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!