Pompous Ass

"Pompous Ass", or "How to Carry a Chip on Your Shoulder the Size of Tree Trunk", or "I'm a Working Man And I Want Everyone to Know About It" - any one of these would serve as a title for this little essay.

If you have read the previous entry, you will have learned that we (the Boat Club and other interested parties) were concerned to rescue the Chesterfield Canal from the derelict state into which it had been allowed to fall, with a little help from its custodians.

It would be about 1968, if my memory serves me correctly, when we arranged a boat rally at Worksop, the purpose being to highlight the potential gains from restoring the canal to full use. There were two aspects to be considered, repairing and restoring the canal and its works to navigation standard and its environs to public use and awareness.

To this end, some fifteen boats fought the weed and the shallows to make it up there from their base some fifteen miles downstream. The idea was that they would show themselves and then return that same weekend, as there were no safe moorings up at that end at that time.

We invited everyone we could think of who might have some influence, or who might be persuaded to recognise the potential of this beautiful waterway as an amenity for the area.

Included in the invited dignatories were the local member of parliament Joe Ashton and as many of the local Councillors as would accept the invitation. Each of the invitees was to be given a ride on a boat to show them the view of their town from the waterway, something which most of them had never experienced, and in any case, the view, taken in at a leisurely pace from the water level, was very good.

Of course, Joe Ashton began spouting off about what Parliament had done etc etc, but was quite oblivious to the fact that this was what we wanted to reverse! I happened to be standing on the towpath, chatting with a councillor who I knew from a kid, but who I didn't know to be a councillor, when another chap came bustling up. There was another chap there too, each with their lady wives.

This newcomer, middle aged, I guess, stomped up to us, greeted the chap I knew, his fellow Councillor and immediately said "I don't know about you, Derek, but I don't reckon much to this bloody do. Why should we put 'our' money into t'canal so's all these bloody rich folk can go swanning up and down in their bloody gin palaces!"

That was a good start, I thought. How could we influence someone like that, with a chip on his shoulder the size of the Major Oak, who regarded the Council's income as 'theirs'?

Our Chairman, close by, chatting to another Councillor, overheard this outburst. The volunteers had already been selected for the boat trips, so a small change was made before the introductions were made, and the various hosts invited their guests aboard their individual pride and joy.

The one with the gob, the man with the huge chip on his shoulder, the one with preconceived notions, was placed with 'Our Frank', who was not only a character, a wonderful friend to have and was a coal miner. A big man, both in stature and in character, Frank spoke of shovels, not agricultural implements. Farmyard manure always went by its more common name. He'd been rapidly made aware of the fellow's attitude.

Frank told us later what had happened, so what comes now is a reconstruction, based on what he told me.

Frank's boat was a small cabin cruiser, quite a few years old, well worn with scratches in the plastic and with peeling varnish, all in the process of being done up as time and money allowed.

"Hey up!" said Frank, " come wi' me fer a ride on my little gin palace, only I don't drink gin, but tha c'n 'ave a pint o' bitter wi' me!"

I have to say that Frank didn't normally talk quite so broadly; this was an act that he put on whenever the need arose. But, quite relevant to the story, he was a coal miner who worked down one of the Doncaster pits.

He explained to the man that he wasn't 'rich', no more than the Councillor was, and that he had exactly the same job down the pit as him. He chose to spend his money on a boat on which to spend his leisure, as the Councillor had a caravan for his.

As they cruised, Frank made a point of telling the man what each of the members did for a living - "He's a shopkeeper" ,"she's a nurse", "he works in an office", "he's a doctor" and 'him there works for t'Council". All of them ordinary working folk, and not the rich folk that the man so obviously hated.

Frank must have done a very good conversion job, because a couple of years later, I was at a meeting, attended by that self same gentleman, to find that he was adamantly on 'our side', speaking forcefully and vociferously for the need for leisure facilities, and how, in the canal, we had a ready made facility, sadly in need of help!

That Guilty Feeling

Many years ago, I was a member of a canal cruising club, based on our local canal. The club had begun life as a restoration club, since the canal, built in 1777 to help fuel the Industrial Revolution, had been allowed to become derelict - indeed, it had actually been pushed into that state by the very people into whose care it had fallen (the Government).

The club had campaigned for its restoration and we actually, the members, that is, had conducted many working parties to help towards that end. The local Inspector whose responsibility it was, was quite supportive to us and gradually, the canal became more easily navigable, if with difficulty, as far as Worksop.

Although the canal had been built as an industrial artery, to carry coal, lead, iron, bricks etc, it also served to carry agricultural products, and passing through beautiful agricultural land, received a large amount of water run off from the fields around.

This meant that it was badly silted and full of the very fertiliser the farmers spread on their land, feeding the weed. Because it was little used, the water was clear enough for a special type of weed to flourish - blanket weed. This is a photo-synthetic creature which grows rapidly withy sunshine, but reduces if denied that very commodity. One way of assuring this denial is by using the water, by stirring up the silt and clouding the water.

This also denies the fish any easy sight of their food, so that a fisherman casting his bait, stands a better chance of catching one of the blighters. This works because the fish normally graze, and when the water is stirred up by the propellor of a boat, they have all sorts of food stirred up for them, including those juicy bits fastened to hooks on lines.

We had arranged a cruise from our base at Clayworth, up to Worksop, no easy journey due to the state of the locks and the weed problem, but come the day, some four narrowboats made it, leaving the cruisers by the wayside, beaten by the heavy weed.

The point of the cruise was made, i.e., to draw attention to the canal as an amenity, and the owners and friends spent a nice evening in the Canal tavern, situated in the terrace of houses by the canalside.

About two weeks later, I came home from work, arriving about three o'clock, for Mam to tell me that I'd had a visitor from the Telecommications people. She'd explained that I was at work and the chap said he'd call again the next day, a little later.

Mam, being the person she was, bought up to hospitality, arranged for the chap to eat with me when I came home, so, when I came home the next day, there was a large green van parked outside the flat, covered in antennae, with the words "Post Office Telecommunications" emblazoned along the sides.

The chap introduced himself and explained that I wasn't in trouble, but that there was potentially a little problem which he believed to be in my power to alleviate. He told me that they'd received complaints that boats on the canal had been interferring with the television signal in the terraced homes alongside the canal, and since I was registered as Secretary, could I do anything about it?

Of course, I explained the set up and, since the compaints were centred on the recent weekend's visit, how it was not possible the boats to which we had any connection could be responsible. All four of those boats were diesel powered - no electric sparks to the engines.

Naturally, I told him that we, as a club, were not responsible for all the boats on the canal, but as a matter of course, I'd advise all our members using outboard motors to have their electrics checked over.

He was happy with this, and we spent the rest of the afternoon discussing this and that, until he said thanks for the lunch and the chat and set off in his van to drive back to Lincoln, for that is where he was from.

The next morning at 5 0'clock, I set out to work, calling at the little newsagent/sub Post Office (opposite the flats where I lived) for my cigs and newspaper, to be collared by the proprietor, who appeared quited excited.

"Are you in trouble with the telly people?"

"No!"

"Well, you had the tv detector van standing outside your flat all yesterday afternoon, and it was there the day before as well!"

"No, it wasn't." I told him the story briefly, and he told me not to tell anyone else or I'd be skinned alive.

He said that lots of people took the van to be the tv detector van and that they were checking on licenses, so he had a run on tv licenses at the post office. He went on to tell me that he'd sold more tv licenses in one day than he'd sold in the three years he'd run the shop!

That's why people were avoiding me! They must have thought I was in cahoots with them!!!!