The People of Roebuck Lane

I grew up in the countryside on a narrow and windy lane called Roebuck Lane on the edge of Saddleworth. At one end of the lane was the Roebuck Inn, a typical country pub, well known in the eighties for the quality of it's restaurant (sadly not so now) and at the other end was a little shop owned and run by Joan Greenwood. Between the two were ten houses.

Starting at the pub end there was a lady whose name slips my mind but who kept to herself and was kind enough to give us 50p one bonfire night towards food and fireworks; on the other side was an old farmhouse which had been converted into two residences - in one side was Vinny and Mad Mary (so named by my mother for her tendency to feed sliced white bread to the cows in the field behind our houses and the fact that they kept chickens in an old broken down ambulance) and in the other side was Jean, Frank, Christie and Damian.

Next along the lane was a terrace of five houses the first of which I lived in with my brothers Robert and Matthew and our parents Hilary and Howard. We lived at number five. During the time that I lived there I remember three sets of next door neighbours, the first Kevin and his wife Lorraine. Kevin was, I believe, the tour manager for the Grumbleweeds - a comedy and music act. Next to move in were Howard Jones the sign maker and Brenda who shouted a lot at each other and on whose wedding night introduced me to the word bonking through a sign on their front door which read 'Do not disturb - all night bonking in progress.' I think he made the sign himself but I can't be certain. As family tradition dictated they were both given nicknames, Brenda was the poisoned dwarf and Howard was affectionately known as the ferret - but never to their faces...

The Molloys lived there next. Steve was a professional rugby player who played for Featherstone Rovers and Paula was a nurse who according to my youngest brother had a huge arse. They also shouted at each other a lot.

Clara and John lived at number nine with their grown up kids. Clara and Jean from number three, were good friends and I used to go with them and Damian on shopping trips to such wild and adventurous (to a young child) places as the Mosley Mill Shop with it's fascinating aquarium shop full of the biggest and ugliest fish ever to have graced a tank and Ashton Market where Damian and I wandered between the stalls while Jean and Clara shopped and where twenty years previous Brady and Hindley had picked up that poor Kilbride boy and taken him to the moors. For me, through my childish eyes, Ashton Market was not about that, it was about Cornish pasties and my ever growing keyring collection.

Number eleven was an odd one. Brenda lived there with her husband who I only ever knew as China man. They would spend a long time abroad every year and then we would see Brenda and their daughter for a few weeks before they were off again. I might have seen China Man once a year if I was lucky but he was very elusive.

On the other end of our little block of five lived Jimmy and Elaine. Jimmy was known as Mr Angry after a rather unfortunate instance of trespass on my and Damian's part.

Next along the lane was George Groves's farm. He always had a dog tied up in the yard at the front of the house. This dog liked nothing more than barking incessantly and went particularly wild when someone walked past. It was the most terrifying dog I had ever encountered. I used to try sneaking past the farm to avoid the rabid outbursts of this devil creature and woe betide you if the dog wasn't tied up! Grovesy was accused of feeding our dog Dylan rat poison. The poison made Dylan's stomach bleed and cough up blood before he would try to cool down in a bog in one of the fields across the road from our house. We had to have him put down. Grovesy never denied having rat poison on the farm, what he did say was that Dylan must have gone in one of his barns to get it and he shouldn't have been in there in the first place. Whizbang, our cat, was also ill with what we suspected was poison but he recovered. Our next dog Skipper, another Dalmatian but this one with liver colouring rather than black, also died from rat poisoning. Needless to say that we didn't have a great relationship with George Groves and as a young child he was almost demonised in my eyes. It was years until we got another dog and when we did we took great lengths not to let him out of the house without a lead.

Further along the lane was a little stone cottage in the corner of a field. This is where Connie lived. I couldn't begin to start telling you about Connie, all I can remember is that because hers was the nearest house to Joan Greenwood's shop she became know as her near Joan's which over time and with the assistance of Oldhamers' accents morphed into something altogether more unpleasant. Connie tragically adopted the name Hernia Jones and was known as such for ever more.

Finally we follow the lane around the corner and down a dip and reach Joan's shop. A right old treasure chest of goodies and necessities. Sweets of course were there in abundance. Great big jars of chewing nuts and midget gems weighed out and served in little white paper bags. The penny sweets in the glass counter which would make up our traditional 10p mix (an occasional treat for going to Joan's for your parents,) the cans of pop - the ever elusive cherry pepsi which I asked for relentlessly for years and years and she never sold, shandy bass, giant cans of coke the size of a lager can and briefly when i was a teenager, the nasty but fascinating Tab Clear; chocolate bars - Fry's chocolate creme, Terry's Pyramint, Hellas Bars. I don't know why I wasn't the size of a house.

Joan didn't just sell sweets and drinks. Damian's mum used to send him to buy her cigarettes there - something my mum tried with me on a couple of occasions rather unsuccessfully as Joan was not at all happy about selling cigarettes to children. She did though. There was a big bacon slicer in the corner, you could buy potatoes, cleaning products, wine, cat food, fire lighters... The list goes on. Joan had a real community shop. When the lane was cut off by snow in the winter, which it was most years, she stayed open for those brave souls that could make it through the snow drifts (usually us kids) until Holroyd, another local farmer, would dig the lane clear of snow with his tractor. Even when the snow brought power cuts with it she'd be there with candles burning on the counter helping us to get through it and of course flogging us the boxes of household candles that we'd invariably run out of the previous winter.

Joan was in the paper once. The Oldham Evening Chronicle (the chron) ran a story about her shop being robbed. Joan was threatened with a gun which the thieves shot into the ceiling (something I looked for every time I went in there afterwards but never saw) and cleared her till out. I seem to remember that they didn't get very much cash - bad timing on their part. From that day on Joan always peeked through the little glass pane in the door between her house at the back and the shop at the front before she came in to serve anyone.

Roebuck Lane was a good place to grow up - despite the guns, the poison and the scary neighbours - it's a shame that I don't have a reason to go back there any more but I suspect if I did I'd be disappointed so I'm happy to leave it where it is - in my childhood.

Frog

The most horrific thing happened on Saturday whilst I was gardening. I had taken over the mowing of our unusually hilly lawn from Chris - we were road testing our new flymo with it's ferocious full metal blade - and had worked my way towards the bottom of the garden, close to the blair witch project remains of our bonfire.

As I absentmindedly mowed over a patch with a dip in it where the grass was a little longer I felt something unusual - a thud and an interruption in the sound and feel of the mower. I looked down to see a frog. A large frog at that. It was just about in one piece but I had ripped into its flesh and I could see the deep tear in its back legs and a huge gash across its side where entrails were now peeking. I looked away in shock and said fuck.

I looked back and the helpless thing was still moving - not mobile but definitely moving and I could see its wide eyes looking around wildly. I said fuck again - a few times this time. I felt shocked, guilty, sad and a little bit panicky, it was very upsetting. 

My first reaction was to make it more comfortable before it died which it was inevitably going to. I put on a glove which I had been using to pull thorny brambles up with and picked the frog up. I took it to the bottom of the garden with the intention of putting it in the stream. I threw the frog down to the water and even before it hit the stream I knew that this was a bad idea. 

As it sank in the water I could see it struggling to swim to the top for air but obviously didn't have the strength - or indeed the ability with it's damaged body - to do so. I watched it twitching on the way down to the bottom of the stream where it must have drowned. I walked away feeling terrible and a few seconds later went back to the edge of the stream. It was still there on the bottom but now not moving. Chris started the lawn mower up again so I went back to where I had maimed the creature and did a quick check through all the remaining long grass for more wildlife. When I returned to the stream a little later the frog had gone.

Cat Concepts

I've been thinking about cats. Specifically about their outlook on the world. It's well known that cats have a problem with the concept of mirrors but it occurred to me this morning that they must have trouble with all sorts of things. Dustbins for example - I told Gilbert off today for routing through the bin in the bathroom whilst I was brushing my teeth without realising that cats just don't understand rubbish. To them it's just play things in a container - not that they would understand that a container is something to put things in...

What do you think they make of coasters or gloves or something really far out like tumble driers or Southport? No wonder Gilbert is constantly scared and Moochie lives in a perpetual state of confusion.

Splat!

It's funny the way things happen isn't it? Until two weeks ago I had never heard the word spork before. Now they're everywhere - I don't know what's going on. I saw them again today in a shop window at lake Windemere. I have obviously seen them before and also used them but I never knew their name.

Another repetitive theme of late has been road kill. Last Sunday on the walk to work I was shocked to see a cat on the side of the road which had been hit and killed by a vehicle. It's legs were stiff and sticking up in the air, there was blood and meat coming out of its side and the poor thing's face was split right open. It was, as I have written, shocking. The next day its appearance had changed. It was now missing anything that resembled a head and now looked more like meat and less like a cat. There were bones clearly visible - strangely lying separate from the rest of the body - and almost a smear of ginger fur over the double yellow lines. Bit by bit the cat has disappeared over the week. I think it's very sad that somebody's pet just didn't come home one day.

Since last Sunday I have seen a flattened fox, a stiffened squirrel, a run over rabbit and a splattered seagull.

Pandora's Box

I haven't eaten meat for over fifteen years. I don't have a problem with people eating meat - it's just something that I choose for myself. I know quite a few people who have been vegetarians and have gone back to eating meat after a length of time. I don't think that I will ever do that and as time goes by my conviction grows stronger. I still cook meat for Chris or guests and I have occasionally questioned this - particularly at key moments such as when your hand is inside a chicken and your fingers are gradually separating skin from flesh in order that the stuffing can go in.

I will still make a point of watching documentaries about animal slaughter and this is what sparked me off today - last night's television programme Could You Eat An Elephant? in which two chefs travelled the world sampling meat which in this country would be taboo. I have always maintained that if you are happy to eat cows or chickens there is some hypocrisy in refusing to eat cats or monkeys. The chefs in question ate snake's heart - still beating at the bottom of a glass of vodka, cheese which had been extra matured by maggots and the living maggots remained in the cheese and were part of the delicacy and dog amongst other meats - although they weren't particularly happy about meeting the dog livestock which were caged up in very tight confines. They refused to eat monkey, likening it to looking like a butchered baby, elephant and sewer rat - although free range rat as they termed the ones from fields did not disgust them to the same extent.

Another television programme that fascinates me is Kill it, Cook it, Eat it. in which - as the name suggests - animals are slaughtered then cooked and then served to the people who watched the slaughter. Until recently I had never seen the slaughter of turkeys or geese and it was bizarre to say the least - once the bird had been put in a cone and its head electrocuted its wings slowly and spookily rose up in the air behind its back as if still alive.

It was a documentary that finally convinced me to stop eating meat. It was called Pandora's Box and it was an expose on British abattoirs. It highlighted some of the malpractice that occurred in badly run slaughter houses in the UK. Included were cows that were not stunned sufficiently and were still conscious whilst being tethered up by their back legs and bled to death. Chickens which were still alive and badly mutilated in the head area whilst being dipped in boiling water in order that their feathers could be plucked more easily and then, still alive, having their feet chopped off. After seeing this documentary I knew that I couldn't be sure that the animals that I was eating had been treated correctly and processed humanely and therefore I couldn't eat them any more.

China In Your Hands

When I was a youngster I would regularly go with my neighbour Damian, his mum and another neighbour Clara, to Ashton Market (see picture of market hall on fire Tues 25th May2004) My enduring memories of Ashton Market are peppery Cornish pasties, a grey tee shirt with netting sewn onto it as an over-layer which was possibly my first venture into fashion, a key ring with a little white, rubber Scottie dog on it and a stall which sold cassettes of famous songs re-recorded by not so famous, anonymous artists.

In comparison Tommyfield Market in Oldham felt somewhat less glamorous. Having said that I loved the sparkly floor of the inside market and also the chip shop which was in one of the permanent huts around the edge of the outside market which sold the best chip muffins in town.

I once spent a very long afternoon helping out my girlfriend Michelle on the pound stall. Three thousand toilet rolls for a pound, Two million AA batteries - a pound love. One hundred biros - that'll be a pound my dear. Eight hundred and fifty thousand blank videos - just one pound my lovely. Ta very much. I once bought a soap on a rope and a T' Pau record for my dad from Tommyfield Market.

I always loved Camden Market on a Sunday morning - especially when it was cold. I re-discovered Aretha Franklin's Until You Come Back To Me whilst milling about Camden Market sipping warm spiced cider - I also discovered the mad lady with pink wire in her hair at Cyber Dog on the same day. Still in London Spitalfields was always worth a visit - if only for the falafel - and down on the south bank the best place to get a free lunch, Borough Market.

It was outside Borough Market one night that I met Big Mo from Eastenders. I'd been on a tour of pubs with my cousin Rachael starting at Embankment and ending up - rather messily - in a pub very close to Bridgette Jones' flat. Well Big Mo was there and we said hello before she drove off in a mini. On the tube afterwards we started a debate (based on a news story about a Thai zoo) and got everyone on the carriage to vote, with a show of hands, as to whether or not they would eat giraffe burgers. I don't remember the final count. Sadly, this is all completely true...

http://www.oldham-chronicle.co.uk/

Zoo

We went to the zoo last weekend. It was very exciting. A wintry Sunday morning has to be the best time to see the animals. We made a bee line for the giraffes - natch. There were three giraffes which had been put out in the yard and locked out. Walking around in large slow circles it was reminiscent of a Sugarbabes video except without the insipid music and with the addition of a substantial amount of grace and style.

The Sea lions were next - they were gorging themselves on fishy tit bits offered by the keepers in return for showing off their jumping skills to the gathering crowd. Theresa was playing up.

We found the spider monkeys fighting over an old piece of bark and noted the freedom with which the males of the species showed off their pink monkey willies (in stark contrast to their black fur.)

My least favourite attraction was the children's zoo. The wallaby, the miniature donkey and the stinky goat were all miserable. They all stood in their individual pens glaring at us whilst doing nothing more than standing in the sun. Granted it was very cold and there was melting ice raining from the trees but even the tiger had a bit of a walk. I don't ask for much entertainment from the animals but a smile wouldn't hurt would it?

The red panda in contrast was active, cheerful and even spared a few seconds to swap phone numbers with us. We have become great friends in the short time since we saw him and we are expecting him and his fiance to visit this weekend. I will be serving ants and bamboo for dinner - as a vegetarian I will bypass the ants but I am greatly looking forward to the bamboo.

http://www.blackpoolzoo.org.uk/pages/home/