The Miners' Strike
As an apprentice and beyond, I spent nearly six years as a Branch Committee Officer with the Mid-Counties branch of the NGA (National Graphical Association). It was essentially a talking shop, supposed geared towards being a monitor of the work of the senior (employed) union officials and a liaison between them and the area's (shop stewards) FoC's (Father of the Chapel).
While in this post, I was given dispensation to be a liaison and “official observer” for our NGA branch with the NUM (National Union of Mineworkers) ~ particularly the branches in North Derbyshire and South Nottinghamshire ~ during the Miners' Strike.
It was an eye-opening and life-changing experience.
In addition to helping organise fundraising events, in co-operation with the local Labour Party and Miners Support Groups, I also spent two spells in those areas picketing … and observing.
The second visit was a much shorter affair towards the end of the strike ~ more of an opportunity to update members of how the strike was going.
On the first visit I was put up in the home of a disabled former miner, in a village called Clowne in North Derbyshire. I was provided with some NGA funds for my accommodation, which this man took gratefully, then donated the lot to the strike/miners' welfare fund. (I didn't ask which, but know he kept nothing for himself.)
I spent time visiting the welfare groups, predominantly organised and “manned” by striking miners' wives. They sorted out food packages for families, from items either donated directly or purchased with donated funds.
One thing I could say ~ you wouldn't argue with them! They took no prisoners and were absolutely dedicated to the task they had taken on.
I also visited some of the Miners' Social Clubs, where, as a visiting representative of a fraternal union, I was never allowed to buy a pint, never mind a round (which I didn't abuse by over-indulgence).
The spirit shown by all those on strike was something I had never previously experienced and never have since. It was a stronger bond than that of family ~ because it was one huge family, thousands strong, all working towards a single goal ~ saving the pits and their entire industry for the future of their families and their communities.
In these towns and villages there were few alternatives from working down the mine ~ they had been created that way, to serve a purpose, and the communities had sprouted from there.
One man I met had five sons ~ four of whom were miners, the other went into the army. He was serving in West Germany ~ or so the rest of the family thought. When the father found himself facing his soldier son ~ dressed in an un-numbered police uniform, in a line with others holding their picket line back ~ he simply told him not to bother ever coming home again, as he now only had four sons, and this one no longer had a home.
I did my share of picket duty on the lines at Bolsover, the Avenue Coking Plant, and various other places I either don't remember, or never knew at the time.
At one picket line ~ at the coking plant ~ one day we were lined up above the bank leading down to the perimeter fence. In front of us, according to those with me, were mostly local police. The mood and humour was generally convivial, as they were also locals with sympathy for their neighbours ~ but with a job to do, which all knew they were doing in difficult circumstances, but to the letter of the law and no further.
Then a parade of black cars with windows blacked-out turned up over the road, spilling out senior police officers and members of the press, including photographers, who lined-up over the road from where we were picketing.
A whistle was blown, and behind the row of local police in front of us came a double row of other “police” in un-numbered uniforms. Another whistle and the local police marched off, leaving the new batch.
I was thinking this was just some sort of shift change. However, with the next blast of the whistle, these new “police” began shoving against the picket line, forcing people down the bank behind ~ many falling. So, of course, we pushed back and, as we did so, the cameras flashed and headlines of “Violent Miners Clash With Police On Picket Line” were penned.
After a short time another whistle blew and the “police” backed off and re-formed their lines. Another whistle saw the original, local police sheepishly return in front of their “colleagues”. Then a final blast and the newcomers marched off, in perfect military style.
At the same time, the press and officials retired to their vehicles and sped off ~ their work for the day done. The local bobbies were left to deal with the aftermath of this and the obvious ill-feeling of those who had been attacked.
It was all carried out with military precision … simply because that's exactly what it was. Another deliberate manoeuvre by Thatcher's mercenary army of strike breakers.
I also played the role of flying picket on a few occasions ~ where we would lead the police a merry dance at night, as they followed us from venue to venue, without us ever stopping or attempting any action. Not that there wasn't anything happening in the areas we'd led them away from, of course.
On my final day, I was heading home via Bolsover ~ riding my 750 Yamaha ~ past the pit entrance. There were picketers on all sides, with police numbers to match. As I approached the entrance I realised the police had thought I was a scab trying to get in. So I swerved round them and rode away with my fist held high. The goosebumps I felt as the mass cheered me on will stay with me forever.
Opinion …
Anyone who was there knows the miners' strike was a war ~ a war of ideologies. The Bosses (I'll call them that as the best way of describing the powers that really run this country, with the government of the day as their stooges) with Thatcher as their general, used their cohorts ~ the police, military, press, judiciary ~ in a campaign to destroy the powers of the trades unions.
The unions had brought down the last right-wing Labour government and the Bosses knew they needed to curb their power of lose control of the profits made by their industries. It is true, some union leaders and officials were too powerful and didn't use this power for the general good. But this was a drop in the ocean compared to the Bosses' profiteering.
How close the unions came to breaking Thatcher & co. is more down to the combined work of local members than their leaders. The latter of which either capitulated, co-operated with the Bosses, or ~ as in the case of Scargill ~ fell foul of advisers who were too politically motivated, and who eventually lost the confidence and support of their members.
It was, as usual, the people who lost. They were left with their communities divided, pits closed leading to mass unemployment, and no prospects for them or their families. They lost their present and their futures.
And the rest of us lost an industry that still had enough core material under the ground to sustain itself ~ and the nation ~ for fifty more years at least ~ including one of the world's largest deposits of the purest form of coal, anthracite, in Wales.
After this we lost our steel industry, then Thatcher & co. spent their time selling off what was left of our industrial heritage to the Bosses and their mates … all at a tidy profit.
Britain ~ which once would have been a place where something like Brexit might even have worked ~ became a “kingdom” based on service industries. We have nothing else left, and now rely on buying-in what we once produced ourselves.
The Bosses broke the unions, but in the process they broke the country. It never recovered …