141. Thursday January 17th, 1985.

Looking out of my bedroom window this morning gave the perfect start to the day. A blizzard was raging outside and the ground was covered in deep snow, a sight only a striking miner could truly appreciate.

My good mood quickly disappeared down at the picket line because everyone seemed to be content to merely shout at the scab buses, shattering my optimism of yesterday that a new mood of militancy was growing.

Scargill spoke in Durham today, desperately trying to raise the morale of his flagging troops, with over 3,000 lads present. Why didn’t he tell them to march on one of the scabby pits like Wearmouth? A golden opportunity lost. According to him, power station workers in Yorkshire are on the verge of striking, so why wasn’t he speaking to them? It’s alright hitting the tories in their pockets, but Scargill seems unable to realise they will spend what it takes to defeat us, and get their money back in the long run. When we are gone.

Also today, in the House of Commons, the ‘Campaign’ group of left wing MP’s began to do what they should have done from day one. They demanded a debate in government time on the strike, and when that was denied, they caused a row and parliament was suspended. Dennis Skinner told Thatcher,’You aint seen nothing yet!’ We aint seen nothing for 10 months!

A large part of  British Rail went on strike today in support of men sacked for supporting our strike. It’s only a pity they hadn’t done this a lot Earlier and we might just have won!

To end on a high note, a scab has been seriously injured at Westoe and we can only hope the bastard dies in agony!

139.Monday January 14th, 1985.

Since my last entry a Kent miner has been sentenced to 5 years in prison for allegedly stamping on a pigs face. How many years did the pigs get for beating the shit out of men at Orgreave and loads of other places? You know the answer!

The tension between Kath and myself grows day by day, and we just aren’t talking to each other again. I am feeling really depressed and just can’t see any point in us carrying on. Thatcher has a lot to answer for, bitch!!

114. Monday November 5th, 1984.

Well, the strain has finally caught up with Kath and she has suggested that we split up. I didn’t argue because home life has become unbearable and it was starting to affect the girls. We’ve agreed that a seperation will be best for all of us and I’ll leave as soon as I can find somewhere to live. 12 years down the pan! Thank you Thatcher! Perhaps when the strike is finally over we can get back together, though I doubt it because there is no way I am ever going back down the pit again. I’ve been saying it for months, win or lose, and I can’t really see Kath wanting to be with me when I’m unemployed. Que sera sera.

Chris Moore phoned to say the Redskins are playing the Bunker club in Sunderland tomorrow night and has invited me and Kath along. Kath doesn’t want to go so I’ll go on my own. I need something to cheer me up.

Kinnock has refused to attend a series of planned rallies. Just proves where his true loyalties lie, and it aint with us miners!

The Delegate Conference has voted unanimously to continue the strike, which is heartening in the light of concerted efforts by the NCB to bribe men back to work. The bastards are trying hard to get NUM funds but they aren’t finding it easy. Let’s hope it stays that way.

104. Friday October 12th, 1984.

Someone, probably the IRA, blew up the Grand Hotel in Brighton today but they missed Thatcher! Tebbit is reportedly badly injured but the rest of them got away. No one has blamed violent pickets for it yet but no doubt they’ll get round to it.

Most of the pickets I’ve spoken to are as jubilant as if we’ve won the strike. Of course, blowing up the bastards isn’t the answer but at least it shows its not just us miners who hate Thatcher and everything she stands for. They brought it upon themselves.

I spoke at Newcastle University and got a great reception. More importantly, they’ve promised to help us raise funds for the soup kitchen.

101. Thursday October 4th, 1984.

As expected, the jellybacks in NACOD’s have gone into talks with the NCB through ACAS. It’s a bloody tragedy! After recording a strike vote that surprised us all the bastards have backed down. They could’ve done what we’ve so far failed to do, make Thatcher do another U – turn, and stop the scabs in Notts and elsewhere. I hope I’m wrong but I think they’ll reach a compromise.

Gary, Keith and me had a meeting this afternoon at Gary’s house. It was a useful exercise and one we hope to repeat on a weekly basis. The most important thing to come out of the meeting is our decision to reopen the soup kitchen at Harton which closed during the summer due to lack of funds and customers. Our first task is to start building up a reserve of cash to ensure we can keep it running once we start. We think it will be excellent because it can serve as a focal point for the pickets and be a place where everyone can discuss their problems. At least it will give me something constructive to do.

Today is the 10th birthday of my youngest daughter, Sasha, and thanks to Kath’s final pay packet we were able to give her a nice present, which is more than most striker’s kids will get. We’ve been lucky and it’s a pity Kath can’t appreciate that.

89. Friday September 7th, 1984.

I slept badly and was woken at 5am by those bloody church bells ringing like some giant alarm clock! A curse on religion.

We went through the same routine as yesterday but the breakfast was worse, one hot dog sausage,tea and bread, no margarine after yesterdays first and last taste.

At 10 we were given a choice of activity. We could either spend an hour walking around the exercise yard,(Bob chose that), or an hour and a half of sport, which I chose, hoping I could exhaust myself enough to get some sleep.

About 15 of us were taken across to a gym where we were given another choice, do weights or play football. I chose football so we had to carry two sets of goals onto a tarmac covered area surrounded by high fencing, and split into two teams of four a side.

We started to play and it was very competitive. After about 15 minutes I was knackered.There was this big bloke covered in tattoos and I stuck out my foot to tackle him. Unfortunately I mistimed it and tripped the bloke up, causing him to go scudding across the tarmac on his knees,skinning them badly. Despite that he leapt to his feet and came at me, calling me,’a fat fuckin’ cunt’ and threatening to kill me. Screws came running from all directions and held him back and tried to calm him down. The screw who was refereeing came up to me and said,’Better steer clear of himson!He’s murdered two already so one more won’t make any difference’. To be honest I was terrified, and spent the remainder of the game running in the opposite direction whenever he came near me. I was relieved when we were taken back to our cells and vowed that in future I would walk around in circles with Bob!

I had dinner at 12 and as expected it was totally disgusting, but I still cleared my plate. No doubt you could get used to it but I’m certain no one could ever say they enjoyed it. After all, we were there to be punished and eating certainly rammed that point home!

After dinner Bob and me discussed our chances of release. Three miners had been released yesterday and Bob’s hopes were pinned on him going today.He said he couldn’t stand another day inside, let alone a weekend. I was a lot more pessimistic about my own chances and was resigned to spending the weekend inside. If I was released then that would be a bonus.

My pessimism seemed justified when the screw let Bob out at 2.15 for another visit, and I felt deserted and alone as I sat in the cell and cursed my lodge officials. I jumped when I heard the door being opened at three, thinking it was Bob returning but the screw informed me I had a visitor, Mrs Callan. As we made our way downstairs I guessed that Mrs Callan was the wife of the Durham Area Secretary and wondered why she’d been sent to visit me. At least it would be contact with the outside world.

I was taken to the reception area and told to wait until I was called. My name was called and I went into a room with a long line of tables running the entire length. I was taken to the middle and couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw Kath sitting there and all we could do was just stare lovingly at each other. We both tried to talk at once but were interrupted by the arrival of Tommy Callan, his wife, and John Chapman, Westoe Lodge Chairman, who was full of lame excuses for not coming earlier. I listened to them impatiently until they took the hint and left us alone. Kath told me that I would almost certainly be released today because my solicitor was appearing before the Judge in Chambers at 2.30. She was shocked at seeing me in a  prison uniform, and by the whole degrading process of visiting someone in prison. A screw came up and told us our 15 minutes were up and asked Kath to leave. She told me she’d left some cigarettes and two cans of lager, and said she hoped to see me later. I hoped so too!

After I was given my goods, which included a box of chocolates from Mrs Callan, I was locked back up in the cell. I ate all the soft centres from the chocolates whilst Bob paced up and down the cell, driving me nuts with his patter, saying he was getting out for certain but that I would probably have to remain on remand because of my previous record. He said that this was Tommy Callan’s view as well and I began to get really depressed. Suddenly the cell door was opened and the screw said;’Come on lads, you’re out on bail’. I could’ve kissed him I was so relieved. We grabbed our stuff and headed down the stairs. The warden kindly allowed us to give our chocolate and cigarettes to two lads from Blyth whom Bob had befriended somehow and they were overjoyed to get them. In prison terms they were rich.

We were given our clothes back to change into and had to sign for our things kept in a big envelope. When I opened mine to check it I found £17.70p which puzzled me because I’d been lifted with only the 70p! Bob also had £17 extra and we wondered whether we should say something because maybe they were trying to trick us so they could keep us in. We agreed to sign and then waited for the arrival of the Chief Warder with our bail forms. He solved the puzzle by saying,’As a Yorkshireman I support your fight but disagree with the violence. We had a collection amongst the warders and the extra money is to take your wives out for a nice meal’. I was genuinely touched by this show of support and thanked him. He said he hoped he’d never see either of us again and then got us to sign the bail forms. Mine said,’The defendant is not to go within 200 yards of any NCB premises where picketing is taking place except to go to work in the normal course, and to attend the DHSS office at Monkwearmouth between the hours of 10am – 4pm’. I would have signed anyting, even though I was effectively banned from picketing. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as we walked out of the main gate at 6pm. You’d think I’d just done 3 years, not 3 days!

Bob’s sister dropped him off at home and then was kind enough to drop me off at home. Kath and me were overjoyed to see each other and the girls were embarrassed as we kissed and hugged.Later, after we’d eaten a delicious meal and I’d put the girls to bed, Kath told me of the struggle she’d had to get the Lodge to visit me. She even had to find out the visiting times herself! The only help she’d got from the lodge was a lift to and from Durham, and she said that in her opinion none of the bastards seemed bothered I was in prison. That didn’t particularly surprise me given other events, but what did have me fuming was the pressure Kath had been put under by those bastards. She has enough shit to cope with without men who are supposed to be on my side adding to it. I intend raising the issue at the next union meeting, if only so other lads don’t suffer in the same way. Bastards!!

Catching up on the news I find that Kneel Kinnock spoke at the TUC Conference on September 5th, the day we were jailed. He said,’Violence creates a climate of brutality. It is alien to the temprament and the intelligence of the British union movement’.What a load of bollocks! How the hell does he think we got unions in the first place? By asking our lords and masters for permission? NO! Through the blood of thousands of workers in the past who fought to get them. Even bloody Thatcher has the Suffragettes to thank for using violence at times to win the vote. If we have to rely on shits like Kinnock then we will lose everything our ancestors fought for with their blood. Fuck Kinnock, and his softy lefty mates. I for one will fight to keep those rights, and build on them, and so will millions of others.

A journalist from the New Musical Express rang and has asked if he can stay with us for a few days to write an article about the strike. Kath has agreed and he’ll arrive tomorrow night.

87. Wednesday September 5th, 1984.

I’m actually writing this diary on Saturday September 8th after having spent the last 3 days in Durham prison.

The day began at 7am when I left the Armstrong Hall in Neil Tate’s car to go picketing at Wearmouth as usual. I told the lads I was with that we shouldn’t just stand around being passive but needed to take some positive action.They all agreed.

We arrived at Wearmouth at 7.30 and joined the fifty or so men already in the car park. I had a chat with Dave Hopper, the Lodge Secretary of Wearmouth, and asked him why the fence hadn’t been removed because it was a real hindrance to us having a proper push against the pigs. Dave agreed with me but said there was nothing he could do because the pigs were at the pit 24 hours a day. He also told me that Sunderland Magistrates were taking a really hard line with arrested pickets. Two of his lads had been remanded in custody to Durham prison. I know one of them really well, Alan Margham, and I asked Dave to pass him my regards when he saw him. Little did I know that I would see him before he did!

By 7.45 there were at least 250 of us in the car park facing a line of about 200 pigs directly in front of the main pit entrance, only seperated by the bloody metal fence. a group of us began moving around the pickets because we were really pissed off with the passivity. After having had men lifted on a daily basis the hard core activists were also being reduced, and the picket had become really stale. We couldn’t allow it to continue because a passive picket would just encourage more scabbing. We started telling the lads we were going out onto the road on our right to form a push and asked everyone to join us. Accordingly about twenty of us moved onto the road and began shouting for everyone to join us. We soon had about a hundred men but the majority refused to move, even when we yelled at them and called them ‘plastic pickets’ and worse. I have a very big gob and my throat hurt with the effort of shouting but it did no good.

The scab bus was due so we formed up into a solid mass and started to move towards the pigs, who had rushed  to form a reinforced line in front of us. We chanted our battle cry of, ‘Zulu,Zulu,Zulu’ and then crashed into the pigs. Initially we made progress, forcing the pigs back a little until more reinforcements joined their lines. We could have broken through easily if the ‘plastics’ watching from the sidelines had joined us. As it was the push was broken by a group of pigs attacking us from the side and splitting off the front two lines from the rest of the lads. I was roughly grabbed around the throat by a pig and struggled to fight back and keep my feet. The bastard was choking me and he dragged me through the police lines. He threw me to the ground, and as I struggled to get my breath he leapt on me with his knee across my chest. I could see he was an inspector by his flat hat and he said”Got you at last, you big mouthed bastard. That’s your picketing days over’.I wondered if I’d been singled out as I was roughly  dragged backwards and thrown into the back of a police van. Within minutes the van was full, with 8 pickets and six pigs and we were driven the short distance over the bridge to the same police station we had stoned the week before.

Inside Monkwearmouth police station, which was so small it didn’t have any cells, with my ‘arresting officer’, a young PC, we were told to stand against the wall to have our photograph taken by an obese sergeant(is there any other kind?) with a polaroid camera. He told me the photo was for ‘official’ records,ie the photo albums they used to identify activists. The sergeant pressed the button and all four flash cubes went off and unexposed film shot out the front. I laughed out loud and so did the young PC but the segeant wasn’t amused. Cursing, he fitted new flashes and loaded new film. We composed ourselves, with me trying to look defiant and the PC smiling broadly. The same thing happened, flashes and film spewing out the front. I was laughing madly when an angry inspector burst into the room and demanded to know what the hell was going on! The fat sergeant said he couldn’t understand it because it had never happened before. He tried one more time with exactly the same results. The inspector grabbed the camera and threw it in a bin and ordered the sergeant to go and get a replacement.

Finally I was photographed and then taken into another room where the angry inspector was waiting impatiently. He said to the young PC,’What kind of abusive language did this scum use?’ The young lad was either very naive, very stupid, or a mixture of the two because he replied,’Sorry sir, but I didn’t actually hear him saying anything’. I thought the Inspector was going to explode. He yelled for the fat sergeant to take me away. As I was being taken out I heard the Inspector say,’Now what did you hear the bastard say?’ No doubt that cleared the young lads memory.

I was taken outside and locked into a tiny cell on one of them pig buses you usually see parked at football grounds. An uncomfortable hour later there were 12 of us in the cells and we were driven to Gill Bridge police station in Sunderland and locked into two cells, six to a cell. I was with three Westoe lads, one of whom had only been doing picket duty for a fortnight! I grew up in the same street, Chaucer Avenue, as one of the lads,Davy Larsen, and we spent the time chatting about our experiences over the past six months.

During the morning we were taken out to be photographed, again, fingerprinted and questioned, and finally charged. I was charged with,’Foul,insulting and abusive behaviour liable to cause a breach of the peace’. The officer charging me asked if I had any outstanding charges against me and he grinned when I told him about Bilston Glen last month.

We were allowed to see a solicitor provided by the NUM and he told me we would probably be bailed and banned from going within two miles of Wearmouth, which is what I was expecting.

We had dinner of soya pie, potato and turnip which was bloody horrible but I ate it anyway. We were then let out of the cells and told to wait at the foot of the stairs that led up into the courtroom. We whispered amongst ourselves. I recognised one of the lads, Bob Robson, who had been one of the most voiciferous supporters of of going to jail in Bishop Auckland but had bottled out and phoned the TV instead. He got me worried when he told me the solicitor who had seen him had warned him he might be refused bail and be remanded in custody because of his previous arrest. This had happened to men who appeared before the bench previously. It wasn’t looking good. I was feeling a bit pissed off because he had seen a woman solicitor, as had most of the other lads, with only a few of us seeing the man. I suspected he must be a trainee or something because he told me I would probably be bailed.

It was 3pm when the first six lads were led up into the courtroom, and when they came back they told us they’d been bailed and weren’t to go within 2 miles of Wearmouth, as they’d expected. We were called up and I was a bit  surprised when the magistrate called the first four lads to the bench and left Bob and me to one side. The four lads were all released on the same bail conditions as the other six.

We were ordered to face the magistrate and he glared at us as if we were two lumps of shit. Bob was dealt with first, and despite the pleas of the female solicitor, was remanded in custody to Durham Prison until September 14th. Bob was led down looking totally shocked. I faced the magistrate and received the same sentence, with the magistrate saying I was being remanded because of my disgraceful past record and that he believed I would ignore any bail conditions imposed upon me. He also said something about me being a danger to public order but I was too gobsmacked to take it all in. What evidence did the bastard have that I would ignore bail conditions? He ordered me to be taken down and the guy who led me away said the time would soon pass. Easy for him to say. He wasn’t on his way to Durham Prison!

After being held in a cell for half an hour we were taken up to a yard and handcuffed together before being put into a van. It was an uncomfortable journey, made worse by the gobshite sergeant who accompanied us. He was one of those ‘ some of my best friends are miners’ types and was constantly trying to be friendly. I ignored the bastard but Bob chatted happily with him. The pig was condemning Scargill and picket line violence, and Bob was agreeing with him! I couldn’t believe it and wondered why he’d been on the picket line in the first place. Bob said he couldn’t wait to get back to work and that it would happen soon because there was no way we could defeat Thatcher. It made an already depressing journey worse and I worried about what Kath would say when she found out, and how Jen and Sasha would react. I was also angry that none of our lodge officials had been in court so how would Kath find out? I hoped Keith or Gary would call round to tell her. I felt as if I was about to start a life sentence instead of a few days on remand and resolved that in future I would content myself with being an ‘indian’ and leave being a ‘chief’ to others.

Once inside the prison gates the handcuffs were taken off and we were taken into the Search Tank, which is a room beside the main gate where incoming prisoners are taken to be searched. They searched everywhere, even the soles of my feet, and it was a humiliating experience. After the usual jokes about my surname we were taken into the reception area, and after another lengthy wait we were taken into another room full of men waiting to be admitted into the prison. One of these men was a long term prisoner waiting to be transferred to a prison in Scotland. He told me he’s been in Wakefiels Prison for seven years and this was the first time in all those years he’d been outside. He told me he was doing life for murder yet despite this I felt sorry for him. The other men were burglars and con men who passed the time by bragging about all the crimes they’d gotten away with before being caught for something trivial. When they heard what Bob and me were in for they were very sympathetic and gave us loads of advice on what to expect and what we could get away with. Bob said he’d done some time as a younger man and started talking and telling tales of his exploits as a criminal, trying to be the equal of the other men, daft bastard. He’s a bit of a know all is Bob. Anyway, I was glad for the advice and felt a bit easier in my mind.

We were examined by the prison doctor before being forced to have a bath in cold water full of disinfectant. The towel I dried on was like sandpaper! We were then issued with our uniform; one pair of underpants, one vest,a pair of socks with holes in the heels, a blue striped shirt, a pair of brown trousers that were too big, and a brown jacket stamped with ‘HMP Durham’ in case anyone tried to steal it. The whole outfit was completed by a pair of battered black slip on shoes, with mine having holes gouged in the heels, making it uncomfortable to walk, not that I expected to be doing a lot of that!

Washed, dressed and given a number, all we had to look forward to was prison food. I was bloody starving but when I saw what was on offer I almost lost my appetite. I was handed a plate with a blob of mashed potato, shrivelled up peas and a solitary hot dog sausage. A plastic mug of unsweetened tea was provided, presumably to wash away the horrible taste of the food which I gulped down with a minimum of chewing in the hope that my taste buds wouldn’t be irreparably damaged.

After our meal we had another long wait. I passed the time chatting with a con man who was on a three year sentence, and if he was to be believed, had £30,000 stashed for his release. He entertained me with stories of his many criminal exploits and the time passed quickly. He also gave me some cigarettes, which was great because I’d finished the few I’d been arrested with. I am grateful to the ‘screw’ who gave me the fags because prison rules stated that only sealed packets were to be given to prisoners. He told me he supported the miners, which came as a pleasant surprise because I had expected the screws to be bastards like the pigs are. In fact, all the screws we had contact with were great, with one in particular, being an ex – miner himself, doing all he could to make our stay less uncomfortable.

Bob and I were to be kept together, which came as a relief because I’d heard all the tales of homosexuality in prisons. Not that I’ve anything against homosexuals. I just didn’t want to experience it myself at first hand! At 9pm we were given a sheet, a pillowcase and a blanket. We carried theseinto B Wing because the remand wing was full. We climbed the metal staircase and I thought of the prison in ‘Porridge’. There was thick wire mesh strung beneath the landings to stop men throwing themselves off to escape the food! We were on the second floor, in cell B2 – 30, and it was really depressing when we went in and the door was locked behind us.

Our cell was bloody horrible. It was filthy, with fag ends on the cracked concrete floor. The arch window had thick glass panes that were filthy, and six of them were missing, causing a chill breeze to waft around the cell and circulate the stink from the plastic bucket full of piss and shit that stood in the middle of the floor. The decor was post – holocaust,damp grey walls and cobwebbed ceiling. We each had a metal frame bed with a thin ‘white’ matress that was full of stains, and mine was decorated with a schoolboy – ish drawing of a naked woman. We also had a blue plastic mug each, an orange plastic washing bowl and jug, and a plastic razor with no blade. Two wooden tables completed the furniture, all crammed into a cell no more than six foot wide and twelve long.

The screw, who Bob kept calling ‘Boss’, told us to make a final trip to the bog. The first thing I saw on entering was a contorted face behind a half door, complete with sound effects as he strained to shit. He put me right off and I was determined to hold my bowels as long as I could.

Back in the cell Bob was the first to spot two books and immediately grabbed the cowboy story. I was relieved until I saw the other book was a biography of Martin Luther. I skimmed it and quickly decided it wasn’t for me. I would happily have swapped it for the cowboy book.

At 10pm the light went out and we settled down to sleep. I was knackered but it took me a long time to drop off. I worried about Kath and the girls, and for me that is the worst thing about being locked up,not being able to communicate with your loved ones, and not knowing what is happening to them.

70. Saturday July 14th, 1984.

Today should have been the 101st Durham Miners Gala but because of the strike it’s been called a rally instead. I fail to see the logic behind the name change but there you go.

The Westoe contingent, two bus loads, left the Armstrong Hall at 8.45, half an hour late due to another cock up by our Lodge officials. It was pissing down with rain, and on a normal Gala day this wouldn’t have dampened our spirits but 18 weeks into a strike it did. Everyone seemed quiet, though a few of the pickets were in a very optimistic mood due to the dockers having come out on strike earlier this week and they talked enthusiastically about Thatcher not being able to fight on two fronts. Admittedly the dockers have the power to really damage the Tories but the bastards are clever and I can’t see them letting it happen. They’ve come too far and will find any way to compromise, just as they did with the railway workers. I hope I’m wrong, but the TV and the papers are doing all they can to stop a dual front.

The rain was still pouring down when we arrived in Durham and we tramped onto a wet field to get ready for the march. I had brought Jennifer and Sasha along with me and they were just enjoying the whole experience. Kath had refused to come, choosing to go shopping instead. I wasn’t too surprised when it was discovered that the poles for our lodge banner had gone missing, and when they were finally found and fitted, we were almost last in the procession.

There were banners from every coalfield, including Scotland and Wales, and it was a really colourful spectacle. We lined up behind the Cortonwood banner and there were ‘Victory to the Miners’ and ‘Unite to Fight’ placards everywhere. Some people had even turned them into rain hats. The brass bands were playing and we set off to march through the city, down towards the racecourse by the river where the rally was to be held. Jennifer and Sasha’s faces were glowing with pride as crowds of people lined the streets and cheered us on, and I was proud as well, proud to be fighting back against Thatcher and the Tories.

Scargill gave his usual defiant speech, full of passion and anger at those unions not supporting us. Dennis Skinner was excellent, equally full of passion and fire, and one of the few true Socialists in the Labour Party. A low point for me was Betty Heathfield, wife of Peter, General Secretary of the NUM, who was appealing for Women’s Support Groups to come down to London so they could hand a petition to that champion of the working classes, the Queen! I hope no one turns up!

The real moment of magic came when Kneel Kinnock stepped up to the microphone and made most of the crowd disappear, but not before they’d booed him loudly for his traitorous lack of support for miners and their families. The bastard is more concerned about getting Labour elected than he is about his core supporters, and he even had the nerve to criticise violence on the picket lines. I was glad to see people turn their backs on him and walk away, especially as this was the same man who only a year ago had got a standing ovation. Miners at least now see him for the soft reformist he is.

Anyway, despite the rain it was a good day out and the girls enjoyed playing with other kids whose dads were also on strike. I’m glad I took them.

57. Thursday June 14th, 1984.

This morning’s picket at Woodside was quiet as usual but the pickets themselves were triumphant about what happened yesterday and kept congratulating me. I had to tell them that I had done nothing and it was them who did the hard work. I managed to sell 27 copies of Socialist Worker and pointed out Scargill’s call to picket Orgreave. If we can force the Lodge to reverse decisions then we can also force them to send us to Orgreave.

Paul Foot has caused a real stir in the Daily Mirror by revealing documents which prove that Thatcher told British Rail bosses to make whatever concessions necessary to rail workers to stop a second front opening.I’ve been proudly telling pickets that Paul is a member of the SWP.

22. Friday April 13th, 1984.

I met up with Yunus Baksh, an SWP comrade, in Newcastle this morning. He is a really committed activist who I’ve seen a lot of over the past few weeks. He does have one fault, he’s a Hull City fan, but I suppose someone has to be! Anyway, I finally did it and joined the SWP, though I’m not sure Friday 13th was the right day to do it!

The SWP have invited my family and myself down to the Derbyshire Miners Holiday Camp in Skegness for the Easter weekend. Kath isn’t very keen because she says it will be too political and she has no interest in politics, but the fact she supports me and hates Thatcher makes her political whether she likes it or not. Anyway, I’ve managed to persuade her that it will be a nice break and there will be plenty to keep her and the girls occupied away from politics and no one will try to put any pressure on her. The fact that it’s a free holiday means we won’t be out of pocket because the party is paying. She only earns £47 a week from her job, and though we are better off than a lot of striking miners, it aint a fortune so I refuse to feel guilty. I’m sick of feeling guilty.