The Seymour: read by Chris Ecclestone

Back in mid-2023 I responded, ‘on the fly’ (quickly) to an email from Dr Lisa McKenzie regarding a call from the Working Class Collective for examples of ‘Wish We Were Here: Working Class Fantastic Spaces.’ My immediate response was to send in my memories of my local pub, ‘The Seymour’ in Old Trafford, Manchester. Recently, a newsletter from the Working Class Collective had a link to a YouTube video,

‘The Seymour: read by Chris Eccleston.’

Apart from Lisa, I don’t know anyone at the Working Class Collective and so unfortunately, I don’t know who did all the work in putting together the video, but I would really like to thank them and Chris Ecclestone for doing an excellent job. I am as we say in Manchester, ‘I’m chuffed to dicky mint balls’ (very happy) with what they have created. I found it so touching, affirming and exciting to hear my words given life and the choice images. I mean like a really emotionally heart lifting, being lifted from the ground, ‘whoop-whoop’ response.

Now I have calmed down a bit, I thought it would be interesting to compare the YouTube video transcript and the original submission. As you can see the Working Class Collective creatives, have done an excellent job of showcasing the authenticity and genuineness of the people who inhabited The Seymour’ and that made it a ‘Fantastic Working Class Space.’

‘The Seymour: read by Chris Eccleston.’ The YouTube transcript by The Working Class Collective.

“Just a quick thing that's going around me head after thinking about great working-class places… Back in the late '70s I started going to the local- the Seymour on Seymour Grove: big old Victorian pile and was massive inside it had bell push thingies in some places from the times when you could order from the table. In those days it was mostly blokes drinking - a few beers at the end of the working day before going off home for tea and back for a few pints later evening. During the week it would get packed after 8:00 pm; you’d open the door and there was an absolute fog of cigarette and pipe smoke, loud chatter and the Juke Box. Three deep at the bar but the bar staff were amazing and knew who was up next for serving. The thing that has come back to me is how industry marked the men: the welders with their pitted faces and burned hands. My Pal's best mate's dad who was from Poland and had been a hurricane pilot during the war and had facial burns. There was a steady stream of folk who would offer to buy him a pint and he would smile shake his head and politely refuse. Every night he would down his two brown and bitter and leave at 9 p.m. There were others with amputated fingers arms legs… my dad had his right hand crushed in a printing works accident and had elected to have them amputated except his thumb so he could hold a pen between it and his ‘pad.’

Eventually it was pulled down overnight and is now a block of flats.

It really strikes me how those men carried their work in life embedded in them and how they must have been in some level of pain but never said.

‘You fancy a pint?

Go on then…

Cheers our kid’.”

Share

‘The Seymour.’ The original email version (corrections & explanations in italics in brackets)

Just a quick thing that’s going around mi 'ed after reading your email update thingy.

Back in the late 70's I started going to the local - The Seymour on Seymour Grove on the boundaries of Chorlton, Manchester, Old Trafford and another area I can't remember the name of right now [Whalley Range].

The Seymour was a big old Victorian pile and was massive inside - it had bell pushes in some places from the times you could order from the table. In those days it was mostly blokes drinking there - a few beers at the end of the working day before going off home for tea and back for a few pints later. Even during the week, it would get packed after 8 o'clock in the evening. You opened the door and there was an absolute fog of cigarette and pipe smoke, loud chatter and the duke box. Three deep at the bar but the bar staff were amazing and knew who was up next for serving. The thing that has come back to me is how industry marked the men - the welders with their pitted faces and burned hands, my pal's best mate's dad who was from Poland and had been a Hurricane pilot during the war and had facial burns. There was a steady stream of folk who would offer to buy him a pint and he would smile, shake his head and politely refuse, every night he would down his two brown and bitter and leave at 9pm. There were others with amputated fingers, arms, legs - my Dad had his right hand crushed in a printing works accident and had elected to have them [his fingers] amputated except his thumb so he could hold a pen between it and his 'pad.'

In those days I sat with a mixed crowd mainly bikers but with others that didn't quite fit. later in the 90's I sat with established regulars’ - older men who had been going there years Jock who had been stationed in Nagasaki after the war, Graham 'have you seen tonight’s murder sheet' (the Manchester Evening News), and Bernard - who was trying to go to every football ground in the country - and Phil the ex-teacher and musician. I'm sure we came up-with standing up and shouting 'The regiment, I wish I was there' every time Jock mentioned the army.

As kids we never knew him [my Dad] with fingers and a few years back through the Durham Light Infantry Regiment website we managed to see a photo of him in Egypt with some comrades with his fingers intact.

In the 1980's the Seymour lost its identity as the Trafford Park and related industries closed down and the brewery jumped on any theme to revive it: a 'disco' pub; an 'Irish' theme pub -all the Irish regulars then left.

Eventually, it was pulled down overnight and is now a block of flats.

It really strikes me now how those men carried their working life embedded in them and how they must have been in some level of pain but never said.

Fancy a pint? Go on then ....................cheers our kid.