The Yorkshire Rose    

Tales of Yorkshire Folk

Simon Sheppard relates some astonishing events and contemplates the future

Published in Heritage and Destiny, March-April 2014

We are on a road, and no matter how many diversions we take or attempts to leave the path we make, the road leads inexorably to the future. We are all on it, even if some of us would prefer not to be. In this essay I intend to provide a sort of documentary of a tiny part of our journey, a commentary on a few places we’ve been, some notable characters encountered along the way and perhaps some indications of what awaits us at our destination.

The journey shall be fittingly divided into Past, Present and Future. Where people’s names are used below, they are usually not their real ones. All these events occurred in Yorkshire except one, from a book, which took place in Lancashire.

Otley bus station circa 1936, featuring Ledgard buses


At the Probation Hostel in York where I was obliged to stay after being released from prison was an old man. Once as we were sitting in the ‘smoking shed’ outside he told me of being sent as a lad to Selby Market to buy some bullocks. He had to drive them several miles back to his father’s farm, and part of the journey was beside the River Ouse. One can imagine him herding the cattle through the town and over the Toll Bridge, having to pay for each animal. Then walking along the well-trod pathway beside the river the long journey home.

Nowadays of course the scene would be completely different. The animals would be loaded into a truck, and every stage would involve official licences and permits. There would be driver’s and operator’s licences for the lorry for a start. Back then, none of this was necessary. In fact until 1914 British subjects had no official number, and could travel abroad without a passport or any sort of official permission. Also until 1914, sovereigns and half-sovereigns made of solid gold were freely in circulation. A sovereign, weighing 8g, was worth £1. (Today its gold content alone is worth £193.)

A schoolteacher in Market Weighton told me of a local farmer whose habit was to drive by horse and cart to a pub a few miles away. There he would drink a skinful and regularly pass out. When this happened his drinking friends would, according to long-practice, carry him out and load him into the back of his cart. Then one would give the horse a healthy slap on its hindquarters and it, well used to this routine, would walk the farmer home through the deserted country lanes. This continued for several years until a policeman, hearing of it, laid in wait for him one night and had him prosecuted for being drunk in charge of a vehicle.

This reminds me of an account by John Charnley in Blackshirts and Roses. Back in the day he advertised a Mosley meeting in Southport, Lancashire by slowly riding around the town on his motorcycle with a placard firmly fixed to his back. Charnley related how he was prosecuted for ‘Driving a mechanically propelled vehicle on the King’s Highway for an unlicensed purpose.’ He went through the whole process of arrest and appearance at court, there being fined £1. He discovered later that the law under which he had been prosecuted did not exist.

All this took place before World War Two. It was a time when life was simpler and folks’ lack of artifice was not so readily exploited. People knew how to keep themselves entertained, and relationships flourished because people needed each other, even if it was only at harvest-time or to be able to borrow a cup of sugar when the local shop was closed.

Charnley reported that there were a mere two traffic laws in force at the time. Later in his book he described moving Blackshirt operations into an elegant, prestigious house on Hull’s Spring Bank, an area which is now sordid, for the usual reasons.

An old Keighley bus with a woman passenger getting on


I shall start my narrative in the present, or recently present, in 1977. George was a slightly plump bus driver who wore a moustache. He was assigned to the school-run and struck up with one of the schoolgirls, a quiet girl with jet-black hair. Their routine became that the girl would stand beside his cab and they would talk, sometimes holding hands when the route allowed. This continued for two years and, out in open view, was common knowledge to all. Soon after the girl reached 16 and left school they were married.

Sid was a colourful character who was always embarking on exploits and getting into scrapes, actually a relative of my late friend Rick. A regular feature of Sid’s life was parties attended by friends who were other married couples. During these parties the men would often comment to each other what a champion chap Sid was, but unknown to them he was boffing practically every one of their wives.

One of the many jobs Sid had over the years was driving a bus. One day he was instructed to deliver a steering wheel to another depot on his route, and this was his cue for another prank. As he was going down Berry Brow, a leafy, winding road and notorious accident black spot near Huddersfield, he pulled the steering wheel from beside his seat. Holding it aloft in his left hand, and purposely weaving the bus with his right, he shouted to the passengers behind “It’s come off! The steering wheel’s come off!” By the time he reached the depot his alighted passengers had phoned ahead and he was sacked on the spot.

Sam was the lively owner of a KLR 650cc trials bike. Sometime around 1988 Sam went for a day out with his friend, who was riding pillion, to Bridlington. There the two got roaring drunk.

On the way home Sam pulled up at a set of traffic lights and somehow lost the bike, probably so drunk that he forgot to put his foot down. His pillion passenger leapt clear but Sam became trapped under the bike, not realising what was going on. He lay under the bike in a drunken stupor, with the red-hot exhaust pressed against his leg. Eventually the exhaust burnt deep into the flesh at the top of his leg.

Sam came round and the two re-mounted the motorcycle and continued home. The idea of calling an ambulance didn’t occur to them, or perhaps the fact that Sam didn’t have a driving licence had something to do with it. Eventually Sam made it to a doctor, but the recommended treatment, of months of skin grafts, was not appealing so the wound was left to heal itself.

A month later, like a wounded bird trying to fly, Sam decided that what he needed was a more powerful motorbike. He got another loan and bought a 1,000cc Suzuki monster and a good stock of his favourite drug, speed. The new bike was brought back to the house he shared, to show it off. Then he set forth for a blast. Just a few seconds later an almighty smash was heard and his housemates hurried to investigate. A few yards up the road, and within an hour of buying the bike, Sam had collided with a car driven by a girl taking a driving lesson. He had only been wearing T-shirt and jeans, with no gloves, and as he flew off the bike he had instinctively put his hands out in front of him. His hands were mincemeat, a raw, bleeding mess of shredded skin.

Leeds bus station in bygone days

Alan is a voracious drug-user. (Some might describe him as a depraved sex fiend, but that’s another story.) His path as a ‘power user’ of drugs was forged when one day as a 12 or 13 year-old schoolboy he found himself seated behind two men in a Leeds picture house who were evidently not there to watch the film. In fact they were drug-dealers using the cinema for business purposes. One handed Alan a fistful of something, saying “Here, keep quiet.”

The ‘something’ turned out to be tabs of LSD. From then on Alan was in and out of children’s homes and mental hospitals, and thence sprang his insatiable appetite for drugs, of any kind, in any form, at any time, if he can afford them.

Years later we find Alan working cash-in-hand for a traveller doing something involving roofs. One day he mounted a ladder, put one foot on the first rung, raised himself up and promptly fell off, although by the account it wasn’t a particularly hard landing. Nevertheless, due to wearing a tool-belt and his body having been ravaged by years of drug use, the fall resulted in a broken hip.

The most unsatisfactory aspect for Alan however was the fact that, not being formally employed, he couldn’t claim compensation for a workplace injury. Thus Alan went off in search of a pothole of the officially mandated depth which he could “trip over” and so claim for his injury from the local council. This he proceeded to do. Unfortunately for Alan however, someone informed on him and that put paid to his hoped-for windfall.

Colin was an alcoholic and drug-user from Dewsbury and, although he held down a steady job, he binge-drank at weekends. One weekend Colin had an argument with his intermittent girlfriend over access to his son. Drunk, he went round to his friends’ house intending to sleep on their couch, as he had done many times before. Shortly the evening’s entertainment began of TV, beer, cannabis and heroin. At some point during the night Colin got up and drank the contents of two bottles of methadone that were in the kitchen cupboard. When his host came downstairs the next morning he found his toddler sitting in Colin’s lap, but Colin was dead. This is not the only instance known of someone’s life coming to an untimely end due to the lethal combination of methadone and alcohol.

John was a loud Glaswegian who always had to have everything his own way. One year he didn’t buy his children any Christmas presents. A truck driver, he had drifted in and out of various jobs before landing his perfect job as a driving instructor for the army at Leconfield. There before too long he acquired a mistress to complement the wife and two children he had at home. This of course, while not quite being the done thing, was hardly remarkable. John however was not to do things by halves. Shortly after his family awoke on Christmas morning he told his wife “I’m leaving you” and walked out to his mistress, who was waiting in a car outside.

Cathy was the mentally unstable single parent of twin boys aged 9 or 10. She was also a convert to the newly arrived feminism and a collector of antiques. To this end she was a regular visitor to the local auction house, and a van driver from there would deliver her purchases to her home. Somehow one day a pact was reached that in lieu of payment the delivery man was to be allowed to cavort with the two boys in the back of his van. When the boys’ aunt heard of this, and challenged her about it, her reply was “Well, they’ve got to learn about sex sometime.”

Paul worked for a firm supplying animal feed. One day at work he fell into a caustic tank used to clean the containers. He was quickly fished out and rushed to hospital, followed by months of treatment for his caustic burns. Presently however Paul was back on the street, somewhat raw, but now richer by around £100,000 thanks to the compensation payout. Now off work, Paul’s routine became to play the slot machines in the local railway club, then alternate to another bank of machines in the working men’s club. Often accompanied by his wife, he would pile £1 coins on top of the machine and it seemed as if he couldn’t put them in fast enough. When he won his winnings went straight back in. Eventually practically his entire compensation payout had been fed into the machines.

Paul, now broke and bored, wanted to return to work. This he did, but within a few weeks of his return he fell into the caustic tank again. We would be forgiven for suspecting that his second fall was intentional, though perhaps unconscious, so he could resume his slot-machine addiction, and indeed his second compensation payment went the same way. Another fruit machine addict, Donna, routinely abandoned her child to spend all her time playing the machines. Social Services asked all the local arcades to ban her, and she eventually had the child taken from her.

Old photo of bus bound for Leeds going through the North Bar, Beverley. These two images can be clicked to be viewed at full size     Photo of EYMS bus VKH 44 passing through the North Bar, Beverley. The buses were specially constructed to be able to do so

Two brothers in the Leeds area, Ben and Bob, formed a paternity tag-team. Ben was a conscienceless thief who went through women at an accelerated rate, because as soon as the woman fell pregnant he lost interest. This sequence had been repeated so often that it had become routine. When the pregnant woman was abandoned the younger brother Bob would move in, ostensibly to commiserate with her.

I knew one of the women, through Rick. She had had a child to each brother, and one of those, a boy, inherited the ‘conscienceless thieving gene.’ At one point a tally was made of Ben and Bob’s achievements, and just to Rick’s limited information the tag-team had fathered 17 children. Ben even succeeded in progressing to the social worker of one of his victims and knocking her up too.

Phil was a lorry driver who would surely have won the award for the ‘Tightest Person in Yorkshire.’ He kept his change (no notes were ever seen) tightly wrapped in a handkerchief in his pocket, and he would take it out at least every half-hour to check the amount. This took place during a big pipe-laying project at Riccall near York, but Phil came from around Leeds. All the men were on good money except the tea-lad, and Phil was the only one who wouldn’t tip him with change when he ran errands for lunchtime pasties and the like. They would play cards for coppers during the break, and Phil’s extreme parsimony was demonstrated when once he withheld a single penny outstanding from the tea-lad’s losses the previous day.

Then it came out, from others and privately from the man himself (for my sources are superb), that Phil had inherited nine farms. For his net worth a figure of £160 million was once mentioned. He admitted that he could have bought the firm he was working for and not noticed the difference.

The crowning end to Phil’s tale though is the time he slipped a disc getting out of his cab. The other drivers carried him to their cabin, and Phil was worried that with him having so much money, if he went to hospital he would have to pay. So he got one of the other drivers to try and bang his slipped disc back into place with a hammer. This resulted in a trapped nerve, so he ended up in hospital anyway. There Phil was pleasantly surprised to learn that he would not be charged for his treatment, but was in agony for months afterward. There’s an old Yorkshire saying, ‘There’s nowt so queer as folk.’

My favourite of all these extraordinary characters however is the Diesel Weasel. Actually of didicoy stock, he is given honorary ‘Volk’ status here in part because of his unique persona, but chiefly by virtue of the fact that he is now safely out of the way. The Diesel Weasel’s speciality, earning him his distinctive moniker, was to travel out to the surrounding countryside at night and steal diesel from farmers and parked lorries. If lucky, one could catch sight of him returning from one of his expeditions, pedalling along on his bike in the early hours with a jerry-can on the rear rack and one hanging from each handlebar.

The Diesel Weasel was 5 foot and 6 stones of raw gypsy power, and sported a Bobby Charlton comb-over. He would never look you in the eye, so would approach with his gaze firmly fixed on your chest to utter his standard phrase, in thick didicoy accents, deeply guttural and barely intelligible, “Hi mate, youalright, wannanydiesel?” The going rate was £10 for five gallons.

DW’s career as a two-wheeled fuel bandit ended when one rainy night he and his one-eyed brother decided to break into an electricity sub-station to steal metal. (We might wonder whether the gypsy affinity for copper and brass is genetic.) DW saw a large shiny busbar and made to grab it, to be promptly blown out of the building onto the grass verge outside. He was spotted hours later by a passing motorist, and died shortly afterwards in a hospital bed, never regaining consciousness. His brother had bolted at the time of the explosion and a couple of days later flitted off with the Diesel Weasel’s wife to Knottingley.

Scene at Hull bus station in January 1986

Is there a point to these various and sometimes tragicomic tales? If so, what is it? I suppose the main thrust is that we are a population like any other. These are individual tales in the ebb and flow of a population, and humans are just like any other species, thrusting, slowing, dying and being reborn. We are subject to the same laws of nature, of actions and effects, of risks and consequences. Individuals fall by the wayside but, failing a major or prolonged catastrophe, the population lives on. Really the best we can hope for in our individual lives is favourable odds.

Some also demonstrate a masculine disregard for safety. Contrast this attitude with the female perspective that ‘every life is sacred’ (most especially, young life) and the often obsessive avoidance of risk.

Beyond these components though, I would say that many of the events recounted here are individual vignettes of a civilisation that has lost its way. They are the convulsions of a people who have forgotten their identity. By which I mean, the sense of who we are and our place in the world. For decades, that identity has been eroded by an alien-controlled mass media and a traitorous, self-serving political class.

Much is aberrant behaviour, but even discounting this our population (people, folk, whatever) is under attack from manifold directions. Not least are the psychological assaults which have resulted in some anticipating our demise with apathy, or worse. This is an agenda which has been made explicit by the decidedly non-Aryan Noel Ignatiev, in his call for the genocide of Whites. Then there is U.S. General Wesley Clark (Kanne) who said in 1999, “There is no place in modern Europe for ethnically pure states.” Most of the time the ethos is expressed with more subtlety.

Even without statistics which show a dramatic fall in political party membership in Britain over the last few decades, we can tell how far the disdain of the political class for the wishes of ordinary Britons has reached because it extends right to the lowest rungs of government. One can meet it even in low-level functionaries in council offices. The vast majority of these employees nowadays are women and due to equal pay legislation they are paid as much as skilled tradesmen. I made a formal request to my local council to check this but they refused to reveal what they earn, so I think my thesis has been confirmed.

With characteristic feminine arrogance, looking down on the very people they are employed to serve, councils spend our money on advertising campaigns encouraging reports of “hate crime” and otherwise actively inviting aliens into their areas. I know of a part of Scotland which is heavily populated by refugees from West Yorkshire, an obvious case of ‘White flight.’ Britons are being driven out of their homes by their own government. Meanwhile council officials know that they can safely ignore complaints about their treachery and that the police can be summoned should so much as a voice be raised against them.

According to the male-female dichotomy I have detailed before, practically every policy the government is pursuing is a female strategy, hence ‘Big Sister.’ For example a distinct female procedure, with a putative evolutionary origin, is Vicarious Generosity – Giving away, often enthusiastically, something which is not one’s to give (e.g. Foreign Aid, power to the EU).

A rule operating in a feminine society is ‘What can be done will be done.’ Female insecurity means that power, once acquired, will be used. It must be demonstrated, if only to reassure herself that she has it. Herein is the explanation behind, to quote just one contemporary expression, the nagging announcements on the rail system. There are constantly repeated warnings about non-existent high-speed trains, against smoking, cycling and skateboarding, plus security alerts. It’s like being in North Korea. This is Big Sister exercising her power. It also furthers a yet more female-friendly environment. Any benefit to males is incidental – the chief beneficiary is the feminine State.

One could surmise that the two instances of State interference in harmless activities related earlier (the unconscious farmer in the back of his cart and John Charnley’s advertising method) were intermediate examples of this absence of masculine restraint by the State.

A feminine society is inherently unstable. A topical instance is the financial system, in which bulk money is now traded in milliseconds using computers. The greater part of that money is notional; its value relies entirely on the confidence people have in it.

A Huddersfield bus bound for Meltham


Which brings us to the future. No-one can accurately predict what lies ahead, and exactly how things will pan out. There are however some certainties on which we can rely. There are the laws of nature, and the laws of economics. To an extent these two are synonymous, if we regard economics as a pure human expression of natural laws. For instance, politicians can make all manner of ideological assertions, because talk is cheap, but no-one wants to lose money. Thus when South African apartheid fell, politicians were full of grandiloquence but in the unsparing world of finance nobody was prepared to back those sentiments with their money and the value of the Rand dropped sharply.

One likelihood is that society will become increasingly polarised. Quite possibly the labels “left” and “right,” so beloved by the media, define a false dichotomy. We might regard the fact that a nationalist coalition between the two is illegal in Germany as confirmation that this is the way to go. It is probably the scenario the Establishment most fears.

Many ordinary people, as well as members of “the left,” are coming round to appreciate the disaster that mass immigration has been. Notwithstanding, there will be camps (e.g. die-hard Marxists, feminists) who will never accede, because truth to them is both fluid and secondary. They are the true bigots. There is also a widening awareness of the Jewish role in our current malaise. It was Jews who gave us feminism and Jews have been consistent advocates of internationalism, of which the drugs which feature prominently in these accounts are an inevitable consequence. It has been opined in one of their own publications that Jewry could be entering a long period of decline, and they are probably right about that. It is now possible to see comments on mainstream websites which would not have been out of place on the Blood & Honour guestbook five or six years ago.

Nonetheless, those hoping for an uprising of some kind are likely to be disappointed, and if it did take place the change would likely be for the worse. Neither is it the British way. Societal upheavals can certainly occur, but the change must not be too rapid or its replacement will be even less desirable. (This is because when change is too rapid, high positions tend to be filled by opportunists, and opportunism is a feminine trait; its male antithesis is careful, considered actions.)

However, the time-scales here are relative. A shift in public sentiment which would take a hundred years in a masculine society might take only ten in a feminine one. This is precisely what is happening now.

Nowadays much is spoken of ‘environmental sustainability’ but one thing that is beyond doubt is that our current course, as a society, is completely unsustainable. Despite this, Establishment politicians continue along their familiar path, persisting with an inertia which can be traced back decades. Unless one shares their delusion, that we can defy nature indefinitely, it should be plain that crisis is inevitable. Patching things up, as in the recent financial turmoil, will only make the eventual denouement worse.

Several Establishment dogmas are plain fallacy. That is, besides the ones that are obvious to us as nationalists, such as the credo about racial (and I would add sexual) equality. Perpetual economic growth is an impossibility, even if that were desirable. The current shocking levels of alcoholism and drug-addiction in Britain are barely sustainable. Most crucially, this limited land-mass cannot support an inexorably rising population.

One doesn’t have to be a mathematician to foresee what will happen when non-white populations of high fecundity, who feel most comfortable in an environment of high population density, or whose high fecundity derives from high tropical mortality, exist alongside a less fecund one. Their babies will have more babies; the increase is exponential and the less fecund population is ultimately outnumbered. The pat phrases and pseudo-debates about “the multicultural experiment” and “needing workers” were only ever obfuscatory flim-flam – this outcome was easily predictable from the start. It is the government’s role to foresee such problems and avoid them. In fact scientists were warning of a looming population crisis decades ago, but their concerns were ignored.

A very, very crowded Chinese bus station, an illustration of over-population (Hangzhou?)

Schools, hospitals, water and energy supplies are all groaning under the weight of our teeming population and now new nuclear power stations are being planned (to be owned by the Chinese!) to meet projected energy demands. Sooner or later something will break, and we can only pray that it is not in the form of another Chernobyl or Fukushima. Despite their own nuclear expertise the Japanese are now asking for international help to contain the crisis that is ongoing at Fukushima. There was a serious radioactive incident at Windscale in 1957 which was hushed up at the time.

Some of these tales may evoke a bucolic nostalgia but I am not advocating a rural society, far from it. Britain’s population might optimally be a quarter of its current level, and with its indigenous population and a government that acted in its interest our pace of scientific advance would be at least twice its current rate. See the page on the Heretical website ‘Science in 18th Century England.’ Prof. J. H. Plumb listed some of the great achievements of the era and added, “yet this wealth of science and art and scholarship was produced by a population far less than that of present-day London.” And this was written in 1950!

Nor am I railing against nuclear energy. However, bequeathing huge problems to a thousand generations hence just so our bloated population can boil a kettle during the advert breaks in Coronation Street is irresponsible in the extreme. To err is human; indeed the stories related here illustrate just how foolish and calamity-prone humankind can be. Nuclear technology is in its infancy and we should not be creating problems we do not know how to solve.

In relating these stories, and reflecting on their significance, one of the most impressive elements I think is the modern pace of change. My first, with their pastoral flavour, are in living memory. Back in our evolutionary past people lived their entire lives in one village, never stepping outside. More recently, most never ventured further than the nearest large town. Then a peaceful life of tranquillity was easy to attain, but not only is the pace of life now rapid, it seems to be relentlessly increasing. This also cannot continue indefinitely. However, from an evolutionary perspective, all that has really changed is our ability to alter our environment, by our numbers and technology.

Another stamp of female influence to be always striving for more, even change for change’s sake. It is female dissatisfaction which drives consumerism. According to theory, the female is insatiable and it is well known that consumerism is female-led. We should not gauge our quality of life by how many gadgets we have or how much money we earn. This also is a traditional British attitude which is being eroded.

Modern society has its costs. We have lost the joy of hearing the gleeful shrieks of the next generation playing in the fields nearby with the certainty that life for them will continue more or less as it always has. These simplest of human pleasures are now denied to us. Nevertheless, immense riches can be found in our own lives if we step back from the consumerist treadmill and appreciate what we have.

A vintage steam lorry converted to a coach. An attraction at the old seaside town of Whitby, North Yorkshire

Postscript: A little known report was that in 2007, the real population of Britain was at least 77 million.

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