Although I don’t vote Labour (and only voted Tory once) I think perhaps this little set of memories might help explain why I find Labour pc and Conservative Friedmanism equally abhorrent.
My Dad’s sister was called Molly. In 1930, while playing in the back yard of the family home in Buile Street Salford, she fell over and scratched her knee quite badly on the edge of a flagstone. My grandmother bathed the wound, and Molly (always called ‘Mont’ for some reason) went back to playing with her two appalling brothers.
Two days later, the knee was looking ‘angry’ as we say in Lancashire. But this was 1930: as a Union organiser on the trams, Grandad had been first locked out during the 1926 General Strike, and then victimised into unemployment. Before the war, my grandfather had been a master carpenter. He went off with the Lancashire fusiliers to get his…
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