A National Monument of Our Glorious Movement

And so we move onwards to consider the glories of Headington Labour Club. Reached via what I think of as the “Golden Mile” from Ruskin Hall, it had been endowed – by that great philanthropist, Robert Maxwell* – with a once-plush carpet bearing the monogram “HLC”. Boasting a couple of pool tables, a snooker table and cheap beer, it represented the social focus for first year students who couldn’t be arsed to make the trek to the bright lights of the city centre and the O.U.

I invested much of my NUPE scholarship in this establishment. I have to say that, if I had all the money that I spent on beer whilst at Headington, I’d.. er.. spend it on beer again.

It was in the Labour Club that I underwent the most physically painful experience of my life thus far. It was local government election time in England, and we were in the club’s salubrious TV lounge, watching the results come in. Ian was seated on a chair, I was standing behind him, my hands resting on the back of the chair. The Tories were taking a hammering and, as yet another local authority fell under Labour control, I let out a celebratory whoop & lifted Ian, chair and all, about two feet off the ground. Without bending my knees. For feck’s sake, I’d been a health & safety rep in my previous existence and a few pints sent it all out of the window. My back gave way with an almighty pop, and a searing burning pain reduced me to a trembling wreck. I spent the next couple of months sleeping on boards. The barman, a few weeks later, told me that the injury would return to haunt me in middle age. He was right; every now and again I have to sleep on the floor for a couple of nights. This tends to happen by default anyway when I collapse comatose from drink.

I digress: returning from the HLC, we would pass that historic monument, The Great Pissing Stone of Headington (see fig. 1). Like the Great Pyramid, it causes us to marvel at the skill and foresight of the ancients. Miraculously, it was situated at exactly the distance from the Club which could be travelled by a full bladder. Truly, the town planners of yore knew their business. It was here that, following the tradition set by generations of male Ruskin students, we would empty our bladders on this ancient edifice. I attribute its corroded appearance to the many years’ worth of uric acid which have anointed its surface. Compare it to a nearby milestone of similar age which has not received such treatment (fig. 2).

fig. 1

fig. 2

When I go to meet my Maker & drink ale with Jack Dash & sip rum with Che Guevara, I could have no finer send-off than for the stone to be placed on my grave & pissed upon by a “firing party” of beered-up & superannuated socialists.

*I cannot leave this topic without recalling how, when a bunch of us joined the standing NUJ picket at Pergammon Press, Headington Hill (part of the crook Maxell’s fiefdom), we were told, basically, that we would be more help if we confined ourselves to fundraising etc, and stayed away from the actual picket. This was due to the tendency of our comrades to take picketing seriously, rather than conduct ourselves in the genteel, polite way of the NUJ sisters & brothers. I recall one of the organisers explaining, in a friendly but slightly exasperated tone that shouting insults at scabs wasn’t really the done thing. Joe reassured the organiser that he quite understood that threatening & foul language was inappropriate given the “professional” standing of the workers involved. So would it be OK if the Ruskin contingent just confined themselves to kicking scab cars? The poor bloke’s jaw dropped. Happy days.

Ymlaen!