My first venture into prose was "A Winter’s Day", which I wrote when my son Anthony told me that he needed a poem to take to school for his English lesson. It won a prize for him - and did no harm to my ego whatsoever. That was about eighteen years ago. From that tiny beginning I developed a love of writing which, I must admit, amazed me considering that I was the product of a somewhat mis-spent youth who detested school with a venom that even today, I find alarming. Considering that fact, writing this book has to be the achievement of my life.
I profess that my writing bears no resemblance to that of John Milton, (highbrow prose bores me to tears anyway), but I have never felt that naivety was a disqualification for trying - whatever the subject. I hope you will not seek from this book the writings of an intellectual - for that I am surely not. Rather you should enjoy my work for what it is, the product of an ordinary Pottery Lad.
This book, especially the Buster tales, has become a vehicle which transports me back to The Meir in the late 40s and early 50s. I can hear on the radio, an episode of Dick Barton - Special Agent, or Journey Into Space. I can see gas masks and ration books and will I ever forget looking from my bedroom window and seeing the Drill-hall searchlights sending out their hunting beams into the cold frosty night. I can see planes landing on the aerodrome and hear the sound of their engines as they roar along the runway to take off and vanish into the night sky over Rough Close. There, shining like a beacon, I see the Broadway Cinema which, as any Meirite worth his salt will tell you, conjures up many happy memories. Opposite the cinema where the flats and shops now stand was a concrete men’s toilet and, behind that, fields which stretched as far as Meir Church. On the other side of the road where the community centre now stands, was an old farm, and in its grounds opposite Box Lane there was a wood where the local kids sledged in the depths of winter.
I remember The Meir when niceness was still in fashion; a time when everyone knew everyone else; a time when poverty was real and not something dreamed up by statisticians looking for headlines; a time when children had somewhere to play and a time when it was safe to do so.
The Meir was a wonderful place to grow up in. It was full of characters, each one larger than life in the wonderful world of a child’s imagination. Characters like my uncle, Tommy "Lion Tamer" Wooldridge, who lived in Anson Road and made his beer money by poaching rabbits. Like Frank "Toffee Shop" Amison who, until he passed away in 1998, ran his shop in Weston Road almost sixty years after he began his business. Like the butcher Wilfy Lymer, who would fill his shooting brake up with the local kids and cart us off to play football or cricket against other local gangs. Like "George The Bread" who drove us mad with the delicious smells of baking that wafted from his busy ovens at the back of Tunnicliffe’s shop. The fact that he eventually drove us to grand larceny had more to do with our continually empty stomachs than a state of ungodliness.
These characters - and many more - were the lifeblood of our community. Hopefully, through my writing, they will live for eternity in the minds of those seeking confirmation of the past. Deservedly, these characters take up part of my book. The remainder is filled with the thoughts and tales and poems of myself as a product of those lean years of long ago. Occasionally, I have selected works by other authors and where I have done so, these pieces are clearly indicated as such.
Because it is highly unlikely that I will be producing another book, besides dedicating the entire work to my dear wife Ann and old mate Bill Taylor, I have also taken the liberty of dedicating each individual piece to the rest of my family and friends. I value each of them enormously for they have been the basis on which I have built my life. From every one of them, I have gained something that has enriched my existence on this earth.
I do hope you will enjoy this book. If it brings a smile to your face or a tear to your eyes, I will be well satisfied.
Enjoy your read.
Mick Norcop. 3 September 2000.