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I went on strike twice in my time with British Coal, in 1970 for four weeks and in 1972 for six weeks. We had a national ballot and although I personally voted against strike action, the majority voted for a walk out and that is what we did. In the 1972 strike it caused major disruption to industry and the introduction of the three day week. Prime Minister Ted Heath was forced to call a General Election which he lost. Harold Wilson for Labour, won. The miners quickly settled the dispute and returned to work. The Tories never got over their defeat at the hands of the miners and vowed revenge. Because the '72 strike lasted for so long (6 weeks), I applied for a job with the CEGB at Radcliffe- on-Soar Power Station and got it. The day that I should have started at the power station, was the very same day as the miners return to work. I decided to go back to Hucknall and was on afternoons. Did I do right or wrong? I guess that with hindsight I did wrong as we still need power. Then it was thought that we needed coal and we had three hundred years of proven coal reserves. We still do but without the traditions it will remain untouched for ever. Only on strike twice? What then of 1984. As the strike was called without a ballot, we the Nottinghamshire Miners demanded a ballot. So we had our own ballot and voted to carry on at work, which is what we did. The Democratic Mineworkers Union was born. Why did we not support our brothers in the NUM? Basically it was a case of being dictated to by the communist element of the NUM leadership. It was March, after a mild winter, not the traditional November strike period. Maggie Thatcher wanted to take us on knowing that we would be beaten and along with our demise would be the whole trade union movement. Maggie said that she would look after the Nottinghamshire Miners but before she could make good her pledge she was ousted herself. So, the battle lines were drawn and a battle royal it would prove to be. Families were split apart brother against brother, son against father. Feelings were running very high and even now twenty one years on I dare not admit, in certain company, that I was a scab, a blackleg and a strike breaking bastard. We were told to park our cars in Hucknall Town and walk down to the pit. At the pit gates we were confronted by a baying mob of 500 flying picket's intent on physically preventing us from going into work. We were on one side of the road they were on the other. The road was blocked and just one police car in attendance with two frightened policemen unsure what to do. You had to be there to get the adrenalin rush of imminent attack and physical injury. Insults, abuse and very real threats were hurled across at us for about half an hour, an impasse. Then, one of the hard rock headers, Kevin, said, 'Bugger this, no Yorkshire bastard is going to tell me what to do. They may well drop me but I will take a dozen of them', and with that began to cross the road. I should perhaps explain that Kevin was a championship bodybuilder with a 54 inch chest. To say that he had an exceptional physique was an understatement. His favourite trick was to give you a bear hug only releasing it at the rib cracking stage. He was scared of nothing and nobody. For entertainment he was a free fall parachutist along with his team of headers. I'm sure that you get the picture. As if by magic a split in the pickets opened up and the rest of us crossed the road. I made sure that I was flanked by two big lads, a coward to the end. Then we were through, to work and a blow for freedom. Our ears were ringing with abuse and we were covered in spittle but we would live to fight another day. It was never as bad again even though we had over one thousand flying pickets at the end of a dayshift. The police had got their act into gear, and we got into and out of work without problems. Not so going to get your car from in the town, often we were followed and even chased on occasion but we ran faster than them and were never caught. It wasn't every day; mostly the police were playing football in the deserted car park with a handful of pickets. Charlie was a real character. When one picket shouted, ‘Was your mother married, you scab’, Charlie got out of his car with a pick axe handle and set about the picket. Just one case when the police had to protect a picket from Charlie. Another case with Charlie was when he sprayed graffiti on his own car and drove to work. On returning to his car he was beside himself with rage at what the pickets had done. He got a free respray and admitted to me later that his bodywork was a wee bit shabby and if someone else was to pay all to the good. The strike ground its way on and on. The government could have let them return earlier with some pride but total defeat was the only option for Maggie. They went back after a year out a beaten army. It didn't have to be this way, the most hardworking group of workers, forever dammed. The government were not finished yet, they had to shut 31 pits for economic reasons. They ended up shutting down the whole damn lot. We should not forget the miners and remember how these corrupt, small minded politicians operate. They just have no idea of how their policies change the lives of ordinary decent people. |
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Every work gang of men had a chargehand who, as the name implies, was in charge but the real man in charge was the deputy. A Deputy was there for safety reasons and in place were a whole lot of regulations from the Mines and Quarries Act to enforce. They did not do any hands on work and you could always tell a deputy by his yardstick and chromium plated relightable Davy oil lamp. They were the ones who filled out the sheets, that all of us got paid from, so it was not a very smart idea to get on the wrong side of the deputy. How did you become one of these denizens of the deep? The unkind among us would say that first of all you had to have your brain removed. You applied to become a shotfirer (shottie); these men would charge a pattern of holes that the colliers drilled. The charge was in greaseproof wrapped cartridges.The colliers would carry special bags of powder, which were inert, and the shottie would have a special pouch of detonators (dets). A hole would be made in the cartridge and a det would be pushed in. Then how many powder cartridges that was planned for, determined by the strata,were also inserted into the hole, and rammed in with a long wooden rod (the stemming stick). Then stemming was rammed in; this was clay in the early days and later it was sand glued together. Next came water ampoules to damp down the dust and rammed home. Care had to be taken that the wires from the dets were not damaged. All of these det wires were connected together in series and connected to the shot firing cable that was connected to the exploder. (Are you still with me?) Sentries were posted at both sides of the shots and then everyone trooped to the intake side of the shots. It was a good plan to get a good way from the blast because bits of rock were apt to fly quite a long way. Then you got behind a piece of electrical switchgear or just crouched on the floor with your back to the blast and covered your ears. Then you waited until the world erupted and the headers were left with another fifty tons to clear away. The shovels flew and that was another 2 metres of heading made. That is the method, however, it sometimes went awry. When the shottie would call out ‘fire’ we expected a bang, it didn't always happen and there was a collective groan, it was a misfire called a miss. If it was near snap time we would have some food and a drink whilst the shottie went through his circuits. Some were better than others at it and the stress levels of the less able ones were a palpable thing. That is not the only mishap that occurred, I have known the times when the shottie was some dets missing. The only thing to do was get, the police to stop the lorries or railway trains and turn them back to have the coal screened. Needless to say after such an event the hapless shottie was back on to the shovel on the next shift. In recent years the introduction of machines for heading, dinting and ripping has reduced shotfiring to a minimum. Shots are still fired for making sub stations, offices and workshops and to make space to rebuild the machines after transportation underground. Shotties are now referred to, rather grandly, as Gate End Supervisors and the good ones got to be deputies. A strange thing is that the vast majority of deputies are little men, strutting around like turkey cocks. Chests stuck out as though trying to right their challenged height. A phrase that we used to repeat springs to mind, about deputies. 'A deputy is like a banana, first it's green, then it's yellow, finally it just turns rotten'. Then the real rotten bastards get to be Overman. They won't listen to any sort of reason they are judge and jury and once having made a decision would stick to it through thick and thin. As an electrician I have had some battle royals with them wanting me to cut corners to get coal production underway. It is no joke to have an Overman, who is as thick as pudding, shouting the odds in your ear. I found the best way to deal with this situation was to isolate the electrical supply and lock the switchgear off. Then calmly explain that you can't work with him pressuring you all the time and until he sods off you won't get it running. The next thing he would get onto my boss (who could have been up to four miles away and on the surface) and start ranting at him about what a useless twat I was and to send someone else. There was no one else. It finally came down to, 'Get the effing thing mended, please'. Then, 'How long' and I would say, 'Thirty seconds'. When the coal was pouring off we were the best of buddies, until the next time. It was a game that we played and woe betides you if you caved in. That is the way it was.
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