hearne is adept at tackling serious global issues in a way that grounds them in local experience. The Wrong Sunshine features two of the best songs about the Iraq war you’re ever likely to hear. ‘Baghdad-on-Dearne’ graphically captures the traumas of war from the perspective of a soldier. The infantryman’s nightmare visions make up the verses and these are set against a chorus that evokes everyday opposition to the war and a sense of resignation at its inevitable grim logic. Hearne wraps up what could so easily be the banal “will they never learn love?” in the everyday warmth of a bus stop conversation in Broad Street: “Will they never learn, love, will they never learn?” The chorus reflects the down-to-earth decency of ordinary people’s responses to a brutal and unpopular war.

‘March of the Daffodils’ skilfully weaves the 24-hour rolling news representation of 21st century shock and awe warfare with the slower rhythms of the passage of seasons at home. Hearne draws on the well-worn poetic pedigree of the daffodil but turns it into a fresh and hard-hitting image of the globalised nature of conflict and communication. The song’s first verse exemplifies its energy and contrast:

Baghdad’s a bigger bad body-bag than even last night
Slowly the cistern fills
Till under the sound-bites suddenly it’s light upon light
Here come the daffodils
Over the unseethroughable mind-high hills
Here come the daffodils

The daffodils become grim reminders of the indifference of nature to human suffering and at the same time emblems of hope for new life emerging out of the barrenness of winter. Part of what is so hard-hitting about Hearne’s war songs is his disarming honesty in dealing directly with the war’s effect on him. “I need my late news fix every wine-dark night” – that sense of the need to bear witness, coupled with powerlessness and resignation, is one familiar to the millions in Britain who were anti-war.

But Hearne is far from just a protest singer. Other songs on The Wrong Sunshine deal with work (‘The Long Song Line’, ‘The Navvy Boys’ and ‘The Collier’s Elegy’), grief (‘Well’ is about the death of his father) and artistic inspiration emerging out of post-industrial renewal (‘Manvers Island Bound’). ‘Pudding Burner’ celebrates the hard work and resilience of women in the steel industry and ‘Things to Say’ is dedicated to Doncaster Advocacy, a charity that supports adults with learning disabilites. This is perhaps the unifying principal of all Hearne’s songs: he tries to give a voice to ordinary people, to reflect the lives of working-class people in South Yorkshire and to foster a sense of shared cultural identity inherited from a rich and important history. Hearne has said that it was the vicious policies of the Thatcher government that initially galvanised him to write radical songs about contemporary society. In the age of austerity we need his conviction, his compassion and his voice more than ever…

…and that’s where the Now Then piece left it. When I met Ray he’d just finished one of his writers’ groups – he’d been running several across South Yorkshire – and although he was sad to see it go he was very pleased to be writing as a full-time occupation. He’s writing more page poetry and I was priveliged to have a look at a few: the stand-out one for me was ‘Pollen Count Blues: The Opening Bars’, a wonderful skip through the wildlife that explodes from the verges of South Yorkshire that manages to invoke John Clare and skat singing all at once. Ray’s also working on a new album and sent me the words to one of his new songs, ‘Motes Art’, inspired by a well-meant event in Rotherham where they broadcast live opera in All Saints Square. All I can say here about the song is that if every one on the new album is as good, then it could be his best record yet.

As well as to discuss Ray’s recent work, one of the reasons that we met up was to talk about Joseph Mather. We never quite managed it because we had so much other stuff to talk about, so I’ll close with a brilliant anecdote he told me about how he brought the working-class hero of contemporary poetry, Tony Harrison, to Rotherham. During the Miners’ Strike, Ray read in a Yorkshire arts magazine that Harrison was embarking on a ‘tour of Yorkshire’, with dates in York, Harrogate and Ripon. Thinking this a slightly limited tour, Ray wrote to Harrison, describing the gist of the letter to me as: ‘Rotherham’s in Yorkshire too tha knoas. There’s a strike on down here. Bloody hell.’ Weeks later he received an Airogram from Miami: Harrison gave the details of his agent and promised to come. And so Harrison ended up reading ‘A Kumquat for John Keats’ in Rotherham. The forthrightness, pride of place and love of language that prompted him to write to Harrison fuel Ray’s work. Talking about writing that tackles the current political situation, Ray cited the recent song ‘House of Cards’ – whose chorus continues ‘and a pack of lies’ – as an example of phrases lifted from everyday language that can simply and powerfully articulate important truths about our times, saying ‘we need to be in tune to it, it’s all there, these phrases waiting to be found – it’s there in the language of ordinary people’.

There’s a film about Ray Hearne, featuring performances of a few of his songs, here.

And Ray’s website is well worth a look too.

Richard Hoggart – ‘so good that it annoyed me’

‘This is a difficult chapter to write, though one that should be written’: so begins the eleven pages of Richard Hoggart’s ‘Scholarship Boy’, the first half of chapter ten of his masterpiece and founding text of Cultural Studies, The Uses of Literacy. Hoggart’s death and its coverage in the press – Fred Inglis’s excellent obituary and Lynsey Hanley’s comment piece – sent me back to those eleven pages, which I first read as an undergraduate in 2007, fifty years after they were published.* I remember how lucid and penetrating Hoggart’s insights were and how applicable, despite the intervening half-century’s social change and educational reforms, they were to people I knew. Hoggart had had the same effect on two previous generations, for many of whom those eleven pages were difficult to read but were also a thrilling, liberating moment of recognition and connection.

One of the reasons ‘Scholarship Boy’ was difficult for Hoggart to write is because, at one level, it is about his own experience. In the introduction to The Uses of Literacy he quotes Marlowe, Conrad’s narrator in The Heart of Darkness: ‘Of course in this you fellows see more than I could see. You see me’. Throughout the book Hoggart’s personal experiences of working-class life in the 1930s and ’40s are drawn upon to evoke and examine, sympathetically and in great detail, the meanings made by that culture. It can be difficult to read, too, for any reader whose working-class background has ever made them feel uneasy – ‘uprooted and anxious’ – because there is an uncanny sense that not only is Hoggart writing about people you know, he is writing about you. The incisive potency of ‘Scholarship Boy’ is due to Hoggart’s unique combination of a sociological eye – the ability to identify and describe the characteristics of groups of people – and a novelist’s skill of entering imaginatively into the internal, emotional reality of individuals’ personal experiences.

The formal range and rich analytic and emotional complexity of Hoggart’s prose, though, was acknowledged far more widely than amongst those whose experiences chimed with the culture described in the book. Jean-Claude Passeron, in the introduction to the French translation, calls Hoggart’s technique ‘novelistic sociology’ and argues that his ‘style of analysis deliberately breaks with’ the phoney objectivity of academics, journalists and politicians whose attitudes towards the working class are ‘as racist in their own way as those of pre-scientific ethnography’. On reading Passeron’s translation in a single sitting, Claude Levi-Strauss was compelled to write immediately to Hoggart commending it as a ‘great classic’ that is ‘not only a scientific study, but also and at the same time a literary work’.**

‘Scholarship Boy’ is the passage that best exemplifies Hoggart’s skillful novelistic sociology: his technique is to identify and describe a type or group and then to focus in and evoke the lived experience of individual members of it. The result is that, whilst describing the effects of social mobility in terms of people’s changing class relationships, he never loses sight of those people as individuals and is always alert to the problems of a too-scientific approach. He reflects on his sketches and encourages the reader to register their limitations: ‘this description simplifies and over-stresses the break; in each individual there will be many qualifications’; ‘that is over-dramatised, not applicable to all or even to most’. Despite his qualifications, everywhere neat phrases perfectly capture the complexities of conflicting class identities as they are experienced by the ‘upwardly mobile’: there is ‘an underlying sense of some unease’; the scholarship boy ‘is at the friction-point of two cultures’; success brings with it ‘the tendency to vertigo’ and leaves some ‘gnawed by self-doubt’. There is a candour and sensitivity about the ‘fear and shame’ that can erode working-class students’ self-confidence and cause crippling stress and anxiety and a subtlety in dealing with the odd cocktail of superciliousness and inferiority that can emerge from a dependence on academic success and acknowledgement.

The line that struck me most brought back an experience that exemplifies the lasting relevance of ‘Scholarship Boy’: ‘Once at the grammar-school, he quickly learns to make use of a pair of different accents, perhaps even two different apparent characters and differing standards of value’. As an undergraduate I worked as a cleaner in the Arts Tower from 7-10 every morning. On the module in which I first encountered Hoggart, I had a class at ten so I often arrived late and out of breath. On one occasion I’d borrowed a buffer from Pat (a jovial colleague with a beautiful, thick Sheffield accent who commuted in twice a day from Intake) on the 15th floor and when I returned it at the end of the shift she asked how my studies were going. ‘What is it you do again? Oh English, that’s right. Oh I wish I’d done better at English at school, you speak properly you do’. The seminar straight afterwards was on women’s poetry from the Miners’ Strike and when I apologetically bustled in late the tutor asked if I’d mind reading as my accent wasn’t too far from Barnsley. In the five minute rush across campus I’d gone from the plummy-mouthed top rung of the ladder down the  snake of the class system to token proletarian: although for me it was a matter of how I was perceived rather than how I acted – in those five minutes I didn’t have to switch accents, characters or values – Hoggart’s alertness to the slipperiness of multiple and conflicting class identities seemed to speak to my own experience and helped me to understand the class dynamics that so profoundly shaped university life.

Many of the novelists of the post-war era dealt with the scholarship boy phenomenon (e.g. Stan Barstow and David Storey) and it was also an important factor in the development of British realism in cinema. Along with decolonization and mass immigration, the scholarship generation spawned by the 1944 Education Act was the most significant social and cultural development in British society in the post-war era, and Hoggart had his finger squarely on the pulse. John Braine felt that Hoggart had articulated something that himself and many writers of the time were grappling with: ‘Your book was so good that it annoyed me – there was so much in it that I was saving to write about myself’.**  I’ve since had the opportunity to read and discuss Hoggart with students, who often remark on the same sensation of having their own complex and often awkward and difficult feelings suddenly articulated for them. It is testament to Hoggart’s genius that his best work still has the capacity to teach working-class readers something about themselves nearly sixty years on.

 

*Hanley’s ‘Wall in the Mind’ chapter in ‘Estates: An Intimate History’ is a brilliant reworking of ‘Scholarship Boy’ for the comprehensive age. And the whole book’s fantastic, you should give it a read…

**Levi-Strauss and Braine’s letters are in the Hoggart Archive at the University of Sheffield