Be proud of your roots, be fiercely proud of your roots.
Whether you come from the penthouse of a shadowy multi family tenement , the affluent suburbs of a bustling city overflowing with nomaphobic fast lane, or indeed from the back of beyond, never forget where you come from. Let’s be honest, there wouldn’t be a child on earth in this life or a past one that had a choice of where his or her upbringing would be. Our parents make those decisions for us, their parents made those decisions for them and so it goes back through time.
i was raised in Kirkby, Liverpool and remember as a 12 year old police horses patrolling my street at 6pm as they prepared for the second coming of the Croxteth skinheads, navigating their route across the East Lancashire road like a swarm of angry bees for their nightly showdown with the rough of tumble of the four areas that made up this little town, Southdene, Northwood, Westvale and Tower Hill. Carnage.
Was it frightening ? At first yes, but we had (my sisters and I ) our tough Dad to protect us, The only prisoners he would take were the ones who put his kids or wife in danger. Character building.
He instilled solid values though. Be kind to elderly people, treat your woman properly and if you want money for something….get a job !
I delivered Liverpool Echo’s nightly, and of a Sunday a back breaking load of News of the World, Peoples and Mirrors. I sold ice cream on a Sunday in the Summer from a little black box on wheels filled with dry ice and Raspberry Ripple & Neopolitan blocks, I pushed it around like a Mother proudly pushes her new baby in a pram, I was proud of my ice cream box, I may not have showed it off to other ice cream sellers but I was proud of it. It helped me to save enough money for a pair of Adidas Santiago football boots or a Stuart Surridge Cricket bat.
Not being one for heights, I gave a helper a small cut of my profits to take it up in the flats, while I sat at the bottom dreaming up new ways to earn. I also used to cut the grass for the St Gregory school nuns every Saturday, I just knocked one day and convinced Mother Felicitas that I was the man for the job and not Mother Paulinus, who to be frank was not easy on the eye shoving that miniature mower around the convent estate in full flowing regalia, an image that when you think about it is quite amusing, if we had laughed however, 10 Hail Marys and an Our Father accompanied by an act of contrition would have been bestowed upon us
Dad was impressed with the entrepreneurial tendencies and before you knew it I could afford to go to Everton games on my own with my mates. He had, and my Uncles, been taking me since I was 8. I could buy those little number tags the Leeds players wore on their socks. He did of course supplement these earnings as he could see I was a doer and not a thinker and not lazy.
It’s upbringings like that which shape our character, you will have had your special one. This very upbringing enables us to deal with the bumps in the road that life brings, the biblical storms, the wrong turns, the challenges that lay in wait like a sniper waits in the bushes for his target. At 15 you know all the answers, at 25 you feel you own the world, you feel you have experienced it all, have walked the walk and broken bread with the wise man himself. At 30, your young children are making their way in this mad world. You can face anything, ” Come on life, show me what you got ! ”
One of the most overused remarks ever is “Tell me about it”, but is that just another way of saying “Deal with it I did” Of course it is.
Paddy McAloon sang about “A life of surprises”. His band’s name (prefab Sprout) sounds like it came from his County Durham upbringing, in an area surrounded by newly built eyesores, (he actually got it through mishearing a Nancy Sinatra lyric in a song) but his lyrics are not to be misinterpreted.
Never let your conscience be harmful to your health
Let no neurotic impulse turn inward on itself
Just say that you were happy, as happy would allow
And tell yourself that that will have to do for now
He’s 55 now is Paddy, but I’ll bet a King’s Ransom that he’s still learning, just like every one of you reading this.
This blog is a sentimental one for me, so forgive my self indulgence, it’s helping me. I’m upset, I’m sad, this life of surprises has grabbed me by the throat again. This blog is a closure for me, the power of the internet allowing us to write our feelings down, it’s therapeutic, it’s constructive (you should try it, it works, it’s a release)
In the 80s as a young scouser from Kirkby, I dreamed of being a racing commentator, yes, comical in itself isn’t it ? My accent was very broad back then. I had behind me a solid foundation of working for bookmaker Harry Metcalf (rest his soul) of Jack Bevan of Torquay on and off course. Working away from Liverpool was trendy then, and there is a lot to be said for it, sampling life in other corners of the British Isles as a school leaver really does give you experiences that won’t be gained playing an ex box game against Jethro’s nephew from Penzance.
I even became pally with a man who made his living putting his hand up a bears bum. Yes, I give you Roger Cook, not that stormy petrel of a journalist who tried (and failed) to discredit Martin Pipe, how dare he ? But another Roger Cook, a friend of Harry’s. However if you go on stage and stick your hand up a cuddly bears backside, it’s not convincing for the compare to scream “Ladies and Gentlemen please welcome Roger Cook” So Roger, changed it to De Courcey, of course he did. I never got to meet the bear, but Roger had a horse of the same name in training with Phillip Mitchell in Epsom. The only time he fancied it was in a novice chase at Lingfield, but Nookie Bear ran as if he still had the vets hand up his tradesmen’s entrance, we are all cock eyed that night wondering how we got drawn into it.
The journey continued, moving back home to look for work, having gained experience both for Harry and as a trainee Chef in a hotel on the wonderfully named Daddyhole Plain.
But, the lure of the racing world and the excitement it provided was too strong, and despite earning a crust driving a black cab in Liverpool city centre for years (now if that’s not character building what is ? ) I still hankered after that commentators role.
I needed experience on the radio I thought, I talked Graham Beecroft at Radio City to take me on as a Saturday ‘analyst, he was taken by my enthusiasm and hunger, so much so he gave me the gig, he said he couldn’t pay me (Radio Stations say that a lot) but for a few months I loved it.
I was raw, and it must have come across like that, I had to endure lots of ribbing from family members. I went to visit Franny Norton after he won the Ebor (a big horse race) as an apprentice, he lived in Netherley, one of my first questions in the interview went like this “Franny, tell me about the weighing room, what’s it like ?”……..”well, it’s a big room with lots of chairs, hangers and a few showers”…..
It never went out on air, not surprising really, but a wake up call. I needed to improve.
One year later and a very nice Scottish Gentleman called Ralph Topping gave me my chance, an advert on Teletext, commentator required, based Leeds for William Hill. One interview and I was in ! Bingo.
Ralph liked me, he thought I had potential, he liked the humour, the delivery, the voice, he did though advise me to get elocution lessons in an effort to round off the rough edges. So I did, a woman in Southport. Cannot remember her name, but she had a nice little office and offered fig rolls, bourbons and rich teas. I was taught to say “Therred in stead of the hard sounding Thiiird” as in the number. I went about 6 times.
The day he told me to lose the accent a little, or to be fair to Ralph, at least tone it down is now, as I look back, as instrumental on my career as most other things.
You see, my accent, my dialect has ultimately been my downfall seemingly. The Daily Mail’s Victoria Woolaston recently published a piece on dialects, based on a survey taken amongst British People, the article fails to state who these people were, or where they lived, but it seems the ‘Scouse’ accent is the least trusted one in the whole of the British Isles. According to the survey the accent is the least friendly as well.
I worked for one of the biggest bookmakers in the world for 8 years, I loved my time there, always the fist to sign a card if anyone left or chip in to a collection. I went on numerous leaving parties. Never being shy to get to the bar, I said goodbye to lots of good people. The two main managers there in the last 2 years clearly respected me, so much so they named a virtual horse after me. Hanleys Hubcaps was born.
My late Mum, who passed away 3 weeks after one of these managers told me my time was up, put a bet on it one day she was that proud. Another pal, had a pound on it in the busy Black Bull branch in Liverpool, he was proud also. I was honoured, I think it was given that name because of my love for cars and hubcaps in particular. They suspected I had a huge collection in my garage.
March 8th 2012 I was asked to leave, no card, no party, no drinks. I miss going into work now being asked if I had some blokes wallet, or if my giro had arrived, or if my burgling exploits have provided enough stock for a good antique shop. One man in particular: he’s quite well known, talks about football on the telly, actually reminded me whenever he saw me that scousers were thieves. I miss him, how I miss him.
But having lost my Mum and a job in a flash, I used my character building qualities to pick myself up, dust myself off and start again.
Now just 18 months later, I’ve been told 3 weeks before Christmas that I’m no longer required, I’m not good enough. The person that told me had warned me months previous that my dialect was a bit too much. I’ll miss this place too, I’ll miss the rugby loving colleague who always reminded me (usually in front of a few mates, never on his own) that my love of hub caps was well respected. I’ll miss him, how I’ll miss him. One senior manager also, in front of colleagues commented on a love of scouse thieving, I won’t put his name, but he hates it to be shortened, it upsets him, bless.
You see, I’m upset, I’m sad, my accent has proved to be my downfall, if it was my ability I wouldn’t have lasted 20 years. Will I lose it ? No chance. Be proud of your roots, be fiercely proud.
Am I bitter ? Not at all, I’m proud of Liverpool in every way, my career path took me away. I’m proud of my accent. I shall not change it for anybody. I’ve never ever ever taken an item off a car, or indeed removed a wallet. Sadly, I will be getting a giro. So really, they are right, I can’t complain.
It’s been hell of a journey, I worked for Channel 4 racing, I sat on my own with John Francome and discussed the price of fish. A hero, the funniest man I have ever met bar none. Huge hands like a Spear and Jackson shovel (other brand are available, oops I slipped into professional mode) I will remember him. John won’t remember me, why should he, in reality I’m a nobody, just a man who tried his best.
I worked with many many other well known people, I lived the dream. The dream is over. My heart has taken a pounding, I’m not a thief, I have a wicked sense of humour, at first it may have been funny, oh actually wait, it wasn’t, it just blokes trying to be comedians, never ever women by the way, apart from one, but enough is enough. Time for a change.
Thanks for reading and Merry Christmas to all, even those who took my livelihood away.
John x
Hanleyontheball 