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F.a.o. Togo.
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Yesterday I received a Christmas present. It's a limited edition of
'The Gold Edition of the Centenary Compendium of Jabez Stories'
Stories in the North Staffordshire Dialect.
A.Scott (W.A. Bloor)
It's absolutely delightful and will keep me busy for a while.
Just thought you might be interested.
'The Gold Edition of the Centenary Compendium of Jabez Stories'
Stories in the North Staffordshire Dialect.
A.Scott (W.A. Bloor)
It's absolutely delightful and will keep me busy for a while.
Just thought you might be interested.
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Indeed Tills. Wilf Bloor used to write a column in the Sentinal. I like the fact that it is published by Clayhanger Press. At Wolstanton Grammar there was an annual recitation in a N.Staffs dialect competition. The dafter the story the better. The school was determined to erase the potteries dialect from the pupils and the masters would pull us up if we used it and correct our utterings in Queens own. Used to call us Staffordshire clods. It still makes me laugh. They would get locked up now for upsetting the little darlings. Not sure they were too successful to be honest, but on prize giving day it was one event that was looked forward to
There was one such "tale" that I remember well.
As a boy I was told, by someone who was there and witnessed the event, that what inspired the Clarice Cliff now iconic colour scheme of White-Black-Yellow and Red that featured in all her now highly collectable pottery designs was a Christmas party. As a child, and before she started work at t'pot bank, she used to help an older sister on her evening round selling cockles and mussels in vinegar to the numerous public houses in the Potteries. One evening just before Christmas they found themselves peddling their wares at the Malt Shovel just besides Holditch Colliery after pedalling down the A34 from Tunstall. They had been tipped off that there was to be a bit of a Christmas "Do" there that evening and that all the workers from nearby would be having a bit of a knees up. Such gatherings in the area were of course strictly forbidden in the years between the "wars" on health and safety grounds although no such thing had yet been invented. The Holditch coalmine, Emburys Bread and Cake Bakery and the Parkhurst Tile and Brickworks had closed early for Christmas after a particularly nasty outbreak of impetigo caused by the dust and lack of rain due to a strike by the local glow bulls. The young ladies, called canaries due to skin discolouration caused by explosives, from the local munitions recycling centre at the Icky Picky in Newcastle had been invited to liven up proceedings. A few dabs and blobs of indigo violet on a number of their faces added to the already abstract colour scheme, and although they all looked a little jaundiced due to the chemicals, they had a reputation for making things "go with a bang". The Malt Shovel was in full on party mood and the colliery band had abandoned the military tunes for a session of intoxicating jazz and flapper inspired renditions when the Cliff sisters entered the bar unchaperoned and in awe. Everyone was up and dancing and the bar was a blur of red, black, yellow and white. The black faced miners, red faced brick makers, white faced bakers and yellow faces of the munitions girls in a whirl of movement and abandon had a profound an inspiring effect on young Clarice that was to stay with her and us for ever. What sealed the moment in her young and impressionable sub conscience was the explosion. The clothing of all the party goers was of course dust laden and being beaten into the air by the rhythmic and vigorous movement of the now frenzied dancers. When one participant decided to make sparks with her clogs on the quarry tile floor the mixture of coal, brick, flour and gunpowder dust exploded in an almighty boom that was heard in Fegg Hayes and beyond. The miners faces went white, the bakers faces went red, the brickmakers faces went yellow and the munitions girls all had black looks from everybody else. Luckily the only serious casualties were the pigeons on the roof. The roof was found in the "Dead Dog" marl hole some 2 miles away, almost intact except for the charred timbers and dozens of broken ridge tiles. Alas the only pigeon remains were enough feathers to stuff a double mattress and enough numbered rings to make a colourful necklace. For weeks after there was the most delicious smell of hot toast and roast pigeon in the locality and to this day the Christmas toast around Chesterton and Crackley Bank is Merry Cliffmas.
As a boy I was told, by someone who was there and witnessed the event, that what inspired the Clarice Cliff now iconic colour scheme of White-Black-Yellow and Red that featured in all her now highly collectable pottery designs was a Christmas party. As a child, and before she started work at t'pot bank, she used to help an older sister on her evening round selling cockles and mussels in vinegar to the numerous public houses in the Potteries. One evening just before Christmas they found themselves peddling their wares at the Malt Shovel just besides Holditch Colliery after pedalling down the A34 from Tunstall. They had been tipped off that there was to be a bit of a Christmas "Do" there that evening and that all the workers from nearby would be having a bit of a knees up. Such gatherings in the area were of course strictly forbidden in the years between the "wars" on health and safety grounds although no such thing had yet been invented. The Holditch coalmine, Emburys Bread and Cake Bakery and the Parkhurst Tile and Brickworks had closed early for Christmas after a particularly nasty outbreak of impetigo caused by the dust and lack of rain due to a strike by the local glow bulls. The young ladies, called canaries due to skin discolouration caused by explosives, from the local munitions recycling centre at the Icky Picky in Newcastle had been invited to liven up proceedings. A few dabs and blobs of indigo violet on a number of their faces added to the already abstract colour scheme, and although they all looked a little jaundiced due to the chemicals, they had a reputation for making things "go with a bang". The Malt Shovel was in full on party mood and the colliery band had abandoned the military tunes for a session of intoxicating jazz and flapper inspired renditions when the Cliff sisters entered the bar unchaperoned and in awe. Everyone was up and dancing and the bar was a blur of red, black, yellow and white. The black faced miners, red faced brick makers, white faced bakers and yellow faces of the munitions girls in a whirl of movement and abandon had a profound an inspiring effect on young Clarice that was to stay with her and us for ever. What sealed the moment in her young and impressionable sub conscience was the explosion. The clothing of all the party goers was of course dust laden and being beaten into the air by the rhythmic and vigorous movement of the now frenzied dancers. When one participant decided to make sparks with her clogs on the quarry tile floor the mixture of coal, brick, flour and gunpowder dust exploded in an almighty boom that was heard in Fegg Hayes and beyond. The miners faces went white, the bakers faces went red, the brickmakers faces went yellow and the munitions girls all had black looks from everybody else. Luckily the only serious casualties were the pigeons on the roof. The roof was found in the "Dead Dog" marl hole some 2 miles away, almost intact except for the charred timbers and dozens of broken ridge tiles. Alas the only pigeon remains were enough feathers to stuff a double mattress and enough numbered rings to make a colourful necklace. For weeks after there was the most delicious smell of hot toast and roast pigeon in the locality and to this day the Christmas toast around Chesterton and Crackley Bank is Merry Cliffmas.
Togo - // Indeed Tills. Wilf Bloor used to write a column in the Sentinal. I like the fact that it is published by Clayhanger Press. At Wolstanton Grammar there was an annual recitation in a N.Staffs dialect competition. The dafter the story the better. The school was determined to erase the potteries dialect from the pupils and the masters would pull us up if we used it and correct our utterings in Queens own. Used to call us Staffordshire clods. It still makes me laugh. They would get locked up now for upsetting the little darlings. Not sure they were too successful to be honest, but on prize giving day it was one event that was looked forward to //
I'm an ex-Wolstanton boy myself, and I remember they had Potteries dialect stories in the school magazine.
Of course, you will remember that the *** (our esteemed Head Mr Williams) had pretensions for our school, sadly not met with the material he had to work with!
Yes he had the gorgeous frontage where only Six Formers could sedately walk, but the other five forms were the rest of the school, stuck around the back with the coke heaps and the kitchens and the bogs, getting dirty and making a racket.
And his beloved rugby, not football, and masters in gowns, and all of us addressed by our surnames, it was a very different world.
But as you say, the dialect was still around then, and although it is dying out, I do like to read the old stories and I, as I am sure you, and most locals do, translate them as they sound out loud the phonetic written language, and keep the accent alive.
You will understand this, as will other Stokies, for the rest it will be a mystery -
"Sit thee dine owd, thee looks clemmed!!"
I'm an ex-Wolstanton boy myself, and I remember they had Potteries dialect stories in the school magazine.
Of course, you will remember that the *** (our esteemed Head Mr Williams) had pretensions for our school, sadly not met with the material he had to work with!
Yes he had the gorgeous frontage where only Six Formers could sedately walk, but the other five forms were the rest of the school, stuck around the back with the coke heaps and the kitchens and the bogs, getting dirty and making a racket.
And his beloved rugby, not football, and masters in gowns, and all of us addressed by our surnames, it was a very different world.
But as you say, the dialect was still around then, and although it is dying out, I do like to read the old stories and I, as I am sure you, and most locals do, translate them as they sound out loud the phonetic written language, and keep the accent alive.
You will understand this, as will other Stokies, for the rest it will be a mystery -
"Sit thee dine owd, thee looks clemmed!!"
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