The Clan of the Working Man

Inspired by happy times at the Belmont Working Mens Club in Hull as I was growing up.

The clan of the working man

I remember the clan
The clan of the working man
Waiting at the door of the modest establishment
For the member to sign the book
The book of acceptance
To say you were one of them
One of the working class men
Or women, who supped halves of lager and lime
Whilst sporting their wash, set and blowdrys sublime
Fresh from the hairdressers on Holderness Road
Their weekly routine, ready to dazzle the salt of the Earth
The heart of our country
The ones whose minds and souls and hearts are priceless worth.
The ones whose graft and dedication to the grind have given birth
To the bones of the city I was born in.
Hull
City of shipping and slavery abolition
And Amy Johnson and wartime ammunition
And bombing and resilience and grit and persistence
And not cracking under pressure, no matter the resistance
And the crack
The getting on a bus and the elderly lady
Stopping for a chinwag and a friendly word
And the people, the wonderful people,
Dragging you into the bosom of their hearts
The stories they tell, the stories they’ve heard.

But I was in, I was in the clan
As the band pulsed rhythms of sixties and seventies
And did I hear a bit of Sinatra for good measure?
And the flashy singer, a hit on the circuit
But not quite an income of millionaire treasure
And testing one two, one two,
Eyes down for full house
I sit with the clan as my palms sweat with
Eager anticipation
Hoarding my little pink books
The huddles of women praying for a line
In desperation
The room buzzing with a Northern energy
Don’t dare break the silence,
Each player no friend but a foe, an enemy.
And I feel the love, amidst this competition,
I feel the love, the kinship,
The clan held together by a monetary mission.
But this was real love
Real love.
The belonging, the warmth
Of these strangers who felt like a family
Who took me in and wrapped their generous hearts around me.
As the punters rocked to the beat of the act
And my spirit rocked to the feeling of being
One of them
one of the ones who on signing on entry had made a pact
to give back the love
to give back the warmth
to put my comforted heart into their all welcome glove

and I look at my grandfather
and see the joy etched on his age-mapped face
and I know why they have brought me here
I know they feel the belonging of this special place
As grandma chats to Ethel about Coronation Street
And they fantasise about the filmstars they’d like to meet.
And they compare the price of bacon at the local butchers
And how they cook their beef on a Sunday lunch
And swap recipes for apple pie and sweet cherry scones
And bitch about the harlot women they’d love to punch.
And grandad
Grandad sat by my side
And just sat and we enjoyed a moment
A moment that lasted every night
And these moments turned to memories
Now I am 50
And my grandparents are stars shining bright.
Amen.

©2019 Sarah Drury

Student Night

Student Night

Its student night down in Man Poly bar,
A girl with clothes no bigger than
a postage stamp with the queen in horror,
at these wanton bitches who’ve gone too far.
A girl with a skirt that skirts the definition
Of skirt, silk knickers on full display.
A sheer blouse makes excuses for a bra,
Breasts that plea for the light of day.
Standing to attention in a military style,
Enticing the trouser soldiers to come out and play.
Face painted, cheeks tainted, warpaint regime,
Slapped on, plastered, L’Oreal.
Lipstick staining, snogtime training,
Spider lashes, face from Hell.
Hair on point, that perfect barnet,
Hairspray choking, asthma killer.
Student starving, money all gone,
‘Cos she paid for a titjob and botox filler.

The lad is lairy, beer filled, cheery,
Looking for a shag if he digs for gold.
Using, musing, cruising for a bruising’,
Waiting for tequila shots to take their hold.
Long hair, short hair, alternative or goth,
Parading his affiliation on the heavin’ dancefloor.
Big boys, small boys, good boys, bad boys,
A label doesn’t matter when you know the score.

The drink flows freely like a river of oblivion,
Pints are necked and class doesn’t matter.
Snakebite, shots and dodgy cocktails,
Wallets getting slimmer and the tills getting fatter.
And volume doesn’t count when you’re trying to get laid,
Though you better love your pecker if you’re going for the latter.

Their bodies writhing to the pulsing beat
Heaving, breathing, seductive moves.
Girl watching boy watching girl watching him,
Trying to get some intimacy in between the grooves.
And a hand that gets too friendly and a girl who stands her ground,
And an incident that in reality is hard to prove.

And the night is getting older and the noise is getting louder,
And the joy is getting manic and the anger getting frantic,
And the boy is getting desperate for a screw for the night,
And the girl just wants a moment where her life could be romantic.
And I know these stereotypes are a little bit sexist
But these were long gone times and the craic was fantastic.

And she thinks of student nights and she thinks back very fondly,
She thinks how irresponsible they all could be.
But a good drink, a good shag, a good time had by all,
And she never had it better, ‘never did any harm to me’.
And the memories caress her like the times that she scored,
and the laughs and the tears and the comradery.
The nights she lost at Man Poly Uni.
In the days when she played and her conscience was free.