THE PAD
I blew in 67' just before the pad as my dad called it was besieged by violence, he was an olde Ardoyner raised on a doorstep in Herbert st.
He never knew his parents just aunt Sarah who was a mill worker at the local flax st mill where she lost
three fingers, sarah was a drab woman who scrubbed her doorstep every day as if awaiting a man of miracle to enter her two up to down home, when she wasn't home she was at the holy cross church praying to the miracle man. I was only six when we went to Ardoyne, I don't remember to much of living in London just a block of coucil flats where you put rubbish in a shute, a tin pedal car and my brother cutting his hand and being caught in a pram in a lift on the isle of dogs.
The people of Ardoyne became my friends and family, I live in County Armagh now but I still call Ardoyne home, It was like living in one big home, I could go anywhere in the district and i felt so safe and secure,
everyone knew me as their son, to this day i have never met a tighter community of people. When I first went there it was like stepping back into another time, a Dickensian world of cobble streets where children swung around gas lampost's now conveted to electricity and rough looking boys played football in the street.
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