136. Monday January 7th, 1984.

The NCB are claiming over 1,000 men returned to work today. At Westoe, as at other pits in the North East, they were expecting a huge surge back. It never happened at Westoe, though there were a few more than Friday. There was a very discouraging return at Herrington, led by the Lodge Chairman, a rat called Stokoe. Also, at Ellington, the Lodge Secretary led a return to work, despite his son being a leading member of ‘Militant’. These two dickheads claim an allegiance to the NUM, and will almost certainly encourage more scabbing from the so called ‘moderate miners’ who have sat on their arses for 10 months! Bastards!

The situation at Wearmouth just gets worse and I feel really sorry for their predominantly left wing officials because they have a lot more scabs than us, and our officials have been crap whilst theirs have been excellent. It just doesn’t make sense.

131. Tuesday December 18th, 1984.

I finally appeared at Sunderland Magistrates Court this afternoon and won! All those months banned from picketing, not to mention 3 days in jail, and the case is thrown out because the pigs cocked it up big time!

I was waiting outside of the courtroom with my two witnesses, Ian and Mick, and the pig who’d been photographed with me, but who hadn’t arrested me, didn’t seem to recognise who I was.

I was called in to see my Barrister and she asked me if I had any information which could help my case. I stressed that I had been arrested by two officers, an Inspector and a Sergeant, and that the young PC credited with my arrest had actually been sitting in the van I was thrown into after being dragged there by the two officers. I also said he was sitting outside and I had the feeling he didn’t know who I was. A man got up and left the room. My Barrister, a very clever woman, told me the police had offered to reduce the charge if I pleaded guilty. I refused on principle, but also because I had a very clear photograph of the two officers dragging me to the van, which I gave her.

Inside the courtroom I was very nervous and sat facing the bench. On the right there was a diagram of the alleged crime scene at Wearmouth Colliery. The young PC was called as the first and only witness for the prosecution, and was asked if he could identify the defendant in court. What a bloody joke! Of course he could bloody recognise me because I was sitting where defendants bloody sit! He then gave his version of what happened on the morning of September 5th, 1984, using the diagram to illustrate his points. According to him I had been at the head of a large body of pickets, lashing out at the police with feet and fists and behaving like a violent thug. He said that I had viciously attacked an Inspector, knocking him to the ground before leaping on him and grabbing him round the throat, trying to throttle him. The young PC then heroically arrested me by shoving my right arm up my back and leading me to the van where he put me inside. When he’d finished the Magistrate looked as if he was just about to have me hung. I was totally stunned.

My Barrister went straight onto the attack and asked if the ‘assaulted’ Inspector was in the court? He wasn’t. She then asked for his name and the young PC nervously admitted he didn’t know it. She began to pour scorn on his evidence, suggesting that if his statement were to be believed, I had seriously assaulted a senior police officer who was not in court and couldn’t be named. Surely the charge against me should have been serious assault, if not attempted murder instead of a mere ‘Breach of the Peace’. The young PC was gobsmacked and unable to explain any of it.

My Barrister then went straight for the throat and said,’I would remind you officer that you are on oath and that perjury is a very serious crime’. She then asked him if it was not true that when a colleague of hers had asked the PC, before court started, ‘Have you seen Norman Strike,it’s urgent? you replied,’I wouldn’t know him if I saw him’. The young PC stuttered that he hadn’t said that exactly, but she cut him short by reminding him again that he was still under oath. He then admitted that he had said that but added that I was definitely the man he had arrested because he recognised my face! She said that he could have seen me lots of times on previous days and he was forced to admit that was possible. She told the Magistrate that there was insufficient evidence to prove the charge against me and that it should be dropped. The Magistrate did some whispering and then, reluctantly it seemed to me, dismissed the case. Brilliant!

I thanked the Barrister and young colleague for their help and asked if there was any chance of me suing the police for wrongful arrest and imprisonment. She advised me to be content with my escape and not too push the police too far. It wouldn’t be a good move. Perhaps not but it would give me a lot of personal satisfaction. How could the police stand up in court, under oath, and blatantly lie and get away with it? British Justice Thatcher style.

As I was being congratulated by Ian and Mick, the young PC wished me and my family a very merry xmas, and added he was glad I got off! I couldn’t believe my ears. If he’d been believed I might have been spending xmas behind bars! Then he accused my barrister of using dirty tricks to trap him! I wanted to punch him but didn’t want any more grief so I just thanked him for confirming that the pigs are liars and cannot be trusted, and walked off with the lads to celebrate.

Justice 1984.

73. Wednesday July 25th, 1984.

The mood of the men this morning was very militant, especially amongst the Durham lads, and I saw all the lads I’ve come to respect, Tommy Ashurst from Easington, ‘Cosh’ from Herrington, and lads from Wearmouth and Sacriston, all of them up for a fight.

This morning’s picket began with a push that was quickly broken up by cowardly bastards throwing stones from the back, one of them hitting a lad just in front of me and splitting the back of his head open. Some of us ran to the back of the picket and told the lads either to join the push or fuck off! We formed up again and linked arms, but this time I was on the outside of the front line. i was trying to avoid the crush for once but there wasn’t much difference. We crashed into the police lines and began a strong push. The ‘man down’ shout went up but this time most of us ignored it and continued pushing. as I was out on the edge I could move more and to my shock I spotted a man getting trampled on the floor. I shouted for help and grabbed his arm and began pulling him out. Other lads helped and we got him to the side of the road. he looked in his fifties and his face was white and he was unconcious. Another lad took over who said he was a first aider and I rejoined the push. It broke up angrily, and the pickets were furious because there’d been loads of arrests and at least a dozen lads injured. The man I helped pull out had had a heart attack but was still alive as they took him away. the lads were saying that the pigs had been vicious and had deliberately tripped lads up and then gave them a kicking when they were down!. Punches were aimed at stomachs and faces and the violence had really gone up from the pigs.

Our response was a hail of missiles raining down on the pigs, with loud cheers when one of them went down. In my opinion that was just stupid because it’ll just make them worse next time we clash. anyway the situation was diffused by one of the Scottish union officials telling everyone to assemble at the Dalkeith Strike Centre for a special meeting to discuss tactics. a real novelty.

When our coach got there we were given a standing ovation from the Scots pickets for our support, and the 100 Durham lads arrested and in hospital. There must have been about 700 men in the hall and I was wondering how we could never get more than 200 on the picket line.

The Delegate from Monktonhall gave a rip roaring speech that spoke of defying the police and ended by urging us all to go to Bilston Glen ‘the noo’, and take the pigs by surprise and take control of the main entrance to the pit. this was greeted with loud roars of approval and we all started to pile out of the hall and into cars and coaches to take the ‘Glen’. There was a real positive buzz on our coach because we felt there was a real chance of us achieving something solid. We were wrong!

Our coach was the first to arrive and we filed out and stood defiantly in front of the gate, which was ‘guarded’ by a few security men. More lads started to arrive in dribs and drabs but not the hundreds we were expecting. At most we were 200 but at least our hosts from Arniston and Penicuik stood alongside us. Some of us wanted to invade the pit and occupy it because our numbers were too small to hold the gate. Lads started to talk about riot police with dogs being inside the pit so we just stood in front of the entrance with the sun beating down on us. the only event of any note was the arrival of a car full of pensioners come to see about their fuel allowance so we let them through. The guards turned them back and I guessed that meant we were in for trouble.

I had just taken off my shirt and given it to Marlene, who was across the road, for safe keeping when double decker buses full of pigs started to arrive. I ran back and joined the back row of pickets right in front of the barrier and gasped. there were bloody hundreds of them, lining up in ranks and marching to stand in front of us. There were ambulances and police vans rolling up, and they started to rush into the pit yard behind us, coming from the sides. We linked arms and steeled ourselves.

We didn’t stand a chance! We were bloody massacred! Without any warning they crashed into our front ranks and forced us back. I was terrified I was going to break my back as we were forced hard up against the barrier so i pushed forward with all my might to get away. Suddenly an arm snaked around my neck and I was choking and forced to leave go of the lads either side of me as I struggled to free the arm. I kicked backwards and the arm went and I pushed forward again. My luck ran out when my arm was grabbed and in an instant I found myself up against the barrier facing two pigs. One of them grabbed me by my ears and pulled me over the barrier and I landed on my head. I felt blood on my face but before I could do anything boots started to fly into me and I tried to curl up to protect myself, arms covering my face. I’ll never forget one of the pigs saying as he kicked,’ Ah’ll teach you to interrupt ma fuckin’ dinner’. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so bloody painful. They dragged me over to a van and literally threw me into the back of it, where I was badly trampled by some pigs getting out. One bastard deliberately kicked me in the head as he got out! A picket helped me onto the bench that lined the van and I was suffering from double vision and pain everywhere. Another man was thrown into the van and even with my blurred vision I could see he was in trouble with his breathing and was in a lot of pain. a lad shouted for an ambulance but they just ignored us. The man was also helped onto the bench.

After a hazy ten minutes or so in the van I was roughly grabbed and told to get out, then I was frogmarched to another van with my arm up my back and shoved in. The first thing I saw was Butch grinning at me and I sat next to him. We swapped tales of how we’d been lifted whilst a poor lad lay on the floor with a broken ankle moaning loudly. he was in agony and his face was contorted with pain. The whole thing was made worse because it was sweltering hot inside the van because we had no ventilation. We shouted for an ambulance and the door opened and a pig told us one had been sent for. We could plainly see an ambulance just outside and when we pointed this out the pig told us it was for police use only! I couldn’t believe it and said to Butch that they wouldn’t be putting that on the telly or in the papers. That lad was forced to wait for 35 minutes in sauna like heat whilst an ambulance stood empty outside. Outrageous! Thatcher’s Britain 1984. We know who the ‘enemy within’ really is after today.

We were kept waiting in that bloody van for over an hour and there was a puddle of sweat at our feet. The only thing that kept us amused was the fact that one of our fellow prisoners was the toilet cleaner from Dalkeith who had got carried along with the enthusiasm and found himself arrested. He kept saying,’They can’t arrest me. Ahm no a miner. I’m in NUPE’! He amused Butch and me anyway.

We were eventually taken up the road to Dalkeith Police Station, photographed and charged, then put into cells. I had one to myself which was clean, with a toilet bowl in the corner and a thin mattress along one wall, opposite the grey door. The only light came weakly through thick glass tiles and I regretted having taken off my shirt because it was quite chilly. I lay on the thin mattress and tried to get some sleep, though my head and ribs were aching badly. I had a cut on my head and a black eye. I was roused from my attempt by Butch calling my name. I went to the hatch in the door, which had been left open, and looked out. At another hatch opposite and to my right I could see Butch grinning like a loony, proudly displaying a pig’s silver button. I couldn’t believe his nerve and had to laugh when i tried to imagine where he’d hidden it when we got searched. Butch is a good laugh, and a good picket and he cheered me up a bit.

I was lying down again when I heard voices and a key turn in the lock. I jumped to my feet as two westoe lads were shoved into the cell, Geordie Allen and John Scott. They told me there were 12 Westoe lads in the cells and we spent ages talking about what we’d seen and heard. Geordie Pape’s son had been taken to hospital and his dad was really worried about him until he was brought into the cells a couple of hours later, bruised and battered, but fine. I got bored and started to write my name on the cell wall. Geordie and John were laughing at my gyrations and asked what the hell I was writing with. They laughed when I showed them my fly zipper!

We were finally fed by a policewoman at 6.30 who shoved three paper plates of fishcake, chips and peas through the hatch, and some lemonade supplied by the NUM and 3 cigarettes. I was so hungry I almost ate the plate as well. As John and me smoked our fag, and shared Geordies cos he doesn’t smoke, Geordie shouted for seconds through the hatch, and we were gobsmacked when three more plates of food were passed through. Geordie started on his but John and me held back feeling sure they’d made a mistake. However, hunger got the better of us and we gobbled up the warm food, giggling like loonies between gobfulls of food. I heard a gruff Scots voice calling to us so I went to the hatch. An angry looking Scotsman shouted,’Yous Geordie bastards have eaten wor dinner’! I ducked down to tell the others and we couldn’t help laughing whilst the Scotsmans protests got louder. We heard him arguing with the policewoman that the men in his cell had not been fed, with her shouting back that 33 meals had been served so they must’ve been fed.. It was only after the pigs had searched their cell for empty plates and found none that the lads finally got their food.

We were released at 8.30 and told that although we were free to picket we would be banned from every picket line in Britain if we got lifted again. He also told us we would hear by post when we were due to appear in court.

We had a few pints and then headed for an early night to be ready for the morning picket.

62. Monday June 25th, 1984.

Since the disaster at Orgreave I’ve spent my time at Woodside Drift Mine. The best thing that can be said about it is that at least we kept a van load of pigs away from Tow Law. It’s given me the chance to build a good relationship with the pickets and sell Socialist Worker plus discussing the strike. We also played football but I ruined my shoes and have had to buy another pair for £4.99. No more football!

After picketing we had a dinner of fishcake and chips in the soup kitchen and it was there I learned I am one of 16 men pulled out of a hat to go on flying picket duty. The fact that over a 100 men wanted to go has caused a lot of resentment amongst the lads not chosen, especially those who’ve been active since day one. I still can’t see why the lodge can’t send all the men who want to go because they’re risking men just giving up and staying at home.

I was told to report to the hall for 6pm so I went home and flung some clothes into a bag, slung a sleeping bag over my shoulder then caught a bus down to Kath’s workplace. We had a coffee together whilst I buttered her up before telling her I was off again for a few days on a flying picket. She accepted this with a resigned look on her face and wasn’t as upset as I’d expected her to be. She must be getting used to it. We walked into town at 5pm and parted at the bus stop with a kiss.

At the hall I signed for my £32 and was told we’ll probably be home on Thursday. The only thing that Slater would tell us is we’re heading for Scotland so it was likely we’d be going to Bilston Glen where they have a lot of scabs, and also where a lot of Durham lads have already been arrested.

Typically we had to wait 2 hours for the coach to arrive and because we’d been paid a lot of the lads took the opportunity to have a pint or five, which made for a boisterous journey. As for the Manchester trip last month there were 4 pits represented; Westoe, Wearmouth, Herrington and Sacriston. The driver took a discrete route over the border because we didn’t want to be stopped by the pigs, and we had to make quite a few piss stops so we didn’t get to Dalkeith Miners Welfare until after midnight.

So here we are, lying on seats in the concert room after being fed a supper of soup and bread. The possibility of sleep is looking remote seeing as a pool competition is taking place (its 2.24am!)We’ve been told picketing starts at 5am and have been promised better accomodation later today.I bloody hope so because I am shattered!

40. Tuesday May 8th, 1984.

Gary said he had a job waking me up this morning. We left the house as quietly as we could so as not to wake our hosts. We didn’t even make a cup of coffee. I was still half asleep but the cold air outside soon woke me up and we walked briskly back to the club without getting lost.

The scene that greeted us at the club made us realise how fortunate we’d been. There were men lying asleep on every available seat, the floor was covered in fag ends and the few tables were full of empty beer glasses. Two lads were playing pool, the pockets stuffed with paper to save money whilst another lad was making tea in a small kitchen.He told us they’d been drinking until well after two and the lads awake hadn’t slept at all.

Our union official came bursting into the room wearing a cowboy hat and firing a plastic gun which he used to wake the sleeping men! They told him where to stick his stupid gun, but got up anyway. He ordered us all outside and we shivered as we waited. The coach driver finally showed up at 5.15am and swore that was the time he’d been told to arrive. Our union man was given loads of abuse for robbing us of valuable sleeping time, but he kept insisting it was the drivers fault. I believed the driver!

The coach smelled foul with stale beer and farts and I was relieved when we arrived at Agecroft. Fresh air never smelled so good! We had to walk a few hundred yards to the pit and were surprised to find a power station next door which is bloody handy for the scabs. As we approached the pit we broke into a run chanting ‘Zulu’ in the hope it would scare the pigs. It didn’t.

We were expecting to join a mass picket but were disappointed to find there were only about a hundred of us present, facing twice as many pigs lining the road in front of the entrance. We joined the picket and I asked a picket where the hell everyone else was. He said they’d gone to a pit called Parkside which was also scabbing.One of our lads, Peter Farrish, provided us with some humour by walking up and down the police lines squeaking a toy pig he’d brought along, much to the visible annoyance of the real pigs. I couldn’t see him getting away with it for long, and sure enough when a push began at the arrival of the first scabs the pigs jumped on him and he was hauled away, as was another lad. All we’d achieved was two arrests but at least the push had warmed us up, and everyone had got stuck in, which made a nice change.

As soon as we’d lost one nutter, another made his presence known. He is a local striker called Stan and he made Peter seem like an intellectual! He had odd socks on, one yellow the other green into which his trousers were tucked, and he had a weird wooly hat sticking up on his head. He kept blowing on a mouth organ and shouted out obscure statements such as,’Agecroft you are doomed’, and ‘Who invented steam engine Agecroft?’ At least he added a bit of colour and humour to an otherwise depressing morning as the scabs streamed into the pit, not even stopping to talk to the six ‘official’ pickets allowed to stand by the gate by the pigs. Some of the scabs were taken into the pit by what looked like public transport buses. If they were public transport it is outrageous because the drivers must be in the TGWU and they had agreed not to cross our picket lines. I told our union official he should investigate when we returned to Manchester.

Stan, in one of his more lucid moments, pointed to some men across the road who we could see were drying dishes in the kitchen of the pit canteen. He told us they were the union officials at Agecroft and that the canteen was full of pigs kept in reserve in case of trouble. If what Stan says is true then it really pisses me off and is the worst case of backstabbing from NUM officials I have ever seen. Those bastards are feeding the thugs who beat us!

At 9.30 our coach returned and took us to Manchester Poly where we were given a breakfast of rolls and coffee. We really appreciate the solidarity they are showing us. I got a shock when I heard my name being announced over the tannoy system asking me to go to the nearest phone. I was worried, thinking something must have happened at home. I was genuinely relieved to find it was only Phil Ramsall wanting to talk. He came up to the dining area and I introduced him to Gary. We talked about the morning picket before he asked us if we would like to speak at some meetings and visit some workplaces. We agreed, providing he can arrange transport. I also said that we felt that Mick’s family could do without us as they were preparing for exams, and a quick call fixed us up with a new place to stay. He drove us to Salford and chatted all the way about what he hoped we could achieve during our stay. He’s very enthusiastic and I like that.

In Salford he introduced us to Hilary Burke who has a spare room in her house. She also made us feel very welcome and made us coffee while we told her how things were going in Durham. She’d put up some lads from Easington the previous week and they’d told her the strike was unlikely to last in the Durham area because the majority of men are moderate. I told her about the passivity of our pickets but also said I thought the strike will stay solid now we’re out.

She took us to a small factory where we did a paper sale and sis a bucket collection. Gary really seemed to enjoy the paper sale and grew in confidence as we stood there. We only sold a few papers and collected a few quid but at least we felt we were doing something useful. Hilary then drove us back to the club so we could tell our union official where we were. She also said she had room for another couple of lads and would prefer it if they were at least a bit political. I think she meant potential SWP members, or at least supporters. Gary and I discussed it and decided to ask two lads from Wearmouth, John and Keith, who we’d got on with quite well. We found them and asked what they thought. They were delighted after having spent a really uncomfortable night in the club so they jumped at the chance. They went off to tell their union man and we agreed to meet when we returned from collecting our stuff from Mick’s place. Again our union man got stroppy and accused us of being ‘snobby’, daft bastard. I asked if the coach could pick us from Salford and he said no. I asked if we were going to be at Agecroft all week and he said he didn’t know. I couldn’t be arsed to argue with him so just gave him Hilary’s phone number in case he needed to reach us and told him we’d make our own way to Agecroft.

Gary and me went round to Mick’s and explained why we were moving. Mick was great and said if he could last 26 weeks then so could we. We said we hoped we’d win long before that, and after a brief meeting with his young daughter, who’d never met miners before and was disappointed we were leaving, we headed back to the club with our gear.

As we waited outside for Hilary some of our lads confronted us and yet again we were accused of being ‘snobby bastards’. They asked why we hadn’t invited Westoe lads to come with us. I told them the truth and tried to explain about the SWP but they were unconvinced and told us to ‘fuck off’. Fair enough but I did feel guilty all the same.

Hilary picked us all up and drove us back to her place. She introduced us to a friend of hers, Bobby, who was visiting from Southampton and has been in the SWP since she was 22. We decided to go out for a walk to explore the area and also decided to have a Chinese take away to save Hilary the trouble of cooking for us.

When we got back to her place we discovered she’d made a huge pan of curry! None of us mentioned our meal and had big plates of food, giggling like mad when the women left the room. No chance of us starving just yet!

Gary and the lads went out for a pint but I decided to stay behind so I could write. Of course they thought I was interested in the two lasses, judging by the winks and nudges, but they couldn’t have been more wrong. Hilary was busy so I chatted with Bobbie. She was very enthusiastic about a writer called Victor Serge who I shall have to read when I find a chance.

John and Keith have been given a room up the road with a woman called Anne Robertson, and Gary and me are in the spare room. He claimed the only mattress, giving a bad back as an excuse. I’m in a sleeping bag on the floor. We can have a lie in tomorrow because Hilary has some meetings planned in Manchester, so we’ll miss the picket. Two less won’t make a difference.200 extra just might!

39. Monday May 7th, 1984.

Since I, and quite a few others are now banned from picketing at Tow Law, we were asked if we wanted to go away on flying picket duty. I got a phonecall from the Lodge Secretary asking if I wanted to go. I said yes straightaway, grateful for the chance to stay active. We were going to Lancashire where there are pits still working. As soon as I put the phone down I rang Kath to break the news. She took it surprisingly well and wished me good luck. I told her we would probably be back before the weekend. I felt a lot easier in my mind with her backing. We had to be at the Armstrong Hall for 3pm.

After packing my holdall I received a call from Mike Simons of the SWP asking for news. When I told him we were heading for Lancashire he gave me some phone numbers of comrades in Manchester who I can call if we need accomodation. We both agreed that our most likely target would be Agecroft Colliery because that’s where local union officials have told their members to ignore picket lines. Bloody disgusting! I promised to keep Mike informed of any newsworthy events because he is one of the people who write Socialist Worker.

At the Armstrong Hall the 15 of us going were given £32 subsistence allowance from the Durham NUM which is to make sure we can eat. The Secretary told us to be careful and not to forget to keep in touch with our families because he didn’t want worried wives and girlfriends ringing him to find out what was happening.

There were about 60 pickets at the hall and there was a lot of bad feeling about only 15 of us being allowed to go, with the majority view being that as many men as wanted to go should be allowed to go. I agreed, but the Secretary explained that he had no say in the matter because the decision had been taken by the Area Executive. He added that all the Lodges have been split into four groups, with each group consisting of four pits who would work together as picketing teams. Westoe has been teamed with Sacriston, Wearmouth, and Herrington, and these pits will work together on all future flying pickets.

The coach finally arrived with 10 pickets from Sacriston on board and we loaded our bags into the boot. The coach then headed to Wearmouth where we picked up 20 men, then finally down to Herrington where the final 10 men boarded. Fully loaded we set off for Lancashire with only the few union officials on board knowing exactly where we were going, and they refused to tell us, though god knows why because it wasn’t as if we could tell anyone!

The journey took about three hours and I passed the time chatting to a lad from Westoe I’d sold a few copies of Socialist Worker to, Gary Marshall. We got on really well and have a lot in common. He told me he is growing increasingly disillusioned with the Labour Party, of which he’s been a member for 13 years. He hates Kinnock, more now because of his almost total lack of support for us miners, and he said he agrees with a lot of the stuff he reads in Socialist Worker. I think he’s got real potential as a party member so we agreed to try and stick together on this picket.

We arrived at Bold Miners Welfare to find it full to capacity with Durham miners. I recognised loads of faces and was pleased to see Arthur Oxley, who bought me a pint but before we could settle in the order came to get back onto the coach because we were heading to Manchester where accomodation had been arranged at a social club in Eccles.

We arrived at the Greenbank Labour Club around 9pm and a lot of the lads were whingeing about not being able to stay in Bold. I discovered that a lot of them had been in Bold last week and had managed to fix themselves up with comfortable lodgings, and so were pissed off because they were too far away to take advantage.

The club was full of people celebrating the Bank Holiday and watching the Steve Davis, Jimmy White snooker final on a big screen TV. We struggled through the crowd with our luggage and sleeping bags and followed a woman upstairs who showed us the room we would be sleeping in. She welcomed us and said we could stay for the week, and that alternative accomodation would be fixed in people’s homes in the morning, though probably not for all of us. I told Gary I would ring some contacts in Manchester to try and get us somewhere to stay.

I phoned a comrade called Irene Davis and she told me to ring a guy called Phil Ramsall, which I did. He gave me the address of a guy  called Mick Brightman who only lives five minutes away. Phil asked me to ring him again in the morning after picket duty. I told our union man where we were going but he wasn’t pleased and said we should all stick together. I insisted we were going and he’s told us to report back to the club at 4.15am!

After a few wrong turnings and some directions from a local pub we finally found the address we were looking for. We were nervous about knocking on a strangers door but it was bloody freezing so I knocked gingerly. The door was opened by a smiling face who welcomed us into a lovely warm room whilst he went off to the kitchen. He soon returned with hot coffee and egg sandwiches, and whilst we ate he asked a stream of questions about how the strike was going in Durham. He told us that him and his wife Jane were students but that he had once been involved in a strike at a place called Gardners that had lasted 26 weeks!! We said ours wouldn’t last that long and that we couldn’t imagine how hard it must’ve been for him. He introduced us to Jane and she told us they were both studying hard for exams. We took the hint and said we’d like to sleep if it was possible because we had to be up at 4am to return to the club. he told us to make ourselves at home. He showed us into a front room which was full of books and had a bed settee. I was amazed by all the books, being an avid reader myself but Gary reminded me we needed to sleep so we settled down, top to toe on the settee and within minutes Gary was knocking out zeds! I will soon join him.