Author Topic: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.  (Read 2168079 times)

James James

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 18282
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13155 on: November 27, 2019, 07:55:53 AM »
Some of the names of the pub that spring to mind are "Tudor", Telstar" and "Tavern" as in the picture. obviously trying to appeal to a younger market.

https://www.facebook.com/oldbelfastphotographs/photos/a.1729512510611138/1772811929614529/?type=3&theater

Lots of comments from locals who were familiar with it.

James James

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 18282
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13156 on: November 27, 2019, 08:56:31 AM »
when it was first built it was called the Donegal Arms it was once one of my local pubs I knew every inch of the old shore rd

http://www.belfastforum.co.uk/index.php?topic=37913.0

James James

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 18282
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13157 on: November 27, 2019, 09:16:28 AM »

Dargan

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 2679
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13158 on: November 30, 2019, 09:47:01 AM »
 
 When out walking through towns and villages or on the hills here in the North of England, I always wonder if I'll see anything which will remind me of the Shore Road, or Belfast in the bygone days of my childhood and youth. Meeting a lady I once worked with in Shorts MSD in North Manchester one day had an impact on me. It seemed like a miraculous happening, and so when I walk I often wonder if anything or anyone will come along to roll back the years. So long live fly-tipping, for more often than enough I've seen things which do the job of jolting the memory one way or another. I'll give an example.
 
You get quite a few rutted lanes dividing pasture land into its roughly separated fields. They are referred to as "hollow paths" and go back to the time of enclosure of the fields when landowners, who unceremoniously chucked the people off the land, had to devise ways of separating fields. Hence everyone evicted flocked to towns, and the birth of the industrial revolution and all that kind of depressing crap which nevertheless can be interesting when you're close-up to its remnants as I am here.

These paths are not easy to walk on and for drivers eejit enough to use them as shortcuts, their cars going in one side and out the other end up worth about two pounds fifty. Why they bother to use these lanes is anybody's guess, but likely it can be for nefarious reasons as twenty quid notes sometimes float on the air. I found forty quid two weeks running (20 on each occasion) centred around a place which flogs big lumps of stone to builders.  Aye, that and the rest for the air can be very aromatic at times! I thought the place was paved with gold and haunted it for weeks after that, but 40 quid (spent on Xmas presents) was my lot. I wasn't that interested in the stalks and leaves of tall, exotic plants dumped with dozens of wee clay pellets. 
 
On these lanes on higher ground you might see an old "dew pond" built to specifics which to this day are something of a lost skill even though they understand what shatters them and makes them drain away. I'll forgo quoting the science for that's down to the those who want to cull information from elsewhere. (It's a bit boring anyway). I pass by these ponds knowing they could be thousands of years old. I watch cattle peacefully drink at them or stand under the shelter of groves of hawthorn which grow nearby. You know you're out in Winter, and the feel of different kinds of the cold give a feeling of wellbeing I like, but it's not for everyone.

 
Usually the oldest farmhouses of the area are on these lanes, and a glance at them really can reveal scenes which haven't altered for generations. The people in these places are fresh-faced, quite glad to see people and have a yarn and you just know by how they are that the modern world hasn't touched them much. They seem blissfully unaware. Their animals roam free-range and the sounds of ducks always ring out louder then anything else that clucks, grunts or moos. Their places are always muddy in Winter for they drive in and out on tractors regularly. It's earthy, pleasant, real. Datestones on their homes reveal 1672 or some equally remote time. I stand and gaze in wonder, thinking about what life was like back then.

 
Well, being remote and inhospitable in Winter with puddles galore, these lanes are often the venue for a fly-tipping which is not entirely illegal as the people in these out-of—the-way farms often need [censored] to fill in holes on the lanes. I think they either encourage builders to dump in the already large piles at the sides of the lanes, or else turn a blind eye, and this is when you might see all kinds of things from years ago which are a reminder of home.
 
Walking on a frosty morning last Saturday, I went such a route and when passing the mound of [censored] the first thing I spotted from the distance which suggested a newly-tipped lot was there, was a Xmas tree. When I got up close I discovered it was the lower half of an artificial tree, and although I walked around the mound, cows looking at me from an adjacent field as they grazed round a large circular feeder, I couldn't find the other half of the tree.
 
But what of it, for it reminded me of looking at the trees in neighbours' houses on December nights long ago around the Shore Road going about my business or coming home from the institution people call "school."
 
However, there did turn out to be something on that mound which was a direct link to the Belfast of the past. Amidst all the stuff, poking out of gray [censored] and showing its edges, were the pages of a newspaper. I retrieved it (old Tip Head habits die hard) and discovered it was the racing pages of the Daily Mail bearing a date in November 1999. It was in a sodden condition, but experience at reviving rubbish about to be annihilated by the elements informed me immediately that all I needed to do was to get the paper, fold it carefully, then take it home and put a hairdryer on it. When the silt dries it can be dusted off (but don't do it on the dining table if tempted to follow my example). When you want to revive rubbish, in general, you'd be best to consult someone from the Shore Road who hoked the Head regularly, or observed the techniques of those who did.

 
So, with my expertise in action,  I extracted it from the pile, and when I'd revived it back at home I was looking to see if there were any horses in 1999 maybe called "Oakmount" or "Lindy May" or some other name resonant of the Shore Road. There wasn't a single horse except "Ballygobackwards." I had to smile at that because I remembered how a regular, verbal attack on people who had done something daft was, "where did you come from, Ballygobackwards?"
 
So. I drew a blank with regard to Shore Road references. However, there was a page of news, and were it not for the fact that photobucket failed me yonks ago I'd shove it on here. Instead, if you've been keen enough to read this to conclusion (for one reason or another) you'll have to make do with my description of the article.
 
It mentioned how at the railway on Great Victoria Street, lockers had been removed in the 1970s to deter bomb-leaving eejits, but that in 1999 they were being replaced by lockers bearing a technology which made them work by the fingerprints of the users. Someone then commented words to the gist, "and so it's a victory for modern technology, for what would-be crim would be fool enough to plant a bomb in a locker which only operates as per their fingerprints?" But you see, that person was an English person and knew nothing about Ballygobackwards.
 
More Winter tales loosely connected to the Shore Road a speciality. …….
 :hi:

Let's now have a celebration of joy with this little number!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4TzjRFfsJs

 
 
 
 
There's a new toothpaste out which takes 15 years off your teeth.
Happy Birthday Doctor.

Dargan

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 2679
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13159 on: November 30, 2019, 09:52:39 AM »
The word which has been censored is the combination of the words "HARD" and "CORE."

Are the censors from Ballygobackwards?
There's a new toothpaste out which takes 15 years off your teeth.
Happy Birthday Doctor.

Dargan

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 2679
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13160 on: December 14, 2019, 01:40:07 PM »
 Re. Lowwood School circa 1972:
 
Over Xmas you start to think of the old times. I was just recounting one or two things about Lowwood School. Wet days in the playground pretending that rusty hair clips were keys, the time the basket-ball nets went up, things like that. Of course the mystery of the playground "detective" has been mentioned earlier on the thread. That was a rare mixture of some kind of urban myth or scare-mongering tactic instigated by adults combined with a very real phenomenon of a travelling light which moved at great speed. No-one ever got to the bottom of it. Adults, attempting to reduce delinquency, were very cloak-and-dagger when it was all mentioned. Nothing was definite, but yet… . Well, it remained a thing with a huge question mark hanging over it. Maybe there was a detective, or maybe something from way back haunted the place in a steady light like a lit fag as it's sucked in, hovering about the height of an average man. But by all accounts it moved like nobody's business. From here to there in seconds.
 
Well one thought leads to another and I suddenly recalled how it used to be that teachers could suddenly take a shine to you to be their lackey and order you to do all kinds of things not connected to lessons. There you'd be trying to work out sums and next news you'd be asked to do something which belonged to the adult world. I was once asked to paint the back wall of a classroom at the end of term one summer. Pale green. The wrong person was asked because I couldn't get to grips with how you avoid streaks and kept painting the same bit. I was taken off the job and boys were put onto it. They soon whipped down that wall and in fact looked a bit crestfallen when they learned they weren't going to get to paint the whole room.
 
One time a girl and I were told we'd to go to the shops by this particular teacher. He wanted "20 Senior Service and a jar of powdered milk." It felt like a treat getting to do this but in reality it was a bit of a cheek to say the least and illustrates how kids' rights were at a minimum all those years back. Thankfully the school didn't have chimneys or we might have been asked to go up and sweep them out personally in the manner of our unfortunate predecessors enslaved into miserable lives. You daren't have refused anything you were asked to do, for this teacher would likely have thrashed you with his cane which he called The Old Gray Whistle Test.
 
I remember the day he cleared out leaving the school and Northern Ireland for good. He was a very peculiar man. He was a bit like a down-market Roy Wood without the enchanting paint. He decided, the day he left, that a memento of his existence would be to scribble paramilitary slogans on people's arms, and decorated some kids' skins with this stupid crap. He was clearing out to Scotland to try to get away but was perpetuating a lot of dangerous nonsense in young minds in this pathetic way.
 
I stood and looked at this spectacle with curiosity. If he wasn't writing David Bowie on my arm I wasn't interested. He wouldn't have wanted to write on my arm anyway for I wouldn't scrape and bow to him. I was glad to see the back of him. He caned me for all sorts of educational infringements yet he'd once been unable to spell "Yugoslavia." In the end he gave up trying and actually called it "Jug Land" writing this on the blackboard (he must have known something we didn't). He also signed his name beside his pro-paramilitary artwork. I think he thought he was rockstar or something because Noddy Holder at the time was going around doing this after concerts (don't worry, we're not going to play Slade today).
 
To get back to us going to the shops for him:  I can't remember what Irene and I talked about on the way down to Jackson's but I do remember the legendary steepness of Lowwood hill and the Spring air full of promise as the light breeze wasn't strong enough to bring a whiff of the Head in our direction. I have a vague memory of going into Stewarty's for the powdered milk and the woman serving in Jackson's who was maybe a bit unhappy about selling kids Senior Service, because where did we get the money for these up-market fags? It was alright to sell us "two loose." That was normal.  Anyway, she took the money, and as I type this I think to myself that this would never happen today as kids in this age have come on in leaps and bounds and progressed to meeting drug-dealers on waste ground and getting four hundred quid for distributing a few tiny bags here and there. To think what we could have done with four hundred quid! We could have bought a house on the Shore Road and kitted it out admirably from McCune's.  Does anyone remember that the original counter in Jackson's was bottom left of the shop as you entered by the door? It got moved to a more central position later on. That only struck me as I was typing.
 
There were also times when we were told by teachers to accompany another pupil home in the middle of the day. Usually it was someone who had been throwing up and teacher couldn't stand emptying the bucket. The first time they were sympathetic but as time wore on they soon lost the Florence Nightingale instinct. But I mean like, children asked to take sick kids home! It's weird and so unlike the days we live in now. There was no regard given to the potential for us catching the lergy by being put into closer proximity to the sick kids. That didn't matter a jot. Probably we were asked to do it to save our "superiors."
 
I remember once the bucket being placed in the aisle for a girl called Marlene and her using it with zest until the teacher had had enough. This wee fella next to her tapped me on the shoulder and said, "I hope it isn't lentil soup for lunch." If you were beside the sick one, most kids moved their chairs as far away from the vomitter as possible. Vomitters needed plenty of space to make their gestures, but it's another thing teachers didn't allow for. You had to sit beside them and forby the rest of the grim moments there was every chance of being elbowed in the eye.
 
But the worst of all was being asked to take someone home who'd steadfastly refused to behave. Now they didn't expect us to do this in twos – the way it was with the shopping expeditions- but in threes and even fours if the offender was particularly tricky and required an escort four points of the compass. Undertaking this duty, three of us were once told to take home a wee fella called Craig whom Baldy Beckett was sick of seeing at his office door that day. The umpteenth time was when he danced on the pudding Mrs Crimble had given him in the dinner hall. That was it. Three of us were appointed to take him home. It should have been five or ten. I was scared stiff of him. He lived in Fairhill somewhere and I was trying to disguise myself on the North flank by pulling a strange face because I didn't want him to remember that I'd kicked him the week before, for here was ample opportunity for him to set on me good and proper. That's not to say he hadn't been kicking me in the first place. It was quite fashionable to kick people across the dividing line of boys and girls. Most girls skipped and sang rhymes in circles with joined hands, but a few of us hung around this line for a bit of action. It seemed far more exciting than skipping and singing rhymes:
 
Lord Nelson had one arm
Lord Nelson had one leg
Lord Nelson had one eye
Lord Nelson fell down dead.
Lord Nelson found his arm
Lord Nelson found his leg
Lord Nelson found his eye
Lord Nelson's well again.
 
There were actions to do to this whilst skipping. You were expected to skip at the same time as withdrawing a leg and an arm and shutting one eye, and when he fell down dead you were meant to hit the deck and skip simultaneously. What did they think it was, Fawcett's Circus? (Or was that Fossett's? Don't tell me). But these considerations were never discussed by the group I hung about it. We never got beyond the rhyme itself. We always felt that if Lord Nelson, the posh twit, was fool enough to lose these things he didn't deserve to get them back. He'd a title yet was careless enough to lose bits of his body. That seemed to mean he didn't ought to have been given the title in the first place and that someone more deserving should have had it who could have kept hold of his body parts. Whoever it was gave out the titles wasn't wise.
 
 
Well anyway we went down the lane and up the steps and when we got to the top and into Waveney this Craig said, "I'm not telling you where I live." Nobody had bargained for that. None of us were from that side of the lane. We were from the Mount Vernon side of it and that was our world. However, in response one wee lad said, "You better," and then they rolled on the ground hitting and kicking one another. But when it ended he still wouldn't tell and as the teachers hadn't put his address down a piece of paper and merely given us a note to hand to his Ma (which said he'd been sent home for being a nuisance and could she do something about it) we didn't know what to do with him.
 
"Should we bring him back?" somebody said, but we thought it would have looked bad. We might have been caned for failing to get shot of him. There was nothing else for it, we had to reason with him.
 "If we leave you here will you eventually go home?"
"What does eventually mean?" he said.
It was an impossible situation. No matter what we said he didn't seem to understand anything or else was as contrary as hell. We went to one side and had a conference about him. "I know what we'll do," said the boy he'd rolled around with, "we'll walk him past every street with Fairhill written on it and see when his face goes a beamer. Then we'll know and it'll be just a matter of getting the number out of him." He clenched his fist and held it up in true Mount Vernon style. Without a line to kick him from the other side of I'd no suggestions. But he overheard this plan, and anyway it was no use for he had a permanent red face.  We walked all over the place hoping something would happen or someone would give him away. It started to rain.
 
"I'm sick of this. I want to get back for Scooby Doo," someone said. The truth was that we were out that long with him the school had finished ages ago and not one single kid had appeared who could help us ascertain where the nuisance lived. It was getting dark.
 
Well I'm very sorry to have to tell you this but after you having read all this, I've no conclusion for you. I can't remember what we did with him. I think I've blanked it out. Someone might have given the others the wink and all at once we grabbed him, chucked him over a hedge and ran. It was definitely something like this for I can remember looking out for him at school in subsequent days with a certain amount of trepidation.
 :hi:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQ_rQSBJ4v8
 
 
There's a new toothpaste out which takes 15 years off your teeth.
Happy Birthday Doctor.

James James

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 18282
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13161 on: December 14, 2019, 08:02:08 PM »

Dargan

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 2679
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13162 on: December 20, 2019, 08:27:50 AM »
 More Lowwood School.
 
There was one wee fella no-one was ever entrusted to take home for bad behaviour, for it would have taken 20 or more kids twice his age and possibly a peeler thrown in for good measure. He was a real head-banger. Craig might have had a permanent ruddy face, but this wee fella was pure beetroot at all times, and maybe later on in life his hero was Buster Bloodvessel. His anger knew no let up. The skin on his face looked so taut and red nobody wanted tongue for lunch. And that's another thing, tongue! Being made to eat tongue in life! If you offered kids tongue these days they'd be on to the peelers for sure.
 
 He always wore a royal blue jumper, and because of it and the face he was very colourful – in a menacing sort of way. His hair was a dark ginger and it looked moulded to his head, like Action Man's. Well, he was so wild that nobody could sit anywhere near him. At his command he had an entire row of desks, to the front of him and behind, which he weaponised, regularly getting up to skid them across the floor or send them flying. You daren't have looked anywhere near him for it was enough to get him started. Thanking Christ he was in rude health, for if he'd been let loose with a boke-bucket I can't imagine. Well actually I can, for it would have been like an explosion in a lentil soup factory.
 
In the infants' side of Lowwood one of the biggest dreads was being sent to the assembly hall for dancing. Girls had to partner boys in dances. Weird isn't it?  You'd to sit on the parquet floor and be told what to do, then we were paired off, and on went the record player to crackle out some old country dance often with a Germanic origin. That was weird too considering the second world war hadn't ended that long before. Our area was full of old fellas with war wounds such as bad knees long before knee-capping and other punishment beatings were invented.
 
Back to the dance: more often than not by the time we knew the steps and stood up to dance around the place four of five nasty-looking puddles had appeared on the floor, so for a start they'd to be dodged. Whole sections of the dance had to be missed out because of the geography of these puddles. I don't know what was worse: fulfilling the obligations of the dance or dodging the puddles.
 
Well one of the worst things that have ever happened to me in my whole life transpired in this very situation. I was paired off with beetroot face. To be fair, he was as disgusted with me as I was with him and looked at me like I was a rag doll chewed by a dog. He might have had a point. The saving grace was that we were in a big, empty hall so he was near nothing that could be thrown. He eyed the piano but it was out of the question. Now this wee fella wasn't really conversational in any way. He was just permanently angry and he bypassed words in favour of roars and grunts. I'd to think fast. I couldn't reason with him. What could I do? Feign sudden illness? There was no point in doubling over with a pretend appendicitis for everyone was at that, and some even carried it  to the hilt and had it trailed out in the Royal. That bought you about 2 weeks off, and I can only say it must have been worth it for some. Doctor O'Hagan down the road at York Street was easy meat for a kid pretending appendicitus. As an aside, the old-world ambience with the fire lit in his waiting room was a marvel to behold and experience. In you went and everyone was round the fire chatting like it was a social club on the top floor of that large, Georgian house.

 
Well, I wasn't saved by a bomb-scare or fire-drill, I was saved by the fact that within seconds he was downed by one of the puddles. I didn't know where to look. "It wasn't me!" I yelled at him above the music as he glared up angrily up. For those split seconds I was in mortal danger. Suddenly the record player was switched off and the teacher came to intervene, and then everything changed. Probably because she called him clumsy, preferring to ignore the reason he'd fallen instead of getting handy with a mop, I defended the gringo. A faint smile came over his face and after that he was alright with me. I ended up sitting nearest to him in class - maybe fifteen feet away- and was unofficially the first one off his death list. I wonder what happened to that wee fella. I hope he turned out fine. I can't blame him for hating school for who in their right mind liked it? Who actually wanted to be shut up in a classroom when other people were out roaming all over the Head examining Belfast's rubbish to see if it could be sold on?
 
The Shore Road is a unique place for its biggest attraction back then wasn't really The Troxy, the baths or Crusaders. It was these "blackmarket" goods. In fact they were more "black" than market but nobody cared for they were a fraction of the price of stuff in the shops and they were so cheap that they were given out free by generous head-hokers who not only distributed them with a sort of bashful abandon in the manner of all great philanthropists, but also quite successfully wooed some women with them. I remember once a load of bath salts were doing the rounds. Some people thought it a step too far to use Tip Head bath salts. Then somebody braved it and at the very least gave the "Jasmine" ones the all clear.
 
Back to Lowwood School.
 
That teacher who dealt in paramilitary slogans once asked us to write an essay for homework about the weather. He stipulated that we should mention the seasons in their different facets. I sat down to write and began, "Nearly every day the sun rises." After that I waffled on, put it back into my schoolbag and went outside. When it came to the point of marking it he asked me to stand up. I knew that a shaming was about to take place for holding up kids as an example of wickedness was the way of it.
 
"What's this?" he said.
"What?" I said.
"This thing about the sun rising nearly every day?!"
"Well that's what I thought happened."
"Are you stupid? Come up here!" Whereupon I went up to him and got hit with the Old Gray Whistle Test which swished through the air then was replaced on a ledge above the blackboard.
 
The thing was that I'd thought deeply about this, and because there were days- lots of them – that I never actually saw the sun because of cloud, I wasn't really sure where it was. I tried to explain this but he was completely dismayed. He wouldn't listen. He wouldn't accept that without the proof of my own eyes I wasn't prepared to commit to where the sun was. It was a child's logic he failed to act in sympathy with and decided instead to call me names. Someone with the Devil in them whispered to me, "Tell him it doesn't come up in Belfast every day because it's in Yugoslavia." Well I'd got into enough trouble over it, but I did enjoy it when kids had the nerve to say stuff like this to these snotty teachers. Who was he to tell me anything at all when his idea of graffiti was what it was and the Baxter thought in terms of "jugs" when an Eastern European country was mentioned? I hope the old arm-hole's still alive, sees this and remembers it. He'd be 90 if he's a day now.
 
One time at Lowwood School this old biddy came along as a substitute teacher. Thinking back on that she ought to have been in a different business advertising bed pans. I don't mean to be ageist here, I mean because she talked crap. She wanted us to write an essay on frogs, toads, newts and salamanders after waffling on about them for ages one afternoon. She stipulated it had to be so many words. I forget the number, say 300 for the sake of it. Next day she asked this girl to read out her essay. The girl stood up and began: "Frogs, toads newts and salamanders are nice." Then the second sentence, "Frogs toads newts and salamanders are slimy." Then, "I like frogs toads newts and salamanders." "Frogs aren't as slimy as toads, newts and salamanders." "I like frogs better because they're not as slimy as toads newts and salamanders."
 
Well, she'd no problem at all getting to the three hundred words. As she went on everybody started to laugh and kids actually rolled onto the floor holding their sides. But when the teacher remarked at the end that it was a marvellous essay, the laughing stopped immediately and someone even yelled out that it was "crap." In fact a great roar of dissent went up about this because the rest of us wanted to win that Mars Bar which was up for grabs for the best essay. The girl burst into tears and to pacify her the teacher gave her the Mars Bar and told the rest of us we were a rotten lot.
 
Speaking of education, take a look at this:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEjdJszBbY8
 
 
 
 
 
There's a new toothpaste out which takes 15 years off your teeth.
Happy Birthday Doctor.

arch

  • Sr. Member
  • ****
  • Posts: 357
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13163 on: December 20, 2019, 03:03:40 PM »
Re. Lowwood School circa 1972:
 
Over Xmas you start to think of the old times. I was just recounting one or two things about Lowwood School. Wet days in the playground pretending that rusty hair clips were keys, the time the basket-ball nets went up, things like that. Of course the mystery of the playground "detective" has been mentioned earlier on the thread. That was a rare mixture of some kind of urban myth or scare-mongering tactic instigated by adults combined with a very real phenomenon of a travelling light which moved at great speed. No-one ever got to the bottom of it. Adults, attempting to reduce delinquency, were very cloak-and-dagger when it was all mentioned. Nothing was definite, but yet… . Well, it remained a thing with a huge question mark hanging over it. Maybe there was a detective, or maybe something from way back haunted the place in a steady light like a lit fag as it's sucked in, hovering about the height of an average man. But by all accounts it moved like nobody's business. From here to there in seconds.
 
Well one thought leads to another and I suddenly recalled how it used to be that teachers could suddenly take a shine to you to be their lackey and order you to do all kinds of things not connected to lessons. There you'd be trying to work out sums and next news you'd be asked to do something which belonged to the adult world. I was once asked to paint the back wall of a classroom at the end of term one summer. Pale green. The wrong person was asked because I couldn't get to grips with how you avoid streaks and kept painting the same bit. I was taken off the job and boys were put onto it. They soon whipped down that wall and in fact looked a bit crestfallen when they learned they weren't going to get to paint the whole room.
 
One time a girl and I were told we'd to go to the shops by this particular teacher. He wanted "20 Senior Service and a jar of powdered milk." It felt like a treat getting to do this but in reality it was a bit of a cheek to say the least and illustrates how kids' rights were at a minimum all those years back. Thankfully the school didn't have chimneys or we might have been asked to go up and sweep them out personally in the manner of our unfortunate predecessors enslaved into miserable lives. You daren't have refused anything you were asked to do, for this teacher would likely have thrashed you with his cane which he called The Old Gray Whistle Test.
 
I remember the day he cleared out leaving the school and Northern Ireland for good. He was a very peculiar man. He was a bit like a down-market Roy Wood without the enchanting paint. He decided, the day he left, that a memento of his existence would be to scribble paramilitary slogans on people's arms, and decorated some kids' skins with this stupid crap. He was clearing out to Scotland to try to get away but was perpetuating a lot of dangerous nonsense in young minds in this pathetic way.
 
I stood and looked at this spectacle with curiosity. If he wasn't writing David Bowie on my arm I wasn't interested. He wouldn't have wanted to write on my arm anyway for I wouldn't scrape and bow to him. I was glad to see the back of him. He caned me for all sorts of educational infringements yet he'd once been unable to spell "Yugoslavia." In the end he gave up trying and actually called it "Jug Land" writing this on the blackboard (he must have known something we didn't). He also signed his name beside his pro-paramilitary artwork. I think he thought he was rockstar or something because Noddy Holder at the time was going around doing this after concerts (don't worry, we're not going to play Slade today).
 
To get back to us going to the shops for him:  I can't remember what Irene and I talked about on the way down to Jackson's but I do remember the legendary steepness of Lowwood hill and the Spring air full of promise as the light breeze wasn't strong enough to bring a whiff of the Head in our direction. I have a vague memory of going into Stewarty's for the powdered milk and the woman serving in Jackson's who was maybe a bit unhappy about selling kids Senior Service, because where did we get the money for these up-market fags? It was alright to sell us "two loose." That was normal.  Anyway, she took the money, and as I type this I think to myself that this would never happen today as kids in this age have come on in leaps and bounds and progressed to meeting drug-dealers on waste ground and getting four hundred quid for distributing a few tiny bags here and there. To think what we could have done with four hundred quid! We could have bought a house on the Shore Road and kitted it out admirably from McCune's.  Does anyone remember that the original counter in Jackson's was bottom left of the shop as you entered by the door? It got moved to a more central position later on. That only struck me as I was typing.
 
There were also times when we were told by teachers to accompany another pupil home in the middle of the day. Usually it was someone who had been throwing up and teacher couldn't stand emptying the bucket. The first time they were sympathetic but as time wore on they soon lost the Florence Nightingale instinct. But I mean like, children asked to take sick kids home! It's weird and so unlike the days we live in now. There was no regard given to the potential for us catching the lergy by being put into closer proximity to the sick kids. That didn't matter a jot. Probably we were asked to do it to save our "superiors."
 
I remember once the bucket being placed in the aisle for a girl called Marlene and her using it with zest until the teacher had had enough. This wee fella next to her tapped me on the shoulder and said, "I hope it isn't lentil soup for lunch." If you were beside the sick one, most kids moved their chairs as far away from the vomitter as possible. Vomitters needed plenty of space to make their gestures, but it's another thing teachers didn't allow for. You had to sit beside them and forby the rest of the grim moments there was every chance of being elbowed in the eye.
 
But the worst of all was being asked to take someone home who'd steadfastly refused to behave. Now they didn't expect us to do this in twos – the way it was with the shopping expeditions- but in threes and even fours if the offender was particularly tricky and required an escort four points of the compass. Undertaking this duty, three of us were once told to take home a wee fella called Craig whom Baldy Beckett was sick of seeing at his office door that day. The umpteenth time was when he danced on the pudding Mrs Crimble had given him in the dinner hall. That was it. Three of us were appointed to take him home. It should have been five or ten. I was scared stiff of him. He lived in Fairhill somewhere and I was trying to disguise myself on the North flank by pulling a strange face because I didn't want him to remember that I'd kicked him the week before, for here was ample opportunity for him to set on me good and proper. That's not to say he hadn't been kicking me in the first place. It was quite fashionable to kick people across the dividing line of boys and girls. Most girls skipped and sang rhymes in circles with joined hands, but a few of us hung around this line for a bit of action. It seemed far more exciting than skipping and singing rhymes:
 
Lord Nelson had one arm
Lord Nelson had one leg
Lord Nelson had one eye
Lord Nelson fell down dead.
Lord Nelson found his arm
Lord Nelson found his leg
Lord Nelson found his eye
Lord Nelson's well again.
 
There were actions to do to this whilst skipping. You were expected to skip at the same time as withdrawing a leg and an arm and shutting one eye, and when he fell down dead you were meant to hit the deck and skip simultaneously. What did they think it was, Fawcett's Circus? (Or was that Fossett's? Don't tell me). But these considerations were never discussed by the group I hung about it. We never got beyond the rhyme itself. We always felt that if Lord Nelson, the posh twit, was fool enough to lose these things he didn't deserve to get them back. He'd a title yet was careless enough to lose bits of his body. That seemed to mean he didn't ought to have been given the title in the first place and that someone more deserving should have had it who could have kept hold of his body parts. Whoever it was gave out the titles wasn't wise.
 
 
Well anyway we went down the lane and up the steps and when we got to the top and into Waveney this Craig said, "I'm not telling you where I live." Nobody had bargained for that. None of us were from that side of the lane. We were from the Mount Vernon side of it and that was our world. However, in response one wee lad said, "You better," and then they rolled on the ground hitting and kicking one another. But when it ended he still wouldn't tell and as the teachers hadn't put his address down a piece of paper and merely given us a note to hand to his Ma (which said he'd been sent home for being a nuisance and could she do something about it) we didn't know what to do with him.
 
"Should we bring him back?" somebody said, but we thought it would have looked bad. We might have been caned for failing to get shot of him. There was nothing else for it, we had to reason with him.
 "If we leave you here will you eventually go home?"
"What does eventually mean?" he said.
It was an impossible situation. No matter what we said he didn't seem to understand anything or else was as contrary as hell. We went to one side and had a conference about him. "I know what we'll do," said the boy he'd rolled around with, "we'll walk him past every street with Fairhill written on it and see when his face goes a beamer. Then we'll know and it'll be just a matter of getting the number out of him." He clenched his fist and held it up in true Mount Vernon style. Without a line to kick him from the other side of I'd no suggestions. But he overheard this plan, and anyway it was no use for he had a permanent red face.  We walked all over the place hoping something would happen or someone would give him away. It started to rain.
 
"I'm sick of this. I want to get back for Scooby Doo," someone said. The truth was that we were out that long with him the school had finished ages ago and not one single kid had appeared who could help us ascertain where the nuisance lived. It was getting dark.
 
Well I'm very sorry to have to tell you this but after you having read all this, I've no conclusion for you. I can't remember what we did with him. I think I've blanked it out. Someone might have given the others the wink and all at once we grabbed him, chucked him over a hedge and ran. It was definitely something like this for I can remember looking out for him at school in subsequent days with a certain amount of trepidation.
 :hi:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQ_rQSBJ4v8
 
Hi Dargan,  just wondering if this Craig fella could have been the Father of former two-weight world  boxing champion Carl the Jackal....[/font][/size]

James James

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 18282
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13164 on: December 22, 2019, 02:35:49 AM »
Shore Road picture gallery,...        https://www.geograph.ie/of/shore+road+belfast

For example,...  "Fortwilliam gates, Belfast"



https://www.geograph.ie/snippet/5118                  "Fortwilliam gates, Belfast"

"The gate pillar on the south western side at the Shore Road end."

"Fortwilliam Park, running from the Shore Road was laid out circa 1870 as a select residential thoroughfare in north Belfast."

"Its residents included, over the years, a Major-General MacPherson, Robert Porter, director York Street Flax Spinning and Weaving Co Limited, William Barbour of Combe Barbour & Combe Ltd - the Falls Foundry, JF Hill managing director of Wm. Ewart & Sons Ltd, Lloyd Campbell of Henry Campbell & Co. Ltd the Mossley Mills and John (son of Sir Charles) Lanyon."
 
"Although the street has been redeveloped the imposing gate pillars remain at the Shore Road end together with smaller ones on the Antrim Road."

"The name of the architect is not recorded."

"Listed as HB26/46/002 and none too well preserved. Not on the “at risk” register but perhaps they should be."

Dargan

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 2679
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13165 on: December 22, 2019, 07:42:44 AM »
 At 22 years old I still visited Lowwood School after the 30th June because the bins were full of stuff discarded after term. Old habits die very hard in some of us. This wee girl Lyn asked me to go round with her. She was about 8 at the time. I think she figured that if she brought me she'd get the best pickings (it's in our genes you see). Well it was a great excuse to see what could be had and live out old times again. Lo and behold but that day as kids were arguing about blank maths books and stumps of chalk, what was there but a whole blackboard up for grabs! A whole blackboard had been chucked out! Lyn looked at me with a grin as if it to say, you can get that for me for your big enough to trail it away.
 
I suddenly realised at that point that I'd been had. Used for a fool. But what Lyn didn't bargain for was that I too wanted that blackboard. And anyway, hadn't I given her a fossil I'd found at Brown's Bay before? She'd wheedled that out of me.
 
I got the black board and we carried it round to our garage. Then the negotiating began.
 
"I'll give you a fossil for it," she said.
"Of all the cheek!"
"Why would you want it, you're at work!"
"You don't get the ethos of all this," I said. "In years to come people will be recycling stuff like blazes. I like to think myself a pioneer."
"I don't know what you're talking about. You're doing t for badness.  …..I'm having it!"
"I got it out of the bin."
"I go to the school, you don't."
"I went before you were born and if that's your argument I bet you that fossil that my name's been written on that board more than yours."
"I'm having it."

Well, I'd no time to go through this at all, so I told her I was going to be fair and mature about it, just as it was with Northern Ireland politicians. I thought it might humble me too, to bring religion into things and so I resorted to the judgment of Solomon, and sawed it in half.

Merry Xmas to all. Don't take life too seriously. ….
 
 
 
There's a new toothpaste out which takes 15 years off your teeth.
Happy Birthday Doctor.

welder

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 19821
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13166 on: December 22, 2019, 08:55:13 AM »


Image result for old photo of Shore Road area Belfast"
If the fates decree you're going to lose give them a damn good fight...


Dargan

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 2679
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13168 on: January 10, 2020, 11:30:47 PM »
To anyone who would be reminded of the Shore Road by this. It has energy, charm and life. I remember you all and you were all as good-looking as this lot. Happy New Year.  :hi:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDEVVSzGZdE
There's a new toothpaste out which takes 15 years off your teeth.
Happy Birthday Doctor.

Dargan

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 2679
Re: Anyone from the shore road area of Belfast?.
« Reply #13169 on: February 01, 2020, 05:10:43 PM »
Saturday night party time here on the Shore Road thread. Lately I've been reading "The Shore Road Mystery," all about the Hardy brothers chasing stolen cars and the likes. Who could resist a title like this for old time's sake? Anyway, get a load of this to illustrate the unique and rarified atmosphere of the road in the 70's. Someone's "squawking like a pink monkey bird" and he's "busting up" his "brains for the words." Sounds like a good time to me. Sounds like it was written for Mad Mick.  

 :hi: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFDj3shXvco

There's a new toothpaste out which takes 15 years off your teeth.
Happy Birthday Doctor.