99. Monday October 1st, 1984.

This afternoon I made my third appearance at Sunderland Magistrates Court on the ‘Breach of the Peace’ charge arising from my arrest at Wearmouth on September 5th. I have been remanded on the same bail conditions until December 18th!! This is typical of what is happening to hundreds of activists who are prevented from picketing by the Tory courts. Why aren’t the NUM lawyers doing more to try and fight them? I am really pissed off and frustrated by being out of action, especially now that the NCB is piling on the pressure to get men to break the strike. I’ll just have to try and find new ways to channel my energy. Back to fundraising I expect.

The Labour Party Conference opened today and Scargill got a standing ovation. He was also served with a writ from the High Court that threatens him with jail if he won’t comply. He says he won’t, and he also criticised the pigs for their disgraceful part in trying to defeat us. Standing ovations are fine but it’s the support of the TUC we need, not bloody empty hand clapping!

The situation at home is terrible, with Kath in a deep depression because she’s lost her job. Nothing I say does any good; she just sits and mopes. Hopefully she will get over it and find another job, though with unemployment rife she is going to find it hard. At least we’re still together and perhaps now she can get more involved in the strike.

 

92. Tuesday September 11th, 1984.

We got up early this morning to travel down to Easington, a two bus journey via Sunderland, so Chris and me had loads of time to talk.

We had a brilliant time in Easington. First of all we visited Tommy Ashurst in his house. God, poor Tommy has suffered and lives in a threadbare house. He’s a single miner and gets no help other than the support he gets from the local community yet he’s as active and militant as he was on day one. He told Chris about how the village was totally surrounded by riot police when the scab went back, and how the pigs insulted and abused the local people. Shocking, and something I hope we never experience at Westoe. The visit renewed my faith in the strike and made me realise how lucky I am in comparison to Tommy.

At the soup kitchen we met the most inspirational woman I have ever met, Heather Woods, one of the women behind SEAM (Save Easington Area Mines). She actually has nothing to do with mining, her husband is a plumber, but as she says, it’s her community and she will fight for it to survive. Heather helps to run ‘The Miner’s Kitchen’ and they are serving 500 to 600 meals a day and doing a fantastic job. We need something like this at Westoe because it really brings people together.

Chris went to Wearmouth picket on his own this afternoon because it was too risky for me to be making an appearance. He told me the picket was sold out by Lodge officials and Bob Clay, left wing Labour MP and ex – revolutionary. Apparently over 300 pickets took the pigs completely by surprise and some of the men barricaded the front entrance whilst others started to rip up the barrier around the car park. They had the opportunity to occupy the whole pit and get at the scabs but that bloody stupid rumour about police horses and riot police started again, and Bob Clay appealed to the pickets to leave, saying,’We’ve achieved what we came to do’, and he was supported by the officials! Chris is disgusted, as are most of the other militants I’ve spoken to on the phone. It was a wasted opportunity to stop the scabbing and send out a message to all those other bastards sitting on their arses at home thinking of joining them.

Chris has left for Yorkshire, and I really hope he finds them a lot more organised than we are in Durham.

Kath is on a real downer and keeps going on about losing her job. I’ve told her we’ll cope if she does but it hasn’t made any bloody difference.

91. Monday September 10th, 1984.

We woke up early and I took Chris down to the Westoe picket line and introduced him to some of the lads. No one tried to go in so still 100% solid.

We went around to Gary’s house near the pit and had tea and toast. Chris interviewed Gary, but only after politely telling me to shut up because I was answering all the questions. We also visited Dave Farham who lives just down the road, and Chris made sure I didn’t interrupt by doing his interview in the kitchen whilst I looked after Leah, Dave’s baby daughter.

This evening I took Chris down to the ‘Shack’ in Boldon Colliery. The pit shut down years ago and the land is now used to stockpile coal, thousands of tons of it. We tried to find some striking miners but were unsuccessful, not surprising really as buying food is more important than buying beer. Chris did manage to talk to two old men who remembered 1926 but their memories were mostly about the poverty in those days. One of them did mention a scab who had died in the 60′s and no one came to his funeral bar the vicar! That’s what’ll happen to anyone who has the gall to scab at Westoe!

We visited John McIvor, who had been really active at the start of the strike but then had just stopped coming. He seemed the perfect person to start oour policy of getting more men out on the picket line but when he told us he’d just spent £300 buying a dog I had grave doubts. However, he sounded keen and promised to come to Wearmouth tomorrow so we’ll see, The picket there has been set for 2pm, so perhaps something has been organised.

Chris and me were talking for ages before I left him to get some sleep. Early star tomorrow. I like his music because it’s all political, no love songs.

88. Thursday September 6th, 1984.

I got woken just after 4am by the bloody bells of Durham Cathedral. It came as quite a shock to realise I wasn’t having a nightmare and that I really was in a filthy stinking cell in Durham Prison! I tried to get back to sleep but couldn’t so I was relieved when the cell light went on at six. I got dressed and lay on my bed waiting for Bob to wake up.

At 6.30 our cell door was opened and the screw gave us each a razor blade wrapped in paper, and allowed us to get hot water from the toilet. I unwrapped my blade and had a shave, using the paper to cover the numerous cuts I inflicted upon myself. I was surprised when the screw returned for the razor blade, which had to be put in a slot in a clipboard marked with my number. The screw said I should’ve kept the paper but it didn’t matter because I was the only one who would use the blade. Bob of course,being an old lag, did keep his paper and told me I would have to use the same blade for a month. If I’m still here I’ll grow a beard!

At 7am I went downstairs to get breakfast but Bob stuck to his resolution not to eat anything and stayed in the cell. After eating the lukewarm baked beans on half a slice of fried bread, and a slice of bread with the most disgusting tasting margarine, I wished I had his willpower! I tried to get rid of the taste with half a mug of sugarless tea but I still felt ill.At 7.30 I put the empty tray outside the cell door and then dozed fitfully whilst Bob read his cowboy book.

Just after nine our cell door was opened and we were taken down to the reception area to see our solicitor. On the way we passed Alan Margham from Wearmouth but only had time to say a quick hello before we were out. Still, it was nice to know we weren’t alone.

Bob saw the solicitor first and spent an hour and forty minutes talking to him and smoking his fags. I spent the time listening to the conversations of other prisoners which were almost exclusively about their criminal careers, which ranged from car theft to attempted murder! I was relieved when my turn came.

My relief was short lived because the first thing he told me was that we would not be released today, which is what I’d been hoping for. He explained that an appeal would be made to a Judge in Chambers, but before this could be done I had to make a full statement about almost every aspect of my private life, the effect my remand would have on my wife and children, and the effect it would have on my widowed mother. The short time I had been in prison had a profound effect on me and I would have said anything to get out. How different from the protest at Bishop Auckland only a few months ago. At eleven the solicitor had to leave because of prison regulations and I cursed Bob for taking so long. I didn’t have enough time to give as full a statement as I would have liked and felt quite resenful towards him.The solicitor was very apologetic and assured me he would do his best to have us released before the weekend.

We were taken back to our cell and locked up again. I was let out at 12 to go and get some dinner but it tasted so disgusting I left most of it on the tray, despite my hunger. Bob still refused to eat.

At 2.30 Bob was taken down for a visit and I felt really depressed that no one had come to visit me. I was even more depressed when Bob returned loaded down with cigarettes, chocolates, and fruit juice, some of which was brought by his lodge officials from his pit, Wearmouth, the rest from his wife. Where was Kath?If his officials could visit, where the bloody hell were the Westoe officials?I was absolutely furious that they couldn’t even take the trouble to visit, or even arrange for Kath to visit. Bastards!!

The rest of the day was spent locked up and I declined supper because I was too angry to eat. Bob shared his stuff with me and we spent the time until lights out talking about the strike. I couldn’t believe how conservative Bob was in his views, and I couldn’t for the life of me how he ever came to be on a picket line, let alone be sharing a prison cell with me. He said we should have had a ballot, mass pickets were futile, and we should just get back to work! I argued with him, shouted at him but it was all a waste of time. There was no way I could change his mind.

He does have one strong point though. He isn’t squeamish like me and emptied the bucket full of piss and shit left by the previous occupants, improving thr quality of air in our cell. I will always be grateful to him for that!

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.

86. Tuesday September 4th, 1984.

The picket at Wearmouth this morning was the most frustrating yet. We had plenty of men, over 200, but no enthusiasm or commitment. I did try to organise but no one took any notice of me and I gave up. I put this down to false optimism after yesterdays TUC resolution. A lot of men now think the end’s in sight, just as they did during the docker’s short lived revolt. I am more pessimistic and feel there is no way Thatcher is going to let Scargill have any kind of victory. We need the lights to go out and lots of support from other workers.

83. Thursday August 30th, 1984.

No picket at Wearmouth today because the scabs leader, a twat called Seed,had promised they wouldn’t go in if there were only 6 official pickets on duty. Wearmouth officials agreed and we were sent to Monkton Coke works near Jarrow where a lone scab had crawled out of his dung heap.

We made a real attempt to stop him going in but the pigs were far too organised and 11 men were arrested. The pigs were vicious and the Monkton men had their first bitter taste of state violence.

The arrested men were dealt with very harshly by the Tory court and have been banned from every picket line in the British Isles! This is astonishing when you consider it was the first ever arrest for most of the men and they were only charged with Obstruction of the Highway. Local Labour MP’s have expressed their shock. Where have they been for the past 6 months??

Whilst we were fighting the pigs at Monkton, Seed and his mates went into work as usual, informing the official picket that they meant 6 pickets at every pit in the country. Bastards! We won’t get fooled again, I hope!

82. Friday August 24th, 1984.

Wearmouth again and that bloody fence is still there. Despite it we had a good push and almost stopped the police van taking the scabs in. Only eleven of the bastards went in today and that proves picketing works if it’s sustained. 26 arrests though, which isn’t good.

The lads down in Easington are having it really rough and riot police virtually cut the place off. Men are being arrested for nothing and known militants are being beaten up. People’s houses are being invaded for no reason and the village is full of pigs in full riot gear. Thatcher’s Britain 1984! When are people going to take notice of what is going on in their own country? Dangerous precedents are being set. It’s us miners today but it could easily be the rest of the workers turn next if we don’t start getting the support we so desperately need.

81. Thursday August 23rd, 1984.

The bloody fence was still there when we arrived at Wearmouth this morning so someone suggested we blockade the nearby Wear Bridge to highlight what is happening at Wearmouth. We all started to march off up the road to cut off the rush hour traffic into Sunderland at 8.15am. As we set off the pigs stayed where they were, hundreds of them, probably because they thought it was a tactic to draw them away. Just before we reached the bridge two motorcycle cops tried to block our progress. Someone lobbed a brick which hit one of the pigs on his crash helmet, causing the stupid bastard to lunge himself into a crowd of pickets in a vain attempt to nick the culprit. Unfortunately for him he tripped over an outstretched leg and crashed heavily to the ground where he lay apparently unconcious until someone stubbed their toe against his crash helmet, causing him to jump to his feet. When he saw he was on his own he fell down unconcious again. We marched past him, content that he had been given a small dose of his own medicine.

We stopped all the traffic but then men began to drift off towards the shipyards, enjoying the freedom to roam, stoning any police vehicle foolish enough to get too close. A car driver wound down his window and warned us there was a large body of police waiting for us up the road so we cut off down a side road that brought us out opposite the police station and the DHSS. Within minutes there wasn’t a pane of glass left in either building. Unfortunately the pigs got organised and charged at us, splitting us into two groups. I was lucky enough to stay with the largest group and avoided capture. The other group was not so lucky, with 13 arrests being made. One of the Westoe lads was chased down by the river by 3 pigs and was overjoyed when shipyard workers came out and started pelting the pigs with nuts and bolts, forcing them to retreat! Now that’s solidarity for you, and it DOES work.

The media have had a field day, calling us thugs and hooligans, and reported that, ‘A brave motorcycle policeman was dragged from his bike and beaten unconcious by violent thugs’. We know the truth and people should realise that what happened this morning was a reaction to all the shit miners and their families have been suffering for months.

The dock strike is on and already the media are trying to undermine it by calling it a set up job between Scargill and the TGWU leaders, and calling on ‘responsible’ dockers to scab. Bastards!!

MacGregor has offered the scabs a 5.2% pay rise if they agree to work overtime. I expect they’ll take it.

80. Wednesday August 22nd, 1984.

An extra scab went into Wearmouth this morning and yet again we failed to stop the bus going in. The bastards were driven in on a Northern General Transport bus driven by a TGWU driver from the local depot. This really infuriated the pickets and men leapt over the barrier to try and get at the scabs. 9 men were arrested, including Keith Smoult.

A lot of the lads have been on to the Wearmouth officials to have the barrier around the car park removed at night. Lots of lads have been injured by that bloody fence and it really helps the pigs to keep control. It must be taken down!

Another national dock strike seems imminent due to scab labour being used at the Hunterston coal terminal in Scotland. Let’s hope the bastards stick it out this time.