Just like looking over the muck stack near our house as a lad. The night jars coughing as they inhaled the coal dust, the cheeky cat just starting his night time prowl with his crutch and father weaving his way home waxing lyrical about life following 27 pints of Barnsley Bitter, mother awaiting his arrival by spitting on the fire back and saying to us 17 children “get to bed now before your father comes and uses you as a toilet”, aaaahh Happy Days. I could go on but mist eyes prevent me….
Muck stack? Luxury. I remember when we had to live in space with only moon dust for food and a solid thrashing if we didn’t do a 29hour shift down’t pit each day. We used to have to lick the underside of commets for sustenance or our father would thrash us w’t whippets.
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