Beautiful Plumage

“To secure for the workers by hand or by brain the full fruits of their industry and the most equitable distribution thereof that may be possible upon the basis of the common ownership of the means of production, distribution and exchange, and the best obtainable system of popular administration and control of each industry or service.”  ~Labour Party Constitution, Clause IV

Hypothermia as memory aid

Teeth chattering, I stood on the sand shivering, coughing up the cold Irish Sea, which had just taught me to close my mouth when diving into its tides. Mom wrapped my goosebumps tightly in a beach towel.

That memory surfaced as I looked at the picture of me as “sailor boy with three parrots,” made in a studio on Blackpool Promenade. While I was fond of birds — I had a pet budgerigar at home — I recall a certain amount of apprehension (evident in the photo above) acting as a perch for these barbed-beaked behemoths. What might I be thinking?

“Bloody hell, what do they feed these budgies? I’d better keep my eye on this one; he looks like he’s ready to snack on my cheek.”

Blackpool Tower, 1988

Rise of the leisure class

In the wake of the Industrial Revolution, the rise of the English middle class enabled the development of holiday resorts like Blackpool, on the west coast of Lancashire. A measure of its wealth can be inferred by the fact that, in 1879, it became the first municipality in the world to have electric street lighting, a full year before Thomas Edison took out his patent for the electric light bulb. That grid, consisting of just eight carbon arc lamps, eventually powered miles of sparkling Illuminations. My family was among millions that flocked to its attractions in the ‘50s and ‘60s. 

The train trip to and from the seaside is vivid in my memory — the clacking of steel wheels on the rails, the smell of smoke from the steam engine, snuggling up to nap in the sleeping car. 

Of course, the Illuminations stick in my memory, along with donkey rides on the beach and boating on a seaside pond. But the most enduring memories come from a visit to the circus, located in the famous 158-metre (518ft) wrought-iron Blackpool Tower, opened in 1894.

Imagine my excitement, seeing for the first time elephants, lions, tigers, and dancing horses. Trapeze artists swung high above the ring … a missed hand-off, a plunge to the safety net — staged, I suspect, to elicit screams from the audience.

The year was 1957. I was five-years-old.

Sisters, Blackpool, 1988

The politics of persuasion

I believe that was my last visit before emigration to Canada, 8-years-later. It would be another 23-years, on my first return visit to my country of birth, before I walked along the prom again. I’d left my job as an advertising photographer in Toronto to revisit my roots while entertaining the idea of landing a position in the same trade in London.

In the first week of October, 1988, I joined my mom and her sisters on a charabanc (coach) trip from my hometown in Wednesfield, to Blackpool. Already, the town was in decline, as cheap travel to the warmth of the Mediterranean lured away visitors.

Our visit happened to coincide with what may now be regarded as a momentous Labour Party Conference. I stopped to photograph the scene outside the Winter Gardens.

I left England at 13, before I’d formed any specific political views. Still, I’d grown up in a working class environment — most of my family, including my mother and her sisters, worked in Wolverhampton factories producing everything from double-decker busses to locks and batteries. 

It’s probably safe to say that my working class town leaned Labour. However, I do recall my father’s jaundiced view of the dogmatic, Trotskyist union leaders at the tube factory where he worked as an industrial radiographer. 

Nonetheless, I support the idea of social democracy, understanding that the welfare state constructed in England in the wake of WW II enabled my family to live in relative comfort, protected by public health care and council houses, the social housing of the day (though it was not until we emigrated to Canada that we enjoyed luxuries like refrigeration and central heating).

Protest, Labour Party Conference, Blackpool, 1988

In the photo above, Labour Party Young Socialists (LPYS) and Militant leaders demand a return to the party’s socialist roots — “Implement Clause 4 Part IV for a socialist Labour Party” reads the banner on the left. The “party within a party” was influential at the time, with around 600 branches and 2,000 delegates. They supported Tony Benn, challenger to incumbent Neil Kinnock. Benn promised to reinvigorate Clause IV. At the end of the day, he received just 11% of the vote.

The defeat marked the decline of the socialists and the rise of New Labour, culminating in the election in 1997 of Tony Blair, collaborator with George W. Bush’s American regime and its war crimes. Under Blair, the party stripped their constitution of its socialist underpinnings, replacing the foundational Clause IV, drafted by socialist economist Sidney Webb and instituted in 1918, with the manifesto New Labour, New Life For Britain. Market economics was the “third way.”

It’s only now, through consequent research, that I recognize the importance of the occasion represented by the few snapshots I made on that October day in 1988, including more black and white images that make clear the Young Socialist’s beefs: that in their eyes their own party spent more time opposing them than the Tories and the hated poll tax.

That must have a been dark day for Jeremy Corbyn, staunch supporter of LPYS and Militant agitators. But Labour’s left wing has proved resilient. Corbyn was ultimately elected party head and Leader of the Opposition, in 2015.

He has mused about reinstating Clause IV, if not in its original form then still in support of nationalizing critical infrastructure such as transportation, including railways sold off during Margaret Thatcher’s ‘80s privatization spree.

On its centenary this year, in the wake of New Labour’s decline, Clause IV is once again being promoted as the answer to what is commonly referred to as the rule of the 1 percent. 

Politically Incorrect Amusement, Blackpool, 1988

Rock Vendor, Blackpool, England, 1988

A stroll down memory lane

After sunset, I strolled along the promenade, pushing the limits of the 400 ASA film in my Nikon to photograph arcade game hawkers soliciting tourists with cries of “Try your luck!” One politically incorrect shooting game aimed to knock down camel riders.

Blackpool rock salesmen (not music promoters as you might think) offered sweet candy canes with the town’s name artfully distributed, end to end. 

A couple of teenage girls insisted I record their night out. I snapped a photo of a bearded chap against the carnival lights, who looks uncannily like Jeremy Corbin (at the time).

I visited a fortune-teller. Inside a tent decorated with bead curtains and tapestries, I was greeted by a kind-faced, middle-aged woman, dressed as one might imagine in faux Middle Eastern garb — draped in a shawl and wearing a turban festooned with coins.

I can’t recall the details of her prognostications. I was most interested in the ultimate outcome of a love interest I’d left behind in Toronto. The madame’s crystal ball was less than clear, her answers ambiguous enough to be interpreted according to my hopes — much like the language of politicians.

Back in Wednesfield, my grandmother’s wisdom on the matter was more straightforward: Want to attract a mate? Get a real job.

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