Festival of Motoring 2010

For the first time ever I managed to catch some of the annual Coventry Festival of Motoring this year, taking in the departure of the motor vehicles from the War Memorial Park on the Sunday and watching a motorcycle display team. The weather wasn't kind but it was an enjoyable Sunday morning.

Coventry as it was before the Cycle Era.

By Isabel Marks

TIME - the early part of the present century. Place - Hertford Street in Coventry town.

The sun shines brightly upon a group of loiterers who, at the corner of Hertford Street, watch with eager gaze the cloud of dust that heralds the arrival of the daily mail, not the popular paper of that name, but the stage coach that brings news and passengers from the distant capital.

Merrily sounds the horn of the guard as the coachman tools his team down the hill and pulls up with well-calculated precision. The dusty traveller descends from his perch in the rumble; the horses are stabled, the bystanders disperse - the event of the day is over.

Then the town resumes the even tenor of its peaceful way, and when the wayfarer re-emerges from the inn refreshed and invigorated, he is struck by the cheerful serenity that reigns around him. He sees the thick brick walls of well-built houses lying snugly ensconced within the leafy luxuriance of their large gardens, and he notes the neat little cottages of the workmen, the many tokens of quiet industry that prevail.

The tower of St. Michael, standing clear and distinct against the clear blue of the radiant summer sky, attracts his attention, and he wends his way hither through quaint thoroughfares to admire its beautiful tracery, its carved figures, the fine old trees that rustle and wave above the last resting place of many a stalwart citizen of old, who shrank not in the hour of need from doffing the livery of his trade and donning breast-plate and head-piece in defence of his liberty and of his town.

As he stands by the venerable stone building of St. Mary’s Hall, in which the pikes of the city guard occupy a place of honour beneath the Minstrels’ Gallery, the ghosts of the past arise from the adjacent narrow streets with their old English timber built houses, whose overhanging upper stories and gabled roofs slope gently forward darkening the light of day to the dwellers below. He sees, as in a dream, the mad onslaught of the men-at-arms, the desperate defence of the burghers, he hears the din and turmoil of the fratricidal wars of the Roses, when brother warred against brother, father against son.

Poor unhappy Mary, Queen of Scots, victim of a cruel destiny and of her own loveliness, issues from her turret chamber and passes by on her way to the Bull Inn, whither she is led for greater security, the hearts of the multitude being inflamed within them at the recital of her woes and a rescue appearing imminent.

From the dungeons, whose groined roofs charm him by their beauty, and whose dark, noisome recesses fill him with pity for the suffering captives who languished within their narrow limits, he ascends the time-worn steps to the banqueting hall, with its carved ceiling and old stained-glass windows. He notes with appreciative eye the well preserved woven tapestry that lines the base of the large window and the fine portraits of our kings and queens which adorn its walls, whilst a brass tablet informs him that the Duke of Northumberland and the Earl of Leicester, his son, gave and bequeathed a vast tract of land to the people of this town that they might not to all eternity lack pasture for their cattle.

Nearby are the ruins of the priory erected in 1043 by Leofric, Earl of Mercia, and his Countess, the Lady Godiva.

Ford’s Hospital, which was founded in 1529 for the benefit of five old men and one woman, who were granted fivepence a week for maintenance, pleases him greatly with its ornamental work and gables with richly carved large boards and pendants.

As the sun declines towards the west he finds his way to the ruins of Cheylesmore Manor, and long does he gaze at the stone entrance to the tilting yard, under whose arched gateway had passed many a gallant knight to do battle in his lady’s honour, or to throw the gage of defiance in some hated rival’s face.

He then turns his steps to the few remaining portions of the old city wall built by Edward III and originally three yards thick and six yards high, and marks with keen regret that but two of the gates still survive the general wreck.

Of much interest to him are the ruined cloisters and chapel of the Greyfriars; the monastery of the Carthusians, their erstwhile rival, he notes, sharing the same mournful fate.

As he passes through the more modern part of the town he sees the weavers busy at their looms, and notes the gentle mien of the women spinning at the wheel. He remembers that Coventry was at one time the home of many manufacturers, and was celebrated for its religious pageants originated by the guilds, but he seeks in vain for any traces of the girdlers, the lard-makers, the pinners and needlers; the guilds still extant existing apparently only for social purposes.

And thus, from our traveller’s recollections we gather that Coventry was very prosperous then in a quiet easy way. We know that in 1844 the population numbered but 25,000, that the town was for some long time after innocent of any drainage scheme, that its water supply was principally drawn from wells sunk in cellar floors or in underground kitchens, that its burial-grounds were becoming overfull, that no municipal improvements were made, and that few houses were added to those already existing. The manufacture of silks, ribbons and watches was busily carried on for some time, and the town enjoyed a pleasant easy-going prosperity.

But presently a change came o’er the spirit of the scene. The duty was taken off French silks and ribbons, there was a sudden influx into England of these foreign commodities, which being more artistic than those manufactured at home captivated the popular taste.

The Coventry weavers could not be brought to see the errors of their ways and disaster fell upon the town. Work was no longer to be had, men stood about the streets in miserable idleness, wives and mothers watched the faces of those dear to them grow thin and haggard, little children wailed aloud for bread and could not be comforted. Distress and starvation waxed even greater and greater, darkening the lives of the dwellers in this once prosperous town.

Then indeed did the men of Coventry give the lie to the opinion which good Queen Bess expressed of them. With willing hand and generous hearts the wealthier citizens helped those incapable of helping themselves, they fed the hungry and clothed the naked. Soup kitchens were established and every means taken to help their poorer neighbours.

One enlightened man, however, James Marriott by name, foresaw that these remedies were but palliatives, the remedy lay in a totally different procedure. He offered, therefore, to give 500/. to start a new industry - that of sewing machines, which were then just coming into vogue - and so provide work for the willing hands that had so vainly sought it. Accordingly he and other kindred spirits started this business, which was carried on under the name of the Coventry Machinists’ Company.

The venture was unfortunately not successful and they then turned their attention to the construction of the earlier type of cycle, the redoubtable Bone-shaker. Their courage met with its due meed of reward, and the business they then started still flourishes and grows apace, and in its train came renewed prosperity and work for the starving people. To these enterprising men is due the origin of the cycling trade, and to them numberless riders raise the pæan of praise.

Time has, in its flight, indeed, brought many changes to Coventry which will not fail to be noted by our traveller should he chance to re-visit the City of the Three Spires in this year of grace. He will travel thither by means of the iron horse and may, perhaps, arrive at the dinner hour. Then will he see steam from factories innumerable, whose tall chimneys dwarf their humbler neighbours, endless crowds of men, women, girls, and boys. Chattering and laughing they overflow the narrow pavements, blocking roads already congested with traffic, almost preventing the ordinary pedestrian from continuing on his way, and taking with perfect equanimity the thrust of the wheel with which some cyclist, impatient of delay, seeks to clear a path for himself and his machine. To them a bicycle is a privileged thing, for to it they owe those good wages which enable them to take life right royally and to treat “the missus” to a trip to the seaside when, like her superiors in station, her nerves suffer from the monotony of her existence and she pines for fresh fields and pastures new wherein to display that last new bonnet her “old ‘un” gave her.

Gone is all peaceful serenity; elbow-room is of the past. Of houses there is a great lack, and industrious sons of toil have been known to be, perforce, obliged to seek the shelter of the workhouse for want of a better roof. Court lies enfolded within court as densely populated as any London warren, and still the cry arises for more bricks and mortar.

Fine old houses rub shoulders with factories, are surrounded by little shops and tenement let to weekly lodgers; encompassed by unworthy neighbours they and their inmates bear this reversal of fortune with what fortitude they may. New buildings arise it is true, but at a rate quite inadequate to cope with the demand, and people of the better class are obliged to seek refuge in hamlets nearby.

Great is the demand for workers, and high the wage; well are the hands treated, very prosperous and healthy do they look on the whole. In some of the large factories a room is provided where breakfast or dinner can be cooked, tea or coffee heated; in others seats are provided for the women, female labour being much in demand. Although the lot of the factory-girl is not entirely a happy one, yet single women much prefer this life to that of the domestic servant, and bitterly do the housewives of Coventry complain of the lack of that necessary individual. Observant people are also apt to compare somewhat unfavourably the pert, noisy factory-girl of the period with her quieter sister of the loom, who, they affirm, drew from the more refined character of her work and the harmonious tints of her weaving a certain pleasing gentleness of demeanour and of disposition.

In the streets run electric trams; the water supply of the town is now stored in an underground reservoir whose domed chambers shine in resplendent cleanliness; a new cemetery, picturesquely planted, stands in the London Road; streets are being widened and new municipal buildings erected. The character of the population, which has risen from 25,000 to 70,000, has not been improved by the admixture of Birmingham roughs, and a strong force of police is required to keep order.

The watch trade has followed in the wake of the ribbon-making and is a-dying. Whether the use of stamping machinery, which cuts out watches by the score, or the superior wage the cyclist-workman draws is to blame is a matter of opinion, but as a matter of fact, the cycling trade reigns supreme in Coventry. It penetrates the whole atmosphere of the place, and large vans filled with the precious merchandise drive at all hours of the day to that station on the hill, whose principal business is apparently the transport of machines to distant climes and to many lands, and whose station would look desolate and forlorn without a friendly cycle leaning affectionately against its brick walls.

Everywhere machines swarm, workmen forced from want of proper accommodation to live some miles from the scene of their daily toil ride in of a morning, girls and boys of tender years negotiate the congested traffic with an ease born of much experience and not a little audacity, ladies from outlying districts come in to do their shopping, father and mother meander along in the manner appropriate to a somewhat abundant development of adipose tissue, young men and maidens mount and ride away in the subdued light of a clear May evening, to hear the sweet-voiced nightingale discourse to his love amongst the leafy trees that line the pretty road leading to Kenilworth’s deserted castle.

Close to the orchard or gardens, sole relics of the vast tract of land that was to be ever free to the good folks of Coventry and their cattle, still stands the old entrance to Cheylesmore’s tilting ground, but it is now hemmed in by mean cottages and blackened by factory smoke.

The stones that once formed part of the city walls, behind whose sheltering arms the burghers left all that was dearest to them on earth when they sallied forth against the invader, stones worn with the scars of time, are now separated by a few yards of narrow road from the hum and the war of a large motor factory. Paupers dine in the cloisters where once paced the meditative grey friars, and the Carthusian monastery looks with mild surprise at the cemetery wherein a crematorium is shortly to be erected. But although much has altered, above all still stretches the same blue vault of Heaven, the birds sing as sweetly as of yore, the pulse of life beats as freely as in our veins, and if the old order changeth it giveth place to a new and perhaps a better one.

------

With thanks to Rob Orland for the use of some of his images.

http://www.historiccoventry.co.uk/

Our James

Remembrance Day is always sad. This year's commemoration in Coventry last month was even more poignant with the recent deaths of local soldiers because of the war in Afghanistan. James Fullarton, Shaun Bush, Simon Valentine and Louis Carter were all remembered by name during the service and James' parents were in attendance at the War Memorial Park. Peter and Jan Fullarton bravely laid a poppy wreath on the cenotaph on behalf of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. A different kind of bravery to what their son showed but bravery all the same when they are still in mourning and things must be so raw for them.

As a child I found 'war' a fascinating thing. I'm not sure what triggered this - possibly the annual Air Show with its aircraft from WW2, possibly a school trip to the Cathedral ruins where I first learned of its destruction by the Luftwaffe or possibly the countless war films that used to be on TV. The nearby air raid shelters and pill-box at Chrysler / Talbot certainly were an influence. Whatever the reasons were, at a fairly young age I had read a weighty tome about the epic First World War naval Battle of Jutland and a not so weighty but very powerful one describing the destruction of the German city of Dresden in the Second. One Christmas I received two copies of Coventry at war by Alton Douglas, which still remains the best pictorial record of the city during the Second World War. In addition to reading I had hundreds of Airfix and Matchbox 1:32 scale plastic soldiers, die-cast metal aircraft including a Spitfire, a training grenade picked up at Birmingham market, a British tin-helmet with webbing, some sort of German medal, (Iron or Knight's Cross, I'm not sure which) a metal model of the German battleship Scharnhorst and various berets and badges brought from army surplus stores. On a holiday to Tunisia in 1981 we saw remnants of the battle fought between the Desert Rats and the Afrika Korps. We also visited a Commonwealth War Cemetery which was incredibly sad. Row after row of white crosses which marked the passing of so many young lives so far from home. The graves of four young South African's who died when their aircraft was shot down is permanently etched in my memory. Granddad Peter was a cook in the army and served in North Africa. He died years ago but always played soldiers with me when I took them round. I sometimes wonder now what memories, if any, it brought back for him.

I've grown up now and the childhood fascination has been replaced by the grim recognition of the reality of war. It's horrific. I am so glad to have lived in a time free of another global conflagration. Britain of course has been involved in conflicts in every decade since WW2 ended but none have resulted in conscription. It seems a little odd to me that with the end of the cold war some time ago and relative peace in Northern Ireland that we should still be engaged in conflicts in or against nations that often appear to pose no threat to our national security. For some reason when America says 'jump' the UK replies 'how high?' and as a result the brave men and women of our armed forces have their lives put on the line. I fully support our soldiers but don't believe their lives should be wasted in futile wars that cannot be won such as Afghanistan. Bob the Muppet says that Britain's streets are safer because of our involvement in Afghanistan. No one in their right mind seriously believes this do they? If anything our streets are far more dangerous! On the news the other night the police said they had foiled a plot by Algerian terrorists. Will we be invading Algeria next then? Probably not unless some Algerian's carry out a terror attack on the good old US of A.

The parade to the War Memorial Park and the service of remembrance that followed was as dignified as ever. Well done to all concerned and Lest We Forget.

For The Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Meet the Masons

In September Ava and I managed to visit a few of the usually closed buildings that opened their doors to the public for the Heritage Open Days weekend. This was the first time I've done this and it was an enjoyable experience.

First off we went to the ruins of St. Michael's. The usually closed Capper's Chapel was open. In here one of the many pro-active Cathedral guides explained that some of the stained glass windows ( or 'painted glass' as he termed it ) were thought to be the work of John Thornton. This Coventry born master glazier is most famous for the Great East Window at York Minster. We were informed that bulbous noses are his signature piece:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Thornton_(glass_painter)

After signing a health and safety disclaimer I then climbed what remains of a spiral staircase to the upstairs part of the Chapel. It's hard to imagine an 'upstairs' in the ruins. The room itself is nothing special but the fact it survived the blitz is remarkable. It also makes you think about the power that guilds once wielded in Coventry.

Back in the ruins I rejoined Ava who was in conversation with another guide. We briefly discussed the destruction of the Cathedral and Britain's military involvement in Afghanistan before moving on to the Blitz museum a few yards away. The last time I was in this part of the Cathedral I'm pretty sure it was a coffee shop. It's small but houses a good collection of war time items which give visitors a good feel for what life was like back then.

We then went inside the 'new' Cathedral and headed downstairs to the archive area. I was interested to see the memorabilia associated with H.M.S. Coventry which was sunk in 1942 off the coast of North Africa. I acquired an interesting book last year about the war time service of the ship which was written by George Sims who served on her at the time. In the book there is a photograph of Petty Officer Alfred Sephton who was killed in action and posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross, Britain's highest award for gallantry. The same photograph is in the glass cabinet at the Cathedral along with his medal. Sephton grew up in Wolverhampton and met his demise directing the ships guns against Stuka dive bombers which were trying to sink the hospital ship Aba on 18^th May 1941. Early in the attack he was critically wounded by an air-cannon bullet.

The book also records the reaction onboard to the Coventry Blitz:

This news of success, [Operation Judgement - an attack on Taranto Harbour] and the safe arrival of our convoy in Alexandria, was somewhat spoiled by our hearing that the City of Coventry had been attacked by the Luftwaffe, and it's Cathedral destroyed. A pack of Brownies from Coventry had earlier sent gifts to cheer up "Coventry" ship's company. Now it was our turn to help the people of the town. A collection was made on board, and when the boxing team was competing at the Fleet Club, a further collection was made. Collection proceeds, with the addition of a grant from the ship's canteen fund, produced over a hundred pounds for helping Luftwaffe victims of Coventry.

On leaving the Cathedral we popped into The Herbert to view the local history fair. The Willenhall and Whitley history groups both had 'stalls' and some interesting photographs on display. As we were on our way out we passed the legendary John Russell, who I appeared with on BBC C&W earlier in the year. Much as I would have loved to have said 'hullo!' to John time was pressing so I gave it a miss. Anyone who has met John will know that he can talk for England when it comes to discussing the history of Coventry!

The Police Museum was next on the agenda. This was the venue I was most looking forward to visiting as I'd heard so much about it down the years. Also known as the Black Museum, it is home to some grizzly exhibits relating to the darker side of life in Coventry. After queuing for a while, we joined ten others and were the last visitors of the day. A somewhat tired female led us down some stairs into a small basement beneath Little Park Street police station. The room is split into two sections, one being for the over-15's only. It was not surprising to see why this was once we starting nosing around. Pictures of abused babies, murder victims, weapons that killed people are all on display. For me though, the main attraction was the remains of the bicycle used in the I.R.A. bombing of Broadgate in 1939. It was a very poignant and sad moment gazing at something that was instrumental in bringing such carnage and loss of innocent life in the heart of our city. It has no handlebars or front wheel but other than that looks brand new with the Halfords logo clearly visible on the frame. Of course it was new back then. I kind of imagined it would be scratched and dented. Only this week I was in touch with a relative of one of the victims who had read my article on the Historic Coventry website. He, like all decent people, is baffled by the lack of a public memorial to the dead. It really is shameful that the civic leaders haven't sorted this issue out.

The trip to the cop shop concluded our adventures for Saturday. On Sunday we made the short journey to the Masonic Hall on Warwick Road. Here we met the Freemasons and were given a tour of the building. A very nice Mason basically told us they are a group of people with higher 'values' than most. He added that anyone can join so long as they believe in a 'supreme being' and that Freemasons donate £millions to charity. The charity angle was reinforced with display boards and tables covered in press releases detailing the beneficiaries and amounts. It was also emphasised that they are not a secret society but do have secrecy regarding their rituals.

It was interesting. When I got home I looked up the Wikipedia entry for the Freemasons and it soon became apparent that our guide had memorised this almost verbatim. I don't have any axe to grind against them but clearly there has to be some kind of benefit to becoming one. Just having a higher set of 'values' and wanting to give money to charity are surely not reason enough for joining? Whatever the case it was nice that they opened their doors. I don't think I'll be joining up any time soon though!

Carnival 2009

July 4th saw the annual Godiva Carnival hit the streets and add some vibrant colour, lively music and energetic dancing to the city centre. Lady Godiva Processions of one form or another date back to the 17 C. and it's great to see the tradition kept alive by the latest generation of Coventrians.

This year's themes included Coventry's industrial and musical heritage, along with the 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games which will of course be held in London. The parade reflected the cultural diversity of Coventry in a very positive way. Those in power in other parts of the country who seek "community cohesion" would do well to watch the videos below.

A big thank you to all those who took part and helped organise this years procession.

Delphine Plastow

Coventry’s suffering during World War Two is well known and well documented. The blitz which began just after 7 pm on 14 November 1940 and lasted well into the early hours of the following day is one of the key moments in that horrific conflict from a British point of view. At the time it was biggest air raid the World had witnessed. The Germans tried to destroy the city in one fell swoop - to “Coventrate” it. Maybe if they had returned on the following nights they would have succeeded in their aim. Thankfully they didn’t. This raid is also popular with conspiracy theorists who like to believe that the city was sacrificed to protect the fact that the bods at Bletchley Park had cracked the German’s “top secret” enigma code. They claim that Churchill knew the city was for the high jump but if it had been evacuated then the Germans would have realised that enigma was not so secret after all. Certainly mistakes were made by our intelligence services in the lead up to the attack but there is no credible evidence of a deliberate plan to leave the city to its fate. It wasn’t the end of Coventry’s ordeal though - in Easter week of the following year raids of a similar magnitude took place with heavy loss of life.

One of the victims of the attacks in April 1941 was a 3 year old girl called Delphine Plastow. She lived at 5 Clovelly Road, Wyken and died in a nearby air raid shelter on 9th April. Her father Arthur died as a result of injuries suffered in the same raid. In the War Memorial Park both Delphine and her father have trees dedicated to them with plaques recording their names and the date of their deaths. Delphine’s plaque also has her age, as do the other ones in the park that are dedicated to the child victims of Hitler’s lunacy. It was partly because of her tender age that I have named my tribute video to the victims of air raids on Coventry after her. The main reason though was simply the fact that I think Delphine is a lovely name. May she and all the others rest in peace:

For more information about the Coventry Blitz visit the "Historic Coventry" website here:

http://www.historiccoventry.co.uk/blitz/blitz.php

Jane Hewitt's "UK Family History Researcher" website also has excellent section's on Coventry at War. She has painstakingly listed all the known victims of air raids and when raids took place.

http://www.familyresearcher.co.uk/CoventryRaids.htm

TOO MUCH TOO YOUNG

A great YouTube clip of the concert by Rob Macca. Rob is a big champion of local music. His blog about the evening can be found here:
http://robmacca.blogspot.com/2009/05/specials-bring-carnival-to-coventry.html

1980. Coventry is the centre of the music universe. 2 Tone has conquered the nation. The Specials started it all off and along with The Selecter have made it cool to be from Coventry. Along with Madness and Bad Manners they are regulars on Top of the Pops which is a sure sign you’ve hit the big time.

I’m 10, wearing a Harrington and arguing in the school playground with Scott from the year above over my rendition of part of “Stupid Marriage”. He says I’ve got the words wrong but I haven’t, they are definitely “Naked woman, naked man, where did you get that nice sun tan?” And that was part of The Specials appeal for youngsters of my age back then. The music was infectious but clearly we were too young to fully appreciate the biting social commentary contained in the lyrics, so songs with rude words like bollocks/piss/slags in them and themes dealing with grown up stuff like contraception and naked people were fantastic! (To put this in perspective, ‘fart’ was considered a swear word by many people back then!)

I didn’t have anything on the back of my Harrington. I recall Doddy from the estate having;

THE POLICE
M.U.F.C.


on the back of his in red letters. I think the red letters are why I remember this. They were possibly more expensive than the normal white transfer letters too. A girl in the year below at school called Zoe had ABBA on the back of hers. I remember thinking “fair play!” as I really liked them but it wasn’t the done thing to admit liking Abba back then.

The school is in Whitley, which was also home at the time to John Bradbury, the drummer from The Specials. If I remember correctly, virtually every kid in the area claimed to have met him and been given a pair of drumsticks.

My older brother had all the LP’s and plenty of singles released by the groups associated with 2 Tone. The “More Specials” album is knocking about somewhere in his attic complete with the free poster. Of all the Specials tracks I think we both liked “Do Nothing” the best back then, though he did like to sing the opening lines of “Gangsters” a lot.

In 1981 we were abroad on holiday when the group played their free concert at The Butts. I don’t think I would have been allowed to go but my brother would have went so was gutted to miss it. We arrived home to hear that a race riot had taken place in Coventry to accompany the full on chaos that had broken out in many big cities throughout England. Unemployment and Racism were not things that meant a lot to me at 11 years of age. That said, Skinheads were highly visible in Broadgate and were avoided at all costs. They were either NF or British Movement which apparently could be determined by counting the number of lace holes in their DM’s. Lynval Golding was famously stabbed in a racist attack that nearly cost him his life. [It happened at the club which has had various names over the years - Shades / Reflections / Bobby’s etc. - and whatever the name it was always the most notorious city centre club] Worst of all, a girl at school lost her dad in a racist murder. She was off for a long time and when she eventually returned, had (not surprisingly) a very sad and haunted look about her which I’ve never forgotten to this day. Tragedy would sometimes touch on junior school life but it was usually through kids being killed in road traffic accidents - bad enough for sure - but having your dad murdered was on another level of horribleness altogether.

The Specials split up not long after which was a sad day but lessened somewhat by the emergence of the Fun Boy Three who I really liked. Jerry Dammers and the Special AKA managed to recapture some of the 2 Tone magic with “Free Nelson Mandela” but other than that nothing really came close to those heady days when The Specials and Coventry ruled the musical roost. As I got older I began to appreciate the lyrics more and just how good the songs were, be they cover versions of ska songs or original Specials compositions. It truly is music that stands the test of time and I can’t say that for the music of other groups that I liked in my younger days such as The Alarm. Until the arrival of The Enemy, nothing of any substance musically had come out of Coventry to top the charts since the demise of the Fun Boy Three. [A band called King enjoyed some success but frankly I found their music and image highly embarrassing!]

Over the years a full-on reunion of the group seemed like it would never happen and I think most people had resigned themselves to this. There would be 2 Tone collectives and two or maybe three of the original line up playing together from time to time or collaborations with new bands and singers who had been influenced by them, but the dream of a second coming for our City’s musical Messiah’s was just that - a dream. I thought the closest I would get to experiencing anything close to the magic of a Specials concert was when my younger brother (aged about 15 at the time) asked me to go and see a play at The Belgrade with him which featured live versions of their songs and was set in Coventry during those heady days. It was the last night and many ageing Skinheads were in the audience. I’ve forgotten what it was called but it was very good and at the end Pauline Black came on and sang. There was a stage invasion by the ageing baldies who stomped along with Pauline and the band. Great stuff which just fuelled my desire to see The Specials get back together.

Fast forward to 15th May 2009 and the dream is about to come true. When the group announced they were reforming and touring it was like waking up in bed next to Liz Hurley in her prime, wearing that dress with the pins, and having her say in her posh voice:

TAKE THE PINS OUT AND FEED ME JOYBERT!

The Specials are coming home and the only things wrong are the weather and the venue. It’s lashing down and they are playing the Jaguar Exhibition Hall which forms part of the Ricoh Arena. I’ve seen Bryan Adams and The Enemy here before so know that the sound will not be up to scratch or as good as the other venues the band has played during the tour. Sadly, for one of the biggest cities in England, and a city with such a rich and diverse musical heritage, Coventry does not possess a purpose built 2,000-3,000 capacity venue capable of hosting a concert like this. The Exhibition Hall is basically an aircraft hangar and not designed for concerts. I’m not going to let it bother me though and I doubt many of the 8,000 strong “welcome home” party will be bothered either. I never thought we would see this day. It’s the best thing to happen to Coventry since the Sky Blues lifted the FA Cup back in 1987. Who cares if Terry Hall supports Man United and once apparently said we are a bunch of W*nkers?! Who cares if Jerry Dammers is missing from the line up? Yes, I tip my hat to you Jerry for creating The Specials and having the 2 Tone vision but you’ve messed up big time by not being part of this, yes siree!

So, minus a coat, I get a bus into town then board the No. 4 at Pool Meadow. It’s still pelting down with rain so I’m going to get soaked when I get off. Upstairs we are treated to a loud discussion from a group of 14 or 15 year girls and one boy. The girl with the biggest gob uses the f-word more than Gordon Ramsey. They are drinking vodka and don’t have a lot of time for someone called Paul. Paul is going to get ‘banged’. The boy with them is a friend of Paul, yeah. He doesn’t realise Paul has ‘banged’ (as in punching) a girl, yeah. He is not impressed, yeah, and is not going to look out for Paul anymore, yeah. Some tinny music from a mobile phone is then shared with us. It’s some kind of urban vibe that I’d associate with America. The boy then tells some tale about his last appearance in court. My solicitor was no good, yeah, so I stood up and spoke for myself, yeah. I told the magistrates I had done well, yeah, and this was a relapse but I couldn’t be expected to change completely straight away, yeah, and you should give me one more chance, yeah. If I’m up before you again, yeah, just send me to prison. He then told the girls he was a “criminal from Holbrooks” or something like that. They get off the bus with one of the girls saying that her mum is babysitting her child tonight. Too much too young indeed.

I and some other Ricoh bound punters get off a few stops after them. I console myself that I’m not the only one going to get drenched as two of them just have t-shirts on as well. Under the railway bridge some ticket touts from up north ask if I have any spare tickets. “I wish I had mate!” I reply as a jog past.

The jogging was a waste of time. I was soaked on arrival but wasn’t bothered. Once I’d been scanned with a hand held metal detector and sniffed for drugs by a dog I enter the aircraft hangar. It’s pretty full already and everyone else is dry. After a little walk around and trip to the loo I take up position near the mixing desk where Terry Hall’s son and A.N.Other are the D.J.’s for the night. It’s fairly central to the stage and not too far from the front so I won’t be in the thick of it but will have a good view. Now to kill time.

“D.J. Phoenix” (I later learn it is D.J. Felix) and A.N. Other entertain us with reggae tunes etc. until support act The Ripps appear. I’m shocked to see Rachel the smiling drummer is no longer with them. To me she was a vital part of the band. I’ve kept a sporadic eye on them since seeing them at the Godiva festival a few years ago. Sadly they don’t seem to be heading anywhere fast despite being tipped to hit the dizzy heights once upon a time. Most of the set is excruciating and not suited to what the audience wants to hear. Not their fault of course and it can’t be easy playing to a disinterested audience who are mainly 35+ years. A brass section appears and they redeem themselves a bit with the final few numbers which have a slight ska tinge to them. I’ve heard “Daddy Was A Hero” on their MySpace page ages ago and really like it so it was nice to see them do it live. The applause at the end of the set is much better than it was for the first three quarters of it.

Back to the reggae and ska music. I scan the audience. Pockets of ageing Skinheads, many of which must have come of retirement just for tonight, are dotted about all over the place. Quite a few look a lot tougher than the security staff in the place! Many couples are here. People dressed in 2 Tone clobber and hats. Youngsters, though outnumbered, have also turned out in force. Human beings of all shapes, sizes, creeds and colours are here. It amuses me to see families and some tame looking couples heading towards the front. Surely they don’t expect people will be standing like statues and politely applauding when the band is in full flow?

The DJ’s continue to try and whip the crowd up. “The Liquidator” doesn’t get much response but “Geno” does. Eventually they announce that The Specials will be on in three minutes and the brilliant opening arrangement begins. I’ve watched it on YouTube so many times at the other venues and think it has to be best way to kick things off ever! Sure enough the crowd sings along to “Enjoy Yourself”, a sea of mobile phones are held up, the curtain drops and The Specials burst into “Do The Dog”. Superb. I’m not going to review the set as it’s easy enough to watch every song from it on YouTube, be it in Newcastle, Glasgow, Sheffield, Manchester, Birmingham, London or Cov. Suffice to say I was bouncing like mad and knackered after a couple of songs! (Which I suspect was the case for a lot of the audience!) Sure enough, the families and tame couples soon beat a hasty retreat from the front to slightly less energetic parts of the venue. Only slightly less mind you as virtually everyone in the building was dancing. Half way through the set the hearing in my left ear was pretty much shot and things weren’t helped by the poor acoustics. Much of the stage banter was inaudible but I did catch Terry Hall intimating that Lynval Golding was possibly a bit merry. Horace Panter said “Thank you for making some old men happy.” No Horace, thank you and thank you to the rest of the band and all that have made this wonderful night happen! All of them were genuinely happy up there and the absence of Jerry Dammers wasn’t felt as the keyboard player is every bit as good. Of all the songs, "Concrete Jungle" was probably the weakest as Roddy Radiation’s vocals aren’t the best. On a night like this I’ll forgive anything though and it’s his song so who am I to argue?

The concert ends and I head back out into a wet and cold Coventry night. The T-shirt sellers outside have reduced prices to £5 but I don’t bother. I don’t need a t-shirt to remind me about this night of nights, it is burned into that most precious part of my memory bank - the part where my son comes into this cruel world at Walsgrave hospital, the part where Killer lifts the cup at Wembley, the part where I’m telling my dad to let go but he’s already let go and I am riding on two wheels for the first time, the part where I’m standing alongside Ian Wallace and having my picture taken with the Sky Blues, the part where Paula C. and I are doing it as quietly as we can and hoping my mum doesn’t disturb us ... okay, let’s not go there! I’m getting carried away but you catch the drift.

On the Longford Road I catch the No. 20 bus into town and have a conversation with a young chap who has also been to the concert. He’s related to Terry Hall and was in the V.I.P. section where he tells me he saw Noel Gallagher from Oasis, who are his favourite group and he can’t wait to see them at the Ricoh in the summer. He didn’t start listening to Specials stuff until the tour began but is glad he did and even gladder he came tonight. He has “woman trouble” and I lend him my mobile so he can call his mum to get some beer in for his arrival home. We shake hands and bid each other farewell in Trinity Street. Who says Cov is full of w*nkers?! ;)

A good review of the concert by Alan Nielson on the Birmingham Live! website can be found here:

http://www.brumlive.com/the-specials-the-ripps-the-ricoh-arena-coventry-15th-may-2009/

The Waste Ground

Stonehouse Estate was a great place to grow up. I spent the first 13 years of my life there and enjoyed the vast majority of that time. Unlike today, children played outside and were pretty much left to their own devices. Video game consoles were primitive, home computers virtually non-existent and television limited to three or four channels. There was no hysteria about the paedophile threat and drugs were not rife. In fact, the only harm one was likely to suffer was self-inflicted or at the hands of other kids.

The estate had greens to play ball games on and plenty of entries leading to garages that were ideal for hide and seek, but the real beauty for kids was the surrounding area. The River Sowe with its stepping stones and pipes to shimmy over, numerous playing fields, the woods at Whitley, air raid shelters, pill-box and the remains of Whitley Farm inside the grounds of Talbot and Bunny Rabbit Hill with its wild horses to name but a few.

One area that was a regular haunt lay at the back of Sedgemoor Road. I knew it simply as ‘The Waste Ground.’ It was also bordered by Baginton Fields School, Stonebridge Highway (A45) and the King Henry VIII and Whitley Abbey school playing fields. It had the remains of roads, brick built man holes and buried kerb stones. Moss covered clumps of bricks and concrete encased pipes lay around as did an industrial sized water or oil tank that was known simply as “The Old Boiler.” Up to five kids could sit atop this graffiti covered relic and rock it from side to side to see who could survive the longest without falling off. A lone telegraph pole stood nearby but nothing of substance remained to give any indication of what once stood on this land. I recall asking my parents what used to be there but they didn’t know.

It was a great place to play. Bikes could be ridden round the roads and it was ideal for games like hide and seek and “Soldiers”. When kids grew out of these games the isolation made it an ideal spot to light fires and chuck aerosol cans and paint pots on them. The results were certainly more exciting than any experiments conducted at school in Chemistry lessons that’s for sure! The waste ground was also home to the estate’s bonfire on November 5th. Without fail, the bonfire would always be set alight before the big night and have to be re-built from scratch on the day or the day before. “Willenhall Kids” would always get the blame for torching it. The other thing I remember about the waste ground was that it was a great place to find nudey mags! Clearly Stonehouse Estate had its fair share of tossers!

In 1982 the waste ground was invaded by Travellers. Fear gripped the estate and extra padlocks were purchased for all garages and sheds. Kids were told the waste ground was out of bounds until the Travellers had moved on. ‘Travellers’ is a nice way of describing people who usually illegally camp on other people's land, don’t pay taxes and don’t clear up after themselves. In this crazy Politically Correct world that we now live in I have to respect these people and their way of life. That's all well and good but I’m sure if I decided not to pay my taxes, illegally camp on land not belonging to me and desecrate it I’d be banged up pronto. Anyway, I digress, back to 1982 ...

With the Travellers showing no inclination to ‘move on’ the older teenagers on the estate decided to take matters into their own hands. Word was passed around for everyone to meet at Baginton Fields School playing field for a game of ‘football’. I went along with a friend called Elfy and sure enough a game of football was in progress. All the estate hard-cases were in attendance. They were waiting on some friends from nearby Willenhall to turn up. We went to play on the climbing frame by the school playground. Shortly after the school caretaker and his dog walked past. He was armed with a crossbow! Not surprising really as there were numerous gaps in the hedge that separated Baggy Fields from the waste ground where the Travellers were camped.

Eventually the reinforcements from Willenhall arrived and the football match came to a halt. Catapults and baseball bats were revealed and the Stonehouse Action Force marched off towards a gap in the hedge that led to the waste ground. My brother, four years older than us, told Elfy and I to clear off in no uncertain terms. We let the soldiers pass through the hedge and tagged on at the end. Once through the hedge however we bottled it and decided to make our way back onto Sedgemoor Road and the ‘safety’ of the estate. Slipping through a broken fence we emerged by some garages. The entry led to the road. As we reached the end of the row of garages and turned the corner we were confronted by the sight of two Travellers wielding baseball bats, one of whom was a dead ringer for the wrestling legend Giant Haystacks. Fortunately they were looking elsewhere and we quickly retreated without being seen. But what now? Back to the waste ground where battle was raging? It would be an understatement to say we were absolutely terrified. One of the garages was open so we took refuge in it. Surely it was only a matter of seconds before Giant Haystacks and his chum would find us and beat the living daylights out of us?

With bodies shaking like leaves and our bowels threatening to dislodge their contents we awaited our certain doom. It truly was one of those moments when time seems to go in slow motion. After what seemed like an eternity we heard women’s voices and decided to emerge from our hiding place. We were greeted by two policemen who asked us who we were and what were we doing? Before we could answer, two women in their back gardens said, “They’re children from the estate, we know them, it’s nothing to do with them!” With that the old bill let us pass and we were safe.

I caught up with my brother a bit later and got a full account of the ‘Battle of the Waste Ground’. After a number of windows in the Traveller’s caravans had been smashed the Stonehouse mob were confronted by several Traveller men emerging from caravans with shot guns. This was the cue for a rapid retreat and it was everyone for themselves as they ran for their lives! It put mine & Elfy’s garage episode into sharp perspective ... Shot guns! Christ almighty!

The next day the Travellers ‘moved on’. It proved to be a hollow victory. The ‘Waste Ground’ was now truly wasted. The Travellers had destroyed every young tree in the vicinity. Rubbish was strewn everywhere including copious amounts of human excrement. Truly disgusting! The manholes were filled with rubbish and all in all the place felt soiled. Literally.

Not long after the council dumped tons of shale or chippings on the tracks of the waste ground to prevent another Traveller incursion. My family moved away from Stonehouse in 1983. Some years later the waste ground became the “Baginton Fields Nature Trail.”

A few years ago I first came across the excellent Willenhall Virtual Museum website. I was searching to see if any of my Dad’s relatives got a mention as they were amongst the first to live on the Willenhall estate when it was built and, according to him, played some part in establishing the social club. While looking at the site I came across some fascinating articles about “Baginton Fields Hostel” and was delighted to discover that this was in fact what had once occupied the “Waste Ground”. The mystery - to me at least - of the roads, manholes, clumps of concrete and bricks and the buried kerb stones was explained at last.

The hostel complex was constructed during the Second World War and in 1945 was home to hundreds of Dutch children who were ‘evacuated’ from the Netherlands for health reasons. Later it was home to displaced people from Britain and around the globe. The Virtual Museum website tells the story in great detail with accounts and photographs from people who lived there. The home page is here:

http://www.virtualmuseum.co.uk/index.htm


Today there is nothing on the site to commemorate its past. It is still a nature reserve but Coventry Council has permission to allow houses to be constructed on part of the site. Local residents are quite understandably opposed to this. It is unlikely that houses will be constructed in the current economic climate but once this is over no doubt the houses will be built as residents opinions, nature and history cannot be allowed to stand in the way of a fast buck.

http://www.savethomaswalk.co.uk/index.html

Seven Brave Men

Bomb disposal. Not a job for the faint hearted. In September 2008 father of four Gary O’Donnell of the Royal Logistics Corps died in Afghanistan when an improvised explosive device went off as his team attempted to clear it. Gary had been awarded the George Cross for defusing bombs in Iraq in 2006. Even with protective suits and robots it is still a job for the bravest of the brave.

In Coventry we are familiar with bombs. The city was subject to numerous air raids in the Second World War with the ‘blitz’ on November 14th 1940 being the most famous / infamous. Unexploded bombs from this period still turn up from time to time. I recall my late father telling me that in his youth he discovered an incendiary bomb near Canley Ford. As recently as March this year an unexploded German bomb was discovered during construction work on the new ‘Belgrade Plaza’. Large parts of the city centre were evacuated and then cordoned off as bomb disposal experts made the device safe.

The bomb mentioned above was found in Upper Well Street, which is around a hundred metres or so from Chapel Street. On 14th October 1940 the 9th Bomb Disposal Company of the Royal Engineers were tasked with making safe an unexploded bomb in this city centre street. The 250 kg device had crashed through the roof of E Laxon & Co. Ltd, a food wholesaler, and ended up in the basement, where it was finally uncovered four days later. The bomb was fitted with standard fuses but these were so badly damaged they could not be removed. The electrical charge was thought to be dissipated but a discharge tool was applied just in case. It was believed the bomb was inert and could be moved so it was decided to transport the bomb to a disposal site on Whitley Common where it could be destroyed safely. The bomb was carefully loaded onto a truck and driven from town to the common. Tragically, as it was being unloaded, the bomb exploded without warning instantly killing seven men.

As a child, the ITV drama series “Danger UXB” was compulsive viewing. The fictionalised exploits of bomb disposal men going about their business in WWII was mesmerising stuff. It could only give a taste of the danger faced by the real life bomb disposal teams but conveyed the terrors they faced and incredible courage very well.

I had heard the story of the sad loss of life at Whitley Common when I was younger but not in any great detail. Now, thanks to tremendous work by the Whitley Local History Group, these seven brave men have been remembered with a permanent memorial.

On the 18th of October 2008 the memorial was officially unveiled and dedicated on Whitley Common. I was privileged to witness the ceremony along with 150 or so others. Most of the crowd were older people and no doubt some had memories of that fateful day. As the sun struggled to break through the cloudy sky the Union flag was removed from the memorial stone by descendants of Sergeant Michael Gibson, George Cross, one of the victims of the explosion, and an old Sapper called Bill Cook who belonged to No. 69 Bomb Disposal Company which also defused bombs in Coventry in 1940. This was followed by the standard bearers from the Royal British Legion lowering their flags and the bugler sounding The Last Post. Sad, moving and poignant. A modern day aid for the current bomb disposal teams was on display – a robot made by local firm Remotec UK Ltd who coincidentally are based in Whitley! Back then the brave men who made safe Hitler’s deadly offerings had little to aid them and often had to rely on their wits and a stout heart alone.

The memorial is located across the road from the entrance to the Ibis Hotel car park and is within sight of Whitley Abbey Bridge, another site that the Whitley Local History Group has commemorated with a plaque to mark its 250th birthday.

The Seven Brave Men:

2nd Lieutenant Alexander Fraser Campbell, George Cross, Age 42.

Sergeant Michael Gibson, George Cross, Age 34.

Sapper William Gibson, Age 22.

Sapper Richard Gilchrest, Age 23.

Sapper Jack Plumb, Age 25.

Sapper Ronald William Skelton, Age 20.

Royal Army Service Corps Driver Ernest Frederick George Taylor, Age 32.

The men are buried at London Road Cemetery, Coventry. The graves are located in the 'new' part of the cemetery and can be found around ten metres behind the monument in the Memorial Garden to the victims of the Coventry Blitz.



Details for the Whitley Local History Group can be found here:

http://www.opin.org.uk/peoplelink/index.php?action=show_organisation_detail&organisation_name=Whitley+Local+History+Group

A Royal Engineers, Bomb Disposal EOD site can be found here:
http://royalengineersbombdisposal-eod.org.uk/