cover size 210 x 148 mm (A5)

Voices Appeal                   
Editorial Committee
You 					Pat Arrowsmith
The Tyneside Poets 				Alan C Brown 
Maud Watson, Florist 			Keith Armstrong 
The Occupation         			Ken Fuller
An Explanation and an Apology Alan		Bridie Watts 
Bleached Grass				Pat Sentinelia 
Savages     				John Salway 
From Haifa to Die in Lebanon  			Giorgio Taverniti 
The Stripper  				Jean Sutton
After You 				Bill Eburn
Rush Hour 				Bill Eburn
Absent Friends				Bill Eburn
Manganese Nodules And You 			Les Barker 
Comment on a Scorner of Mechanisation		Frances Moore	
A Silent Man Disguised as a Comrade    		Wendy Whitfield 
Philpot in the City       			Paul St Vincent 
Lambchops in Training    			Paul St Vincent 
Natural Rhythm				Rose Friedman
Power Trio       				Vincent P Richardson 
The Hunt for the Bismarck			Bert Ward 
In Praise of Learning (trans by Rick Gwilt)		Bert Brecht 
Iry					Rick Gwilt 


Total acknowledged in "Voices 6", £164.23. Since then, the following donations have been received for which we express thanks. Mr and Mrs Tartakower £4, Bob Dixon £2, Peggy Kessel £3, GiorgioTaverniti £10, Kathy and Paul Levine £8.40, M M Wiles £2, Mr G Doyle £1.40, May Ainley £5, Gillian Cronje £3, Horace Green £1.40, Anon £5, a total of £45.20, which brings the grand total to date 31 January, 1977, to £209.43. 

We would like to wind this fund up by April 1, so please make your donations early. 

VOICES Editorial Committee

Some changes have taken place recently. Alan Arnison has had to withdraw (temporarily, we hope) because of illness. Rick Gwilt has come on as Joint Editor with Ben Ainley. Greg Wilkinson has joined the Board to develop the idea of Writers Workshops. Maurice Levine is responsible for approaches to bookshops. Sot Garson becomes Art Editor. Frank Parker remains Treasurer. Rose Friedman and Val Ohren remain on the Committee, as does John Cooper Clarke. We have had regretfully to accept the position that Les Barker does not feel able to function on the Committee. 

Our thanks are due for financial help from the North-West Arts Association.


You are glass. 
Clear, bright, sharp-edged, 
you shine, cut, pierce to the core.

Sometimes a prism, 
you refract the light around you. 
Ice-like you can even melt. 
Or crack.

Occasionally you are shattered. 
I know, 
because your splinters are still in me.

Pat Arrowsmith.


Tyneside Poets is a group of men and women residing in the North-Fast, who believe that poetry should not be an ivory tower activity, but should go out to the people. Since January 1973 we have given readings at various festivals, in pubs, car-parks, town centres and at folk groups. Members have been invited to Sweden, Germany and Iceland. 

Tyneside Poets hold regular meetings, give readings, issue small press publications and stage occasional exhibitions on specific themes. We have appeared on radio and TV, and have presented readings at the Newcastle Festival. 

We have had visiting poets from the USSR and Germany. We have set up exhibitions of Soviet poetry, and German poetry. Poets have come, at our invitation, to Newcastle such as: Maia Borisova, Michael Dudin, Violetta Palchinskyte and Joseph Nineshvilli from USSR; and Oswald Andrea and others from Germany. 

Our small publications have included translations from many languages done by our members. In POETRY NORTH-EAST we seek to bring the work of our members to the notice of a wider public. We have had our poems translated into German and Russian and published abroad. We have had articles about our group in magazines in the Soviet Union, Sweden, and Germany. 

Tyneside poets aim to encourage poets and writers; they also strive to develop better understanding between peoples. 

Alan C Brown
10 November 1976


bred in a market arch 
a struggle
in a city's armpit

that flower
in your time-rough hands 
a beautiful girl in a slum alley

all that kindness in your face

and you're right

the times are not what they were
this England's not what it was

flowers shrink in that crumbling vase
dusk creeps in on a cart

and Maud the sun is choking 

Maud this island's sinking 

and all that swollen sea is 

the silent majority 


Keith Armstrong.


Eric sat at the kitchen table, chin in palm, and gazed vacantly across into the yard of the house which backed onto his. On the garden wall of the other house, someone had daubed a legend:


He thought of the team about which he had at times cared so passionately and for which, last Saturday, he had fought. Now, on Monday morning, as the fact of his redundancy began to sink in, United seemed irrelevant. Besides, he hadn't really been fighting for them on Saturday. No, I was fighting for ... ah, I'm fucked if I know why I was fighting. I was in a mood, had been since they told us, a week before the event, that they were closing the factory. Then, at the match, I remember looking around the grounds at all the people who had jobs, looking up at where the directors sat puffing their cigars, dressed in their thick overcoats, and suddenly I got mad and felt ashamed all at once, like it was my fault that I had no job to go to.

When the game started, though, the shame disappeared as we cheered the side on. There were about twenty of us together, almost all from the same street, and it seemed like we could beat the world, the way we felt. I even forgot about me job-until the ball landed in the back of United's net, that is, and then I don't really know what happened. The fighting started down the front. The shame came back. The side was losing. A middle-aged feller next to me pushed me and called me a hooligan because I was with the crowd that was fighting, so I kicked his shins and belted him one. It was like he was saying it was my fault, when I hadn't done a thing. Then the fight spread and me mates told me afterwards that I had been doing most of it. They said it like they was proud of me, like it made them feel good to be my mate, but it was nothing to be proud of, not really. No, I wasn't fighting for United and I wasn't even really fighting against the people who got in the way of my fist either, because I remember now that every now and again I kept looking up at where the directors were, thinking you cunts, you're no better than the sum who closed down our factory and put us on the street.

Yeah, before the match, it had seemed like we could've beat the world, but then, when the fight was on, the law came and we were finished. Somehow, I managed to squeeze through the crowd and escape. That was the first time I'd been involved in anything like that and I hope it'll be the last. But that bloke shouldn't have called me a hooligan.

He pushed aside his cereal-bowl and scratched his uncombed head, wondering what to do with himself for the day. Then he heard someone at the side gate and realised that the front door-bell had been ringing. Big Dave's head appeared at the kitchen window.

Big Dave wasn't so much big as fat. He was eighteen, a year older than Eric, and he tried to appear worldly and adult, but Eric had long ago discovered that this was just a means of hiding his lack of self-confidence. He liked him anyway. When he opened the back door, Dave was standing there, squinting at him as he drew the last lungful of smoke from his roll-up, which he held pinched between thumb and forefinger.

"Where the fuck you been, then? I been ringing the bell for ten minutes now."

"Sorry mate, I was miles away. Come on in."

"You goin' down to the meeting outside the factory ?"

"Christ, I forgot all about that !" Dave shrugged.

"Can't see it doin' much good, anyway. Here, roll yourself a fag."

Eric rolled a cigarette and lit it, the first lungful of smoke making his stomach turn as a result of his cold breakfast.

"Where's the old lady, then ?"

"She's on mornings this week."

Dave had rolled a cigarette which looked like a piece of stiff white bootlace. He held it up to look at it and grimaced. "They'll be layin' off people there soon, as well. Stands to reason, dunnit ? We supply Preston's with parts and if we're closed down they can't get parts-'less they get 'em from the factory up North, and that'll mean more expense, so they'll probably get rid of a few anyway."

"I hope you're wrong, Dave. Christ knows what we'd do with just me old man working. He pisses most of his wages up against the wall as it is." He bit his lip. "What's wrong with this fucking country all of a sudden ?"

Dave started a bonfire at the end of his cigarette. When the blaze had died down, he drew in a mouthful of smoke and expelled it through his nose.

"I'm surprised at you, Eric," he said, narrowing his eyes prior to taking another puff. "After all, you don't have to look too far, do you ?" His stubby forefinger tapped four times on the table. "Too-many-black-bastards. I thought you had that all weighed up, the way you were taking the piss out of old Clement Atlee Armstrong the other day."

"Only because everyone else was, and then it was only over his name, nothing else."

Dave rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ ! Whaddayou wanna stick up for him for-he's as thick as shit !"

"Well, my old son, he can't be all that thick, can he, 'cause he's got three A levels-three !"

"He'd still be takin' a white man's job even if he had seventy-three fucking A levels."

"Well, I wouldn't be too sure about that if I was you. I heard Donnelly talking about this business of blacks taking jobs from whites and it just don't work out that way." Dave pursed his lips and folded his hands on the table.

"Okay, what way does it work out, then ?"

"I can't remember, but you can ask Donnelly yourself at the meeting if you really wanna know."

"I wouldn't ask that cunt the time of day, the murdering Irish bastard." Eric threw up his eyebrows and pushed his chair back. "Well, I'm off to the meeting. Coming ?"

"Suppose there's trouble ? I passed a lot of law cars on the way here."

"Oh, I don't reckon they're anything to do with us, Dave-they must be on their way to arrest Donnelly for murder."

"Piss off."

The high street seemed somehow different this Monday morning, the shops drabber, the housewives and pensioners who were now, at nine-thirty, coming out of their husbandless, childless houses more ill-tempered, their faces pinched with a hundred small concerns and worries and probably by one or two big ones as well. The rubbish from Saturday's market still lingered, stuck to the street and the pavement by intermittent October rain. An old man was washing down the steps of the Ode on as Eric and Dave arrived at the bus stop; Eric glanced at the stills of Kirk Douglas dressed as Spartacus.

"Not a bad film, that," said Dave. "Went to see it last night. You seen it ?"

"Only on telly." As they stood in the bus-queue, Dave looked at Eric from the corner of his eye.

"Of course, this meeting's gonna be a waste of time. You fancy nippin' down the employment to see if anything's goin' ?" Eric grunted.

"That would be a waste of time."

The industrial estate was five minutes' walk from the bus stop at the other end. There was a funny feeling in the air. Looking up at the razor-blade factory and the bakery as they passed, they could see men standing at the windows, looking out.

"Whaddayou think's up with them ?" Eric pressed his lips together.

"Dunno. They're looking down towards our factory."

Dave snorted. "It's not 'our' factory any more."

"It never fucking well was."

Dave looked at Eric, made to say something, then reconsidered and remained silent.

They were late. By the time they reached the factory gate, the two hundred men and women were listening to Donnelly as he wound up his speech. The Irishman was not big but, as he stood at the head of the meeting, his finger jabbing the air and his head thrown back so that his voice carried as far as possible, he looked as big as he needed to look. With a glance at the six or seven policemen who stood on one side, Eric and Dave joined on at the back and strained forward to hear what was being said.

"So that's their plan, brothers and sisters: first they put us on the street and then, in a week or two, Preston's will close through lack of parts, or at least that's what the workers at Preston's will be told. But the fact is that both operations will be carried on in Spain-they are being carried on in Spain as we stand here. In Spain, brothers and sisters, where the fact that the prisons are full of trade unionists will mean bigger profits than ever before, even bigger dividends for the shareholders than they got last year." Donnelly paused, placed his hands on his hips and looked around at the meeting. "So should we accept the fact that the business which we've built up over the past twenty years has been transferred to fascist Spain ?"

He listened to the chorus of noes and raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. Despite the seriousness of the situation, everyone could see that he was about to playfully chide them for past errors. "Ohhh, so now we all see what a tirrible thing fascism is, do we ? From the measly little collection we took for the boys in Spain a couple of Fridays ago, I wasn't thinking for a minute that we were all such dedicated anti-fascists. But now it's hit us in the belly, eh ?" He smiled. "Well, we're learning the hard way, but even that's better than not learning at all. And I'll tell you another thing: don't be too surprised if when this has all died down I get arrested and deported under the Anti-Terrorism Act-not for being a terrorist, but for being a bloody good trade unionist. When you stand by and let a law like that get passed, you don't always stop to think that it might be used against yourself one day, but that's the kind of society we're living in, brothers and sisters."

Some among the audience thought that he had wandered too far.

"Yeah, but what are we gonna do now ?" cried one worker.

Donnelly stretched up on his toes and looked beyond the crowd to where a blue Mercedes had drawn up, a police-sergeant bent to one of the rear windows.

"Well, first of all we're going to let the governor in. We mustn't stop him from working just because he stopped us, now, must we ? Move aside and let the silver-haired old gentleman through. Of course I'm serious, brother-move aside and let the bastard through now."

In some confusion, the meeting obeyed and divided itself into two. The Mercedes crawled through and stopped at the gate, where the chauffeur alighted with a bunch of keys. While he was unlocking the gate, Donnelly swept off his hat, clasped it to his heart and approached the rear window of the car.

"They're not at all bad lads, sorr," he said, laying the brogue on thick and heavy, "It's only natural that they should want to let off a bit of steam. Now pardon me presumption, sorr, but if your good lady has any scraps that she can spare ... well, it's the little ones, you see, sorr - they'll not be having much to eat since you're no longer able to give us work and look after us."

The managing director opened his mouth, licked his lips, frowned and told the returned chauffeur to drive through the gate.Donnelly straightened up and called out:

"And now, brothers and sisters, we're going to occupy the factory. Come on."

The men reached the office area before the Mercedes and so the managing director found the way barred. He waited around for ten minutes and then drove away once more, stopping outside the gate to converse with the sergeant. Donnelly, meanwhile, had sent a man over the back wall to the house of the night-watchman. The man returned forty-five minutes later with a full set of keys and by 11.15 the factory was occupied in the fullest sense.

A meeting of the shop stewards was called and this lasted until noon. The occupation, far from having been as spontaneous as it had appeared, had been planned over the weekend by the shop stewards and a handful of the most trusted workers. Now they ironed out the finer points, drawing up watch-rotas, arranging for bedding and food to be shipped in and for those workers who had not turned up for the meeting to be informed. Someone was sent across to Preston's to advise the shop stewards there of the occupation and of the future which lay in store for them. As Donnelly left the meeting, one of the senior shop stewards walked with him across the yard.

"I don't think you did us much good, Bob, talking that way to Jamieson." Donnelly snorted contemptuously.

"Get away with you ! He's so thick he couldn't make out whether I was taking the piss or not. Hey, young Eric!"

He left the shop steward and walked over to where Eric and Dave were standing. Eric looked up and, as if sensing that what Donnelly wanted to say to him was confidential, patted Dave's arm and moved away. Donnelly placed a hand on Eric's shoulder.

"My spies tell me that you were in some trouble at the ground on Saturday."

Eric dropped his eyes, not knowing how to meet the man's gaze.

"Well, at least you're ashamed of it-that's a good sign. But why did you have to get mixed up in a thing like that?"

Eric swallowed. "It's hard to put into words. It didn't have much to do with the match, really. All kinds of feelings were mixed up in me. One minute I was glad, happy to be with me mates, then I was ashamed, 'cause all I was was a yob who'd just lost his job and didn't know any better." The Irishman smiled down at him.

"You know better, son-you know it and I know it and that's all that counts. Never mind what anyone else thinks, least of all bastards like Jamieson."

They walked across the yard together. Donnelly put his hands in his pockets, took in a large sniff of air and looked about him, as if visualising how things might be if, instead of a defensive action, this occupation were of a more permanent nature.

"You see, Eric," he said, "you'll find that every class system on earth, once it's outlived its usefulness and is dying, will give rise to violence and to what they call a 'breakdown in law and order.' That's because the system can't satisfy the simple demands of the people any more and because something tells them that the law is only a means of keeping them down anyway. But that doesn't mean that this violence is a good thing, because nine times out of ten it's just workers fighting workers. Then again, sometimes the violence is within the law, like it was in Rome, where they made slave fight slave. They're happy-the slave-owners, the barons or the capitalists-as long as worker fights worker, and that's what you were doing on Saturday. What people like us have got to do is turn workers' thoughts on creating a system where everyone can have a job, a house, enough to eat and enough to do with his spare-time, building up his mind as well as his body." He paused and grinned. "But you're not ready for that yet."

Eric felt better, no longer ashamed, because Donnelly understood. That was the trouble: not enough people understood.

"What d'you think's going to happen here ?" The Irishman scratched his head.

"Oh, the police will come along and try to get us out. If for some reason they don't succeed, then we'll try and get the government to support us. But even if we get that far, it won't be far enough."

"How d'you mean?" Donnelly stopped, turned to Eric and smiled.

"You go away and see if you can answer that one for yourself, then, when all this is settled one way or the other, we'll talk it over"

Eric had been given a tiny piece of understanding and was beginning to realise that an experience was not half as frightening if it was understood. As he returned to Dave, he noticed Clem walking away. Dave shrugged sheepishly when he saw the look on Eric's face.

"Yeah, well, he ain't all that bad," he said. "You were right about them A levels, anyway. He was just telling me what the law might try to do to us - conspiracy to trespass and things like that." Eric remembered what Donnelly had said about Rome.

"Talking about Clem, did you say that you saw Spartacus last night ? Well, don't you remember that bit where Kirk Douglas was forced to fight that black slave, and the black slave, instead of killing Kirk Douglas when he had the chance, attacked the poofs who were making them fight ?"

"Yeah, that was good, that bit. " Eric had been hoping for more. "Well, don't you see: he was a slave, the same way Kirk Douglas was; Clem is a worker, the same way we are. Why should we fight Clem when what we should be doing is taking on the bosses, us and Clem together !" Dave frowned and nodded slowly.

"That makes sense, I suppose, but how we gonna do that ?" Eric thought desperately for a few seconds and then shrugged.

"I don't know, but I reckon the time's come to find out."

In the early afternoon, word came that the police were ten minutes from the factory. Eric's stomach tightened for a moment, but then he drew on his new understanding and the fear passed. The thought uppermost in his mind was then what a pity it would be if the police succeeded in turfing them out, because in a few days people would have forgotten that the occupation had ever taken place. He went to the stores for a pot of paint and, when he returned, began to write on the wall: THIS FACTORY OCCUPIED BY THE WORKERS and then the date. A group gathered around him and so when he had finished he handed over the pot and brush to someone else.

The police were just entering the industrial estate. The workers, the men and the women, became tense. Hands fluttered nervously. Nails were bitten. Donnelly went into conference with the shop stewards and even his confidence seemed to be running out. Then the men on the gate began to shout, jump up and down and wave their arms wildly. So this was it. The end of the occupation was in sight.

Or was it ? There came a roaring sound, low at first but growing all the time. Men broke off their worried conversations and moved nearer the gate to see what was happening. Donnelly looked at his shop stewards and grinned victoriously. He knew what was happening. When the head of the column appeared, the workers at the gate began to cheer. The entire workforce of Preston's-750 workers-was marching to the factory to seal off the entrance from the police.

Eric threw up his arms and laughed. His laughter became infectious and Dave, Clem and others joined in. Eric caught sight of his mother among the marchers, which meant that she must have stopped on after her finishing-time. Relations at home were a bit strained at the best of times, but now he felt closer to his mother than he had ever felt before, and proud, filled up with pride.

As they ran to the gate, Eric noticed a sign which someone had painted:


He smiled but knew inside that it was not strictly true. In the crowd at the gate, the feeling that washed over him was similar to the one he had experienced at the start of the match on Saturday, although the feeling now was far finer, stronger and more elevating than anything he had known before. Yes, together we can beat anyone and one day we will.

One day ... It was the biggest thing that had ever happened to him and yet even now he was asking himself just how big it really was. We're strong enough to beat the law today, but what about tomorrow ? What about all the other coppers and all the soldiers and all the judges and all the other bosses ?

He remembered the question he had asked Donnelly and the answer was there, at the back of his mind. Yes, when all this was over, he'd have a long talk with Donnelly.

Ken Fuller



In Voices 6 we printed a poem called "Alan". On the contents page it was attributed to Sam Watts. Under the poem itself, we had simply written "Watts". The poem was printed without an explanation of the circumstances under which it was written. The writer was Bridie Watts, the mother of Alan Watts, who was an active leading member of the Young Communist League in Liverpool, and an EC member. Alan was stabbed to death by a man who was drunk at the time. The family Sam (the father) Paul (the brother) Bridie (the mother) were shaken to the core by the tragic event. Bridie's verses are more a cry of anguish than a poem, but we believe it deserves to be printed. Here it is then with this explanation and with my apology for the way it was treated in the last issue.

Ben Ainley.



No moon-no sun-no stars
No morning-no evening-no light
No trees-no flowers-no spring
No birds-no song-no rainbow
No seas-no sky-no streams
No smiles-no joy-no laughter
No music-no warmth-no love
No tenderness-no beauty-no feeling
No tomorrow-No Alan

Bridie Watts


The colour in my mind is of bleached grass. "Some say the world will end in fire..." -gun-fire from Soweto to Derry this summer of '76. 

Meanwhile, I am lulled in an August seclusion of rural peace, solaced by the image of a small child in pink frock and curls; a child taking her first shaky steps, holding only my breath, as she treads, tentative, on dry ground. This is the long, hot, summer of eternal childhood-the sunlit smile in sunlit fields-the snapshot which my mother has treasured for decades being identical to the one in my mind's eye today. We are accustomed to this continual regeneration-as accustomed as we are to water springing from the earth. 

Still the gun-fire cracks across my brain, stridencies which also hold my breath, and the colour in my mind is of bleached grass. Perhaps it is my eyes that are too dry. 

Pat Sentinella.


(For the dispossessed people of Diego Garcia)

Those who
While the waters of the forest
Pare and trim and mill
A branch of mahogany
To a point

Or those who
With a casual cross
On a memorandum
Sweep away
Acres of men and women

Who sees the wood?
Who sees the trees?

John Salway

Published in Arab Palestine "Resistance" No. 2 
February 1976 by Palestine Liberation Army.

Images covered with dust; people!
My father pushing me in a cart
From Haifa ... to Die in Lebanon.
I was holding an open pomegranate
And a young sparrow!
I remember the sparrow
Picking at the ruby seeds
Sharing my bread-crusts
In Lebanon
Tossed about
Later:	A target between two guns
I woke and stole a last look at the sun
Still here in my dead pupils
Take it ! !
I woke and died
Holding my child,
I saw again fathers pushing carts
Then the burning red Flowers,
And a grey wave chasing me
Zionism closed my eyes
But you ... open them
But you:
Tear the hearts from the lifeless bodies
Take them back

Giorgio Taverniti 


They were the last to leave. Lingering slowly up the slope to the car-park. Mellowed by the night's drinking, reluctant to leave behind, the brightness and laughter.They were still laughing and joking, tossing comments across to one another, sharing a bond in the enjoyment of another evening together. They were content, like fully happy cats, who looked no further than the next saucer of milk.

Only Claire was quiet ... she gazed up at the sky, and the dark troubled clouds, that promised rain. Her attention was divided between her friends, and her own thoughts, and she made little contribution to the conversation. One couple shouted goodnight, and with arms entwined, walked away to their car.

There was ribald commentary on their early departure from the group. One of the men, clenched his fist, patted his upper arm with his left hand, and made a punching movement in the air.

"Wheigho! had a promise Jack ?"

Everybody laughed, including the couple in question.

"It's nowt to do with you John", shouted Jack good humouredly.

They climbed into the car. Jack sounded the horn, waved, and drove off down the slope, followed by shouts, and cat-calls. They gazed after the disappearing car.

"She's certainly a character, isn't she ?"

"Aye. Marvellous for her age, and good fun."

"Good bloke Jack, too, he's sound, dead sound."

The men stood there, smiles on their faces, hands in pockets. Everything was good on a Saturday night. They looked forward to it all week. On Saturday nights, Monday morning was buried.

"What about that stripper last week Dave ? She was a real artist, that one." Claire came down to earth. She was part of the group again, listening intently, and Dave was careful to avoid her eye.

"Did Dave tell you, Claire ?" He didn't wait for an answer, but carried straight on. "A real genuine artist, and just listen.." He nudged Claire, unnecessarily, for her attention. “… can you just see it, this stripper pranced up to Pete, pushed her bust right at him, and bear in mind she was topless, and then she said-'Take me knickers off."'

He roared with laughter, his eyes dancing at the picture conjured in his mind. Claire laughed too. Dave chuckled, and shook his head from side to side. He was incensed with merriment at the reminder of Pete, and the stripper. He felt it safe to laugh, because Claire had laughed too. Still smiling, he caught her eye, she stared straight through him.

"That was the benefit concert, wasn't it ?"

She directed her question at John, every time she looked at Dave, she opened her eyes wide and stared coolly at him, before flicking her glance back to John.

"Yeah, it was a great night, we didn't know there was a stripper on though." John's girl friend Liz had joined the group in time to hear the last words.

"I'll bet you didn't" she said. Claire was careful not to let them guess that she was not in tune with their own jolly mood. Only by her eyes, did she convey the message to Dave. She felt anger, not so much at their night out, but at their obvious enjoyment over it, with their small boy enthusiasm, and great shouts of laughter, as they remembered more details to relate.

"Do you know what riles me though ? If us women went to see a male stripper you wouldn't like it would you"

"Ah well, that's different, isn't it. I mean, it seems more crude somehow." This reasoning came from another of the male majority of the group.

"Why is it ?" Liz joined Claire, in her questioning.

"Well it just does that's all. Men have always gone to see a stripper."

"There, you see" said Claire. "Women's Lib kicks up about things like that   not that I want to see a male stripper, but if I did I shouldn't be made to feel odd about it."

"Mmmm, true, true but it's still different." John laughed, and patted Claire's shoulder.

"I'll agree there", said Dave. "It's like you always say Claire, one rule for men, another for women - it applies there." He slung his arm around her. She stretched her lips in a fair imitation of a smile. His male ego, thought her silence signified defeat.

"Come on all you happy people" said Liz. "It looks like rain". John held his palm up.

"Here it comes."

The rain fell in large scattered drops, and before they reached the cars, a relentless sheet of rain, stung their lightly clad bodies. Their calls of good night to one another were brief and hurried. In the car Claire was careful not to mention the strip show and Dave made no mention of it either, no explanation of why he hadn't told her about it.

I'm not bothered about it, she told herself, but he might have mentioned it. Why didn't he ? If he'd told me about the stripper, I wouldn't have minded. A dark horse if ever there was one, and he had the nerve to say she was as deep as the ocean ... It was his stock phrase when he found her out in a white lie, or an omission of confidence.

There was no knowing men, that was for sure, and they talked about women. It was an effort to keep silent about it, a test of will power, but she managed and was quite pleased with herself. Yet she knew that at some future date she would have her say. She could sense his relief, and was slightly amused.

It had been a hot tiring day, and Claire thought longingly of the hot bath she had promised herself. She made the beds quickly, not bothering much about shaking the pillows up. She was tired after her long day, serving in the shop, and wanted nothing more than to laze in the bath, reading and smoking. Just then Dave entered their bedroom. He made a grab for her as she passed him, and she dropped her cigarettes.

"Ouch" she gasped, and pulled herself away from his fierce embrace.

"You were different downstairs, What's up, don't you feel like it ?"

"Yes, but I was just going for a bath."

"Never mind the bloody bath." Movements and voices reminded them they were not alone in the house.

"The traffic around here is too congested" said Claire.

"Well come on then. Let's go into the bathroom." From the lower regions of the house, someone shouted for Dave. He cursed.

"I'll be up in a minute" he said to Claire.

"OK", she picked her cigarettes up off the floor, grabbed her magazine, and went into the bathroom, leaving the door unlocked.

She stripped down to her briefs, and stretched her aching body. Mmm, that felt good, She turned the bathtaps on, and threw in some bubble-bath, swishing the water, till it looked like pink candy-floss. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. The steam wouldn't do her hair any good, and they were going out later. She put some rollers in quickly, and wound a pink, chiffon scarf, mammy-fashion round her head. She reached for a bottle off the shelf. It was after-shave lotion. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Ah well after-shave was as good as perfume. She splashed it liberally over her neck, and down her arms, and replaced it quickly back onto the shelf, seconds before Dave entered the bathroom. He stood looking at her. His eyes glistened. He locked the door without taking his eyes off her. The sound he made, could never be found in a dictionary. It was an ejaculation of appreciation, and expectation and sounded like 'Ffwar'

"Do I put you off?" asked Claire, referring to the rollers in her hair.

"God ! No. Come here quick."

She swayed towards him, pressed her breasts agalnst his chest, and twined her arms around his neck. She gazed deeply into his eyes, then lowered her lashes. She stifled a laugh.

"Take me knickers off then" she breathed huskily.

He pushed her roughly away from him. The movement was so unexpected, she almost lost balance.

"You've put me off now" he said, and slammed the door as he left the bathroom. "And leave my bloody aftershave alone" he shouted from the other side of the door. She gazed at the door through which he had made his hasty exist.

Well ! There was no knowing men.

She was still smiling to herself, as she settled herself in the bath, lit a cigarette and reached for her magazine.

Jean Sutton.


"What will happen to us?”
she said. "That's what worries me 
"We shall die" said I.
"Doesn't it bother you" she said
"not to know who will be the first to go ?" 
"I had rather hoped" said I 
''it would be me” 
"That's what I mean" said she 
"You men. Self first, 
self second and self again.

Bill Eburn 


"Why do you feign sleep 
as soon as I appear 
looking for a seat 
that isn't there ?"

(I kiss your hand)
I simply cannot bear
to see a lady stand."

Bill Eburn


''So many gone' said my Dad 
"I'm afraid to look in the glass." 
"For fear of what you'll see there ?" 
"No son. For fear I shan't be there."

Bill Eburn.


Take me back to the land of the manganese nodules,
To Chorlton-cum-Lately in your soft cobalt twilight;
Half-past-my-lovely, irridescence-of-rainbows,
Shine on this whiteness of my phosphorus midnight;
My life needs your colours:
Take me back to the land of the manganese nodules
And share with me all of your magical wealth.

Cowrie Shells, Jingly-bells, seahorses minglingamonga
Cornucopia of giving to you: my life's treat:
If I were the Phosphate Commissioner of Tonga
I'd lay Queen Salote's Phosphate before your small feet:
My life needs your taking:
Take me back to the land of the manganese nodules
And share with me all of your magical wealth.

In Chorlton-cum-Sideways every Saturday evening
The rest of the world makes libations down dark entries:
But I stays where I is and give gifts of my thoughtness
That try to slip by your self's forbidding-cold sentries;
My life needs your listening:
Take me back to the land of the manganese nodules
And share with me all of your magical wealth.

Take me down by the shoreline of Chorlton-cum-Uppance,
Interweave with the laurel that grows down Hardy Lane;
Receive all that I give, from a world to a tuppence
Interweave with all that I am, whether life or rain;
My life needs your being:
Take me back to the land of the manganese nodules
And share with me all of your magical wealth.

Please sing me your sweet song that revolves round my earole,
Does two laps of my ear lobes and twice round my mind;
Please let your lips touch me with a song and with touching
Sing your sweet manganese song, sing my life, sing, sweet kind:
My life needs your kindness:
Take me back to the land of the manganese nodules
And share with me all of your magical wealth.

Les Barker


It's easy to see this scholar thinks and feels, 
changes his linen, takes his decent meals, 
without perception of the household wheels.

She who provides the comfort for him leans 
joyously on the comfort of machines, 
like us, who worked at washtubs in our teens.

Those poets who rest in neolithic themes 
have less in common with man's stone age dreams 
than the tractorman by whom the tilled earth teems;

than the twisting girls in the noisy dance halls, 
the swaggering youths by the factory walls, 
whose hands make plenty, whose future calls;

calls to take charge of the toiling machines
that they make and work as Plenty's means.

Frances Moore 


A silent man disguised as a comrade.

We think we have a choice on the question of marriage 
but for my class
the choice is narrowed merely to a choice between one man and another 
and even that is sometimes 'de rigueur'.
On the appointed hour we took our vows
never to regret but often to wonder what they meant 
What had I meant?
Like all the rest we bump and grind along 
each in our private cells behind a private door. 
Never certain if it's only us who have problems, 
never certain if the fault is ours
and had we made the wrong choice ? 
Never realising we had no choice anyway.

Four years cloud the memory and was it always like this? 
Did we always lie side by side
just watching the trees outside the window 
and feeling desolate, 
In each other's pockets all the time 
and yet we lock our minds away, 
Occasionally we send long distance messages 
Washed up, marooned on the island of marriage.

Bewildered, battling to constrain the circumstances 
by the strength of my reason
and not succeeding, 
I was picked off by a cruising shark
a spider asked me into his parlour. 
Crushed by some enigmatic event 
an emotional spastic 
collecting women in his web 
watching them struggle, tangle, 
give in to his effortless superiority.
His malignant speculations pay off, and one by one 
we fall into his bed
with the cold weight of coins in an empty safety box.

I deluded myself.
I thought I'd found an answer and opened up our marriage. 
I was warmed by the glow of new communication, 
by the conception of a network of non-exclusive lovers. 
Free love. My love is available;
one owner only; slightly soiled though in good working order. 
However, you seemed only in it for the parts.
You only wanted some spares 
to patch up your own rusty framework. 
Soon, that's all you'll be.
A rusty junk-heap of everyone else's left-overs.

If I believe it surely someone else does.
Why did you only want my icing?
Did you hope you were stealing my most precious possession?
Or someone else's?

My love is not finite, nor an absolute.
You looked through my letter box and thought you'd stayed the weekend
You were barely on my threshold.
I was ready there to welcome you
You moved me, and I had faith, comrade.
Your mind and heart are not fresh, comrade.
You are not being honest with yourself.
You speculate in emotions
and call yourself a communist.

Your silence betrayed me. 
I was at peace in it. 
I liked your eggs and bacon, 
it was nice to have my bath run, 
but I'd get that at a hotel, wouldn't I ? 
You were irritated by my reality 
and the impermanency of sexual tension. 
You were impatient with my pain 
in a hurry to despatch me. 
Quite relieved to strip away my confidence. 
I could feel myself shrinking, my outlines reducing; 
I felt a small child again. 
not the woman that you'd made me.

When I had nightmares 
you diagnosed a disturbed mind. 
I sat all night with half a shandy 
whilst you sat in silence, 
and then said you didn't know me. 
You didn't want to.
I said I felt unwelcome 
and you kindly made me drunk.
Well fortunately I don't suffer from hangovers, 
and that includes you.

However, I learnt a lot. 
You said my art must be a contribution:
well here it is.
You said you only got to know people after you'd been to bed with them. 
That rules out a hell of a lot of people.
And you only know their bodies, 
and even then it's not your eyes and mind, 
it's just a hand, a thigh.
And once you've had one in the dark 
we must all be pretty much the same.
Didn't you realise my body is only where the real me lives ? 
I learnt to take the initiative myself
although I might have chosen better. 
But comrade, you moved me. 
It was a hard way to teach me my strengths
and your weaknesses. 
I have weighed them up
but my love is not a sacrifice at your altar. 
I'm not a martyr
nor a christian.
We might not have much choice 
but you, a comrade, should know the way, 
and I'm not running a charity.

You thought you had me in your orbit, 
but I'm the centre of my own circle, comrade. 
I'd planned a bit of nuclear fission 
and a new red element
but something went wrong.

I rang the bells and threw open the doors 
my light shone out, 
but you chose not to enter. 
Well, the loss is all your comrade.

Wendy Whitfield.


He's something in the CITY

an ENTREPRENEUR-and aims to start

men. He will include CLERK


and NEGOTIATOR and of course, his own
profession of LINK-MAN collecting

the tube-tickets. For extra CAPITAL,
he enters in a book names and addresses

of all the wonderful women
travelling without a ticket.

Paul St Vincent


Chateauneuf du Pape; German/Hungarian/Yugoslavian 
Riesling; Cotes du Rhone/du Provence; Cyprus

Sherry-that's not the half of what he's giving 
up for the Contest. He must also say NO to his

better-half of a dream Sociologist, NO
to self-abuse to the SUN and MIRROR sin-page.

But Crusades have never been won by compromise. 
He must nail the lie once and for all-of fecklessness, 
lack of application, racial special
pleading. The early-morning job through

the park, six weeks on the building-site
and regular ann-wrestling have done wonders

for the body. But the mind, Lambchops, needs 
muscling up. His strongest rival is a woman

using Psychology to unnerve him. She is out, 
they say, learning to piss at the roadside without

wetting her shoes. It's been tried before,
darling, it won't wash, Lambchops will learn

to play chess, to count in Yiddish, to recognise 
Mozart. He will be complete for the contest:

body of Muhammad Ali, mind of a great Cynic 
and Chinese all over-with the world's computers

date-matching him. Training over, he relaxes 
with a Shakespearean Sonnet, and stays awake

pondering the strangeness of things. Why for instance 
do they need to use knives tomorrow for the darts match?

Paul St Vincent 


It was on my return journey
That I began to realise who he was
Looking at him as though
For the first time
Striding forth to conquer some world or other.

I let him pass
Then called after him
"Why so fast ?"
He turned his head
To give me a tolerant smile
Before answering.

"It is our urgency
which helps to bring
The shape towards completion
Surely you are aware of this by now ?" 
"How well did you spend your day ?" 
But before I could frame my answer
He had passed out of sight.
Rose Friedman.


A Statesman
once a revolutionary became a politician matures

A Politician
once a revolutionary aspires

A Revolutionary
never retires.

Vincent P Richardson


What's the buzz?
The Hood's gone down.
The Hood's gone down?
The Hood's gone down.
What's the buzz?
The Hood's gone down
That's the buzz
The Hood's gone down.

Twelve hundred pairs of eyes and ears,
Let's have it clear.
The buzz is that the Hood's gone down.
The Hood's gone down?
The Hood's gone down.
The buzz is that the Hood's gone down
That's the buzz
The Hood's gone down.

What's the buzz ?
The Hood's gone down.
What sank her ?
Tin fish ? Junkers?
The buzz is that the Hood's gone down.
A.R. End of message.

The Bismarck's out,
The Bismarck's out,
That's the buzz
The Bismarck's out.
The buzz is that the Bismarck's out
And we are looking for her.

What sank the Hood?
The Bismarck did.
The Bismarck did?
The Bismarck did.
What sank the Hood?
The Bismarck did
And we are looking for her.

The fog as thick as peasoup fell,
Concealing all around us
The skipper will address the crew
And so end all the rumours.

The Hood is gone
The Bismarck's out
A fleet is searching for her
The Ramillies has joined the hunt
Revenge will take her convoy

Twelve hundred men went down with Hood,
Two thousand went with Bismarck,
Where is the sense
Or what the good
That sends men seeking others blood
Is there a thing called brotherhood ?
I wonder

Bert Ward.

Bertolt Brecht
(From the play "The Mother", based on the novel by Maxim Gorki)

Learn the simplest things.
For those whose day has come
It is never too late.
Learn your ABC. It's not enough, but
Learn it. Don't let it get you down.
Make a start. You must know everything.
You must take over the leadership.

Learn, man in the asylum.
Learn, man in prison.
Learn, woman in the kitchen.
Learn, sixty-year-old.
You must take over the leadership.
Find yourself a school, you who are homeless.
Get some knowledge round you, you who are freezing.
You who are hungry, grab yourself a book: it is a weapon.
You must take over the leadership.

Don't be afraid to ask, Comrade.
Don't let them talk you round,
Take a look for yourself.
What you don't know yourself
You don't know.
Check the bill,
You must pay it.
Put your finger on every item.
Ask: how did that get there?
You must take over the leadership. 
(Translated by Rick Gwilt).


(This story is dedicated to comrades in UCATT, especially John Madden, who taught me a lot about being funny, and Bert Smith, who taught me a lot about being serious.)

Iry moved onto the top floor of the Bull Ring a few months after I did, just as winter-was closing in. It was a dull, wet Saturday and I'd been out selling the paper on my own block. It was one of those days when a lot of people hadn't bothered to get up, but those that had were more likely to buy a Star rather than splash their way to the shop. Later, the rain had eased off and I was out on the walkway, looking down over the parapet. In the adventure playground the kids were climbing railway-sleeper mountains and swinging their way across mud-puddle rivers.

In the corner of my eye I could see a figure approaching, hugging close to the wall. I turned to see an old man with very black skin and very white hair. He was very tall and walked as if he were trying to hide the fact. Under a faded grey suit, which fitted him the way a flag fits a flagpole, he wore a blue-green shirt open on the neck, so that the white tufts of hair could be seen sprouting up from his chest. On his face he wore a sheepish half-smile like a permanent apology. I never once saw him wear anything different, except for the one day when something happened that really cracked him up.

I showed Iry how to work the electric meter-told him it cost a lot but he'd get some of it back at the end of the year, providing the meter hadn't been robbed in the meantime, which was what usually happened. It reminded me of the night I broke Julie's meter open with a hacksaw-because it hadn't been emptied and too many people knew she was moving out. We took the whole box down to NORWEB next morning wrapped in a headscarf. After the meter, I explained to Iry about the central heating, and he kept nodding. I asked him if he understood and he nodded.

I didn't see much of Iry for a while. With a fifty-foot drop for a back yard and a latrine for dogs at the front, people on the Crescents didn't usually see much of their neighbours. It was getting on for Christmas when someone called and told me that Iry had been starving and freezing himself to death in there, paying £5.80 a week rent and still only getting £1.50 off the SS for his old room down the Moss. Some kids had found him sitting up in bed silent and shivering when they broke in to rob the meter. They'd gone ahead and robbed the meter anyway, because old habits die hard, but when they'd told someone's main, saying the door was already broken open and they'd just walked in to check up. It turned out Iry was only forty-seven-he just looked old.

Iry had come straight from his village in Jamaica to the boat at Kingston to the train at Southampton to another train at London to Manchester. It was the only journey he'd ever made in his life, and he'd been lost ever since. When he sat down to the dinner I'd cooked up, he didn't eat fast or hungrily, just steadily got himself outside it so I began wondering if he had hollow legs. I asked him if it was right that the woman from Social Services was getting him sorted out with the SS and he nodded. I told him that was better than if I tried to help-I always ended up losing my rag with those people. He nodded again.

I didn't see much of Iry for another few months. I saw him once shuffling down to the 'Junction', but I had a Union meeting to go to, so I didn't join him for a drink. It was the year Grocer Heath hit us with a three-day week and Wimpey's hit us with a transfer to Rochdale. Most of us couldn't take to rambling over the moors at seven every morning, and one by one we jacked up. I got a start with Hamer's in Salford, building a new telephone exchange.

It was all right while we were on digging the foundations, but as soon as I was doing a lot of work with a drill, cutting out columns that had been poured wrong, I started getting a head full of concrete dust and pretty bad ear-nose-and-throat trouble. I was surprised I'd managed to last so long-not so much on account of such natural causes as 'the dust', but because of the arrival of a gangerman called Ollie. We'd been labourers together when I was doing it for Taylor Woodrow's two years before. Anyway Ollie took one long hard look at me, then came out with that immortal line: "Haven't I seen you somewhere before ?" A day or two later, George was moaning as usual about the job, and I was ignoring him as usual. Then Ollie stops shovelling concrete and says to George, "There s the man to talk to. He's real strong for the Union. He'll sort your problems out for you." Now I had to hand it to Ollie for moving fast-he didn't want any trouble where he was gangerman and he'd chosen just the right man to put the bubble in, right under my nose. You could practically see the steam rising from George's ears, like he'd got the message and was already thinking about the shortest way to the office. George had been with the company fifteen years and was the nearest thing to a firm's man you'd find outside of Madame Tussaud's. Archie, the joiner, was another gold-watch candidate, and it was obvious the agent had given him the nudge. "Hey, I hear somebody say you are a Union man ?"-"Well, you can't believe everything you hear, Archie." So I was just concentrating on keeping my head down for a while and not getting provoked, especially after Rod got the bullet first week we were there for asking questions about the bonus a bit too loudly.

It was in April it all happened. I remember that because I was in hospital on April 1. Well, there were telephone tables installed on fire escapes, backs getting scrubbed with yard brushes, sets of gnashers turning up in cups of tea and enemas being administered to folks with sinus trouble. And rumours being spread that I was trying to take my mind off the operation coming up. A couple of days of agony after I came back thrashing and moaning and minus tonsils, then I got around talking to the really old blokes. Two old Jewish blokes I remember especially. Mr Caradon was the one the nurses liked -soft and appealing with rabbit's eyes. But I reckoned Mr Locker had a bit more life in him. Ugly old feller with short-sighted frog's eyes, too proud for most of them. Eighty-three and dying of cancer. So I was told on the quiet, as he wasn't supposed to know. But he knew all right, he just wasn't letting on. He'd decided he wanted to be alive till he was dead.

When I got back home, there was still no money from the SS and I was just about broke. So I signed myself off the sick and phoned the firm to say I'd be in on Monday. Then I phoned the SS, who swore blind they were going to put a giro in the post right away. Well, Saturday went and Monday came and still no giro. So it's off to work and see the agent, who's terribly sorry but there's no chance of a sub first day back. He seems a bit over-confident, like he's got everything set up since I've been away. Most of the lads seem less alive than usual, but may be that's just the way it seems to me. I'll have to get working on them again quietly. 

Dinner-time comes and I'm off to the SS. In out of the daylight and the lunchtime rush on Ancoats Street. Into the dingy waiting room, where nobody moves, except for kids who fidget and scuff because they've not been taught how to behave yet. There's at least thirty-seven people, lined up in rows with glazed expressions, like it's the queue for Belsen. Hard chairs specially designed to break every bone in your arse if you don't learn to go numb. I see Iry there on the front row, and he smiles his half-smile and nods to me. I realise he fits in here, looks just like the rest of them. And something's boiling up inside me-like I'm not in the mood for queuing up here losing an afternoon's wages and may be my job. Only it goes deeper than that.

People turn to look as I go straight through the sliding door without any invitation from the loudspeaker. Then there's me and this clerk having this conversation not quite with each other; I've been waiting three weeks and I'm sick and tired of waiting; he's sorry to the young lady that this young man is behaving so unreasonably and preventing him from attending to her case; I'm saying don't fall for that love they're just trying to get us at each other's throats, and he's apologising to her for the annoyance and the delay. So that does it. Two steps back, up onto the counter, and straight over the grille. I felt like this once, after Id jumped the fence at the Scoreboard End and just before I started running across the pitch towards the Stretford End. The clerk calls through to the main office but I'm already through there to save him the trouble. No, I don't want to go through into the other office and wait for the manager. I don't want to go anywhere you can lock me in. You realise you're being very selfish and annoying all the other people waiting. I don't care. I've been waiting three weeks and I'm not leaving here till I've seen the manager you think you can just go on messing people around and they're just going to sit on their arses and take it well I want my money.

Just as I'm going out through the hall with everything settled amicably, who should pass me going in but a bloke in a blue uniform and a tall hat who probably just happened to be dropping in for a chat. So I take off down Lever Street like a lemming that's late for the last train to Blackpool.

When I got home from work that night I went straight to Iry's door. When he opens up something strange happens to his face. It cracks open like a whale just seen a big wave. Lights up like a pinball machine, balls rolling and dials whirring everywhere, never been played for years because there were no coins to fit. "Hey Iry, have the law been round this afternoon ?"-"No man, they don't come round. Hee-hee, you was funny. We all have a larf. We can hear you through the walls and everybody larf."-"They weren't annoyed then ?" "No man, they not annoyed. They larfing together like they not larfed in years. I been larfing all afternoon'

We talked for a while longer, leaning over the parapet. I noted that the sun was larfing too. It was turning into a fine April evening. Down in the adventure playground, the kids were crossing fuel-ash oceans and climbing scaffold-tube canyons.

Things soon came to a head at Hamer's. The following Monday we returned from a wet weekend to find he wanted us to work down a ten-foot trench with no shoring. It looked about as safe as Ronan Point. Everybody was muttering and agreeing it was dangerous, but no one would refuse to go down it. Come tea-break I walked over to the Precinct and phoned the Factories Inspector. He was there in the time it took me to walk back. He strolled right around the site before he just happened to notice the trench. The agent was listening and looking embarrassed, and the lads were watching and nodding and agreeing that it was about time and it had to happen sooner or later, and the inspector was telling the agent to claw all the earth back from the top of the trench with the digger. Everybody must have known it was me who phoned, but nobody said anything about it. I was annoyed with myself because it wasn't the way I wanted to do things. I suppose I did it mainly because I wasn't too struck on being crushed to death, but it was partly just exasperation too. Little things from the past week that had been building up, like the channel I was told to pick out so I got covered in muddy water, when I could have done it a cleaner way. And then it turned out it wasn't a spring causing the water at all-it was a leaking sewer from our own site toilet.

On the Monday afternoon we were down the trench filling the muck skip. George was at the top acting as banksman because the crane-driver couldn't see us down there. And George kept guiding the skip down to where I could almost reach to unhook it but not quite. And something started to boil again. I started shouting and swearing at George, using words I didn't know I knew. Then George offered to knock my block off and I began to sober up. I suppose it was partly a built-in sense that you don't get into a fight on the job, and partly that I didn't fancy the idea of fighting George (there was no glory in it if I won and a bloody nose if I lost). But mainly, I suddenly realised I'd lost my rag with the wrong bloke at the wrong time. When you start fighting amongst yourselves, it's time to jack up-which is what I did.

Being angry's a bit like laughter-you've got to learn to control it, because it can work two ways. I was working for Laing's once when we refused to leave the cabin after tea-break. The contracts manager came in and interrupted the meeting, said he didn't care how long he waited, it was his cabin and he wasn't moving. So I said how when I was a little lad I used to play football with a kid who would always take the ball home when he was losing, because it was his ball. Well for a moment I had two hundred blokes right there, faces lit up and throats barking. Even the agent was laughing. Trouble was, when the laughter stopped, we lost out on the being serious, and all the anger fizzled out in a couple of days.

I don't really know if there's a science of being angry or being funny, except that when you see faces lit up, you think may be it's possible for people to be alive till they're dead. It's a bit like a lighthouse-it doesn't show you much, just keeps you in with an idea where you're aiming at.

Rick Gwilt

January 1977