OUR TOWN SQUARE

I can sit for hours and gaze around,

At the folk that I can see there.

Some I know and some I don't,

That's what we see in our Town-Square

School-kids on their dinner break,

Mingling here and there.

Lots of noise and flirting,

That's what we have in our Town-Square

The smell of bacon butties ,

Comes wafting through the air.

The smell of fish and chips as well,

That's what we smell in our Town-Square

There's a tick and a tock from the Millennium clock,

And a coo-coo from the pigeons out there.

There's lots of noise from the kiddies as well,

That's what we hear in our Town-Square

Outside the cafe they're sat in the sun,

A coffee and cake without care.

Nodding and smiling to those who pass by,

That's what we have in our Town-Square

Once every year The French Market arrives,

With stalls from to sell us their ware.

Crepes and cheese and fancy bread,

That's what we have in notre Town-Square

Every now and then there is a "big do",

And who comes? The Town Crier and Mayor.

Oyez, Oyez, you have a good day,

That's what we have in our Town-Square

There's Liddles the bakers and Shambles as well,

The girls at The Cutting Room who will style your hair.

The Albert Road Chippy, Victoria's as well,

These are the shops in our Town-Square.

CAMELOT

I am, at last, after many painstaking years of research able to publish my findings on the history of Barnoldswick. What I have to reveal is probably the most important historical find since the Saxon burial mound at Sutton Hoo in 1939.

It has taken me many hours of research using maps, walking over the site and scouring hundreds of manuscripts in archives all over the North of England.

Once my findings become public the town will never be the same. We will be flooded by TV cameras, newspaper reporters, possibly Tony Robinson and the Time Team will come and will cause more disruption with their excavations than Balfour Beatty and their new water main.

I know it will take some believing but my researches tell me that Barnoldswick is the original site of CAMELOT.

Over the years many places have laid claim to being the site of Camelot, Cadbury Castle being one of them. This is a small village in Somerset some 15 miles South of Glastonbury. All that remains today is a ringed hillfort with evidence of a large castle inside the outer walls. There have been some extensive excavations of the site, and there are detailed reports of the archaeological dig available.

Here are my findings:

By the side of The Greyhound Hotel on Manchester Road there is a street called CASTLE View, now whether this was the site of the castle or you could see the castle from this spot I have not been able to find out. More work needs to be done on this aspect and, if possible, some excavation would solve the problem.

In the oldest part of the town there is a street called KING Street and down by what used to be The Fosters Arms an ARTHUR Street, this is surely more than a coincidence.

On Station Road is a cafe called Genevive. This name intrigued me for years, until the day I found amongst the records of The Duchy of Lancaster a deed from the 14th century (with ref. Lia R.) which showed the owner of a previous building on the site. The name Genevive is a corruption of the name GUINEVERE.

I worked for many years for Rolls-Royce at Bankfield Shed, and for a while actually worked building engines. I did some research into the history of Rolls-Royce at Barnoldswick, most of the engines were named after rivers, Nene, Trent etc. but the name of one early engine caught my eye, one of the earliest engines was called MERLIN, after the wizard.

When I married in 1966 I obtained a council house on Coates Estate on Avon Drive. Every morning I would walk along the road to work and then back again at night and quite a few times I had this eerie feeling surround me of something that was mystical, until one November morning, when the mist clung to the canal, this hand appeared clutching a sword and it suddenly dawned on me that Avon was a corruption of AVALON. This was the place where King Arthur was said to have been taken, when he was dieing, to be healed. There are lots of theories as to where Avalon might actually have been. Some say it was not a geographical place, but a euphemism for the otherworld.

King Arthur's father was called Uther Pendragon, it is from this that we get the old Lancashire saying "Pull the uther one, it's got bells on"

Now this is true, the wood on the left, past the quarry, as you leave Thornton is called Merlinwood

This one is surely the icing on the cake, there is a sign outside the front door of The Anchor Inn in Salterforth that reads, "THE ROUND TABLE meet here every Tuesday at 8 o'clock".

"...JUST FADE AWAY"

I've reached the age when I must slow down,

That's all I have to say.

I can't go any faster now,

Or I'll just fade away.

I really need to take my time,

To keep my age at bay,

To make the most of every hour,

Or I'll just fade away.

To sit and rest that's what I'll do,

This, the next and every day.

And count my blessings every one,

Or I'll just fade away.

The day went by I need my sleep,

And on my bed I lay.

I'll close my eyes, whisper a thanks,

And then just fade away.

...AND I SEE THEM THERE

I see them here and I see them there,

In fact I see them everywhere.

In every road and every street,

They're seen by everyone that I meet.

Not very big but they stand out proud,

Their garish colour is so loud.

Why they're there we do not know,

We just see them lined-up in a row.

I stand and stare and look at it,

And take it in just bit by bit.

I've picked it up it's in my hand,

The bloody postman's red elastic-band.

THE COLD CALLER

I see him walking towards me, suit, tie, identification badge round his neck; clipboard in hand, The Cold Caller!

Many, many times throughout my working life, I have given thanks to a/some/The God that I have had an office environment job, warm, light, quiet(ish).

I think of all the jobs I would hate to do.

And the Cold Caller is the one that I would hate the most.

Walking the streets in all weathers, knocking on the door of people whom you don't know, never knowing what would appear when the door(if it did) opened.

Knock, knock, a long pause, or so it seemed, the light appeared in the fanlight above the door, the door wrenched open in a "what the bloody hell do you want?" manner.

It was one of those houses where the front door opened straight into the living room and in the background of the lightless room glowed The TV.

The shadowy figure standing in the doorway, TV Times in hand, his eyes continually glancing at me and then darting back to gaze, longingly, at the TV, a look that said "please say what you have to whilst the adverts are on, and then go."

Knock, knock, the door slowly opened, just a few inches, to expose the security chain and there, some distance down from me, I saw an eye, a bloodshot watery eye, attached to a frail elderly lady with an hearing -aid.

"Good evening madam."

"eh?"

"Good evening madam."

"eh?"

"Good evening madam."

"What do you want?"

Knock, knock, No! Your worst nightmare, there stood in the doorway a "Slob", unshaven, tattooed, mucky vest, fag in mouth, fat belly, beer can in hand.

"What do you want?"

"Er, sorry sir, wrong house."

Knock, knock, BANG! The sound of bone against glass sets you shaking in your shoes, sweat flows from every pore in your body, you have never been as frightened in your life, for there in the window the large head of a snarling, white spit dribbling, Rottweiller.

"Don't think I will bother with this house."

Knock, knock, The door slowly opens to expose a soft red light within which is the silhouette of a voluptuous lady, possibly in her sixties, hair dyed an Autumnal ruddy brown, deep red lipstick, dressed in a diaphanous negligee.

"Well, hello darling, and what can I do for you?"

"Er", gulp, "Er", gulp. "Could you tell me where I could find...?"

Now sat in the car, tie wrenched off, third cigarette smoked in two minutes, whisky bottle from glove compartment gently caressed, the end of another day.

All you want to do is sleep, but sleep only brings tomorrow closer.

DEATH OF OLD BARLICK

I've just walked round Old Barlick town,

And don't like what I see.

These poncy shops that have sprung up,

To sell to you and me.

There's fancy frocks and fancy shoes,

And fancy other things.

There's coffee this and coffee that,

Bracelets and golden rings.

No screws or nails, no pot of paint,

No wallpaper or copper pipe,

Just one butcher there is left,

And he don't sell tripe.