An occasional flurry into local Wigan "culture" with a poem written by Jeff Unsworth.
For those who need it, there is a translation down below.
The Road Ter Wiggen Pier
George Orwell wrut a book, tha knows, The Road ter Wiggin Pier.
He tried fot tell it eaw it wuz. Un eaw folk lived reawnd here.
He tried fot give a detailed view. Abeawt th'unemployed un't poor.
He even lived among um aw. Fot help im larn some moo'er.
He wrut abeawt aw't miners. What their werk wuz laahk.
Worr a poxy darty job it wuz. Enough fot mek thi skraahk.
Conditions were'nt reight gradely, werk'in undergreawnd.
Hot un cramped un dusty,wi not much room fot turn'in reawnd.
Tunnels, oney three foot heigh werk'in on their bally's.
Picks un shovells, scrawp'in coal, in order't get their tally's.
They trudged wom in their pit dirt. When their shifts were done.
It were ard fot tell which wuz thi Dad, black faces, every one.
Stripp'in off their darty cloo'us. Gerr'in in't tin bath.
This is wee'er yo'd see aw't scars, the pit faw aftermath.
Dark black lines across their backs, wee'er coal geet under't skin.
The wives would scrub but neyer would they be laahk what they'd once bin.
Condemned eawses, Orwell wrote. Areawnd th'area of Scholes.
Four rooms, two up two deawn. Sometimes flea ridden holes.
Leak'in roof, walls faw'in deawn un damp in moo'ist er't bricks.
Windows would'nt opp'n reet. Rent six bob un rates at thee un six.
Poverty wuz rife,George Orwell wrote. Thirty theawsund claim'in dole.
Tha were fain if tha'd even geet a job. Even digg'in coal.
He wrote mortality wuz very heigh un illnesses were rife.
Un generally or't folk areawnd these times had a bloody awful life
George Orwell wrote a book, you know. The road to Wigan Pier.
He tried to tell it how it was, how folk lived round here.
He tried to give a detailed view, About the unemployed and poor.
He even lived amongst them all, to help him learn some more.
He wrote about the miners. What their work was like.
What a rotten dirty job. Enough to make you cry. ( skraahk )
Conditions not being very good, working underground.
Hot and cramped and dusty, with not much room for turning round.
Tunnels only three foot high, working on their bellies. ( ballys )
Picks and shovels, scraping coal, in order to get their tallys.
They trudged home in their pit dirt, When their shifts were done.
It was hard to tell, which was your Dad, black faces everyone.
Stripping off their clothes, getting in the tin bath.
This is when you'd see the scars, the pit fall aftermath.
Dark black lines across their backs, were the coal got under the skin.
The wives would scrub but never would they be like what they'd once been.
Condemned houses, Orwell wrote. Around the area of Scholes.
Four rooms, two up two down. Sometimes flea ridden holes.
Leaking roof, walls falling down and damp in most of the bricks.
Windows wouldn't open right. Rent six shillings, rates at three and six.
Poverty was rife, Goerge Orwell wrote. Thirty thousand claiming dole.
You were glad if you even had a job. Even digging coal.
He wrote mortality was very high. And illnesses were rife.
And generally the folk around these times had a bloody awful life.