The club trip

By neither appearance nor disposition was Ernie Randall an obvious choice of secretary for a workingmen's club in the North East of England. When he opened his mouth, any lingering doubt vanished.

How could a Cockney, let alone one who had never clocked on for so much as a single shift at Shildon Shops (the railway works) but was the cutting room manager at the Northern Clothing factory, occupy such a position?

But he did, for several years. He did the job not only diligently and with obvious enthusiasm but, so far as I ever heard, with some distinction.

Despite being a Londoner and having a white collar job, he was a good club secretary, and he even had Club and Institute Union honours to prove it.

As kids, we couldn't care less how well or badly dad was performing his duties at Old Shildon WMC. All we wanted to know was where the club trip would be going that year. Saltburn - or was it Redcar, as others remember? - or Whitley Bay. Please, please, please, we'd think and say, let it be Whitley Bay.

The club trip was one of the high points of the calendar. A train, steam-hauled in the years I remember best, would chug out of Shildon station bound for the North Sea coast heaving with people from all over the town, beleaguered parents and grandparents struggling to control boisterous, excited children.

We all wanted the train to be heading north, to the wonders of the Spanish City that were to be captured years later in song by Mark Knopfler in Tunnel of Love. Saltburn, Redcar? Sedate and/or boring!

Dad wanted there to be more kids. More kids? Would could he mean?

It was all to do with the pocket money. Each child of each member of the club qualified for 2/6d to spend, which always tended to go further in Saltburn than in Whitley Bay. It was only 12.5p in today's money but seemed a lot then. So if Feckless Frank or Miserable Mike had three children, but fancied an afternoon in the bar, that was 7/6d more towards the pints of Fed Best.

My dad, or my dad in common with other members of the club committee, had identified a real problem: children who were sent to collect the pocket money only to see it pocketed, in turn, by their fathers. And there was then no club trip for the kids concerned.

It didn't matter that blame attached only to a small minority of members. It shouldn't be happening at all.

And to its undying credit, the committee came up with a solution. Dole out the money ON ARRIVAL, not in Shildon.

That way, the children at least got to see the seaside even if their pocket money was still swiped from them - for much the same parental purposes - once the train reached its destination.

It meant they would in all probability board the train for the return journey with sand between their toes, and one or two happy memories sticking in their minds, even if they hadn't got anywhere near the candyfloss or the ghost train.
* Picture courtesy of John Newbold

Comments

[Bill Taylor]

And the motto of Federation Breweries was?
"Guaranteed Gravity."
I never quite knew what that meant but Fed Best wasn't a bad pint. When I was 17 and working at Doggarts in Bishop Auckland, the father of a guy I knew there was secretary of Willington Conservative Club (a misnomer, if ever I heard one) and he'd sign us in -- totally illegally, given our age -- every Sunday evening when there was a group playing. Three pints of Fed Best and then home on Bond's bus and you'd had a good night out for about 10 bob.
My dad was a member of Cockton Hill Club in Bishop, though, being "filletted," he went to the Grosvenor and Belvedere, too. I never got to go on a club trip but yeah, Whitley Bay, was miles better than Saltburn, Redcar, Seaton Carew or Seaburn. But the Spanish City is long gone now, I believe.
Do "the shows" (as we called them), travelling funfairs, still come to Shildon and Bishop in the summer? Or has that died, too?

[paul younghusband]

These stories bring back great memories of yourself Colin and your dad Ernie. I was your next door neighbour for years and remember listening to your dulcet tones practicing your folk songs, my poor ears were never the same.
For my 18th birthday your dad presented me with my club cards, what a great gift. This had the plus point of me no longer having to sneak my own dads club cards out of the house and try to get into a workies having to convince a doorman that I was actually over 18 and even more difficult that my name was Cyril.

[Jan]

Hi, came across the above whilst seeking a distant relative & wonder if anyone can help. Looking for Thomas Shields Peacock & family (wife Elizabeth & possible children Raymond, Alice, Vincent, Bessie?). He was a stone mason, born in East Witton. Any news gratefully received!