Hitler had the right idea about Coventry...

i take it this is a 'without stoke' market

Mexburgh
Wath-on-Dearne
Dewsbury
any number of miserable holes in Jockland


take your pick there are loads of crapholes and I didn't even mention Humberside, Weirside, Tyneside...

never ending

they all look a little better when the sun is shining over them.

M m M iddelsbrough

It is indeed a fairly disturbing place, I had to go there for two days for a conference about 15 years ago, I just felt depressed!

Parts of London you should be armed on arrival.

I'm not particularly defending the place but I work in Dewsbury. Have any of the people who slag it off on here ever visited the place?

yep

I have visited most of the miserable places in both south and west Yorkshire when I played a decent standard of rugby league in the 80s and 90s

Mexburgh the worst imo

I live 10 minutes away, agree it is grim, but compared to Rotherham it is a beautiful paradise.

yes Rotherham and Wath in particular are terrible

OP is first line from Football Factory.

Wasn´t there an conspiracy that Churhill didn´t act on conventry because he wanted  hitler to waste all his bombs on it.

If you think Coventry is a dump, then fine, but I find your comments about Hitler bombing it offensive. My granny got killed in the bombing. Not funny mate.

And my dad got the side of his flat blown off, didn't wake him up at the time but when he did wake he was looking up at the sky - apparently.

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

Sir John Betjeman had unkindly thoughts too!

I think it was more like they had not targeted Coventry before, so there was (supposed to be) an element of surprise . But Churchill knew due to Bletchley Park intercepts, and if the RAF had been up there to defend Coventry in great numbers the Nazis would have had to seriously wonder how the raid had been anticipated.

Same sort of thing for my dad as well in Southampton Jack.
House next door blown to bits killing all.

Nowt wrong with Rotherham, half of it is quite nice, the other half like the rest of this countrys sh1t holes.

yup didn't want to let the know we had cracked the Enigma code, iirc

I viewed a few flats in Coventry as they seemed good value
The first one was by Binley Rd , the flat itself was quite nice , but the block was falling apart .. and the area was so Grim
While i was viewing the brick sh black guy from next door came out to smoke a fat one in his string vest , and summed the area up completely , full of complete nutjobs & wierdo's.
I popped into the nearby Asda & were druggies begging for change outside , actually gave him some as i felt so depressed for them living there!

Apparently though the codebreakers did not know the precise city that would be targeted . Officialy anyway

Cov used to have a thriving musical culture.
From ska in the Specials days to the world centre of rave in the early 90's.

The place is in real trouble now with no industry and future.

err, it is the way it is BECAUSE Hitler bombed it  ,it was probably a nice market town back in the early 1900s

In fairness Coverntry is a bit of a dump.It's amazing it's a City really,just feels like a fairly run down provincial town really.I lived there for about 6 months in a fairly ok place called Cheylsmore? i think it was called that.But Cov itself was grim,the Catherdral area was appalling full of tramps and tatty filthy benches and signs and this is suppose to be their tourist area.Theres a bit too which is a kinda mediaveal street,great old building etc yet its just a cesspit instead of being the heart of the city.Locals used to call the place "Cov Village".Seemed to be constant fights in the boozers as well.

Only thing i remember which was decent was a greek restraunt!

the cathedral gives it city status ,a city doesn't have to be a big place

No Lichfield's a city too!

Good dog track.

Memories of the Coventry Blitz

This is an extract from One Man: One Day (c) Paul Currie and published here with kind permission of the author. The ‘One Man’ refers to his father Sam Currie’s days in Coventry during the blitzes of 1940/41.

Quick navigation: Coventry Blitz memories part 1, part 2, or return to the Coventry Blitz Resource Centre


Coventry was subjected to the most severe of German bombings on 14th of November 1941, but before this night the city was under attack from the Luftwaffe almost on a nightly basis because of the heavy industry and ammunition factories within and about the city, and it was during one of these air raids that my dad was killed.

First, we heard the approaching aircraft, a low drone that gradually became louder. This was broken by the air raid sirens – Coventry was once again under attack, so we abandoned our homes and made our way to the air raid shelter; mum, Ken and me, Jim was out at the local youth club with his latest girl friend, Rita, and sheltered nearby. Dad was on duty as an ‘Air Raid Prevention’ (ARP) warden and with the St. John Ambulance Brigade. The bombs whizzed and exploded above us with a tremendous boom, the vibrations caused mortar dust to fall on our heads. Ken and I nervously giggled at mum who looked like a Scottish banshee – white faced with those piercing blue eyes frowning at us, others laughing out loud. It was how we coped. Later we all emerged as the ‘all clear’ was sounded. Rubble and destruction surrounded us, smoke and flames rising from the ruins of shattered homes, but our house was still standing. Dad met us and we walked back to our house on the Walsgrave Road, almost opposite Gosford Park.

The evening was unseasonably cold for October and in our rush to leave we were only dressed in trousers and shirts.
I shivered. Dad decided to get some warm clothing for us and began to approach the house when I shouted “There’s a hole in the roof”. Mum immediately realised that a delayed action bomb had hit the house.

“Don’t go in, Gavin”, mum advised dad, knowing it could explode any minute. But dad was adamant and Ken and I were determined to see what it was like inside. Against mum’s better judgement us intrepid explorers entered our home to find some coats. It took only a few minutes to find some warm clothing. Dad stopped and looked down a hole the bomb had made, we were several yards behind him.

He turned to speak.

That was the last image I had of my dad; pointing to us with his mouth open and eyes wide, the rest was a blur as the bomb exploded.

Bricks, tiles, beams and upstairs furniture descended upon our heads pulling the air from our lungs and filling the empty spaces with dust. Dark night became a black pit from Hades, closing down all my senses; eyes blind, ears deafened, taste acrid, mind numb.

Coughing, I lay there. “I’m alive!”, I felt Ken next to me, breathing but not moving, my arms were trapped so I nudged him with my foot, “Ken, speak to me. Are you okay?” He did not immediately answer but I could hear his breath, “dad’s dead”, I said flatly, feeling numb and emotionless. I didn't know what to feel; relief for my saved life? Sadness for dad? And mum, was she alive, outside, waiting for us to emerge from the carnage?

As Ken and I dropped to the floor a huge roof beam had fallen across us, wedged between the stairs and the wall we were protected from falling masonry and debris. That bomb had dad’s name on it all right, but not Ken’s nor mine, although we did not escape unscathed. Ken suffered severe shock and a head wound and I was concussed from a head wound also. The rescue services took all night to dig us out and finally got us to hospital in the early hours of the day.

Under the rubble Ken gradually began to move and I began to talk, although I suspect he did not understand me, I wanted to keep him awake fearing that if he fell asleep he would die – I learned that from the Saturday morning movies at the Gaumont – Hopalong Cassidy or Flash Gordon would keep a wounded friend alive by talking to him, so it must be true. Anyway, i talked, about anything I could think of; of the war, of football, of girls, especially Peggy Parker, who I was later engaged to – she was fun to be with; of the movies we had seen and the heroes I wanted to be like and of the horror flicks that scared us so much we ran all the way home! Until my mouth dried up, and all the time I could hear the rescuers shouting and scraping and moving masonry. I called several times but the dust in my mouth caught my breath and merely a dry cough left my mouth.

So, we lay there, exhausted, in silence, listening. Then a hand suddenly appeared just above my head with a chink of torch light behind it. I gagged, unable to speak, but I had to let the hand know I was just below. I craned my neck and raised my head so that my teeth were in range of that waving hand, and I caught the little finger and bit down hard. “Hey! What the hell!” came the anguished yelp, then the call as the hand withdrew and a silhouette of a head appeared just above me, “Gavin? Sam? Ken?” I managed to squeeze out a “Sam” and immediately the head withdrew from on top of us and hands reached down to pull me to safety. “Where’s your dad and Ken?” the rescuer asked, “Ken’s just next to me”, I croaked through dust caked lips and a mouth as dry as a desert. Then Ken emerged carried in the arms of a burly air raid warden. As he passed Ken smiled and his arm reached out to me and I to him and our fingers touched as he was taken to the ambulance.

Mum rushed over to see her boys and tears of relief flowed down her cheeks, but I knew her eyes were masking the dreadful grief of my dead dad.

Ken and I were first taken to Gulson Road hospital, but it was full with the wounded, and so was Coventry and Warwick hospital. We were finally found a couple of beds in a hospital in Leamington Spa and there we remained for about a week, mostly lost in our own thoughts, but constantly in sight of each other, reassuringly smiling across the ward. But my mind constantly wandered and my head was filled with visions I wanted desperately to forget.

After two days of hospital treatment, Ken was sufficiently conscious and I reasonably well for mum to visit us to confirm that dad had indeed been killed. He was only in his early forties. She was so matter of fact about it, almost with an air of ‘told you so’, but she was too gracious to be cynical and accepted the grief as a part of the war, but I could see the hurt behind her eyes that had lost that glow of Celtic humour leaving an emotional hiatus that would bever be filled. Her focus was on ‘us boys’.

Mum left to arrange the funeral for dad that took place while I was in hospital, so I could not even say goodbye to him; to the man who was my mum’s husband but I never really got to know him as my dad. I brooded over this for days; over the loss of my father, over the things I wanted to know about him, the things I wanted to tell him, and to have that kind of relationship dads an sons have – I now missed him dreadfully but it was too late, and it hurt so much. My insides crunched up and I was filled with a deep regret and loss. I silently sobbed myself to sleep, lost in my loss.

Times were tough enough in the Currie household and money was not plentiful, although we never wanted for essentials. I knew dad worked all the hours for the money to raise ‘us boys’, and as ‘immigrants’ from Scotland we had to make our own way in Coventry along with the other thousands who came south to seek work. Dad was a miner, but more importantly, he was skilled in first aid, so he was made the ‘pit medic’ in the local mine, Binley, then at Rootes car factory in Stoke working a permanent night shift, so I rarely had any quality time with him. As I left for school, then latterly when I was at work he was on his way home bound for bed each morning. When I returned home dad was on his bike off to work. We were like passing ships in the night. At the weekends he usually worked overtime and I was enjoying myself; playing soccer, or just doing teenage things – and girls, Peggy, of course. My mind was occupied with so many things and my hours filled with stuff, talking to my dad did not occur to me – until now. Then when the city became a target for German bombers he was a vital link on the local ARP of the city and as a St. John Ambulance Brigade volunteer, thus he was often on duty.

And mum. I tried to imagine the vision outside the house as mum looked on when the house blew up with her husband and twin sons inside. I tried to emote the feelings that must have rushed like an express train through her head as the house exploded – husband and sons unseen within. The horror must have been heart stopping. My mind could not grasp this as words were not sufficient, I tried in vain to find an emotion to express my grief – it transpired anything I had ever felt. Nothing mattered any more, I just wanted to hold my mum. I knew she would help me release this grinding, pent up grief.

http://www.familyresearcher.co.uk/Blitz-Victims/Coventry-Blitz-memories.html

Memories of the Coventry Blitz part 2

The concluding part of an extract from One Man: One Day (c) Paul Currie and published here with kind permission of the author. The ‘One Man’ refers to his father Sam Currie’s days in Coventry during the blitzes of 1940/41.

Quick navigation: Coventry Blitz memories part 1, part 2, or return to the Coventry Blitz Resource Centre



A couple of days after the funeral mm came to collect Ken and I from hospital and the three of us allowed our grief to flow out in the hospital corridor. Then mum in her stoic manner simply said “come on you boys, let’s go home”. “Home”, I thought, “where the hell is that? I saw it destroyed”. As though she had read my thoughts mum told us that we were staying with aunt Edie, but not for long, at least that is what we thought.

On returning to the factory the Rootes management decided to send ‘us boys’ on a leave of absence. So, with mum, we all went for a fortnight’s holiday in Scotland. While the country struggled to survive we went for a jolly to Stirling; to cousin Nettie. She made us very welcome and Ken and I made a total recovery, and mum as well, although I could still sense that dull pain of loss without dad. The few weeks became a carefree frolic as the war seemed to be in another time zone and the bombings on a distant land; only the nightly radio broadcasts reminded us of the inevitable, but I did not allow the BBC radio voice of John Snagge to dampen my spirits. I borrowed uncle Jimmy’s motor car and trundled off to find a grassy bank on the river Forth and there we picnicked; or we drove over to Lock Leven by Kinross – Jim swam for miles, Ken and I talked for hours, and mum slept for an eternity! With the knowledge that Coventry beckoned.

We travelled back to Coventry on 14th November 1941.

As the train moved south into the Midlands, the journey became slow., painfully slow, merely crawling along the tracks or not moving at all – I could have walked faster! I knew something was not quite right. I overheard a ticket inspector telling a passenger behind me that there was heavy bombing in the Midlands but not too sure which city was the target. We were held up for hours, sitting in that carriage wondering what was going on, then I heard that Coventry was the target. There seemed to be no escape and I turned to mum – words were not necessary, our eyes spoke; who else could we lose? The thought brought back that gut wrenching feeling of dread but there was nought I could do but wait. And all the time I could hear the distant bombing.

The train managed to get to Balsall and Berkswell station just several miles from Coventry and came to a complete halt unable to go any further due to damaged rails caused by a bomb. More waiting. After two hours buses arrived from Coventry to take us into the city and even that journey was slow and hazardous as the driver constantly dodged potholes, reversing round debris and trundled along in second gear. Then due to the aftermath of the blitz the bus could go no further than Hearsal Common, from there we had to walk to Binley.

The German bombers had done their business.

I could now see the true devastation of the city. A wasteland – ‘or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust’, how true. I could taste the acrid smell of expired cordite. I could see the myriad of smoke and flames. I could sense the despair of a destroyed city. I struggled to find words to describe scenes, Dickens’ Coketown and the lines from Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’ of ‘Dark Satanic Mills’ came to mind as we walked through streets strewn with rubble, an people trying to salvage belongings and valuables from bombed out homes. Some sobbing, others numb, or frozen still with uncomprehending eyes. Many found a spirit, that indomitable spirit of hope, getting on with a bad job, “well, they won’t be back, nothing is left to bomb!”, one jolly fellow called to his neighbour as he dragged out a half burnt chair for his pregnant wife to relax in, “there you are, put your feet up, dearie” as though he was having a picnic, “I’ll get a cuppa for you, old George is brewing up down the street, won’t be long”.As though it mattered, I mused with a wry smile. I then understood that most valuable commodity of the human nature; to face adversity with hope. It sort of lifted me and galvanised my pace. I took the lead urging them to walk faster.

On we trudged. Fire fighters, air raid wardens and the police too busy to help us; it was a lonely trek to Binley, to auntie Edie’s, again. The city was silent on this bleak day; Coventrians in their hundreds moved in non-speaking ways across charred blackened unfamiliar territory.

The landscape had become a backdrop of deserted homes where black broken windows looked for hope, for someone to take care of them, but there was no one. One road merged into the next; buildings had lost their identities. I looked for a familiar landmark across the scarred horizon. Through the smoke I could make out the clock tower of the market hall, and as I closed in on the city centre, the iron skeleton of the hall was all that remained. All around was destroyed. This wouls be my north star – head for the clock tower and out east into Binley. The rising sun to guide me.

We passed a small ambulance and a head leaned out of the window grinning with surprised recognition. A beaming smile called, “Marion!” Mum turned to see Ted Crosby, a colleague of dad’s in the Saint John Ambulance Brigade, driving his ‘blood wagon’. “good to see you back. Heard you all went for a holiday. Are the boys all right now?” “Hello, Mr. Crosby”, we three sang in unison. “Hop in the back – no one’s in!” he laughed, “I can take you as far as the Forum”. Brilliant, I thought, no need to test my rudimentary navigation skills. From the Forum the streets became easier to recognise. “Thanks, Ted”, mum waved goodbye as Mr. Crosby drove back into town, whistling.

We arrived, dirty, hungry and worried. But to greet us was aunt Edie. Such a relief, and the anxiety turned to laughter as from behind I could see another dozen faces; cousins, aunts and uncles and friends, all bombed out. Aunt Edie was the only one left with a home, so we had a party!

After I had scrubbed clean and found some decent clothing – trousers too short and shirt too big, but who cared? I was safe, and with all my relations. What food we had was gathered, a few bottles or pop and ale were found. A veritable feast for us all was enjoyed, bread and dripping sandwiches tasted like caviar on canapés, and that warm beer was iced champagne, all straight from French France. Then mum lifted the lid of the old upright Joanna in the corner and we all sang along to ‘Roll Out The Barrel’ and belted out with gusto ‘Jerusalem’, and rounded off the evening with a reminder of our roots, ‘Glasgow Belongs To Me’. Sleep soon took over my tired body.

Eventually a new house was found for us on Ansty Road, Wyken. Furniture was acquired, bedding and new clothing, and we all settled down to another life, without dad. Back to the track and Rootes provided us with a comfortable income, but my mind was somewhere else.

It was at this time, a few months after the blitz that I began to think about joining the Royal Navy. I had spent a lot of time thinking about my family, my father’s death, and the loss of our home an all that we possessed, and of course, mum, although she did not want to see ‘us boys’ go to war. Emotions had settled somewhat now and it was not an act of revenge nor to get my own back, it was more a calculated decision that it was time to do my bit for the war effort – as ordinarily mundane as that. Not of adventure, not excitement, nor even of patriotism I think, but of a feeling of needing to do something. Ken, Jim and I strolled in from work late one evening and set pensively at the dinner table.

Mum knew, she always did, when ‘us boys’ had something on our minds. She sat, “go on then, tell me”. IU was the first to speak, “I, we, have decided to join the navy”. She was expecting this and asked why, so I explained the reasons for enlisting. She neither agreed nor rejected, just nodded, and ate her dinner. Silence was the only sound until late evening after we had all finished scurrying around doing our chores and bathing and changing. Mum sat next to me and with those piercing blue eyes looking into my very soul, asked if that is what I really wanted. “Yes”, I replied with as much conviction as I could manage and with total sincerity under that gaze. She merely nodded sagaciously and carried on knitting. I agreed to wait for a couple of months while the government was conscripting certain age groups but I was too young, so in March 1942 I entered the Royal Navy recruiting office in the city centre, completed a couple of forms, had a medical, was accepted, and said goodbye to mum on the 1st of April.

That was the hardest thing I had ever done.

The train took me to Portsmouth.

I was nineteen.


http://www.familyresearcher.co.uk/Blitz-Victims/Coventry-Blitz-memories-part-2.html

england wouldnt be a sh1thole now under german occupation, they are spotless, anyway theyve done alright, thy own your car industrie, and your utilities, they have yoy by the balls, andcan tax you at leisure.

england wouldnt be a sh1thole now under german occupation, they are spotless, anyway theyve done alright, thy own your car industrie, and your utilities, they have yoy by the balls, andcan tax you at leisure.

True about their industries today but what has that got to do with the Germany of WW2?

...there was a process of de-Nazification after WW2. Germany was rebuilt, largely with American money

Isle of man isn't exactly the home of worldwide beauty

Burnley the home of social harmony and tasteful housing.

Is there a good part of the uk .... as us plebs have never seen one

Jersey's nice not sure it's part of the UK though.

neva herd of it

it's near  Cardigan

I was born in Coventry and lived there till 1989. Still live nearby, albeit just in Leicestershire, and worked there for 3 years or so in recent times. The city isn't that bad but has clearly suffered from the loss of the motor trade. My Gran was a director of a car part manufacturing company before she died in the mid 90s and a once booming firm has now been shut down for nearly 10 years.

I was actually in Coventry on Monday night as I was catching an evening train to Birmingham to see WWE Raw at the LG and it made sense to drive to Cov and then hop on the train. Anyway, my mate who I was with is also a fellow Coventry native and he took me this Muslim cafe type place opposite a Mosque in Hillfields (roughest part of the city)for some food. I was a bit wary as I was the only white guy around and he's not even a Muslim (although he is Asian) but I have to say, the food and service was top notch.

From my time working there I noticed that street begging dramatically reduced after a campaign by the council to eradicate it.