During the miners’ strike of 1984-85, it was my privilege to attend the Yorkshire Miners’ Gala on my home turf in Thornes Park, Wakefield. It was a hot summer’s day and we sat on the grass enjoying the comradeship, although I was also there for The Times.
Dennis Skinner, in his heyday as a speaker, praised the county’s pitmen, comparing them flatteringly to Lancashire miners – not all of whom were out – and bellowed: “It will be the white rose that wins this strike, not the red rose.” There was a susurration (they don’t do that often hereabouts) of pleasure, rising to a great growl of satisfaction. As I put it in my back-page postcard to the newspaper, Skinner had “touched the sacred hem of Yorkshire nationalism”.
Think I’m kidding? August 1 was Yorkshire Day, celebrated across the county with many events to proclaim Tyke identity. It was covered with due pomp and ceremony by local media. They even commissioned a special Yorkshire symphony, broadcast on the nightly TV news. It sounded like two men arguing in a public bar while playing the harmonica.
Having lived outside God’s Own County most of my life, I can take this stuff or leave it. Mostly take it, admittedly. But how about this? In New Zealand, 60-odd expat Tykes kept the big day with a gathering in Waiuku, in the semi-tropical region of North Island.
They met in the town’s Cosmopolitan Club, signed a special commemoration book, put flags in a big map of the county to show where they came from and competed for prizes of Yorkshire sweets in a knowledge quiz of all things Tyke.
Ron and Sylvia Bird recounted this vaguely surreal occasion in a letter to my local paper, adding: “A large iced cake was cut by two of the oldest people there (both in their 80s), while
all sang ‘On Ilkley Moor Baht’at’. The Yorkshire Declaration of Integrity was read out and those present were able to view two short comedy videos about Yorkshire.”
Then they all sat down to a meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and fish and chips with mushy peas. I don’t suppose anyone told the old joke about Peter Mandelson mistaking mushy peas for guacamole, but I can’t think of anything else they missed out. I wish I’d been there. And they’re already planning next year’s event. Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs.
