ALAN WHALLEY'S WORLD

THE computer age could eventually key us into a sort of 'civil war' situation, according to a 60-year-old customer of this column who'd like to see much of today's modern technology chucked on the scrapheap.

Peter Haselden of Park Road, Newton-le-Willows, bases this grim prediction upon his belief that, as computer-driven robots are increasingly introduced into the workplace, unemployment will go ever further through the roof.

And as only a few would then be able to earn a living, he argues, it stands to sense that the have-nots would go to war to grab their share of the cake.

Our prophet of doom might be the first to admit, though, that his views are rather coloured by happy memories of an uncomplicated, though hard-up, childhood.

"I was born in Acorn street, Newton, in 1936 and wouldn't have missed my childhood for the world," he explains.

No such thing as computers then, as a P.H. in knee-pants tackled his homework. "As a kid, I would sit drawing at the kitchen table. All I had was a pencil, a T-square, a stick with inches measured on it and a jam-jar lid for a compass.

"If dad wasn't in the ale-house, he'd help me out with my problems. I'd no screen to gaze at; or buttons to push."

Despite his humble upbringing, our Newtonian chum proudly declares: "What a lucky person I was! We had a warm coal fire in the front room. Mother cooked on it , and we also had a gas-ring in the back room, sitting on a sixpenny orange box from Lightfoot's shop."

Yet by all accounts his mother was a culinary genius. In emphasising this, P.H. no doubt risks a flutter of matrimonial disharmony by adding: "I wish my wife could cook as good." Our controversial correspondent hasn't a lot of time for modern housewives. "Most of them need a computer to help them boil water, or make a round of toast," he says challengingly. (Do I detect a trace of the Victor Meldrews there?)

One of his happier memories from times past is of the frequent visits to an aunt and uncle living in Viaduct Street, Earlestown. They had 13 children . . . "and during the last war the older sons used to take me to the Yankee dump on Newton Common.

"It was a magic place," recalls P.H., who used to fill his pockets with odd bits and pieces, such as aircraft rivets of all sizes and colours and finely-threaded nuts and bolts.

Pockets bulging, he'd then wend his way towards nearby Stephenson's Cottage, named in honour of the Rocket's creator.

"If lucky, we'd see an express crossing the Nine Arches Bridge, spanning the canal, from the direction of Liverpool. He'd apply his brakes to make his stop at Newton. What a glorious sight!"

Back in the 'forties, P.H. and his brother had a crystal set which they kept in dad's hen shed. "At night, by candle-light, we'd let local lads inside to listen to programmes like Dick Barton, Special Agent.

"One night, a lad knocked the candle into the nest-box, setting it ablaze. I punched him in the ear-hole and he ran off home, crying. But his dad only laughed and said: 'So young Haselden nearly had a fried egg for his supper.'"

A rather unfeeling response. But that's how things were among many families of that era.

One of the world's power houses in those bygone times was the Vulcan Foundry, turning out steam locomotives for export around the globe. Some of these clattering old-timers are still in service within Third World countries.

"If only," P.H. signs off, "we could take all this Japanese software to the local scrapyard and start all over again."

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.