Valley View

The India Summer elongated even in November Jarrow, normally the scrub hawthorn trees of Primrose Dene, braced against Arctic Winds. In The Last Summer Like This, On Simonside Playing Field, the Summer of 1964, talented goalkeeper Robert Gallagher’s already joined eyebrows knit tighter, as his Bette Noir accuses him of ironically ‘missing the banana shots'. Robert had just failed to join the Human Queue, joining instead the back of a Mongolian tribe queue, a minority in Jarrow, Hebburn and Felling.

His tormentor, an informal gas meter emptier, a sallow Kasper-like Kes figure, was suggestively implying Robert resembled a monkey. From stage left, a detective and a uniformed officer, emerged from a sky blue and white Hillman Imp, approaching us. Kasper, when asked his name, replied Tony Hancock, adding it’s based on body parts, pointing at them in order (Toe Knee Hand C*ck). ‘Comedian, Eh?’ The Filth replied both Police Men, exiting left.

'Männer? Polizei Männer?'.

Robert worked a lifetime collecting Bingo numbers, a true Everyman, centre of a network of admiring and loving friends. Robert’s disarming intelligence shone through when he smiled, and bonded me to my elder brother Bede.

Robert slept 24 hours, days on end, only emerging to visit The Neon, or Sign On.

‘Neon Licht, schimmendes Neon Licht’.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xyqz_qr4PAI

The Neon’s neon sign, luminous and on, white at night, and, at Three in The Afternoon just there: Then unkempt and flickering, then disappeared.

The Neon Friends converged to Jarrow Cemetery Corner ‘sunderland‘, overlooking The River Don, going in to character, like, like, as if choreographed by a levitated puppeteer. The Chip Shop Blond Angel In Black, her hair Jet Black: In her lapel a Black Rose. This lady dignified the ceremony like a Glinting Black Gem.

‘For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma. There is hope, it is not given up.’