Did you ever live in Parson Cross?

l live in parson cross now and loooking for people who lived here and went to school here

as im in a local history group

and we would like people to tell us they story as how parson cross used to be

so we can make a memory box to take around the local schools and the old people homes in sheffield

I was brought up in a council house on Parsons Cross. When we first moved in we had one gas ring to cook on. The other cooking was done on a cast iron oven range, which backed onto and was heated by the living room coal fire. I often wonder if any houses still have the old oven range in them. I remember my Mum used to black lead the oven every week. She cooked lovely meals and fed her family for years with just those cooking facilities. I think today’s housewife would be horrified. People did not live on credit to the extent that they do now and I remember vividly when we could afford a gas cooker and the day it was delivered. My mother never stopped cleaning it.

Has anyone seen the picture from a Colley School outing?

Bet a few people can remember going to Barmouth in Wales in the 60s as it was a regular trip for 8 yrs or so.

Originally posted by fatjohn

I was brought up in a council house on Parsons Cross. When we first moved in we had one gas ring to cook on. The other cooking was done on a cast iron oven range, which backed onto and was heated by the living room coal fire. I often wonder if any houses still have the old oven range in them.

All the living room ranges were ripped out by the Council in the 1970's and converted to burn smoke-less coal. As the 'new fuel' was difficult to light, the grate had to have a gas supply and small electric fan fitted.

My dad's family were the second to move onto the new Parson Cross estate, they moved onto Helliwell Crescent and he often told me that he had to walk through muddy fields to get to work, as the rest of the estate was being built round them.

They moved from Apple street at neepsend, as they were clearing the slums at the time.

you will find old photo's on the Sheffield librarys site.

Hi,

I was born on the Cross in 1955, the seventh of eight kids. My mum and dad were the first to occupy the house on Wordsworth, and mum stayed their for 50 years before moving recently into sheltered accomodation in Hillsborough.

My "territory" was the area at the junction of Wordsworth and Deerlands. My friends and I built a Cycle Speedway track there, and had two teams - PC Eagles (my team) and PC Devils.

Local character was a guy called Pete Howe, born circa 1949, he was the nearest thing we had to a John Lennon. He played guitar (really well as it happens) and sang. He also had outrageous hair and clothes, and had lots of beautiful girlfriends. We were all jealous of him. Local haunts were the Youth Clubs at Meynell, Mansell and Colley schools. I played football for Mansell YC in 1970 - 73.

I went to Thommy More's junior school. In 1966 we reached Football final (lost to Mansell) and Rounders final (beat Lound). I still have the fotos of both teams - collectors'items indeed.

My mum, like many others, went to the shops everyday, and bought stuff for that evening's meal only. No freezers in them days. We had a fixed meal rota. My fave was Meat and Potato pie [Thursdays]. My first "local" was The Beagle. Landlord was a Jewish guy called Joe (Williams?). Lovely guy, kept a great pint of Tetleys......(I'll add more soon if you like)

I had a paper round at “Fogg’s” on Chaucer Road. I had “Yew Lane” which had the most Stars (73) but was fairly compact. On Sundays I used to deliver at Rocher (The small private estate off Creswick Lane). This had lots of “Observers” and “Sunday Times” so the bag was weighed down with supplements.

“Heenan’s” on Chaucer used to let us buy fags and beer even though we were only 12. They even split a pack of ten into two fives, and gave us loose matches. (5 Parkies and a can of Long Life – Luxury!!)

We were the first house in our bit to have a phone. (We weren’t wealthy, but my dad worked for the GPO and we got it installed for free). This was used by lots of neighbours and was the communicator of Births, Deaths, and all points in between. I remember one girl ringing and asking to speak to her mum (8 houses away) because her boyfriend had collapsed. When dad asked her for details, it turned out she was in Moenchengladbach!! (He was on National Service in Germany)

We used to get 8 pints of milk delivered each day, from the Co-Op. Mum payed using small yellow tokens (Milk Checks) which she bought at Margetson shops and got divvy on. I can still remeber her divvy number (31010).

The one thing that always made me angry, still does in fact, was when people called it “Parson’s Cross”. Even the buses sometimes had it on

More soon….

My first few jobs were all Steel and Engineering related. I started at John Bedford’s on Bernard Rd. The building is now the “Mega Center”, whatever that may be. In 1975 I worked at “Millspaugh” which was on the Don next to Tinsley Flyover. It’s now buried beneath Meadowhall Car Park.

I used to get a works bus, 194, from outside the Parson Cross Hotel. I carved my (first) girlfriend’s name on the shelter.

On Fulmere Crescent is a large roundabout which we called “The Big Island”. This was the best football pitch around. Some Sundays we had 13-a-side. We used to re-enact big matches. I remember in ’66 when we did the World Cup Semi Final between England and Portugal. I was Eusebio (naturally!).

In that year I saw a World cup match at Hillsboro, West Germany versus Switzerland. The Germans were brilliant and won 5-0 (I think). We were at the Leppings Lane end which was deemed the “Switzerland” end. We all got given little Swiss flags to wave. I supported Germany right up to the final after that, then switched back to England for the big day.

On the day of the final I went to a wedding. The reception was at the Cross (Parson Cross Hotel), in that large back room. Someone got hold of a small telly and managed to get a hazy picture on it. All the men were huddled round the telly drinking beer, and the women were sat, fed up, at the tables. It was a brilliant party later though. I had to go home at nine o’clock so I hid under a table instead.

I had a wonderful childhood

We lived at 7 Hillside ave from 1946 to 1953 I remember sledging on a curved piece from a anderson shelter from the top of Tunwell knowle down to the jews cemetery what was then Blind lane [Colley road] The makeshift sledge held about 8 small kids The german and italian prisoners of war made us wooden toys etc for cigarettes, We mixed freely with them no problems after they were freed many stayed here One of them was Karl Suck a friend and neighbour, I remember a large deep lime pit unfenced something to do with plastering the new houses I think it would be considered dangerous now.

Oh well happy days despite no phone or car or tv and little money oh and sweets on ration.

One lovely aspect of growing up in Parson Cross, was the Workingmen's Club Trip. Although the clubs had their issues, and certainly corruption was often mentioned, here was an act of true benevolence.

It was an annual event, usually taking place on a Tuesday in early August. The build up would consist of two or three weeks in which tickets were feverishly sought, bought, and exchanged. Coach numbers were critical, and it took a number of swaps before you and your mates were all on the same bus. Low numbers were prestigious, though truth be told it made precious little difference.

The day would start early. In my case I would try and persuade my dad to run me down to the Ritz. If that failed then I would walk or seek out an early 49, sitting next to all the Bassetts women, smoking and gossiping their way down Wordsworth Avenue, their white turbans a proud badge of community.

As I got off the bus, I could see the magnificent sight of thirty-plus charabangs lined up on Southey Green Road. The first few were all in the beautiful green livery of Law Brothers, the others a mixed bag of size and colour, each proudly displaying its On Hire To Law Bros sign, alongside the crucial bus number. The street was lined with Stewards loading crisps, pop and beer on to the coaches, kids, still trying to get a swapsie for their pal's chara, and mum's, bidding their charges farewell before going home for a rare day of peace.

We would typically try and sit near the back, allowing the freedom of being distant from the steward, and enabling a few crafty Woodbines to be passed around. As it was summer, many of the coaches had previously been used for fishing trips, so the predominant smell was Bream Snot. It was also common to share the back seat with a large family of maggots (I'm sure they did it on purpose) as cleaning the bus was the driver's responsibility, and few of them went overboard. After the usual hustle and bustle that goes with thirty-five excited kids, and a few verbal warnings from the stewards about behaviour (No Smoking? Yeah, that'll be right) the vehicles would pull away, one by one, and set off on the road to that great tourist haven, the Venice of the East Midlands, Cleethorpes.

Getting to Cleethorpes these days is a doddle. 90 minutes max on the motorway and you fall of the end of it into Grimsby, in 1968 it was so different. The convoy wound its way through South Yorkshire housing estates, which in turn gave way to leafy Lincolnshire lanes. People would wave at us (Honest! They really did) as we snaked though their quaint little villages, and we of course waved back, not yet brave enough to do moonies. There would normally be a halfway stop, a small transport cafe that served snacks and drinks. The main objective of course was the toilet, which would be flooded by the time the fourth coach had gone through. There was a Juke Box playing the hits of the day, and whenever I hear Death of a Clown by Dave Davies (Where's Brian Matthew's Knighthood, that's what I want to know!!) I am back in that little sticky bun bar. The garden next door had a small orchard, and there was always one lad who would get back on the bus, his pockets bulging with small sour apples, which were almost uneatable. I say almost because of course we did eat them. And threw the cores at locals as we resumed our invasion of their sleepy hollows.

Once we set off again, the steward would then carry out his most important task. Doling out the spendo! This was the high spot of the day, as a guy with a big bag of half-crowns came towards you, and picked out three (yes, three!!) for each kid. If you'd managed to con a further 2/6 out of your mum, that meant a total of ten bob!! All that dosh! Luxury

Arrival in Cleethorpes was usually signaled by a long traffic jam, as the parking attendants tried to shoehorn two-thirds of Sheffield's coach corps into the Victoria car park. The steward would then deliver his well rehearsed lines about lunch, displaying your badges, not getting lost, and making sure you were back on the bus by six sharp or it would leave without you, (for Angela Sellars that very nearly came true) then you were free. Free to roam the streets (street?) of Cleethorpes, armed with just half-a-quid and a lunch voucher for the Victoria cafe.

The events of the day were many and varied. I have memories of the Big Dipper (small as it turns out), donkeys, rifle-ranges, carousels, hot-dogs, brandy snaps (what a disappointment they were!), snogging, and top ten hits blaring out from the rides. My favourite item was the laughing policeman. This was a 1940s mannequin with paint peeling from its face, dressed in ill-fitting uniform, and sat in a glass case. When you put a penny in, it rocked back and forth to the accompaniment of the song, The Laughing Policeman. Stephen King must have seen this, as I'm sure it was the inspiration for about eight of his books. Scary doesn't cover it. I still have nightmares to this day, and if I'm being particularly mischievous, my wife threatens me with that song.

Lunch was a bun fight. Hundreds of ill-mannered brats shoveling fish and chips down their cakeholes. (Grimsby Fish, soaked in vinegar, now there's a memory to cherish) Nicking the ketchup off the next table before they had finished with it. Asking the waitress for Hendersons Relish, knowing full well that they wouldn't have it. Holding the saltcellar upside down and blowing the salt in a girl's face. (Boy, was I cool). Flicking peas at your mate. It was brilliant. The staff must have dreaded it. It would have taken ages to get the place back to normal.

Round about 5 o'clock, the seven and a kick long spent, we would congregate around the bus park, meeting up with others off your coach who you'd not seen all day. As the crowds built up, eventually the driver and steward would come, each carrying a crate of Long Life, and unlock the door. One by one we would file on, less excited now, positively weary, and slump into a seat ready for the long journey back. At ten past six, the other charas long gone, Angela Sellars would turn up, refusing to say what she'd been up to, but looking disheveled and red faced. Then, as an air of calm swept around the coach, the journey home would begin. Some brave soul would try and get a sing along going, {Bye Bye Blackbird, but NOT the Black and White Minstrels version} and there would be a dare to try and nick a Long Life, but it rarely amounted to anything.

After a sleep, if you were lucky, Barnsley appeared on the road signs, and then, like some modern day Xanadu, Parson Cross materialized before your very eyes, and you were at the club. The walk back up Wordsworth was full of animated conversation, about what you'd done, whom you'd snogged, and what Angela Sellars had actually been up to. Then home. A nice cup of tea, Late Night Line Up, bed, and the first of many visits by the Laughing Policeman.

My humble version of the 'Day Trip', this was on my website (when I had one)

DAY-TRIPPER

'Day-tripper'!! It was the title of a popular song later - The Beatles had a hit with it. It probably didn't make much sense to anyone who was not English, but it was enough to keep young kids dreaming for a whole year.It meant that we got to go on the annual trip to the 'seaside', any coastal resort in England.

The trip was 'put on' by members of the local 'Working Men's Club', and was open to the offspring of any member in good standing. I never knew what that meant, but I always got to go, so I really didn't care. Luckily for me, the club was at the bottom of the street where I lived, so I didn't have far to go to get on the 'coach', to use the English word.

There were at least five hundred buses chartered for the trip, and the service road at the bottom of the street very quickly filled up with big red and white 'S.U.T' coaches. They were soon filled with forty or so screaming kids, one driver, and one adult club member, who was a combination referee, chaperone, policeman and 'giver-out' of a bag of stale sandwiches, and a bottle of 'Tizer', a very local soft drink.

The younger kids carried a small metal pail, which was gaily decorated with whatever the early post-war years version of the Ninja Turtles was. None of us kids had TV at home, so we didn't know what other kids had. When we met kids from other cities, it was always interesting to see what their pails had painted on them - ours were always better, though! In the other hand was clutched a small shovel.

Here's the deal. When we got to the beach, the pails were quickly filled with sand, tamped down on top, then the pail was inverted, and the sand would make a small tower. Then the whole procedure would be repeated, until either the kid got tired, or the tide came in! That was the extent of the trip for the young kids, but for us nine or ten year olds, that was kid's stuff.

When we got on the coach at about 5.30 am, we were given the sandwiches and drink, and a small amount of money, which the older kids promptly took from us. (I did that myself later!) The organizing clubs got smarter in later years, after too many bawling kids would throw temper tantrums, because their money got stolen. In later years the kids were each given a name-tag on a string to hang around their necks. This way the concession operators were paid after the fact, the kids never had to carry money.The only instructions were from the driver. "If yer gunna be sick, be sick in yer bluddy bukits!" (Puke in the pail!)

The trip to the coast, back then, took quite a while, although we never did go more than about 100 miles from home. If we went to New Brighton, a resort across the Mersey River from Liverpool, (yes, that Liverpool) one of the more popular destinations, the trip seemed to take all day. Several large cities had to be crossed, there were no by-passes or ring-roads, you went through downtown!

To get to New Brighton, the coach had to go through the Mersey Tunnel, always one of the high-lights, (unless you were a rookie bus driver!) By the time we reached the tunnel entrance, all the bottles of Tizer had been drunk, English buses were not equipped with wash-rooms, so the pails became handy receptacles for the contents of hundreds of little bladders, (or stomachs, whatever!)The older and wiser of us would threaten the little kids with dire consequences if they spilled one drop on the bus! This was not as a favor to the bus-driver, however! Oh no! Something else entirely was planned.

I don't know when the Mersey Tunnel was built, or where it stood in the longest, deepest category of world tunnels, but it always impressed us kids from Sheffield. The walls of the tunnel were done in what I suppose were, originally, highly glazed white tiles.As the tunnel was thequickest way to get to New Brighton from Liverpool, goodness knows how many coaches, over the years, had hauled screaming kids, pails at the ready, through the tunnel.

When we 'oldies' determined that we were far enough into the tunnel, one of us would give the order to wind down the windows. At the same time we would make one hell of a lot of noise, screaming and yelling, until the adult on the coach would give up trying to settle us down, and retire to his seat at the back. This was all part of the plan.Even though what we were about to do was not very nice, or smart, we still had a healthy respect for any adult, and bus drivers were almost gods to us kids. Nevertheless, the next move was one of the highlights of the trip. On command, the by now full pails, (urine and stomach contents,) were poured, or more correctly, hurled at the tunnel walls.Seasoned bus drivers would maintain a very large following distance, rookie drivers always 'tail-gated'! You could always tell who was a rookie driver when you got off the coach in New Brighton. Yellow windshield!

When all the buses were parked, in a very large gravel lot, (no parking lots big enough) the adult on each bus would attempt to lay down rules for feeding, and the time to be back at the bus. Of course, none of us paid any attention to the speech, the 'oldies' were busy planning their day, and trying to get what money the younger kids had left after the bus ride. Imagine if you will, upwards of 2000 screaming kids invading a penny arcade, or running en masse to the beach, or, as most of us did, finding any place that had a juke-box, and girls!

Feeding took place in a very old, very ornate building, that had, I suppose, been used at one time as a live theater, probably also as a cinema, but was now relegated to the care and nurturing of thousands of screaming kids. At the appointed time, the kids in 'our' group would line up outside the building.Only the English will form a 'queue', and we were expected to maintain our place in line. God help anybody who tried to 'push-in'! As we were not the only group in New Brighton, we had to get in, eat, and get out fast. There were probably several thousand kids in town at any one time, so the meal had to be 'fast'.I don't remember any one menu from the time, but, as I only went on the trips until I was 'too cool', i.e 10 or so, the food could not have been very memorable, the war had only been over a few years, some food items were still rationed, so I imagine sandwiches and some kind of drink would have been the order of the day.

The other thing I remember vividly was the ceiling of the hall, or rather, the covering on the ceiling. Gold and blue shrouds of fabric were artfully arranged to resemble what I always though were clouds and sky.This material had no doubt been in place for many years, for we discovered that, if we made enough noise, and stamped our collective feet hard enough, thick clouds of dust would float down onto the tables, the food, and us, and, if we were real lucky, onto the heads of any adult unwise, or unknowing enough to eat with us.

Another cool place we went to was a little further north on the west coast of England. This was Blackpool, a large city that had several claims to fame.

The first was the 'Tower', a replica of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. I never knew the height of either tower, and never saw the Eiffel tower, (until many years later) but I instinctively knew that Blackpool Tower was the taller of the two, probably the tallest building in the world, at least in my world.

One of the other features of Blackpool was 'The Pleasure Beach'. This was a large outdoor amusement park, complete with all the requisite rides, a very long roller coaster, lots of 'merry go rounds', (carousels) and 'The Fun House'.The Fun House was dedicated to making as many kids as possible throw up in as short a time as possible, and contained several rides, all of them going up, down, or around, and, in one instance, the ride was simply a wide staircase, the problem being that each tread went up and down continually, the next tread never being 'in synch'. Around the perimeter of the Fun house were hundreds of penny slot machines, the closest we ever got to 'Vegas, the difference being that you never won anything! They were, to quote the metal plaque on each machine, ' For Amusement Only".

The Pleasure Beach contained several 'fast-food' stalls, comprising fish and chip stands, cotton candy, and my personal favorite, mini-donuts. You could watch these being made, never tiring of seeing a blob of dough being 'farted' (the closest I can come to the actual sound) down into a circular container of hot fat. The blob would bob around the container, and emerge from the tray as a perfectly formed donut. You have to remember that this was post war Britain, very post war, when delights of this nature were a 'once a year' treat for us kids.

To get from the Tower to the Pleasure Beach, at the other end of 'The Golden Mile' (more on this later), involved a ride on a tram. This was the English street-car. I never knew these vehicles by any other name, unless I was talking to an adult about them, whereupon they were 'tram-cars'. I suspect that 'tram' was short for something, but I never knew what! My home-town of Sheffield had a very extensive network of 'tram-lines', and I grew up riding the tram. Unlike Sheffield's system, which were exclusively double-decker' trams, Blackpool's trams were single deckers, and, if memory serves me, only ran on the beach front, known as The Promenade, or 'The Prom'.

After spending some time in the Tower, the base of which was surrounded by several theaters, arcades, and stores, and maybe riding up to the top of the tower, (900 feet comes to mind, for some reason), the time would come when the pull of the pleasure beach could no longer be fought. Onto the tram we would jump, being very careful to pay the one penny fare, and we would strain to see the roller coaster.

Blackpool was a very popular destination with us kids, because it always meant a very late return home, usually in the wee hours of the morning. Blackpool was only ninety miles from Sheffield, but a late start on the return journey was necessary because of what made Blackpool famous! Blackpool Illuminations!

Between the Tower and the Pleasure Beach, was The Golden Mile.' The beach front road in every resort town in England is known as 'The Prom', but only Blackpool has the 'Golden Mile'. This was a very wide street, eight lanes, with two tram tracks, parking on both sides, and, to us, the most fantastic sight in the whole world. Stretched out between each lamp post, and across the street, were literally hundreds of animated, lighted displays, in every color of the rainbow.

The 'illuminations' were not a permanent fixture, but left everybody who saw them breathless with delight. As we always went on the trip in the summer, it stayed light quite late, and, of course, there was no point running the Golden Mile until it got dark, we always got what we considered a bonus, we got to stay up past our bed time.Traffic was always extremely heavy after dark, that was the other reason we got home late.

Now we come to Blackpool's other claim to fame.Blackpool Rock is a very popular confection in England, other coastal resorts make it, but their's always pales in comparison to the monsters made in Blackpool.Slightly thicker than a broom handle, and 18 inches long, Blackpool Rock is unique in that the words Blackpool Rock are visible on the end of the 'stick', and go all the way through to the other end. The letters are simply different colored candy, the whole thing being made from sugar and coloring. The Rock is meant for sucking, it is usually wrapped in waxed paper, and was the first English 'fast-food'.No trip to Blackpool was considered a success unless Rock and Humbugs were bought.

Humbugs were a peppermint candy, quite large, and were shaped like the 'Tetra-Pak'. This is a rather unique shape, almost unexplainable, (by me, anyway), but one format was individual coffee cream containers, albeit much smaller.

Blackpool Rock, as long as the excess paper was re-twisted, had a very long shelf life, important in an era when 'fridges were exclusive to the rich in England.

All in all, it was considered a 'good' trip if you threw up on the roller coaster, or in the bus on the way home.

I saw Jimmy Clitheroe in Blackpool. 1965 (I think), at the Winter Garden. Susan Maughan was on with him. When he came on stage he threw his cap like a frisbee, and it landed on a hatstand. He also did it when he was in Aladdin at the Lyceum. Never saw him fail.