Gracie Fields

My friend will only accept e-mails written in the style of Gracie Fields, I find this quite limiting. Any suggestions? Also did factory workers of the 1930`s really all dance out of the gates linking arms and singing? My mum works in a factory and they never do that, do you think I should complain to the union, or tell her to get a job somewhere people sing all the time?

I can imagine how trying this must be. My Great Uncle Stanley, in the final stages of his illness, could only understand what people were saying to him if they played a ukulele and sang like George Formby. The entire family was gathered around his deathbed, gamely strumming away with inane buck-toothed grins, and improvising verses along the lines of,

'Oh, you've lesions on your brain, dear Stan,
You've not got long to go,
Now you make sure and write a will
So we can get your dough.'

And then we would wink cheerily.

But I am not sure I can help you in this case. I believe you are shit out of luck, unless of course you ever get the yen to write a mail about a girl called Sally who was the pride of your alley.

Also did factory workers of the 1930`s really all dance out of the gates linking arms and singing? My mum works in a factory and they never do that, do you think I should complain to the union?

Oh, the irony! Oh, the ingratitude! Do you know nothing of labour history? It is only thanks to the efforts of unions in the past that factory workers are no longer forced to sing and dance upon pain of dismissal. In the 30s workers who did not have a song on their lips and a merry skip in their clogs were suspected of being agitators. Anyone who refused to take part in the sinister orchestrated happy dances were taken behind a shed, beaten senseless and force-fed a bale of cotton. Indeed, mill-owners and so forth would only hire workers who could demonstrate their proficiency at jigging around and yodelling and the hiring halls were like a West End audition, with men and women in cloth caps and clogs desperately trying to impress the bosses with their dance moves and vocal projection.

The following is an oral history I obtained from Joe Lamprey, an aged local labouring type:

'Aye, it were that bad...I were all right see till t'treadle-squiggler fell on me and broke me hip, I couldn't dance any more, I were out. The wife was no good, she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. I had fourteen kiddies on me hands, with rickets, so they couldn't dance either. And I had the ferrets, I taught them to dance a bit, but no one would hire them cause they would shit on t'cotton. So we was buggered...It were a nightmare, you'd go down t'Labour exchange there'd be men with tears on their faces, tap-dancing, crooning, getting down on one knee like Al Jolson, anything to impress the bosses...I hope never to see them days again. And when I see working class kids these days, choosing of their own free will to go on Top o't' Pops and sing for the toffs...they want fucking. You don't know yer born. You young pups, yer out every night dancing the bastard Macarena...dancing's no joke for someone of my generation. So think on. Now give me some baccy or I'll kick yer bollocks off.'

7th July 2002

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