"All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to person or persons living is purely coincidental and unintentional..." so the preface goes. But how true is it? Are your protagonists and players really a total product of your imagination? - I very much doubt it. A lot of the characters in my writing are amalgams of people I either know or have come across along life's rich tapestry of experience. And sometimes, just sometimes there are characters who are simply too good to leave off the page without any interference from imagination or pen. I have a library of such peep's in my head, all waiting for the right plot or scenario I feel happy to plonk them in. One such character was a grizzled, weather-beaten little Irish navvy who went by the name of Johnny-the-Mole. Johnny featured in the first draft of Scrapyard Blues, but reluctantly he became a casualty of my ruthless editing, and reduced to a narrative cameo when I realised he detracted from the plot. The bits I did leave in the book are all true.
I first came across Johnny while working as a chain lad on the new M62 motorway, a summer job I had after leaving school before going to college. My job duties entailed searching for a benchmark or a TBM (a measured piece of land usually identified by a wooden stake with a hilti nail driven into it) amongst fields of gently waving barley, where I would rock my staff (a telescopic measuring device) back and forth so my engineer could take a reading with his theodolite. And when it rained, (yes, it was usually down to Johnny and his ritual shamanic dance) we would take shelter in a mobile ex-railways guards van that served as a canteen to the Irish navvies who worked the site. The discourse inside this stinking mobile hovel was literary gold.
‘In yer come boys; room fer two more’
‘’Tis rainin’ out there it is?’ says one of the men, stating the patently obvious as my engineer and I stand there like a pair of drowned rats. I perch myself on the end of a bench and absorb the blarney and the banter, awkwardly nursing my staff and tripod because there simply isn’t room to put them down. Little pockets of conversation spring up amongst the men and they begin to discuss us as if we weren’t there.
‘Yer’ll be havin’ a pot o’ tea boys, - yer will?’ says Michael, a short, thickset bloke with incredibly hairy arms. His offer is more by way of insistence and my half-hearted attempts to decline are totally ignored as he demands that the Boggeragh man, who is nearest the tea urn, sort out cups fer der boys. The navvies address each other by their respective geographical origin rather than their actual names, and as my nose slowly becomes accustomed to the smell I try and settle on my seat as comfy as I can and let the discourse entertain me as I dry out.
‘Tell der Drogheda man, if he’s handin’ out der hospitality he can get der cups hiself.’
If ever there’s an altercation or disagreement, the conversation usually goes three ways via a middleman.
‘Der Boggeragh man says ter get der cups yerself,’ says the man from Wicklow.
Michael lets loose a flurry of indecipherable oaths.
‘Wassee say?’ demands Boggeragh man.
‘I dunno,’ says the Wicklow man, his eyes darting around the dingy cabin and pulling faces at those sat opposite as he senses a storm brewing.
‘Did der feller just curse me?’
‘I dunno,’ he repeats, shaking his head but secretly rubbing his hands together. The blokes thrive on this sort of thing. There’s nothing they like better than a barney, but this is just harmless craic, the real stuff is saved for the boozer when the Guinness and whiskey start to flow.
‘I said ’tis a sullen an’ fecken lazy bastard so he is – tell him that.’
‘He says ’tis a…’
‘Tell der Drogheda man he might be Lord o’ der manor where he comes from but I’m not his fecken butler, nor his servant, an’ who’s he callin’ a lazy bastard?’
‘Yer der fecken idlest, skiven’ cunt of a glass-back this side o’ the Knockmealdown Mountains an’ that’s a fact,’ states Michael directly this time, making the Wicklow man redundant.
‘Tell der Drogheda man he can go feck hiself widda big stick.’
The men chuckle and chunter as the two adversaries trade insults. Gavin, sat there in his shirt and tie and his company issue waterproof cagoule, shuffles awkwardly in his seat and tries to stay diplomatic while I sit back and enjoy the entertainment and silently pray that the tea’s been forgotten about.
‘Yer’ll have heard all about Boggeragh mans sweat Gavin? – Thousand pounds an ounce so it is.’
‘Ah, take no notice Gavin,’ counters Boggeragh man. ‘’Tis time he gave his gob a rest an’ gave his arse a chance. – He talks shite anyhow.’
‘Have yer ever seen him in action Gavin?’ Gavin shakes his head. ‘No, neither has anybody else. I tell yer Gavin, me old mammy could dig holes faster than him an’ she’s eighty-two, Gawd bless her.’
The two men continue to trade insults until a weathered, watery-eyed bloke finally interjects. ‘Ahh, shut yer prattle yer pair o’ fuck-pigs – sure an’ the boys’ll die o’ thirst afore they get their tea.’
The old navvy who looks like he’s nursing a permanent hangover wearily gets to his feet and searches for two mugs amongst the debris on the table. He wears thick cavalry twill trousers that come up almost to his chest, suspended from braces and amply supported by a large black belt just for good measure. He unceremoniously empties the mouldy looking dregs onto the cabin floor before producing the filthiest looking rag from his back pocket. His hands are black and Gavin and I exchange glances of trepidation as he gives the mugs a quick wipe. He spoons in the tea, adds water from the steaming urn and selects milk from one of the less solidifying bottles that are strewn around. He asks if we take sugar and ignoring our shakes of the head lumps in three spoonfuls each. Gavin and I accept the brews with thanks that barely conceal our mutual disgust, while a dozen faces wait in anticipation for us to take those tentative sips and nod our heads in mock approval.
The rain thunders down on the canteen roof and shows no sign of letting up. The men would have you believe that the downpour is entirely due to Johnny ‘The Mole’ and the ritual rain dance he performs every time he completes work on a culvert. As soon as the concrete chamber is put in place, so the story goes, Johnny christens it by taking a dump then dancing round his deposit while the appreciative audience gathered above clap along chanting - Send it down Johnny - I don’t know if they’re just having me on but most of the blokes swear testament that within hours of Johnny’s ceremony the heavens will have opened, and I must admit I’m inclined to believe them seeing as I checked out a fresh Johnny creation for myself earlier today in a chamber down by Cooper Bridge.
I observe the shaman they call Johnny ‘The Mole’ sat sandwiched between Wicklow and Boggeragh, sipping his tea from a tannin stained pint pot, humbly mumbling his acceptance of the praise and laudation being heaped upon him for his messiah like miracle exploits. He wears full ballroom attire; oversize trousers and tails with a satin stripe down each leg; special purchase, Leeds market, ten bob. Under his flat cap, a pair of squinty eyes, a nose and two protruding front teeth too big for his features, and you can see they don’t call him ‘The Mole’ just ’cos he digs holes. He reminds me of Vince, the little gopher dude out of Deputy Dawg. He looks ageless; by that I mean you couldn’t hazard a guess at how old he is, save to say you could probably pitch him between thirty and sixty-five and take a stab at somewhere in between. He has that weather beaten look like they all have, skin tanned like old leather, craggy and furrowed, ravaged and etched by the elements; a lifetime of boozing and building roads. Johnny clocks me gawping, breaks out into a toothy smile, nods in my direction and raises his pint pot like he’s the star attraction at some posh dinner dance; the perfect gentleman. He then dips into the inside pocket of his tail coat and with a little flourish produces a battered tin whistle that he proceeds to play with great skill. I sit there mesmerised, wondering if there is no end to the leprechaun’s talents. After a few bars of the overture the men pick up the tune and begin to sing. They don’t quite attain the sweet melancholy of the whistle but they give it their all – Shaun O’Farrell with his cheeks all aglow and a thousand pipers flashing at the rising of the moon – the assortment of damp smelly navvies go all wistful and dewy eyed as they transport themselves back to the emerald isle; hankering after the halcyon days, drinking pocheen and spitting into the fire.
I begin to dry out and start to feel quite settled as the boys ring out the ballads, but out of the corner of my eye I see Gavin is getting restless and when he catches my eye he gives a little jerk of the head indicating it’s time to go. I look at him disappointed, especially as it’s still coming down in stair-rods outside. We wave a thanks and a cheerio to the men who are still in full voice and make a dash for it. – Twas a cold December day – A lorry ploughed its way – midst bullets splash and play – on Ashdown road… they sing after us, and as I struggle along with my staff and tripod I have a whinge at my engineer for dragging us back out in the wet.
‘Listen…’ he suddenly stops and turns. ‘…If you want to go back and wallow with the IRA, be my guest.’
‘IRA?’
‘Yes you dozy pillock, they’re rebel songs that they’re singing. – Now I’m sure that they meant no offence but I really didn’t fancy sitting there nodding along while they happily sing songs about Irish martyrs blowing Brits to bits – You coming?’
I first came across Johnny while working as a chain lad on the new M62 motorway, a summer job I had after leaving school before going to college. My job duties entailed searching for a benchmark or a TBM (a measured piece of land usually identified by a wooden stake with a hilti nail driven into it) amongst fields of gently waving barley, where I would rock my staff (a telescopic measuring device) back and forth so my engineer could take a reading with his theodolite. And when it rained, (yes, it was usually down to Johnny and his ritual shamanic dance) we would take shelter in a mobile ex-railways guards van that served as a canteen to the Irish navvies who worked the site. The discourse inside this stinking mobile hovel was literary gold.
Around a dozen or so navvies are crammed in around an unbelievably cluttered, filthy table. I shudder involuntary as my nostrils catch the fetid stench that is rising from the bodies of the damp but hospitable Irishmen as they squeeze even closer together in order to make room for their unexpected guests.
‘In yer come boys; room fer two more’
‘’Tis rainin’ out there it is?’ says one of the men, stating the patently obvious as my engineer and I stand there like a pair of drowned rats. I perch myself on the end of a bench and absorb the blarney and the banter, awkwardly nursing my staff and tripod because there simply isn’t room to put them down. Little pockets of conversation spring up amongst the men and they begin to discuss us as if we weren’t there.
‘Yer’ll be havin’ a pot o’ tea boys, - yer will?’ says Michael, a short, thickset bloke with incredibly hairy arms. His offer is more by way of insistence and my half-hearted attempts to decline are totally ignored as he demands that the Boggeragh man, who is nearest the tea urn, sort out cups fer der boys. The navvies address each other by their respective geographical origin rather than their actual names, and as my nose slowly becomes accustomed to the smell I try and settle on my seat as comfy as I can and let the discourse entertain me as I dry out.
‘Tell der Drogheda man, if he’s handin’ out der hospitality he can get der cups hiself.’
If ever there’s an altercation or disagreement, the conversation usually goes three ways via a middleman.
‘Der Boggeragh man says ter get der cups yerself,’ says the man from Wicklow.
Michael lets loose a flurry of indecipherable oaths.
‘Wassee say?’ demands Boggeragh man.
‘I dunno,’ says the Wicklow man, his eyes darting around the dingy cabin and pulling faces at those sat opposite as he senses a storm brewing.
‘Did der feller just curse me?’
‘I dunno,’ he repeats, shaking his head but secretly rubbing his hands together. The blokes thrive on this sort of thing. There’s nothing they like better than a barney, but this is just harmless craic, the real stuff is saved for the boozer when the Guinness and whiskey start to flow.
‘I said ’tis a sullen an’ fecken lazy bastard so he is – tell him that.’
‘He says ’tis a…’
‘Tell der Drogheda man he might be Lord o’ der manor where he comes from but I’m not his fecken butler, nor his servant, an’ who’s he callin’ a lazy bastard?’
‘Yer der fecken idlest, skiven’ cunt of a glass-back this side o’ the Knockmealdown Mountains an’ that’s a fact,’ states Michael directly this time, making the Wicklow man redundant.
‘Tell der Drogheda man he can go feck hiself widda big stick.’
The men chuckle and chunter as the two adversaries trade insults. Gavin, sat there in his shirt and tie and his company issue waterproof cagoule, shuffles awkwardly in his seat and tries to stay diplomatic while I sit back and enjoy the entertainment and silently pray that the tea’s been forgotten about.
‘Yer’ll have heard all about Boggeragh mans sweat Gavin? – Thousand pounds an ounce so it is.’
‘Ah, take no notice Gavin,’ counters Boggeragh man. ‘’Tis time he gave his gob a rest an’ gave his arse a chance. – He talks shite anyhow.’
‘Have yer ever seen him in action Gavin?’ Gavin shakes his head. ‘No, neither has anybody else. I tell yer Gavin, me old mammy could dig holes faster than him an’ she’s eighty-two, Gawd bless her.’
The two men continue to trade insults until a weathered, watery-eyed bloke finally interjects. ‘Ahh, shut yer prattle yer pair o’ fuck-pigs – sure an’ the boys’ll die o’ thirst afore they get their tea.’
The old navvy who looks like he’s nursing a permanent hangover wearily gets to his feet and searches for two mugs amongst the debris on the table. He wears thick cavalry twill trousers that come up almost to his chest, suspended from braces and amply supported by a large black belt just for good measure. He unceremoniously empties the mouldy looking dregs onto the cabin floor before producing the filthiest looking rag from his back pocket. His hands are black and Gavin and I exchange glances of trepidation as he gives the mugs a quick wipe. He spoons in the tea, adds water from the steaming urn and selects milk from one of the less solidifying bottles that are strewn around. He asks if we take sugar and ignoring our shakes of the head lumps in three spoonfuls each. Gavin and I accept the brews with thanks that barely conceal our mutual disgust, while a dozen faces wait in anticipation for us to take those tentative sips and nod our heads in mock approval.
The rain thunders down on the canteen roof and shows no sign of letting up. The men would have you believe that the downpour is entirely due to Johnny ‘The Mole’ and the ritual rain dance he performs every time he completes work on a culvert. As soon as the concrete chamber is put in place, so the story goes, Johnny christens it by taking a dump then dancing round his deposit while the appreciative audience gathered above clap along chanting - Send it down Johnny - I don’t know if they’re just having me on but most of the blokes swear testament that within hours of Johnny’s ceremony the heavens will have opened, and I must admit I’m inclined to believe them seeing as I checked out a fresh Johnny creation for myself earlier today in a chamber down by Cooper Bridge.
I observe the shaman they call Johnny ‘The Mole’ sat sandwiched between Wicklow and Boggeragh, sipping his tea from a tannin stained pint pot, humbly mumbling his acceptance of the praise and laudation being heaped upon him for his messiah like miracle exploits. He wears full ballroom attire; oversize trousers and tails with a satin stripe down each leg; special purchase, Leeds market, ten bob. Under his flat cap, a pair of squinty eyes, a nose and two protruding front teeth too big for his features, and you can see they don’t call him ‘The Mole’ just ’cos he digs holes. He reminds me of Vince, the little gopher dude out of Deputy Dawg. He looks ageless; by that I mean you couldn’t hazard a guess at how old he is, save to say you could probably pitch him between thirty and sixty-five and take a stab at somewhere in between. He has that weather beaten look like they all have, skin tanned like old leather, craggy and furrowed, ravaged and etched by the elements; a lifetime of boozing and building roads. Johnny clocks me gawping, breaks out into a toothy smile, nods in my direction and raises his pint pot like he’s the star attraction at some posh dinner dance; the perfect gentleman. He then dips into the inside pocket of his tail coat and with a little flourish produces a battered tin whistle that he proceeds to play with great skill. I sit there mesmerised, wondering if there is no end to the leprechaun’s talents. After a few bars of the overture the men pick up the tune and begin to sing. They don’t quite attain the sweet melancholy of the whistle but they give it their all – Shaun O’Farrell with his cheeks all aglow and a thousand pipers flashing at the rising of the moon – the assortment of damp smelly navvies go all wistful and dewy eyed as they transport themselves back to the emerald isle; hankering after the halcyon days, drinking pocheen and spitting into the fire.
I begin to dry out and start to feel quite settled as the boys ring out the ballads, but out of the corner of my eye I see Gavin is getting restless and when he catches my eye he gives a little jerk of the head indicating it’s time to go. I look at him disappointed, especially as it’s still coming down in stair-rods outside. We wave a thanks and a cheerio to the men who are still in full voice and make a dash for it. – Twas a cold December day – A lorry ploughed its way – midst bullets splash and play – on Ashdown road… they sing after us, and as I struggle along with my staff and tripod I have a whinge at my engineer for dragging us back out in the wet.
‘Listen…’ he suddenly stops and turns. ‘…If you want to go back and wallow with the IRA, be my guest.’
‘IRA?’
‘Yes you dozy pillock, they’re rebel songs that they’re singing. – Now I’m sure that they meant no offence but I really didn’t fancy sitting there nodding along while they happily sing songs about Irish martyrs blowing Brits to bits – You coming?’
I was only 17, young and naive.