In the valley at Hove Edge was a place called, ‘Sunny Vale’ or as we called it ‘Sunny Bunce’s. I think the chap who started it must have been called Mr Bunce. Whether his disposition was sunny I don’t know. Sunny Bunce’s was what was then called an inland resort. During the war you couldn’t get to the seaside so places like ‘Sunny Vale’ and over in Huddersfield, ‘Hope Valley’, were set up. All are gone now. History is now repeating itself inland resorts are coming back; Lightwater Valley, Alton Towers etc.’
I hope this doesn’t bode evil.
‘Sunny Vale’ had two boating lakes, a scenic railway, and a proper hedge maze with a wooden tower in the middle to spot lost folk from and lots of fair ground attractions. Sunday school trips went there and you were let loose on the site with a yard of paper tickets to go on the rides. My first boat trip was there. Dad took me out on the lake in a small pedalo boat. It was terrifying; the boat had a list to one side, so one revolving paddle splashed almost out of the water. So we tried to compensate by leaning to one side. The boat was awash; I thought from the start we were going to sink.
We set off, Dad pedaling; we traveled in an arc to the middle of the lake. My feet were getting wet. I looked down at the water in the boat bottom. A large frog had appeared as if to see what was going on and if perhaps we were going his way. He wasn’t there when we set off and I hadn’t seen him jump in. So I instantly assumed he must have got on board through a hole in the bottom of the boat. A hole in the bottom of the boat, this confirmed in my mind that we were going to sink. I knew holes in boats didn’t let water out and I hadn’t got my swimming certificate yet. A return to dry land as quick as possible seemed in order, which I tried to indicated to Dad by waving my arms, pointing at the frog and the shore. Dad being a countryman couldn’t understand why I appeared to be so scared of a frog and why I wanted to take it back to land. He smiled and nodded in the direction of the frog as if to say,
‘Its OK frogs can swim.”
I looked down, the frog had gone. This was worse the frog had abandoned ship probably back through the same hole he’d come by. The frog had gone he knew we were sinking. Dad was determined to get his moneys worth and carried on casually peddling and paddling. When the water started washing the fluff and bus tickets out of his trouser turn ups he realised we were actually slowly sinking. Then his heroic efforts to get to the bank were sight to behold. The paddle sticking out of the water made us go in circles but we made it before the boat sank. The frog was nowhere to be seen. He’d done his job warning us of impending doom, like the dolphins saving men at sea.
When I was about eight years old Dad went to Brighouse. When he came back home he announced to Mam that we were all going to Blackpool for a weeks holiday. She then told us what he’d done and I was totally amazed. We usually only went for a day and that was all organised for us on the works trip. What surprised me was he’d just gone out and arranged it. I couldn’t understand how he’d done it so easily. I thought these things took time. A holiday at the seaside for a week must be a complex thing to arrange and was ostentation beyond belief. Dad had done it, no fuss he’d just done it; I was so proud. I kept telling everyone we were going on holiday for a week and Dad had just gone out and fixed it just like that. It wasn’t the holiday that I expected them to be surprised at but the fact Dad had arranged it so easily and I thought he couldn’t, I couldn’t understand the, “So what?” looks from the adults. They didn’t seem to share my admiration of Dad’s ability to fix it.

The day to go came and we were off to Blackpool. On the way we played the usual game, trying to be the first to spot the tower. When we got there we were met by a hoard of young lads with carts on old pram wheels. We called them bogies, nothing to do with nose contents; others called them lorry carts. They were there to take your cases to your bed and breakfast accommodation. Going in a taxi was not even contemplated then. I’d only been in a car once and that had been embarrassing because I had to sit on Mrs Hodinot’s knee whilst her pretty daughter Ann sat in the back. These lads charged you but what the ummer (Hell), we were on holiday and the lad knew Blackpool better than us.

Dad showed the lad the address written on a piece of paper. The lad loaded up and off we went, following the cart. We proudly looked round for admiring glances from folk who couldn’t afford a cart. We were like royalty following our butler to a picnic. He took us on an unknown route to our bed and breakfast place. A route that only a native of the town could have followed. Like a rickshaw man in an exotic eastern town he took us past many temptations.

The shops were full of gifts; Blackpool towers made in every conceivable material, lots of stuff covered in little seashells and things in brass for the tiny space left on your mantelpiece. Most of these objects had cheap little red liquid thermometers stuck on them. This was because of purchase tax. If an object could be said to be for medical use, there wasn’t any purchase tax to pay. So they stuck thermometers on everything they could. I don’t think this rule applied to egg timers. But where there wasn’t a thermometer there was an egg timer. We seem to be a nation in dread of not knowing exactly how cold or hot we are and the hard boiled egg. Mam hurried him on, telling us, that we could come back later. It wasn’t that we were particularly strong willed or Mam was keen to get there quick. I think she suspected the lad dragging the cart could be on some sort of a meter. Some weaker willed families were tempted. They were lured into the mock auctions. They ended up spending all their money. I heard of one family that spent up and had to go home before they got to the ‘Bed & Breakfast.’ I don’t remember us being charged extra for ‘Use of cruet.’ Or the overflow on the bath being a few inches from the bottom, so you couldn’t use too much water. These were vile rumours, probably put about by Scarborough landladies. Our landlady was very nice.

This was a memorable holiday for me. I had my first look at contemporary sculpture. Some of Epstein’s work was being displayed in an arcade on the sea front. We were not impressed but we didn’t feel that our money was completely wasted because there were some shrunken heads to look at. We went on the beach and I made a sand sculpture of Davey Crocket. Dad pointed to the Epstein arcade, shook his head pointed to my Davy Crocket and stuck his thumb up. He thought my effort was better than Epstein’s stuff. Further on the front there was a caravan parked with a washing line displaying very small ladies underwear. We paid our entrance fee and Mam, Dad, Doreen and me trooped round to the other side of the caravan to see what was going on. If I remember rightly the other side of the caravan was cut away to reveal an interior full of little artifacts. Standing in the middle of all this small stuff was a very small lady. She was in fact about the same height as Doreen and me. We all stood in a line and stared at her in embarrassed silence. She stared back and eventually looking up at Mam she suddenly said “Good afternoon Mrs”
Mam was taken aback. She looked down at me and mouthed, ‘what did she say?”
I looked back at Mam and mouthed, “Good afternoon.”
At the same time doing the hand sign for good morning because I never knew the sign for good afternoon. The little lady instantly turned her attention to me.
I was on the same eye level as her. “What’s up with her?” she said to me.
‘They’re deaf and dumb”, I replied.
‘Who are they?”
“Mam and Dad” I said.
“Oh! You brought them here on a day trip have you?”
“No, Dad brought us here for a week.” I said proudly.
‘What you been doing today?”
“Looking at shrunken heads.”
“Very nice.”
She didn’t seem too sure about this, probably thinking we looked on her as a living exhibit of the same thing.
‘Why aren’t you deaf?”
“Don’t know.”
“Are you not deaf at all?” she said very quietly.
“No I’m not.” I replied loudly.
I was getting a bit fed up with this. Her questions went on she was obviously fascinated by us. We’d paid to see her and we’d become the exhibits. Other people were coming in and watching this inquisition they were getting extra value. They were all standing with the little lady looking at us.

Dad kept pulling Mam’s arm wanting to know what was going on and Mam kept pulling mine for answers.
“Do some of that deaf signing thing” she said.
“No” I said and dragged Mam and Dad out before we got offers of a world tour with her. I then had to go back for Doreen she was still getting her moneys worth looking at the little lady.

Further on the front we came upon a stuffed lion; we had our photos taken sitting on its back. At the time I thought it might be the lion that Uncle Tommy had told me about. The last Christian to be eaten by a lion was the unfrocked Rector of Stiffkey. Uncle Tommy said Freddie the lion in Blackpool ate him. The rector, Uncle Tommy said, posed nude in a barrel and made extra cash by collecting empty bottles. The last bottle he collected was in the lion’s cage, according to uncle Tommy*. Perhaps like Cora’ s Dad entering Billy Bears cage, he forgot to knock and Freddie the lion took exception.

*N.B. The Rector of Stifficey. Harold Davidson was actually killed in Skegness.

We then decided to go back on the beach. From the raised position of the promenade we could see the beach was absolutely packed. But strangely right on the sea edge, in a prime position, there appeared to be a large empty space. So we fought our way through the crowds to it. When we staggered into the open space. The reason no one was sitting there was because it was the donkey ride pitch. So people wouldn’t think we hadn’t known it was a donkey pitch all the time and to avoid the embarrassment of struggling back, Doreen and I each picked a sullen donkey to ride. We mounted our donkeys Dad took a photo and off we sidled. My donkey didn’t seem enthusiastic about going anywhere.
In fact I got the distinct impression the glamour had gone out of this donkeys job. Having paid I was determined to enjoy myself but the donkey wouldn’t join in and I couldn’t achieve that, certain cowboy feeling that I wanted from this donkey, he just sedately ambled along. I thought, just a little more speed would help the mood. So I held the reins high and shouted “Hi Ho Silver!”
I dug my invisible spurs into his sides. I don’t know what I expected to happen but what ever it was, I didn’t expect the donkey to instantly accelerate from nought to sixty miles an hour. He shot from under me. I fell off and he would have left me behind but my right foot was caught in the stirrup. So I had to go with him. Off he went like a rat up a pump, dragging me behind. I wasn’t shouting, I wasn’t screaming, I wasn’t swearing but I was quietly mumbling the words of the really severely distressed.
“Oh! Dear, Oh! Dear.”
I think the donkey was a clock-watcher and my shout, like a factory whistle, must have made him think it was time to knock off work and head for home. He was thwarted in this because he couldn’t cross the beach to the promenade; it was packed with holidaymakers, so he belted along between them and the wet bit.

The dreaded donkey

My short trousers acting like a scoop quickly filled with sand. This slowed him only slightly. I often wonder if someone sat on the beach saw this and thought,” That looks like a good way to slow down jets.” People shouted as he passed so he veered towards the sea. My fantasy of the cowboy hero wounded by Indians and being dragged by his horse in the soft sand of the desert to die, faded quickly it looked like it was going to be replaced by the true-life story of, ‘Boy donkey teaser drowned by donkey.’

I held my head as high as I could with my chin pressed against my chest I pinched my nose with my thumb and forefinger ready to enter the water. Wet sand was now being packed up my trousers making me heavier. The donkey slowed down and stopped he must have thought, “Hang on a minute I don’t usually come this far and where are the other guys?” He turned to look back and embarrassed began a slow walk back to his mates still dragging me.

I was shaken but unhurt.

The donkey man gave me a bollocking for upsetting his donkey. Mam seeing I wasn’t hurt started enthusiastically battering the tightly packed sand from my trousers and with a swift smack for good luck on my calf we sidled off. We’d had enough excitement and expense so we spent the rest of the day sun bathing. I staggered round the beach playing a French Legionnaire dying of thirst in the desert. By evening I was genuinely staggering about, I had sunstroke.
On my back were pale yellow watery blisters the size of old pennies. I had to spend the rest of the holiday in the bedroom with the curtains drawn. All this of course helped to instill in me a dislike of holidays involving sun and beaches. From then on I always wore a hat and I never rolled my sleeves up I always wore them down just like the cowboys in the films.

The countryside inspires similar feelings. I always feel it’s a good idea not to go too far into it or better still not to leave the car park. In other words for safety’s sake stay with the crowds and don’t go near the view. Views can be dangerous especially ones you can fall off or down. The view is always best left in the distance. Anyway there’s always a better view when you get there, so why bother. While you’re walking towards the view, you are wearing the bits out between the views; you have to walk through all sorts of unpleasantness; nettles, brambles, thistles and thorns. On top of all this everything in the country leaks from machinery to cows. You’re always in danger of being bitten, stung or trampled on. The very least you can get is a peck and if you go abroad, well!

I always get the feeling that farmers want to spread muck from their farms thinly all over England. Rather like the guys in that prisoner of war escape film carrying soil from a tunnel down their trousers and spreading it round the camp. Humans in the past employed a lot of thought and effort so we all could leave the discomforts of cave and country to live in town communities. For some strange reason, ungratefully, lots of people want to move back.

When I was a kid, I was reminded, we all ate indoors and went to the outside loo. Now we have the loo indoors and it’s smart to eat barbecues outside. Kitchens have distressed paint; Belfast sinks with curtains beneath concealing a white enamel bucket. They call them quaint designer country kitchens; we called it poverty. I notice they don’t go all the way and have just the one cold tap. This nostalgic desire for a sanitised version of primitive living baffles me. Laurens Van Der Post informed us that the Bushmen have instincts that we westerners have lost. All I can say is I’m glad I’ve lost these instincts because they obviously don’t embrace the instinct to move away and stop living in a hut smeared with cow clap. I was glad to get out of our cellar with its cold water sink.
Town planners can’t return the towns to the country so they do the next best thing and try to return it to a previous age.

When I suggested they could get more of a feel of Victorian England if they employed anorexic girls to flog matches in the streets they were not amused. Or perhaps people wearing jodhpurs could pretend they had rickets. I saw that pristine new cobbled streets didn’t have the authentic covered in horse muck look. So I designed the Mark 1. Artificial horse dung pile with electric flies. The Mark.2. was intended to steam but no one showed any interest in the project so Mk.2. was never built.

The rudiments of my feelings about the countryside were born when my Auntie Edith decided to take our Doreen on holiday with her. Auntie Edith lived with her brother my uncle Wilf in Meltham. Mam said when I was a baby she’d tried to get me away from them to go and live with her. This information surprised me because she never seemed over fond of me. This feeling was born out somewhat in July 1976. Cousin Rodney tracked me down to tell me Auntie Edith was dying and urgently wanted to see me. I must admit I’d been avoiding her because when we met she always inquired why I wasn’t wearing my watch. She had bought me a gold Rotary watch inscribed with my name for my twenty-first birthday. I’d lent the watch to my then wife who in a day managed to lose the winder; glass face and I think one hand. She placed the bits in an antique apothecary jar meaning to have it fixed and forgot it was there. A dealer called at the door and without thinking she sold him the jar with my gold watch in it. Needless to say he never came back, it’s out there somewhere with my name on the back.
So wearing very long sleeves I went to see Aunt Edith in Huddersfield Hospital. I took my new book, ‘Mad Things to make from Vision On’ I didn’t really think she’d be interested in making a Quasi Modo coat hanger but I thought getting a book published might impress her.

I arrived at Aunt Edith’s bedside. Rodney said, “It’s Wilfred, you said you wanted to see him.” I leaned over her and in a low voice she said, “I just wanted to tell you” She paused, I leaned closer, “I never want to see you again.”
Her wish was granted she died ‘popped her little clogs’ as they say in Yorkshire. If Aunt Edith hadn’t summoned me to her bedside she would of course have never seen me again but it wouldn’t have been the same. She wanted to be sure I knew I was in the state of, not being seen again. So she had to tell me. It rather like ignoring a person; you can do this by avoiding their company but it’s best if you’re with them so they know there are really being ignored.
I left the book on her bedside table it was obviously appreciated by someone. It got pinched.

Aunt Edith Annie Broadbent always gave me the impression she thought I had ideas beyond my station, art wasn’t for the likes of us. I think she thought I was what they called a ‘Clever clogs.’ Which meant you might think you’re clever but you’re not. All your cleverness won’t pay; you’ll still end up wearing clogs. To illustrate how far she’d come, she’d show me her first tiny pair of clogs. They were always kept in full view on the fireplace hearth. These tiny clogs were I think called ‘Straights.’ There wasn’t a left and right one, which meant they could be worn on either foot. They were swapped over each day this meant they wore evenly which was economical but it also, I understand, corrected foot problems. They had slightly different patterns on them so you knew which was which. These clogs would then be put back on the tiled hearth. They contrasted somewhat with the fireplace, which at the time was the very latest thing. It had tiles with scenes of pheasants and the very latest innovation, slopes at each end of the hearth so you could sweep dirt straight out. Auntie Edith was what they called, ‘House proud’ she always had the best carpets and dearest wallpaper by which we meant expensive.
When Auntie Edith dusted she didn’t just use one duster she used two, one in each hand. She dusted with the right hand one and the left one she used to lean on so has not to leave fingerprints. Her cellar was super clean, white washed, gleaming and snow goggle white. In it were lots of her brother’s (Uncle Wilf’s), bottles of pop. Meltham is close enough to Huddersfield for a horse to walk there and back so Uncle Wilf had a cellar full of Ben Shaw’s pop including the local yellow lemonade.

Uncle Wilf always seemed to be dressed in a brown lab coat and wellies. He was constantly cleaning eggs in a bucket with a damp cloth. I remember once meeting him on the road with his empty bucket, probably going for more eggs.
He said to me “Atta barn tut t'house?”
To which, after pausing for thought, I replied, “Y’what?” because I had been told, “Eh,” was bad manners.
He corrected me, “Pardon.”
“Pardon?” I repeated.
He then enunciated his question very slowly as if talking to a dimwit, “At-ta bah-n tut th'house?”
Which meant, “Are you going to the house?” but at that time I didn't understand what he was saying.
To keep him happy I said, “Oh yeh.”
He then said, “Will you inform your aunt I will put the porcelain away when I’ve attended to the poultry.”
No he didn’t, he actually said.
“Will ta tell yer’aunt a’ll side pots when ‘ave seen tut t’ens.”
I did understand that bit so I nodded. Which seemed to satisfy him because he walked off swinging his bucket. Apart from saying, ‘Pardon?’ instead of, ‘Y’what?’ or, ‘Eh?’ the only other advice he ever gave me was that the best bit of a beast to eat was the part that did all the work, for example chicken legs. Fortunately we never had buck rabbit I didn’t fancy bunny willies.
I don’t remember any coal in Aunt Edith’s cellar. I think coal would be too dirty for her to have on display. She didn’t have anything as common as the mucky old firewood we had at our house. She had higher standards. She used brand new unused beautiful smelling wooden silk bobbins, which I think she pinched from the silk mill where she worked. If was lucky she’d give me a bobbin and with; an elastic band, a drawing pin, a match and a slice of candle for a washer, I’d make a bobbin tank. I thought everyone called them bobbins till I confused an American publisher who said it should be a cotton reel or spool.

The other thing she had in the cellar was a framework cupboard with galvanised perforated zinc sides. She said it was a, ‘Meat safe.’ Food was valuable and scarce but to actually have more meat than for just one meal was inconceivable to me. I could understand if it got about that Auntie had extra meat in the house she could have beef burglars breaking in and so a safe would be necessary. But it didn’t look all that safe to me; it didn’t even have a lock on the door. I remarked on this and I was told not to be stupid it was to keep the flies off the meat. Auntie seemed to have a thing about flies, which wasn’t surprising because the house seemed a buzz with them.
I suppose they followed Uncle Wilf in when he came home smelling of hen muck. Then they were driven mad by the smell of meat they couldn’t get at in the ‘Meat safe.’ Despite all this I didn’t mind going to Auntie Edith’s and Uncle Wilf’s because I was allowed to stand by the window and listen to the wireless, ‘Ray’s a Laugh’ etc. The wireless was a beautiful veneered floor standing model. Years later she gave it to us. Mam hated it because she couldn’t lip read it so she was completely left out and for some reason I never fathomed she called it ‘Tin can’. We of course didn’t have a wireless at home, which put me at somewhat of a disadvantage when my school chums talked about what they’d been listening to. I’d never heard ‘Dick Barton Special agent’.
Mick Walsh told me a kid who lived near the actor who played Dick Barton chucked a stone through his window with a paper message wrapped round it.
The message was, ‘SOLVE THIS.’
For a while, the only way I could listen to radio programmes was on a crystal set. This was a circular black plastic thing. It had to have an aerial and a wire to earth to work. Because we were short of wire the aerial was attached to the springs of my bed and the earth, because I was in my bedroom, was a short wire attached to a dining fork, stuck in a jar of what we called sal ammoniac, (Ammonium Chloride). There wasn’t a speaker so I had to wear headphones and to tune the thing I had to fiddle with a thing called a ‘cat’s whisker’. This was a little sprung bar that you twiddled till it was on the right spot on the crystal to receive a station. Luxembourg was the station I wanted; it had all the latest songs, it was murder getting it and it kept fading. It was so frustrating I gave up on it.

Later I remembered my crystal set when faced by a girl’s breasts. I was wondering what I was supposed to do next. I put her bra on my head like headphones and turning her breasts with both hands said, “I think I’m getting Radio Luxembourg. She was confused. Unlike the waitress in a pub who leaned over me to pick up a glass. Her breast pressed against my ear, to cover my embarrassment, I said, “I can hear the sea.” Thus making what I thought was an amusing comparison with listening to a seashell. She replied, “Say that again and you’ll see stars as well”.

I wouldn’t admit we didn’t have a wireless so I had to do some pretty slick lying to join in the conversation at school. These weekend listening sessions at Auntie Edith’s meant I could open the debate so no one suspected we didn’t have a set. Auntie Edith didn’t approve of sloth and idleness in anyone especially young boys. She allowed me to stand by the set and listen, because it was in front of the window where the majority of the flies and bluebottles congregated in their bid to escape when they realised they couldn’t get to her meat. I would stand there listening but I wasn’t idle I was holding a small puffer tin of deadly D.D.T. Any flies that approached were instantly puffed at and powdered, they’d drop on the window sill which was littered with dead bodies like icing sugared currants.

The whole experience was very satisfying and could only have been improved on if I been allowed to sit down. I tried always to be on my best behaviour because I knew upstairs fastened into landing ceiling were some of those mysterious scary hooks like the ones we had in our cellar. What were they for? Hanging naughty kids on. Besides uncle Wilf frequently gave Doreen and me half a crown each. Auntie Edith always gave me the feeling that my very existence annoyed her. When I was a student she would constantly ask me,
“When are you going to get a job?”
Later when I was earning money she’d ask, “When are you going to get a proper job?”
A proper job was of course a hard job, one you didn’t like and didn’t pay well because your final reward was in heaven.
For the time being Doreen’s reward was a holiday with Auntie Edith; I think they went to London. My consolation prize was a holiday in the country with my other much nicer Auntie,

Ida, Cousin Rodney and Uncle Bob. They also lived in Meltham on the edge of the view at ‘Upper Owler Bars Farm’; ‘Owler’ is an old word for alder tree the ‘Bars,’ bit’s a mystery. My Dad was born In Meltham so he had no problem with the countryside and it’s ways. He’d wring a hen’s neck, pluck it and gut it, chucking hands full of entrails on the fire, no problem. We’d sit fascinated and watch the feathers and entrails popping and sizzling as they burnt on our open fire. The muse perhaps evokes folk memories of witch burnings or the last moments of Joan of Arc. Dad would then scare us by pulling the exposed tendons on the severed hen’s leg this made the claw open and shut as if alive. I don’t think he found this at all macabre.
I remember him taking just me to the Huddersfield slaughterhouse (No French prissy abattoir name for us.) I think he’d worked there for a short period. The floor was awash with blood; piss and cow clap Dad held my hand while I stood in this slurry my little Wellies made mirror shiny from the goo. His ex-work mates were determined to make the day a memorable one for me. Using a captive bolt gun they blasted a little hole in a cow’s head pushed a rod down the hole and wiggled it about, so the cow was lobotomised and calm before it dropped dead. For an encore they played a game of skittles with severed cows’ heads. Gripping a horn they’d slide them on the slimy floor like curling stones. The only problem was there was only one skittle and it was me. They were trying to knock me off my feet into the bloody slurry on the floor. Fortunately Dad had a firm grip on my hand and he would lift me up by my arm. The severed heads would slide harmlessly under me. Then Dad dropped me back on my feet like resetting the skittles in a bowling alley. They never hit me once; the guys were so disappointed. We then went to watch the pigs being electrocuted after which we caught a trolley bus home.

Strangely I don’t remember being scared or in anyway upset. I think it was some sort of initiation to prepare me for the country life. He was a fund of quaint little country ways.
On the pleasant side he would put a hairy grass seed head or an ear of barley up your sleeve and later you’d find it had crawled up the sleeve and was now mysteriously in the opposite one. He knew how to make itching powder out of the hairy stuff inside rose hips. The best thing for nettle stings, I know are nettles but he reckoned rubbing dock leaves on the stings relieved the pain. All it did for me was give me a green leg. He showed me you could eat young Hawthorn leaves. The kids round where I lived were very dismissive.
“We’ve always known that. It’s called, bread and cheese.”
Their parents had either being deluding them to save money on food or their taste buds had been completely destroyed by rationing. When out walking Dad would point at a plant everyone called ‘Mother Die,’ he’d cross his arms on his chest like a corpse and look up to heaven, shake his head, warning us not to touch it. Kids who’d had a good smacking from their mams, would, intent on revenge, furtively pick it, thinking just picking it would evoke it’s mortal, mam magic. The plant was actually quite harmless, cow parsley mistaken for Hemlock. I don’t remember a single Mam dying, they all lived on to smack another day. Picking Dandelions was also to be avoided apparently they made you piss in bed. This power must leave them when they turn into seed heads or what we called, ‘Dandelion clocks.’ Because we’d pick them with impunity to tell the time by counting the number of puffs it took to blow away the parachute fairies. This method was completely inaccurate but it did help to spread the Dandelions. Dad would put a blade of grass between his thumbs holding his hands as if praying and blowing through the gap and the grass would produce a sound. He couldn’t hear it but he could feel the vibrations. He’d would pluck a snapdragon flower head and lightly squeeze it so it opened and shut like a mouth silently talking. It was a party piece he could never develop; he’d never be a ventriloquist. It’s a thought though, a vents dummy that does hand signing.

So initiated in country craft I was sent to Aunt Ida’s for my holiday I was loaned the family camera to record the experience. Owler Bars farm was a hen and cow farm, anyway that’s all I saw there. Uncle Bob was a scary Heathcliffe type chap he rarely spoke in fact I only every remember him speaking to me once. It was at the bottom of Mill Moor Road. He offered me a lift to the top of the bill on his moped. The kindness of this gesture was soon forgotten when I realised the moped had only one seat and I had to ride on the parcel rack. The journey was fortunately short but very painful. Uncle Bob was an object of fascination to me as he sat silent at the head of the table with his pint pot of tea in which he put six spoons of sugar and for his health’s sake five saccharin’s. I recounted this story once to an old friend Kath Evans about Uncle Bob’s sweet tooth, his hens and how eventually he was electrocuted. Kath said,
“He was electrocuted, they weren’t battery hens were they?”
I didn’t see much of Cousin Rodney, he was older than I was. He once allowed me to hold a cow’s tail while he milked it, squirting a tune on the side of the pail singing;

THE PICKLED ONION SONG.
Why don't they make pickled onions square?
Why do they make them round?
When I stick my fork in to the jar all I get out is the viny-gar
Stab 'em grab 'em, they're nowhere to be found.
Oh why! don't they make pickled onions square?
Why are they always them round?

I think it’s an old music hall song he’d heard at a pantomime. Anyway I remembered it when I later designed the pickle onion vice and the square boiled egg machine.
Cows are not as daft as people think. Most folk believe that cows follow their leader cow into the cowshed. This isn’t true; the boss cow is the second cow in the line. The boss cow always allows another cow to go first, just in case there’s any danger lurking ahead or behind the door. This could have been the original concept of allowing ladies to go first. If a clever cow is so distrustful of the countryside I feel my apprehensions are justified.
Hens are different they have all the worst traits of humans. They are stupid vindictive evil feathered fiends. They pick on the weakest. When it’s hot they huddle in the corners of their huts and suffocate each other. The farmers try to solve this problem by putting wire netting across the corners. Why don’t they just build round hen houses?

Klu Klux Egg Kosies
(for white eggs only)

Rodney had some protection from the smell with his fag, if he needed it. Now when I think about it I’m amazed the fag didn’t ignite the gas and blow the shed up. I didn’t want to lose face in front of Rodney so I gritted my teeth and struggled on for what seemed like ages but it was no good on the fifth shovel full I had to give up. I made my excuse, which was, I’d forgotten to send my Mam a postcard, and left an unhappy Rodney to finish the job. In the village I did buy a postcard and wrote on it what Mam always wrote. ‘Just a few lines to let you know, having a nice time. Wish you were here.’ She always wrote, ‘Just a few lines’ no matter what. I looked at the card ‘Four views of Meltham’ and saw it was printed at ‘Leeches’ just down the road from where we lived in Brighouse.

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CHICKEN EXERCISER

CRUCIFRIED EGGS