The St James Church bulletin was promoting a regular
Saturday men’s breakfast: ‘full English for a fiver’. And, happily, this turned out to be the right
slot in the month. Mary seemed content
that I should take myself off for the morning.
She was planning to be in the garden if the weather was cooler.
In my lunch hour, I emailed Barry, whose contact details
were added (something like champagnecharley@gmail). I got three swift responses: from Barry
himself, from Ian the organiser, and from Roger the cook. They included tips on where to park,
mentioning that over 30 guys were expected.
I have a theory that it’s a mark of middle-classness if you’re
motivated to invite yourself along without introduction to an unfamiliar social
gathering or interest group. Working-class
people will only try something new if there’s a relational route in. Like, for example, only going along if their neighbour
or father-in-law is already involved.
It’s a point to remember when churches lay on events to attract new
people. Was I engaging in betrayal of my
class roots?
My experience of men’s breakfasts has been positive. I’ve been to the monthly one in Bath, when
visiting my brother-in-law Tony. Last
time, they had about a hundred guys along.
The pub was packed and the restaurant-served food was excellent. They pull in some class speakers: top
physicists from GCHQ, seasoned explorers and household-name footballers.
The Sheffield equivalent I’ve sampled was memorable,
too. But for different reasons. The menu choice was grilled bacon or sausage,
or bacon and sausage; in a white or brown bread-cake; with red or brown
sauce. And a ‘proper’ mug of tea. None of your low-fat, veggie or decaff nonsense. Indeed.
The gritty Northern gospel.
I parked near the village hall behind an SUV sporting a
fish badge (local angling club?). Ian
introduced himself and a couple of other guys, and I headed for the
coffee. There was one long table. This limited the conversation to a person on
either side, and two or maybe three opposite.
The familiar worst-case hearing-aid challenge. And, looking around, I wasn’t the only contestant. I found an accountant on my right, and a
local councillor on my left. Another new
boy was opposite. I could see a large
HS2 planning chart over his shoulder.
Brian, on my right had moved up from the Home Counties
bible belt to retire. He’d visited
Sheffield a few times and we had some Anglican acquaintances in common. My councillor friend had retired twice, but was
fully busy on housing and HS2 committees.
He possessed a wealth of knowledge and solidly-formed opinions. However, no-one could tell me where I may find
an electric car charging point in the town.
We had an illustrated talk on collecting cigarette
cards. Given the attendance, this took
on the nostalgic air of a public schoolboys’ hobbies club meeting. Afterwards, Brian and I exchanged email
addresses, and he introduced me to Barry, too.
Back home, Mary had been hacking her way through a
vigorous cotoneaster standing in the overgrown border. I finished off the job with a pruning
saw. There, in the sunshine, liberated
from its bushy confinement, was a statuette of a naked discus thrower. True, his right shoulder will need some
Polyfilla. But at least that will leave
him slightly more decorous than the garden’s other classical figure – a maiden
who appears to have suffered an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction. Maybe Mary will find her a tee-shirt.
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