The Final Scores

1914-1918: And Now For The Final Cost:
These figures show 2014 research into the number of players at the clubs below who lost their lives in the Great War. This may not yet be the Final Cost. There is also an interesting postscript.

Arsenal 3 Aston Villa 1
Barnsley 4 Blackburn Rovers 2
Birmingham City 2 Blackpool 3
Bolton Wanderers 1 Bradford City 9
Derby County 6 Brentford 7
Brighton and Hove Albion 5 Bristol City 5
Bristol Rovers 3 Bury 7
Burnley 5 Cardiff City 0
Chelsea 6 Clapton Orient 4
Coventry City 6 Crystal Palace 4
Bradford Park Avenue 2 Everton 7
Exeter City 6 Fulham 0
Grimsby Town 1 Huddersfield Town 5
Hull City 4 Liverpool 6
Luton Town 3 Manchester City 9
Manchester United 8 Middlesborough 7
Millwall 5 Newcastle United 9

1914-1918: And Now For The Final Cost:
These figures show 2014 research into the number of players at the clubs below who lost their lives in the Great War. This may not yet be the Final Cost. There is also an interesting postscript.

Arsenal 3 Aston Villa 1
Barnsley 4 Blackburn Rovers 2
Birmingham City 2 Blackpool 3
Bolton Wanderers 1 Bradford City 9
Derby County 6 Brentford 7
Brighton and Hove Albion 5 Bristol City 5
Bristol Rovers 3 Bury 7
Burnley 5 Cardiff City 0
Chelsea 6 Clapton Orient 4
Coventry City 6 Crystal Palace 4
Bradford Park Avenue 2 Everton 7
Exeter City 6 Fulham 0
Grimsby Town 1 Huddersfield Town 5
Hull City 4 Liverpool 6
Luton Town 3 Manchester City 9
Manchester United 8 Middlesborough 7
Millwall 5 Newcastle United 9
Newport County 1 Northampton Town 1
Norwich City 6 Nottingham Forest 2
Notts County 2 Oldham Athletic 0
Plymouth Argyle 7 Portsmouth 0
Preston North End 10 Queens Park Rangers 0
Reading 9 Sheffield United 2
Southampton 4 Southend United 10
Stockport County 9 Stoke City 0
Sunderland 0 Swansea 0
Forest Green Rovers 3 Swindon Town 6
Sheffield Wednesday 3 West Bromwich Albion 2
West Ham United 7 Wolverhampton Wanderers 0
Watford 3 Tottenham Hotspur 14

Postscript

With thanks to the Pearce Register of WW1 Conscientious Objectors, compiled by Cyril Pearce.

There are two footballers in the National Register of Conscientious Objectors:
Norman Gaudie, who played for Sunderland. Gaudie was among the men who were imprisoned in Richmond Castle and then shipped to France and sentenced to death before being returned to the UK.

Fred ‘Tiny’ Fayers who played for Huddersfield Town.

FGR and WWI Memorials

I pedalled through snowdrops and birdsong,
To the two war memorials in Woodchester,
Then bicycled past umpteen old cloth mills,
River liquid light all along my way,
To Nailsworth, Avening, Minchinhampton and Amberley,
With long barrows and a standing stone for company;
On through Shortwood, Tickmorend and Downend,
To Horsley
(A memorial just by the church, the bus stop and the school),
Before descending through Ruskin Mill’s sluice-scape,
A heron pointing my way back to Nailsworth,
Just before the rain came in, on a mid-day westerly breeze.
My next trip meant the number 35 bus,
A two pound forty single delight,
Gazing at the wood anemone by the roadside,
A palimpsest of ancient woodland by this main road,
Traveling by bus on what was once a prehistoric track,
That once made its way under a gloomy canopy,
But now tarmacadam speeds south of the Cotswold scarp –
But I was on my way to Nympsfield’s war memorial,
Just by the shadowed wall of the Old Chapel,
A crucifix, refashioned from one found on the Somme,
And brought back to this Catholic village in 1917;

I pedalled through snowdrops and birdsong,
To the two war memorials in Woodchester,
Then bicycled past umpteen old cloth mills,
River liquid light all along my way,
To Nailsworth, Avening, Minchinhampton and Amberley,
With long barrows and a standing stone for company;
On through Shortwood, Tickmorend and Downend,
To Horsley
(A memorial just by the church, the bus stop and the school),
Before descending through Ruskin Mill’s sluice-scape,
A heron pointing my way back to Nailsworth,
Just before the rain came in, on a mid-day westerly breeze.
My next trip meant the number 35 bus,
A two pound forty single delight,
Gazing at the wood anemone by the roadside,
A palimpsest of ancient woodland by this main road,
Traveling by bus on what was once a prehistoric track,
That once made its way under a gloomy canopy,
But now tarmacadam speeds south of the Cotswold scarp –
But I was on my way to Nympsfield’s war memorial,
Just by the shadowed wall of the Old Chapel,
A crucifix, refashioned from one found on the Somme,
And brought back to this Catholic village in 1917;
I walked to Forest Green along Tinkley Lane,
Past the rhythmic turbine, friend and ally of the wind,
Not worried about poison gas beneath the cotton wool clouds,
As some of those names back in the village would have done.
I continued on my way towards Forest Green and the New Lawn,

Watching a tractor ploughing a large brown earth field,
With gulls gathering in its wake,
Edward Thomas again flitting through my mind:
‘“Have many gone from here?”
“Yes.” “Many lost?” “Yes; a good few.
Only two teams work on the farm this year.
One of my mates is dead. The second day
In France they killed him…”
I watched the clods tumble and topple over
After the ploughshare and the stumbling team.’

The Stroud Valleys, Nailsworth and the Great War

They were summoned from the hillside,
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardship,
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking
Make it sing this cheery song:
Keep the home fires burning
While your hearts are yearning,
Though the lads are far away,
They dream of home.
There’s a silver lining,
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out,
Till the boys come home.

1914 August

“On it becoming known that the mobilisation of the Territorial Forces was expected great excitement prevailed in Stroud. Holiday makers gathered in groups round the Post Office…Until a late hour on Wednesday the streets of Stroud continued in an animated state, groups of people gathering in the busier parts of the town, eagerly discussing the latest news. The evening papers were snatched up as soon as they were on the streets.”

They were summoned from the hillside,
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardship,
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking
Make it sing this cheery song:
Keep the home fires burning
While your hearts are yearning,
Though the lads are far away,
They dream of home.
There’s a silver lining,
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out,
Till the boys come home.

1914 August

“On it becoming known that the mobilisation of the Territorial Forces was expected great excitement prevailed in Stroud. Holiday makers gathered in groups round the Post Office…Until a late hour on Wednesday the streets of Stroud continued in an animated state, groups of people gathering in the busier parts of the town, eagerly discussing the latest news. The evening papers were snatched up as soon as they were on the streets.”

September 4th: “Mid-Gloucestershire, which a week ago seemed woefully apathetic, is now revealing its patriotism… Stonehouse reported 23 recruits on Friday night; Cainscross caused us a shiver of apprehension on Saturday by merely offering three men, but in justice to that parish it should be stated that in addition to the considerable number of gallant men already serving in both Army and Navy, some 40 or 50 recruits have been enrolled from the Cainscross area since the meeting; Painswick gave us 30 on Sunday; Amberley responded finely on Monday with 40 patriotic offers; and on Tuesday Minchinhampton beat all previous records with 45 recruits…Stroud has another chance on Saturday night, and although we believe considerable numbers have enlisted without the stimulant of a public meeting, one has only to look round to see that the recruiting force here is hardly tapped.”

The Army and the Navy need attention,
The outlook isn’t healthy you’ll admit,
But I’ve got a perfect dream of a new recruiting scheme,
Which I think is absolutely it.
If only other girls would do as I do
I believe that we could manage it alone,
For I turn all suitors from me but the sailor and the Tommy,
I’ve an army and a navy of my own.
On Sunday I walk out with a Soldier,
On Monday I’m taken by a Tar,
On Tuesday I’m out with a baby Boy Scout,
On Wednesday a Hussar;
On Thursday I go out with a Stroudie,
On Friday, the Captain of the crew;
But on Saturday I’m willing, if you’ll only take the shilling,
To make a man of any one of you.
I teach the tenderfoot to face the powder,
That gives an added lustre to my skin,
And I show the raw recruit how to give a chaste salute,
So when I’m presenting arms he’s falling in.
It makes you almost proud to be a woman.
When you make a strapping soldier of a kid.
And he says ‘You put me through it and I didn’t want to do it
But you went and made me love you so I did.’
On Sunday I walk out with a Bo’sun.
On Monday a Rifleman in green,
On Tuesday I choose a ‘sub’ in the ‘Blues’,
On Wednesday a Marine;
On Thursday a Terrier from Toadsmoor,
On Friday a Midshipman or two,
But on Saturday I’m willing, if you’ll only take the shilling,
To make a man of any one of you.

 “While there is supreme confidence among English people that by the time another Christmas season is with us the great war will have come to an end satisfactory to their country and allies, this supreme confidence cannot at present be magnified into a conviction of certainty…Mr. Geo. J. Holloway sent a Christmas gift to the Gloucestershire Regiment fighting at the front, consisting of 100 packs of playing cards and 10,000 cigarettes. Each packet contained 10 cigarettes and was stamped with the message ‘Good Luck.’”

Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,
And smile, smile, smile,
While you’ve a Lucifer to light your fag,
Smile, boys, that’s the style.
What’s the use of worrying?
It never was worthwhile, so
Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,
And smile, smile, smile.

1915

 February 19th: “While the increased cost of living has reduced the spending powers of wage-earners…it is a matter for profound gratification that so far there has been very little acute distress and a very low average of unemployment. This we attribute before to the excellent response to Lord Kitchener’s appeal on the part of the young men of the district, thus relieving many firms of the necessity of curtailing their staffs, but another and even greater cause is the amount of work being done at local mills and factories.”

Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers,
Such skill at sewing shirts our shy young sister Susie shows!
Some soldiers send epistles, say they’d rather sleep in thistles
Than the saucy soft short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews.

April 23rd: “The recruiting campaign organised in the Mid-Gloucestershire Division during this week by a visit of the drum and fife band and Recruiting Party of the… Gloucesters to the various towns and villages was carried out with fairly satisfactory results…The enthusiasm in Stroud was stirred to its highest …At the close of the day about 25 eligible young men were obtained for service.”

June 18th. “Probably there is not a single parish in Mid-Gloucestershire which remains untouched by the casualties of war. Every week that passes adds to the lengthening ‘Roll of Honour,’ and the toll of death goes on.  It is this inevitable phase of war that is bringing its effects home to many who otherwise might regard it lightly. We cannot even approximately estimate the death-roll of Mid-Gloucestershire men, but we shall not be over-stating the total if we say it already exceeds three figures, while several hundred have been wounded more or less severely. Nevertheless, in spite, or perhaps, because of these losses, we know it is the grim resolution to carry on the war until the brutal Germans are beaten and crushed is even stronger to-day than it was ten months ago.”

If you want to find the old battalion,
I know where they are, I know where they are, I know where they are
If you want to find the old battalion, I know where they are,
They’re hanging on the old barbed wire,
I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em, hanging on the old barbed wire.
I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em, hanging on the old barbed wire.

August 20th. “The casualty lists issued this week showed that the 7th Gloucesters – the first battalion of Kitchener’s Army raised in the county, and containing a large percentage of the August recruits from this district – were in the thick of the fighting on the Gallipoli peninsular during the previous week-end.”

We’ve watched you playing cricket and every kind of game,
At football, golf and polo you men have made your name.
But now your country calls you to play your part in war.
And no matter what befalls you
We shall love you all the more.
So come and join the forces
As your fathers did before.
Oh, we don’t want to lose you but we think you ought to go.
For your King and your country both need you so.
We shall want you and miss you
But with all our might and main
We shall cheer you, thank you, bless you
When you come home again.

October 22nd: “Evidence of the inevitable waning of the recruiting boom was forthcoming when, after a ‘largely attended recruiting meeting’ held outside the George Hotel, Stroud, at which the Band of the 1st Gloucesters played selections of music, ‘one man – an old soldier – stepped out of the crowd and offered himself amidst cheers.’’

I don’t want to be a soldier,
I don’t want to go to war,
I’d rather stay at home,
Around the streets to roam,
And live on the earnings of a lady typist.
I don’t want a bayonet in my belly,
I don’t want my shoulders shot away,
I’d rather stay in England,
In merry, merry England,
And eat and drink my drunken life away.

December 31st: “ Hopes that were high last New Year’s Eve have been brought down to the dust of realities…We have learned that there can be no such thing as an easy victory; the price must be paid to the full.”

1916

January 28th: “It is an encouraging sign that Mrs. Hudson Lyall’s lecture on ‘How Women can help to Win the War’ should have been so well attended last night…The part that women have taken in the war has, we believe, done more good for the cause of female suffrage than the hysterical demonstrations of militant suffragists did harm in the days before the war.’

February 4th: “Stroud has, within the last week or two, been able to form a fairly comprehensive idea of what is meant by the ‘mud of Flanders.’ The arrival on short leave of men ‘straight from the trenches’ has been an enlightening event, for never in all the town’s history have muddier men been seen in Stroud. Several recent arrivals have reached the local railway station literally encrusted in Flanders mud. From the crown of their heads to the soles of their well-shod feet they have been plastered with mud, but that has had no apparent effect on their vigorous health or buoyant spirits.”

Bombed last night, and bombed the night before.
Going to get bombed tonight if we never get bombed anymore.
When we’re bombed, we’re scared as we can be.
Can’t stop the bombing from old Higher Germany.
They’re warning us, they’re warning us.
One shell hole for just the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars there are no more of us.
So one of us can fill it all alone.
Gassed last night, and gassed the night before.
Going to get gassed tonight if we never get gassed anymore.
When we’re gassed, we’re sick as we can be.
For phosgene and mustard gas is much too much for me.
They’re killing us, they’re killing us.
One respirator for the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars that we can all run fast.
So one of us can take it all alone.

February 18th: “The lighting of Stroud is now sensibly diminished, and although we do not assume that the town could be completely hidden from the glasses of an airship observer, the identification of distinctive buildings is certainly an impossibility.”

Hush, here comes a Whizzbang.
Hush, here comes a Whizzbang.
Now you soldiermen get down those stairs,
Down in your dugouts and say your prayers.
Hush, here comes a Whizzbang,
And it’s making right for you.
And you’ll see all the wonders of No-Man’s-Land,
If a Whizzbang, hits you.
June 30th: “We are glad to see the Military Representative at the Nailsworth Tribunal did not oppose the appeal of an applicant who was the father of seven young children. In the earlier days there was very little discrimination shown with regard to the enlistment of fathers of large families. One clear example was that of a Stroud man, the father of ten young children, who volunteered, and was accepted for general service. The separation allowances in his case amount to an unnecessarily costly total, and in the event of his death no fewer than eleven dependents would be cast on the State.”
Up to your waist in water, up to your eyes in slush,
using the kind of language that makes the sergeant blush,
Who wouldn’t join the army? That’s what we all enquire.
Don’t we pity the poor civilian sitting by the fire.
(Chorus)
Oh, oh, oh it’s a lovely war.
Who wouldn’t be a soldier, eh? Oh it’s a shame to take the pay.
As soon as reveille has gone we feel just as heavy as lead,
but we never get up till the sergeant brings our breakfast up to bed.
Oh, oh, oh, it’s a lovely war.
what do we want with eggs and ham when we’ve got plum and apple jam?
Form fours. Right turn. How shall we spend the money we earn?
Oh, oh, oh it’s a lovely war.
When does a soldier grumble? When does he make a fuss?
No one is more contented in all the world than us.
Oh it’s a cushy life, boys, really we love it so:
Once a fellow was sent on leave and simply refused to go.
(Chorus)
Come to the cookhouse door, boys, sniff the lovely stew.
Who is it says the colonel gets better grub than you?
Any complaints this morning? Do we complain? Not we.
What’s the matter with lumps of onion floating around the tea?
(Chorus)

July 14th: “In the Stroud district many homes are in mourning. In such a war as this it is inevitable that war should reap a great harvest. But in every home – in every house and cottage from which a brave man has gone never to return – there is the same brave recognition of the necessity of the sacrifice, and the same unwavering faith in the cause for which these gallant men have yielded their lives.”

All night long I hear you calling,
Calling sweet and low;
Seem to hear your footsteps falling,
Ev’ry where I go.
Tho’ the road between us stretches
Many a weary mile,
I forget that you’re not with me yet
When I think I see you smile.
Chorus:
There’s a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingales are singing
And a white moon beams.
There’s a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true;
Till the day when I’ll be going down
That long, long trail with you.

October 20th: “The Somme pictures proved to be the greatest cinema attraction ever presented to the public of the Stroud district, and we congratulate the management of the Empire Theatre on securing the wonderful film for their patrons…The pictures gave us some little conception of the tremendous amount of energy expended in this one theatre of the war. They gave us, too, some faint inkling of the immense and tragic waste of war: the blasted land, the material wreckage, the broken men and the irrecoverable lives. Their effect was saddening and at the same time inspiring…The half-demented German prisoners aroused sentiments not of derision but of pity…But the dominant impression was that of the bouyancy of our own incomparable men. Surely in all the tragic history of war a more light-hearted, high-spirited and fearless army has never marched into the zone of death and pain? The incalculable debt we owe to these heroes can never be liquidated: for all time the race will be their debtor. No words could record so convincingly as these pictures of actual war scenes the splendid spirit of Britain’s fighting men.”

The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,
For you but not for me,
And the little devils how they sing-a-ling-a-ling,
For you but not for me.
Oh death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,
Oh grave, thy victory?
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you but not for me.

1917

May 11th: “The King’s Proclamation exhorting the public to practice food economy was read in all of the churches and chapels throughout Stroud and district on Sunday, the 6th inst. The Vicar of Holy Trinity delivered a special sermon on the subject.”

June 8th: “The ceremony of the consecration of the Wayside Cross at Woodchester was held on Sunday evening…The Stroud and Nailsworth Companies of the Volunteers formed a guard of honour. To a very large congregation gathered in the field below the Monastery, the Rev. Father Hugh Pope explained that it was intended to inscribe on the base of the Cross the names of fallen soldiers and sailors of the district.”

August 10th: “The third anniversary of the British declaration of war against Germany was fittingly observed in Stroud by the public meeting held in King Street Parade on Saturday evening…A large crowd assembled to hear the patriotic speeches…War-weariness, especially among those who have to make the greater sacrifices and who reap none of the profits arising from this ruinous struggle, has necessarily to be fought with resolution, and undoubtedly the speeches at last Saturday’s meeting had a stimulating effect on those who perhaps were growing a little weary of the exactions of war…The pageant and fete organised by munition workers of the Stroud district was held on August Bank Holiday at Fromehall Park. Nearly 200 persons took part in a fancy dress parade from King Street to the Park, and very large crowds watched the procession and attended the fete. The Lightpill Works won the first prize for a decorated lorry with a representation of “John Bull and the Allies.”

If you want to find the old battalion,
I know where they are, I know where they are, I know where they are
If you want to find the old battalion, I know where they are,
They’re hanging on the old barbed wire,
I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em, hanging on the old barbed wire.
I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em, hanging on the old barbed wire.

August 17th: “The Gloucesters have been in action recently in Flanders, and a number of casualties to local men are reported. It is some time since the battalion to which many Mid-Gloucestershire men are attached have been engaged in heavy fighting and until the present offensive move we have, fortunately, not been called upon to report an excessive number of casualties. But this comparative immunity could hardly, considering the attritive character of modern fighting, be expected to continue, and the present offensive is exacting a toll of Mid-Gloucestershire men which will, we fear, bring mourning and anxiety to many homes.

September 7th: “A great recruiting rally in connection with the 4th Battalion Gloucestershire Volunteer Regiment was held at Stroud on Thursday evening. Officers and men of the Stroud Company marched through the town, captured German guns and trench mortars figuring in the procession. A meeting was subsequently held in King Parade, a number of speeches being made. About 20 recruits were obtained.

September 14th: “Following an unusually cold spring and a wet summer the chances of a fine autumn this year are correspondingly greater. A fine September and October will have an incalculable effect on the Allied campaign on the Western Front. The awful conditions in Flanders during August did more to save the crumbling German line than all Hindenburg’s massed guns and machine-gun emplacements, and 80 per cent. of our casualties (which were very heavy during July and August) were primarily due to the awful mud and swamps that made progress absolutely impossible on many parts of the French front.”

(Tune: ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’)
Forward Joe Soap’s army, marching without fear,
With our old commander, safely in the rear.
He boasts and skites from morn till night,
And thinks he’s very brave,
But the men who really did the job are dead and in their grave.
Forward Joe Soap’s army, marching without fear,
With our old commander, safely in the rear.

Amen.

November 16th: “The flotsam and jetsam of the battlefield may be seen in every county in England…The wounded and stricken men who come to the various hospitals of Mid-Gloucestershire are just as well cared for as those who led the van three years ago. The lavish feting of convalescent men has necessarily undergone considerable restriction in these days of comparative scarcity, but we think the medical and nursing staffs will agree with us that the general health of these patients has not suffered in consequence.”
December 7th: “A war memorial which took the form of a fountain and water supply, was presented to the village of Oakridge.”

December 21st: “For the fourth occasion since the Kaiser plunged Europe into the cauldron of the most bloody war in all history, we have reached the threshold of Christmastide…There will be little of the pre-war feasting in patriotic homes during Christmastide this year. It should be the aim of each one of us to celebrate the festival as frugally as possible, remembering the heavy toll exacted week by week on the country’s shipping…By this time next year the war will be over, and whether its end is sealed with the success of the Allied cause depends largely on Britain’s part during the next six months…

Whiter than the whitewash on the wall!
Whiter than the whitewash on the wall!
Oh wash me in the water that you wash your dirty daughter in,
So that I can be whiter than the whitewash on the wall!
On the wall, on the wall, On the wall, on the wall,
Oh wash me in the water that you wash your dirty daughter in,
So that I can be whiter than the whitewash on the wall!

1918

April 5th: “The most tragic Eastertide, not only within memory of the oldest inhabitant of the Stroud district, but in all the centuries of recorded history, has come and gone, but few of us, during its passing, have not had our thoughts mainly centred on the blood-soaked fields of France, where the greatest battle of all time is being fought, the results of which will be indelibly stamped on the world’s history for a thousand years…the supreme phase of the German effort to beat down and dominate the civilised world…In view of the very heavy casualties which must inevitably result from the costly fighting of the past fortnight we are afraid many local homes will have to mourn the loss of near and dear ones…

I wore a tunic, a dirty khaki tunic,
And you wore your civvy clothes,
We fought and bled at Loos,
While you were on the booze,
The booze that no one here knows.
You were out with the wenches,
While we were in the trenches,
Facing an angry foe,
Oh, you were a-slacking, while we were attacking
the Germans on the Menin Road.

April 19th: “It is difficult to write of events in France in these difficult days, when events might transform everything in the course of a few hours, but whatever course the vast struggle takes, whether it be to our advantage or disadvantage, one cannot refrain from expressing the confident hope that the heroic endurance, and self-sacrifice, and courage of our troops will have an inspiring sequel in the defeat of an exhausted enemy. We know that the toll of casualties is very heavy – and from the Stroud district alone we fear the list will prove a lengthy one – but we also know that the Germans have suffered losses incomparably greater…

May 31st: “The war has not brought many changes to the Stroud district. Were it not for the recurrent drone of the aeroplane and the occasional sight of motor lorries we should have very few visual reminders of the long-drawn out struggle across the Channel, save, of course, for the presence of the wounded soldiers at the local Red Cross hospitals. But if we penetrate a little beneath the exterior it is easy to see how the war has entered practically every home. The Stroud district has given freely of its manhood…and has mourned the loss of many a gallant son, or brother, or husband since the call to arms…But it is “carrying on” and its women are proving themselves worthy of their race. Their record of ‘war-work’ is one on which they might look back with pride and satisfaction when the longed-for ‘peace with honour’ arrives.”

June 28th: “It was stated that the hamlet of Nag’s Head, near Avening, had sent 17 men to fight for their country. There were only 18 houses in the hamlet.”

August 9th: “The heartening news of the second German retreat from the Marne last Saturday made an appropriate complement to the local commemoration services in connection with the anniversary of the declaration of war. But it was significant that all the sermons preached throughout the Stroud district were restrained rather than triumphant…”

August 30th: “It was reported that Corpl. W. Latham, Duke of Cornwall’s L.I., son of the late Mr. W. Latham, of Watledge, Nailsworth, had died in Germany from “sepsis, following a shattered thigh, while a prisoner of war in Germany.”

September 6th: …Lieut. Clifford Downing, of the Gloucesters, had a near shave during the German push in March…He was left with his platoon to cover a bridge-head…Then as he got up to go after the platoon had passed over, a machine gun bullet went through both thighs and temporarily paralysed him. He could not walk, nor could he stand to get on the back of his servant. The Germans were only 200 yards away. His servant, however, discovered a wheelbarrow in a cottage close by, placed him in and wheeled him over…It says a good deal for the British Army that although eleven officers of the Battalion were wounded and missing that day, in all cases their servants stuck to them to the end.”

And when they ask us, how dangerous it was,
Oh, we’ll never tell them, no, we’ll never tell them:
We spent our pay in some cafe,
And fought wild women night and day,
‘Twas the cushiest job we ever had.
And when they ask us, and they’re certainly going to ask us,
The reason why we didn’t win the Croix de Guerre,
Oh, we’ll never tell them, oh, we’ll never tell them
There was a front, but damned if we knew where.

October 4th: “The heartening war news of this week has not led to any demonstrations of the ‘Joy Bells’ category in the Stroud district, but it has nevertheless inspired a feeling of satisfaction and relief which in its depth has not been reached since the war began…How splendid a part is being played by the British soldier in this overthrow of a mighty enemy the Nation hardly realises in its broad entirety. But it is shown in the changing colours of the map of Europe and Asia. It is a very proud day for the British Empire.”
I want to go home, I want to go home.

I don’t want to go in the trenches no more,
Where whizzbangs and shrapnel they whistle and roar.
Take me over the see, where the Alleyman can’t get at me.
Oh my, I don’t want to die, I want to go home.
I want to go home, I want to go home.
I don’t want to visit la Belle France no more,
For oh the Jack Johnsons they make such a roar.
Take me over the sea, where the snipers they can’t get at me.
Oh my, I don’t want to die, I want to go home.

October 18th: “We appear to be moving swiftly towards the peace which for four long years we have, through supreme sacrifice and unfaltering resolution been seeking. But it is not the peace which the Kaiser had planned. It is not even the peace which his accommodating Ministers had in view when they appealed to President Wilson.”

“Shortly before 11 a.m. on Monday, November 11th, the following official bulletin was posted outside the “Stroud News” Office: The Armistice was signed at 5 o’clock this morning, and hostilities are to cease on all Fronts at 11 a.m. today.’
On the stroke of 11 the bell at Messrs. Holloway’s factory clanged forth, the syrens at the local mills were sounded, and within an incredibly short time the streets were filled with excited citizens and bright-faced children. It was fitting that so soon after the news of the cessation of hostilities became known in Stroud a public service of thanksgiving was held in the Parish Church, and was attended by a congregation representative of all classes and religious denominations. The display of flags and bunting throughout the whole district gave a joyous touch to the demonstrations … The street scenes have been varied and sometimes amusing, and a little license, after more than four years’ strict repression, on the part of the young people, could be viewed with toleration. It is an event that never again will be celebrated in their lives, and even the excellent guardians of public order have not been oblivious of this fact.”

When this lousy war is over,
No more soldiering for me,
When I get my civvy clothes on,
Oh, how happy I shall be!
No more church parades on Sunday,
No more putting in for leave,
I shall kiss the sergeant-major,
How I’ll miss him, how he’ll grieve!
Amen.

The Peace Year, 1919

March 14th: “Co.-Sergt.-Major E.C. Brown, A.S.C., of Tinkley Farm, Nailsworth, a local Territorial who had served throughout the war, died at his home just a fortnight after he had been demobilised.”

July 4th: “Shortly after three o’clock last Saturday afternoon the great world war came officially to an end by the signing of the Peace Treaty in the Hall of Mirrors at the Chateau of Versailles…For good or ill the Treaty has been framed and it has been signed…We may hope that…a reformed Germany and a rehabilitated and self-governing Russia will before the next decade has run its course have become members of the League of Nations. If we are to be free of the eternal threat of war these great peoples must be drawn again into the comity of nations.
Throughout the Stroud District last Saturday evening the signing of the Peace Treaty was joyously celebrated…Bells were ringing in many church belfries, flags were again unfurled, townsmen and villagers alike took part in the impromptu demonstrations. Stroud on Saturday night was thronged with good humoured, happy crowds…We have won a great victory. But even in the hour of our recognition of the magnitude of this victory we cannot lose sight of all the difficulties that have yet to be overcome before its ripe fruits fall into our hands…It has impoverished England…We have to carry an immense load of debt, and the depreciation of our currency is shown by the abnormal price of practically every commodity or comestible…The pre-war standard of wages has gone never to return. A better standard of living, shorter working hours, for the working classes, must be one of the first effects of this dawning peace-time. Wee glad to say that a large section of the workers are already enjoying these benefits. The danger is that extremists will by ill-considered and reckless tactics rob them of these hardly-won advantages in the same way as Bolshevism has robbed the Russian industrial classes.”

They were summoned from the hillside,
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardship,
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking
Make it sing this cheery song:
Keep the home fires burning
While your hearts are yearning,
Though the lads are far away,
They dream of home.
There’s a silver lining,
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out,
Till the boys come home.

An FGR and Walter Tull Declamation

Let the living answer the roll call of the dead:
Walter Tull of Spurs and Northampton Town KIA 1918;

And now the names from Forest Green:
Harry Watts was born in 1891 in Avening.
Harry joined the 6th Signal Corps of the Royal Engineers
prior to outbreak of war and became a Corporal.
He received the Military Medal in 1915.

Ernest Beale was born in 1897.
He worked as a brass worker before joining up.
He died in 1916 at Exeter Hospital of meningitis.

Names from another century come back to haunt us:
Walter, and Ernest, and Harry,
Names once shouted over a football pitch,
‘Give it to Walter’,
‘Over here, Harry,
‘Shoot, Ernie’;

The imperatives of a football team
Replaced by new orders in khaki, with
Night patrols, barbed wire and machine guns;
Muddied football boots forgotten
In the trench foot fields of Flanders;
The clamour from the ground and stands
No match for whizz bangs, mortars and howitzers;
The fogs of a November match,
Innocent memories in a gas attack:

‘Over the top tomorrow, Harry’,
‘Keep your head down, Ernie’,
‘Stay quiet. Don’t shoot, Ernie’,
‘Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll get you to hospital’,
‘Where’s Walter?’

Let the living answer the roll call of the dead:
Walter Tull of Spurs and Northampton Town KIA 1918;

And now the names from Forest Green:
Harry Watts was born in 1891 in Avening.
Harry joined the 6th Signal Corps of the Royal Engineers
prior to outbreak of war and became a Corporal.
He received the Military Medal in 1915.

Ernest Beale was born in 1897.
He worked as a brass worker before joining up.
He died in 1916 at Exeter Hospital of meningitis.

Names from another century come back to haunt us:
Walter, and Ernest, and Harry,
Names once shouted over a football pitch,
‘Give it to Walter’,
‘Over here, Harry,
‘Shoot, Ernie’;

The imperatives of a football team
Replaced by new orders in khaki, with
Night patrols, barbed wire and machine guns;
Muddied football boots forgotten
In the trench foot fields of Flanders;
The clamour from the ground and stands
No match for whizz bangs, mortars and howitzers;
The fogs of a November match,
Innocent memories in a gas attack:

‘Over the top tomorrow, Harry’,
‘Keep your head down, Ernie’,
‘Stay quiet. Don’t shoot, Ernie’,
‘Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll get you to hospital’,
‘Where’s Walter?’

You may have known each other,
Played with or against each other,
Trained together,
Boarded ships and trains together,
Relieved each other in the trenches,
And who knows?
Some of the Nailsworth, Shortwood and Forest Green players
Who survived the war,
May have searched for your body, Walter,
Before and after your last breath and memories,
Memories of Spurs and Northampton,
And childhood,
And a grandmother who had been a slave,
And you, an officer now,
Revered and loved by his men,
Searching for you out there in no man’s land,
As you breathe your last breath,
In whatever corner of a foreign field,
Which will always be an England,
Where the wind rushes.

And, who knows?
They may have talked of you,
That fine footballer, officer and gentleman,
When gathering in the Jovial Forester,
Toasting you with Stroud Brewery beer,
But then forgetting you as times grew hard,
As the wind rushes by.

As the Wind Rushes by.

A Swindon Town FC and Walter Tull Declamation

Let the living answer the roll call of the dead:
Walter Tull of Spurs and Northampton Town KIA 1918;

And now the names of the Robins:
Billy Brewer KIA 1914
Jim Chalmers KIA 1915
Ted Murphy died of head wounds 1916
Billy Kirby KIA 1917
Albert Milton KIA 1917

Arthur Beadsworth KIA 1917

Freddy Wheatcroft KIA1917

Names from another century come back to haunt us:
Walter, Billy, Jim, Ted, Billy, Albert, Arthur, Freddy,
Names once shouted over a football pitch,
‘Give it to Walter’,
‘Over here, Freddie,
‘Shoot, Billy’;

The imperatives of a football team
Replaced by new orders in khaki, with
Night patrols, barbed wire and machine guns;
Muddied football boots forgotten
In the trench foot fields of Flanders;
The clamour from the ground and stands
No match for whizz bangs, mortars and howitzers;
The fogs of a November match,
Innocent memories in a gas attack:

Let the living answer the roll call of the dead:
Walter Tull of Spurs and Northampton Town KIA 1918;

And now the names of the Robins:
Billy Brewer KIA 1914
Jim Chalmers KIA 1915
Ted Murphy died of head wounds 1916
Billy Kirby KIA 1917
Albert Milton KIA 1917

Arthur Beadsworth KIA 1917

Freddy Wheatcroft KIA1917

Names from another century come back to haunt us:
Walter, Billy, Jim, Ted, Billy, Albert, Arthur, Freddy,
Names once shouted over a football pitch,
‘Give it to Walter’,
‘Over here, Freddie,
‘Shoot, Billy’;

The imperatives of a football team
Replaced by new orders in khaki, with
Night patrols, barbed wire and machine guns;
Muddied football boots forgotten
In the trench foot fields of Flanders;
The clamour from the ground and stands
No match for whizz bangs, mortars and howitzers;
The fogs of a November match,
Innocent memories in a gas attack:

‘Over the top tomorrow, Arthur’,
‘Keep your head down, Albert’,
‘Stay quiet. Don’t shoot, Billy’,
‘Don’t worry, Fred. We’ll get you on this stretcher’,
‘Where’s Jim?’

You may have known each other,
Played with or against each other,
Trained together,
Boarded ships and trains together,
Relieved each other in the trenches,
And who knows?
Some of the Swindon players who survived the war,
May have searched for your body, Walter,
Before and after your last breath and memories,
Memories of Spurs and Northampton,
And childhood,
And a grandmother who had been a slave,
And you, an officer now,
Revered and loved by his men,
Searching for you out there in no man’s land,
As you breathe your last breath,
In whatever corner of a foreign field,
Which will always be an England,
Where the wind rushes.

The following Swindon players survived the Great War,
And who knows?
They may have searched for Walter’s body:

Bertie Arman died 1972
Tommy Bolland died 1967
Bertie Denyer died 15.3.69 (League Cup Final day at Wembley)
Charlie Giles died 1953
Jack Lee died 1951
Matty Lochead died 1964
George Maunders died 1935
Dave Rogers died 1975
Bert Warman died 1955
Tober Weston died 1966

Hello Stuart,

I am the grandson of Bertie Denyer who joined the 23rd Battalion (First Sportmans) Royal Fusiliers .I believe he was wounded in France and evacuated back to England. On recovery he was posted to Edinburgh Castle and played for Hearts in the 1916-17 season and became the top scorer for them .Many of the Hearts players had enlisted but suffered heavy losses and I believe there is a memorial to them at the stadium.
He went to Dublin for a short time and then to Lagos, Nigeria where he was a PT instructor. After the War he returned to Swindon Town.

I am not sure when your request was published in the newspaper as I have just been sent a cutting by a friend who lives in Swindon.

Best Wishes,

Paul Denyer

.

The Famous Five, Windrush, Walter Tull and Enoch Powell

The Famous Five and Enoch Powell and Walter Tull

What an extraordinary coincidence,
That on the fiftieth anniversary
Of Enoch Powell’s ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech,
Our railway stations should be awash
With ‘Five Go on Holiday’ GWR posters;
Four children – well adults really – and a dog,
Escaping to a whitewashed cottage,
In a West Country all white fastness,
Where BBC received pronunciation,
Snobbish condescension,
And lower class deference
Keep everyone in their place,
Abetted by kindly constables on the beat,
Who will willingly tell you the time.

The Famous Five and Enoch Powell and Walter Tull

What an extraordinary coincidence,
That on the fiftieth anniversary
Of Enoch Powell’s ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech,
Our railway stations should be awash
With ‘Five Go on Holiday’ GWR posters;
Four children – well adults really – and a dog,
Escaping to a whitewashed cottage,
In a West Country all white fastness,
Where BBC received pronunciation,
Snobbish condescension,
And lower class deference
Keep everyone in their place,
Abetted by kindly constables on the beat,
Who will willingly tell you the time.

And in the real world far away from cliffs and coves,
Far away from picnics, cream cakes and ginger beer:
Youth services, early intervention, Sure Start,
And imaginative initiatives are being cut,
Young men and women are dying in the streets,
Their faces appearing only in a newspaper,
Not on a railway station advertisement
That portrays a holiday westwards
As an escape from the present tense;
And other black faces appear in the newspaper,
The children of the Windrush generation,
Now applying for pensions,
But threatened with deportation,
Even though they have worked hard here all their consequent lives:
What an extraordinary coincidence,
That on the fiftieth anniversary
Of Enoch Powell’s ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech,
Our railway stations should be awash
With ‘Five Go on Holiday’ GWR posters –
So let’s hope the new memorialization of Walter Tull,
Professional footballer and the army’s first black officer,
2nd Lieutenant Walter Tull,
Once a printer, grandson of a slave, orphaned son of a joiner,
KIA 25th March 1918, aged 29,
Eulogised by his Commanding Officer,
“The battalion and company have lost a faithful officer
and personally, I have lost a friend”,
And so popular with his men,
That they repeatedly tried to get him back,
As he lay dead in No Mans’ Land,
Let’s hope the new memorialisation of Walter,
Can contribute to the saving of young lives,
And the ending of Windrush heartbreak:

Otherwise his life was lost in vain.

Walter Daniel John Tull (28 April 1888 – 25 March 1918)

‘We are positioned in the knowledge that we are living
in the afterlives of slavery, sitting in the room with history …’

Christina Sharpe In the Wake On Blackness and Being
Duke University Press 2018

Inprint Eulogy

The Inprint shop and building in the High Street in Stroud,
Resembles nothing so much as something out of Dickens,
An Old Curiosity Shop,
Defying straight lines of logic:
A seeming hexagonal structure,
With Wemmick-like turrets at the top;
The shop doorway on the corner at an angle,
With a fading palimpsest gable end advertisement
For something delicious and ‘home made’,
And a mysterious door numbered 31a,
That might – or might not- take us up flights of stairs,
Past so many Great Expectations,
And so to Mr. Wemmick’s castle up on high.

But far better than such an ascension,
Let us examine the shop windows:
Displays that follow the high ideals of public broadcasting,
Spectacles of books and comics and posters and maps,
All artfully and painstakingly arranged,
A tableau of colour and half-remembered past time,
A street mis en scene that arrests the eye,
And one which informs, educates and entertains,
A business that improves the mind of the passer-by,
As well as tempting the bibliophile;

Thanks to Deborah Roberts for the above photos.

The Inprint shop and building in the High Street in Stroud,
Resembles nothing so much as something out of Dickens,
An Old Curiosity Shop,
Defying straight lines of logic:
A seeming hexagonal structure,
With Wemmick-like turrets at the top;
The shop doorway on the corner at an angle,
With a fading palimpsest gable end advertisement
For something delicious and ‘home made’,
And a mysterious door numbered 31a,
That might – or might not- take us up flights of stairs,
Past so many Great Expectations,
And so to Mr. Wemmick’s castle up on high.

But far better than such an ascension,
Let us examine the shop windows:
Displays that follow the high ideals of public broadcasting,
Spectacles of books and comics and posters and maps,
All artfully and painstakingly arranged,
A tableau of colour and half-remembered past time,
A street mis en scene that arrests the eye,
And one which informs, educates and entertains,
A business that improves the mind of the passer-by,
As well as tempting the bibliophile;

When you enter the shop via the corner door,
Even though a bell doesn’t ring,
I always hear one,
A magical rite of passage,
For I am sure the bookshelves reach to ceilings
In rooms that seem to carry on for ever,
With posters and pictures and mechanical contrivances
Also inhabiting this liminal space.

It is as unlike George Orwell’s bookshop
As unlike can be –
‘books give off more and nastier dust
than any other class of objects yet invented …’ –
For at night, when Stroud’s High Street is muffled
In pitch-black silence,
The books come alive in Inprint:
Talking of their origins and import,
Boasting of their wisdom and sagacity,
Like nineteenth century backbenchers –
But their colloquy always ends in agreement,
For as dawn approaches,
The Old Curiosity Shop and
A la recherché du temps perdu,
Hop down to the table; stand upright,
And propose their daily toast:
“And so we conclude our discourse
Ladies and gentlemen,
With this question:
Are our owners Goodenough?”
And all the books reply in unison,
Banging the shelves with their pages
And the walls with their spines,
With an occasional tear but always a smile,
“No! They are sans pareil!”

But when the shop closes for the last time,
And Inprint goes online,
There won’t be a dry eye in the house,
When that toast is proposed for the final time –

But remember:
A la recherché du temps perdu
Reminds us all
That we can still enjoy our memories of this wonderful shop,
Be grateful for its existence,
Visit it online,
And cherish our madeleine moments,
For Joy and Mike Goodenough,
And dear old Inprint,
(Please raise your glasses,
Ladies, gentlemen and comrades)
Are simply,
“Sans pareil!”

Kindertransport

Remembering

You were a deep mid-winter baby, Harry,
Born in Vienna, the home of art and culture,
Just two years after Hitler’s Beer Hall Putsch.

But there was nothing to worry about
In those early years before memory,
When your mum and dad held you in their arms,
In mid-winter afternoon twilight –

Until the Wall Street Crash and depression
Meant the resurgence of fascism,
Militarism, the Third Reich,
Lebensraum, and a Greater Germany,
With a visit to Vienna from Hitler
(The city-birth of his fascism),
After Anschluss in 1938;

Remembering

You were a deep mid-winter baby, Harry,
Born in Vienna, the home of art and culture,
Just two years after Hitler’s Beer Hall Putsch.

But there was nothing to worry about
In those early years before memory,
When your mum and dad held you in their arms,
In mid-winter afternoon twilight –

Until the Wall Street Crash and depression
Meant the resurgence of fascism,
Militarism, the Third Reich,
Lebensraum, and a Greater Germany,
With a visit to Vienna from Hitler
(The city-birth of his fascism),
After Anschluss in 1938;

Then your childhood would prematurely end:
Segregated schooling; Kristallnacht –
Your father’s business looted and ruined;
Your dad arrested; your family evicted.

Unable to escape the Nazis,
Your dad will die of a heart attack,
Your mother will be transported to a death camp,
You and your sister will get to London
Through the kindertransport …

And now, Harry,
When you sit back in the chair and reminisce,
In the twilight of a mid-winter afternoon,
There has been so much more to your life
Than that childhood trauma, tragedy and heartbreak;
There is so much to recall with gladness …
But how can one forget?

And so,
When the clock ticks its way through the night,
You remember those days with crystal clear clarity,
Then speak to schoolchildren with eloquent power,
So that they never forget the Holocaust,
But speak of it, and remember it,
All the seasons’ days of their long lives,

While back home in Vienna,
People walk the busy streets,
Where memorials mark the pavements.

EDUCATING

It was a dull autumnal sort of day,
Leaves falling in far more than the ones and twos,
When some seventy students gathered
To hear Mr. Bibring speak of his past.

The register was politely read: children’s names
A faint echo of a Kindertransport rota;
Mr. Bibring was introduced,
The audience applauded,
Harry apologised for forgetting his memory stick:
‘I have done over 500 schools.
You have the doubtful privilege of being the first.
Without a memory stick.’
But with Harry’s charisma and charm,
Who needs a memory stick?
This wild swimmer and speed-skater across the ice,
‘In the mid-winter season’,

This hypnotic story-teller-historian,
Mesmerizing his audience with the drama,
Imagery and memory from the days
Of ‘Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Fuhrer’:
‘I can hear those voices till this very day’,

A magician conjuring with Time,
With voice, words, tone, cadence and eloquence:

Mum and dad and Gertie and Harry
Sitting around the dining table,
Father crying and sobbing his heart out,
Right there in front of our eyes,
Until they disappeared, one by one,
Leaving,
Harry,
Alone,
Right there in front of our eyes,
A magician, conjuring with Time …

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

It came upon a midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
When angels bent down to the earth,
And changed machine guns into harps,
And turned leaden bullets into golden carols
That drifted across no man’s land,
And choirs of soldiers joined the angels
In a cease-fire of exultation,
While all the bloodied uniformed citizens
Of heaven above watched as silent knights,
As helmets and caps and whisky and schnapps
Were passed from frozen side to frozen side,
When a Tommy kicked a football up into the air,
And there it stayed, suspended high up in the sky,
Shining for ever in a continent’s memory;
A star of peace in a bleak midwinter’s century.

It came upon a midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
When angels bent down to the earth,
And changed machine guns into harps,
And turned leaden bullets into golden carols
That drifted across no man’s land,
And choirs of soldiers joined the angels
In a cease-fire of exultation,
While all the bloodied uniformed citizens
Of heaven above watched as silent knights,
As helmets and caps and whisky and schnapps
Were passed from frozen side to frozen side,
When a Tommy kicked a football up into the air,
And there it stayed, suspended high up in the sky,
Shining for ever in a continent’s memory;
A star of peace in a bleak midwinter’s century.

North and South

There, on the one hand, St. Pancras and Paris;
And there, on the other, Kings Cross:
Gateway to the LNER,
And night mails crossing the border,

And gateway to a world we have lost:
Pit heads and winding gear, tram-roads and collieries,
And curling smoke chimney stacks:
The world of the North,

The canvas telling the truth,
Up there in the Mining Art Gallery,
At Bishop Auckland:

A terrible beauty down there in the dark depths,
And a beautiful harmony up there in the streets
And homes and chapels and clubs and pubs:
The stippled mist-light of the pit village,
The twisted sinews in the eighteen inch seam,
Ears keening with the creak of each pit prop,
The mind tracking the echo of dripping water,
And the whisper of each rock –

There, on the one hand, St. Pancras and Paris;
And there, on the other, Kings Cross:
Gateway to the LNER,
And night mails crossing the border,

And gateway to a world we have lost:
Pit heads and winding gear, tram-roads and collieries,
And curling smoke chimney stacks:
The world of the North,

The canvas telling the truth,
Up there in the Mining Art Gallery,
At Bishop Auckland:

A terrible beauty down there in the dark depths,
And a beautiful harmony up there in the streets
And homes and chapels and clubs and pubs:
The stippled mist-light of the pit village,
The twisted sinews in the eighteen inch seam,
Ears keening with the creak of each pit prop,
The mind tracking the echo of dripping water,
And the whisper of each rock –

The unspoken fear of entombment,
The threat of explosion;

Eyes quick and darting,

The scent of fire damp,
Methane in the air;

And then there, on another broad canvas,
The women in the kitchen, curlers in the hair,
Stoking up the fire, preparing the bait,
Eyes smarting in the washday steam;

Out there,
Pigeons and whippets and ponies in the field,
Spuds for sale with the Christmas wreaths,
Communal allotments and shared apple trees,

The colliery football teams,
Like West Auckland,
Winners of the first World Cup in 1908 –
They beat Juventus and all,
But didn’t get paid while they were away,

But at least their wives and mothers and sisters
Weren’t grieving at the pithead though,
Grieving for their menfolk,
Trapped down there below,
Bodies trapped and wrapped by the black gold,
The black gold that heated the homes and mansions,
The factories, warehouses, palaces, stations and offices,
The black gold
That powered the smiths, and forges and furnaces,
That powered the trains and shipping lines,
The battleships and the dreadnoughts.

But we were now gazing at a sunset smelted sky
Flaming out over drystone walls and snow capped hills,
And the tumps of old lead mines,

While Christmas lights blazed in the villages,
While pub windows glowed orange in the twilight,
Beyond the nail parlours and tattoo shops,

While we tracked the paths of Charles Dickens,
Wackford Squeers, Smike and Nicholas Nickleby,
Through Barnard Castle and thence to Durham,
Where men and women swopped tales of football,
And where three pints cost six quid,
And where we were allowed to serve ourselves,
While coal, not dole, fires roared in Victorian grates,

Until we went to the People’s Bookshop,
Where books to inspire and educate and value
All line the shelves,
Not priced, but there for a donation,
What you could afford –

And where we talked of a divided ruling class,
And where we talked of victory,
Victory for the working class,
Victory at the next election,
As the sun once more sank in the west;

And so to the Pitmen’s Parliament,
Where a vast audience gathered
Beneath the banners of past struggles and victories,
For a class struggle film of Dennis Skinner,
And talk not just of class,
But of race and gender, too,
Where the ghosts of Socialism past,
Embraced those of Socialism Present and Future,
A world not so much as lost,
As a paradise waiting to be regained,
A union of North and South:

‘Oh, Jeremy Corbyn.’

‘In the bar room, in the bar room,
That’s where we congregate,
To drill the holes, shovel coals and shovel up the slate,
And for to do a job of work,
Oh, I am never late,
That’s provided we can do it in the bar room.’