The village of Talke is in Staffordshire, England, four miles north-west of Newcastle-under-Lyme. There once was a fruit and veg. shop and Post Office called ‘Vince’s.’ This store or typically northerners 1970s con-vience shop was in Unity Way, Talke. Which was, and still is in a rather shabby council estate built in the 1970’s. Full of unemployed young men abusing and selling drugs, over-weight single mothers on state benefits and the location of Vince’s rather disgusting cockroach-rat-infested shop full of out-of-date shite food that the locals snapped up at Vince’s super-lowest-low-prices!‘Get-it-while-u-can!’ he would shout out around the streets of Talke from his jam packed shitty little van full of crap food and stuffed full of other bollox you didn’t really want! But, he some how managed get you buy it off him! The Cunt! Vince’s other favourite saying and key to his business success of his shop and life-long motto of his v. v. surprising and rather amazingly long existence as a very dodgy food retailer and a credit to his rather unusual business acumen was:
“Where There’s Mold? There’s GOLD!”
It was open during the 1980’s and early 1990’s. After which it closed. Thank F.! Probably after a Health & Safety law violation and inevitable inspection by a local government Environmental Health Officer. Who most probably, and almost certainly, condemned the place and had Vince’s fruit & veg. shop shut down with immediate effect! And then had Vince banged up for 50 years for breaking every F.in’ Consumer Health act and local and national government’s directives and laws on food hygiene and consumer protection since the F.in’ early 1820’s!Vince’s old shop is now ‘Manhattan Pizza.’ A rather horrible, Pakistani fast-food outlet selling over priced 32″ inch Pizzas, horrible greasy, v. soggy, & v. thin French fries and disgusting Donner Kebabs to all the TV coach potatoes in the local area and in the vicinity of Unity Way council estate.Donner Kebabs consist of one small pita bread stuffed full with the most fowl mix of dog-food like Donner ‘meat’ (If u can call that shite meat!) cabbage, so called ‘mixed salads’ and other bollox.
All christened with the most fowl super red-hot chilli sauce. That only absolute idiots or, pissed out of their minds nut-bags would dare ever attempt to put in their mouths. Or, even contemplate eating. As it burns the F. out of your throat and sets fire to your belly, as well as the horrid greasy Donner meat food poisoning you are most certainly gonna experience soon after the consumption of a Donner Kebab dirt-box on a post-piss-up-take-away-filthy-feed. As it is left spit roasting for days. Vertically. Like some deranged elephant’s foot or lower leg. Going round and around for days. Continue reading “Talken News”
Bill Cawley: “Peter Kay is not far out when portrays the strange acts at the Phoenix. I recall vividly the Pakistani stand up comedian who told racist jokes against himself, the asthmatic country and western act from Cleverley who stopped for breath half way through his act.” I’ll be with you in a moment “, or the overloud ear-ringing rock bands. Sometimes there were special events like a boxing tournament at the Suburban where one competitor eschewing the basic defensive stance advanced with arms flaying like a windmill to be quickly demolished by punishing jabs that opened his nose up in a crimson torrent. For the turns themselves there was recognition that there efforts were taken with proper regard. As local act Gerry Stephens writing of the time reportedSaturday was the highlight of the week and people would make an effort to look their best. The Committee officers ran them with a grip of iron and membership were as tightly controlled as any freemasons. Instant silence followed the command ” Give order please” and quiet was demanded- and got- when Bingo started. Bingo was a ritual with its language and actions especially when certain numbers were called out ” Ted’s den- Number Ten, Two fat ladies 88, Leg’s eleven” followed by wolf whistles and the clinking of glasses as pens were banging against them. Sometimes a frustrated gamester would call out to the elderly lady caller ” Shake them up, Elsie” if his numbers were not coming up.Then there were the turns.“You’d arrive outside the Club, grab your gear, and go in. The room would be completely empty. Then people start coming in; the room is packed, and it’s your job to entertain them for the night. You’ve only got your guitar, your voice and your patter, to get them going, gets them laughing.It was quite a thing to be an artist in the 70s, there was a lot of respect shown; the audience wasn’t allowed to come in or go out during a bracket”.But the knell- as it was for the working class- was already tolling for the clubs.”
Bill Cawley: “I was born in Stoke in 1955 and lived and worked in the City. I was a City Councillor from 82-7 and a County Councillor from 97-05. I’m a member of the Green party My heroes are Thomas Paine, HL Mencken, Tom Joad and Ernest Everard..,”
Told this drinking pal local yokel mate once:
“You should read more my mate ..’there’s more to life than books’ they say.. ‘but, not much more’ not saying copy me my mate, no!”
‘But, do try to study something. Like a good book or a classic novel.’
‘The dictionary, funnily enough is a great way, well it was for me personally, a good start to learn about the English language – literature etc.’
‘You could even end-up studying at a good university in England or Scotland. Studying something like architecture, or English literature or even something really interesting like semantics!’
He looked on completely bemused.. ‘Semantics ¬!!?’ he asks .., ‘Whats that words means??!!’ ‘Exactly!’ I said .. , ‘You’re more intelligent than I first imagined ?!’
Wrongly congratulating the gob-smacked knob-head
Written about and whilst Mozzer was stranded in/ at/ on Morecombe bay, 1000 holes, Lancashire, England in 1990. Every Day Like Sunday is Morrisseys 1st and in my opinion, best solo effort.
‘The Last of the Truly ‘Famous’ International Playboys’ was evidently having his very own personnel Armageddon come down from grandeur.., like many of us at that time in this fabulous song. Personally my favourite of all Smiths/ Morrissey songs.
Whom was once front-man of the very northern England band The Smiths., And as it’s English heart/ Irish blood band members like the amazing Johnny Marr on lead guitar and Irish stout Guinness, only for those whom have acquired the taste. The original and, in my modest yet quite well informed opinion on this subject matter, the best of a very long standing list of the BBB (Best British Bands) extremely and very well respected by those that or are in the know about such things, the best Manchester and English indie band of the 1980s. And, for now, ever. Continue reading “Every Day Is Like Sunday – Morrissey”
Seems there’s more interesting stories in the Newcastle Staffordshire graveyard of Saint Margarets. ..
I stumbled upon this gravestone at the rear of the old ancient cemetery.
Seems we have there a gravestone that records the death of three brothers the Bennet family of Porthill during World War I (1914 -1918). Two soldiers including Captain Bennet and his younger brother plus a boy of 15 or 16 in 1915.
Looks like their mother Mrs Bennet lost three sons during the First World War or Great War ..looks to me as if the first son may not have been recorded by His Majesty’s Armed Forces as the youngest killed early in 1915 is under age of military service personnel allowed .and like many young men at the outbreak of World War I joined up looking for adventure and glory.
Like my great uncle killed in 1918 serving with the Nottinghamshire Rifle regiment who joined up, maybe like Mrs Bennets youngest son, at 15 years of age.
As falsification of ID was not rigorously controlled by the recruiting officers at the time of the WW1. The Bennets of Porthill Newcastle Staffordshire may have lost three sons.
Captain Bennet towards the end of the war and his younger brother killed on Hill 40 probably during one the of battles of the Ypes salient in Flanders around 1916 -1917. As well as a third under age son possibly their kid brother early in the war in 1914 – 1915.
If so we must acknowledge this sacrifice officially if the history records show this to be so or I’m right in my assumptions? !
Post-industrial society is imploding and the city of Stoke-on-Trent in North Staffordshire England is suffering from the effect badly
The picture above is of a pot bank factory and bottle kiln in Longport (nr. Burslem, Stoke-on-Trent). I personally would love to learn more about one of the best preserved, real working, industrial bastions in the Potteries: Longport, Stoke-on-Trent. As it’s one of my favorite places in this city of ours and remains one of the only few real working pottery towns / village left in North Staffordshire.
Everywhere else in the city is largely populated with call centres and warehouses that provide the only jobs with the countries lowest wages. Stoke-on-Trent is a very economically depressed area in 2019. Britain’s second poorest city, and that’s official.
For centuries this city was a hotbed of creativity and industrious success, hundreds of thousands worked in the ‘Pot Bank’ factories producing some of the world’s finest ceramica.
Josiah Wedgwood (born 1730) was one of it’s great forefathers and based his Wedgwood factory in Etruria at the heart of the city, producing fine ceramics since the 18th. century (and still do at the Barlaston factory nr. Stone in south Staffordshire). His wise acumen and guile, ensured commercial success for his famous ceramics. Josiah Wedgwood was the one of the first men in the entire world to use consumerism-marketing and commercial entrepreneurship. Selling his Wedgwood-ware to the affluent British middle-classes and the rich North Americans.
But that has all changed today. Nothing much is left of this great creative city. All this has nearly been destroyed by those with all the power and money. Much of what is left of the once mighty Potteries and its victims: the working classes, the once: ‘Mighty Potters’ are out on their knees and, nearly all, completely destroyed.