As a member of Sunnyside Working Men's Club and paying regularly into the "tote draw" my dad was allowed to take his children on the "club trip"
Every year the commitee would choose two coastal resorts for the annual coach pilgimage. We always prayed we could go to one of the more "cosmopolitan" resorts such as Scarbrough (Scabby) or Bridlington (Brid) rather than the old favourite of Cleethorpes (Cleggy) We were once treated to Blackpool but it was deemed too expensive for a return visit!

The date and loactions were posted on the notice board and your dad, usually after much pushing from the kids, would choose one. It was important to go to the same place as all your mates.

Some mornings, I still stand outside when up early and recalled "club trip day" Marked by getting up early, the smell of egg and salad cream sandwiches, and mum threatening my dad to keep an eye on us. She never came with us, I think she enjoyed the peace while we were gone.

I used to stand on the doorstep, waiting until you could see the coaches drive past the bottom of the main road, yelling to dad to hurry up, or the coaches would be gone. Every coach was numbered and as you walked up the road, checking the numbers, you prayed you got a decent coach and not an old banger. Getting overtaken enroute was just not cool!

My best friend M, always came on the trip with us, despite her dad not being a member of the club. My dad used to put her down as one of his kids, and as his mate was the committee member in charge of out coach he got away with it. Plus he had so many kids another one wouldn't go a miss

By 8am we were all on the coach, the front seat loaded up with pop and crisps for the journey, and eager to set off. You could guarentee that we would be delayed. One or more of the men were late on the coach, usually because they'd been "to the back" (toilet) to shake hands with the old man this had all the kids in fits of giggles. I still think the bar in the club was open, and they'd all been grabbing a crafty pint!

I always remember a joke my dad told at club trip time.

Little Johnny & Peter were on the club trip and were paddling in the sea at Cleggy. Bloody hell Johnny, says Peter. Your feet are scruffy (dirty) Oh! Says Johnny, that's cos we didn't come last year!

I was about 4 years old when I broke my ankle, not that the hopsital said at that time it was broken, that came later when my right ankle began to ache and give way when I ran.
It was a Sunday, the day before my aunt and uncle had arrived, complete with the family of 5 kids, considering there were 6 of us kids and my mum and dad in the house already; we were what we would class now as "overcrowded". It was great fun!
We slept "top to toe" in our beds with our cousins, the joint of meat my aunt brought along would be cooked alongside my mothers and would later be served up with the best yorkshire puddings in the world!
After dinner, as the adults snoozed, we looked for things to do. It must have been a wet day, because we were usually always out playing. This day we invented a game of bouncing on my mum and dad's bed.
Now this bed was HUGE, it took two attempts to climb onto, and if you hid beneath it the Iron springs dug into you like dragon's teeth, waiting to take a bite.
The game of boucing on the bed became boring pretty quick for the older ones in the group, G (my cousin)had the idead of climbing on top of my mum's old wadrobe and diving onto the bed. I didn't do it, I was far too scared of heights, and my mum, to do so.
As G and my sister Y held hands and dove from the wadrobe we giggled as tghey hit the bed. The Crack, the wooden headboard gave way, and the Iron monster hit the floor, and my ankle. I screamed, and screamed, and screamed. My older brothers and my dad came flying up the stairs and as my dad picked me up my Uncle delivered a swift crack across G's head, without waiting to ask what had happened.
After much deliberation I was taken to the local hospital, my only memory of it is crawling under the lines of green chairs with my "poorly" ankle held up; sucking happily on a sizzel lolly. Being the 6th of seven children it was good to get some attention.
I was taken home and for weeks my dad carried me upstairs to be and carried me down in the morning. I could actually do it myself, but he didn't need to know that did he?

I'll begin my story by explaining a bit about the village I grew up, and 11 years ago, returned to live in.

The village is what my dad would call, within spitting distance of the local pit. The pit hooter signalling the start of the shift would cut through the air, stopping people in their tracks, women and men alike visibly holding their breaths in case the signal indicated an accident.
Like many Yorkshire villages we lost our pit, and with it the heart of the village. Gone were the men heading home at the end of their shift, either on the pit bus, or the walk across the path between the corn fields, with the trademark coal dust, like kohl around their eyes.

There were two sides to the village, “the old village” which were the original miner’s houses and “concrete canyon” which was built as the pit grew, houses in both parts of the village were owned by the NCB for miners to live in.

Everyone knew everyone in Sunnyside and everyone knew everyone else’s business. You couldn’t make a move without someone telling your mam and dad. Although infuriating, the streets were safe and unlike today our parents could send us out to play and know that aside from falling out of a tree or falling off our bikes, very little harm could come to you.
The village had all the shops you needed, which was good considering the first sign of snow we would be cut off from the town, buses didn’t come up the lanes in snow or ice. My mum, who is 75, still stocks her cupboards as though we could be cut off at any time. We had Hathers the butchers, Snowdens the newsagents (known as snoddies), a minimarket, owned by the Collins’s I believe and the post office, who apart from selling stamps, could tell you anything going on in the village. Also not forgetting, the customary Working Men’s Club, meeting ground of the miners between shits, especially on Sunday when any woman daring to go in the door were referred to as “pudding burners”. Referring to Yorkshire puddings, the main part of any Sunday dinner (we didn’t do lunch, that was for “posh” people).

My dad, my brothers and all my uncles were miners as were most of my friend’s dad, those that weren’t worked in the Steel works, unemployment was unknown, and it was expected that lads leaving school would automatically go down the mines. The women that did work usually worked the twilight shift at United Biscuits (KP), at the sewing factory, or as dinner ladies and cleaners at the local schools. My mum, who was born in Sheffield and seen as an “in comer” worked at a steel works as a bar inspector, I was proud that my mum had a career rather than the pin money jobs my friend’s mum’s had. Because my mum worked shifts and my dad nights regular this meant my dad did his share of childcare, which wasn’t really known in our village.

There's a saying in our village, "You can take the lass out of Sunnyside, but you can't take Sunnyside out of the lass". Perhaps it's said in a lot of villages, but it's certainly true about ours.

Recent occurences have started me thinking about my childhood, chats with cousins during my Aunts illness and ultimate death made the memories flood back.

In this blog I plan to write them down, read if you want, comment if you want. All I can say is that I doubt I will ever earn a prize for literacy, my spelling "leaves a lot to be desired" to quote my English Lit teacher "Mr B", and this will probably be the most I have written since I did my CSE's (think GCSE only harder!)

You're welcome to join me on my ride.