Martin

The sky. The cliffs. The sea – Never go home again. Never again. Day 56. Back to reality. Pete called when Cath was at shops – I can’t sit at home. Hide in garden. He knows that. Knows I’ve bloody tried. Even rang redundancy hot line. Told Cath I’d see what they had to say. But I can’t do it. Daren’t tell her I’m going back on tour – Arthur’s Army. Break her heart again – But when I’m here, I wish I was there. When I’m there, I wish I was back here – Fuck. Know where I am today, though – This was always going to be bad. Notts Area are meeting in Mansfield. NCB have given all scabs day off – Full pay with coaches laid on to make sure they show up and let Chadburn and Richardson know they want to scab on. Fucking wankers. Sheffield isn’t having any of this. Lads are to go in – Send scabs back where they come from. That’s plan. Everyone knows it. Press know it. TV know it – Police fucking know it. Get as far as Pleasley. Far as anyone is going today. Thousands of lads standing about. Milling around. Police fucking everywhere. On foot. In cars. Vans. Coaches. Helicopters. Even got a fucking plane up there. Bloody works. Letting everyone know they’re here too. Giving it out to anyone who tries to get into centre of Mansfield. Few lads go down old railway line. Police set dogs on them. Lads throw stones. Police crack heads. Rest of us just stood about. Milling – Top men from Union arguing with this Inspector. Waste of bloody breath as usual. They’ve got their orders for today. No miners in Mansfield – Only scabs. Scabs with their Adolf Scargill placards. Scabs singing, We’re off to work tomorrow. MacGregor’s mates on their NCB coaches with their thirty pieces of bloody silver in their deep fucking pockets. Proud of themselves and all – Scum. Day 57. Feels different now. Big change. Tempo and tempers rising. Fucking Creswell again. Scabs just walking in. Bold as fucking brass. No shame. There’s a big push – Hard. Bloody. Knuckle. Police charging us – Hard. Bloody. Leather. Boots coming from all over. Men run – Scatter. Out of breath. This way and that. I follow Pete over a fence. Through a hedge. Onto cricket pitch. Police on our heels. Across pitch. Some lads hiding in pavilion. Police steam straight in. Haul them out. One lad on floor. Six of them and one of him. Skin exposed. Police dishing out leather – Gloves. Truncheons. Boots – Pete goes back over. I follow him. Lad on pitch isn’t moving. Police still dishing it out. Pete picks up one of deckchairs. I do same. Pete charges coppers. I do same. Pete’s chair breaks over one copper’s back. I throw mine. They turn on us – We run. They chase us – We run. Over fence – We run. Hedge – We run. Onto road – We run. Keith’s car coming up lane – Pete and me waving. Keith pulls up – We get in. Police spitting – Shaking their fists. Keith foot down – Shitting bricks again. Day 63. No fucking end in sight. Folk have gone through their savings now. Them that had any. Holidays cancelled. Stuff taken back to shops – Nothing from social. Nothing from union – Lot of muttering. Pete calls us to order. Tries to – I don’t give a monkey’s what panel says, shouts Keith. Bloody waste of our time. We’re getting nowhere, says Tom. Nowhere but nicked, shouts someone from back. Power stations, says Keith. It’s only way. Talking rubbish, someone else says. It’s all bloody bollocks, says another. They got fucking mountains piled up. Keith turns round. Let’s hear your suggestion then, he says. Pete’s got his hands out in front of him. You’re in T-shirts yourselves, he says. I stand up. I say, What about British Steel? Scunthorpe? They’re taking piss. They keep asking for more coke. They don’t need it. Mate of mine who works at Anchor, he says it’s a con. Keith and John nod. Room nods. How is it a con? asks Pete. Lad told us, you don’t keep a furnace ticking over. Doesn’t work like that. When they were all out, they just bunged it full of coke and shut top. Let in as little air as possible. He reckons it lasts for months like that. Room shakes their heads. Shooting ourselves in bloody foot, someone says again. It’s our fucking coal they need. Us and Cortonwood. Picket them, less reason to buy it from us in first place. Good luck to them, shouts a bloke from back. Three years ago we were voting to