I was born in a metal foundry produced from pig iron. There are those who say we had a previous existence as other objects. Some claim they used to be paperclips, others claim to have been part of bridges. I don’t believe a word of it – bollards we are and bollards we have always been. Pig iron not a nice name is it? But there we are; none of us choose our parents, nor should we reject what we are, and pigs are intelligent creatures so perhaps we are the most intelligent of metals.
Anyway I was part of a consignment made in Stoke-on-Trent for British Waterways. Hundreds of us all laid together in wooden boxes. We were bright not too shiny but no rust. Don’t go thinking we were rusty we were young, the world was, well, not our oyster but perhaps our crucible. We didn’t know what the future held. We sat in our boxes outside the steel works watching boats go by on the adjacent canal. Our boxes had been left open-topped and occasionally one of those birds would drop the remains of their dinner on us. Don’t you just hate it when that happens?
There was excitement in the box at the thought that we might be part of the canal world. We enjoyed the thought that our life would be devoted to helping the boats that glide past. Perhaps we would become famous, appearing in photographs of canals. Perhaps we would be able to sit in the sunshine embedded in grass. Although there is a rumour that some people sit on us to catch fish. I don’t think that I would like to be sat on. Particularly by fishermen, who some say are grumpy, particularly near towns. I would much prefer to be out in the country next to my own lock. It does not matter to me which end of the lock but you probably get a better view from the top of the lock than at the bottom.
There’s been a discussion as to where in the bollard line you would like to be. I don’t think there’s a preference, don’t think there’s an advantage. They say you can be abused if you’re the furthest from the lock as boaters use you to tie to; sometimes they can block the lock by doing that so I wouldn’t like to be there. I definitely don’t want to be by a water point. All that water will rust me and people do spend the night on water points when they are too idle to find a proper mooring. Don’t want to be involved in that because one boater told me - he talks to bollards and things, his name is David, he told me of a boat at Devizes that spent all night and most of the day moored up on a water point. And when David came to get water with his boat, (which he has named after himself – big ego little rivet we always say) he couldn’t get near the water point. Said the boat was covered in empty tins of beer.
Hang on, here’s me riveting on and there’s something happening. We are moving, fork lift trucks putting us on flat bed lorries. Lots of chatter from my fellow bollards clinking and chunking. Nice white cab with the British Waterways insignia on the door. It’s good to be part of an organisation that has lots of money. They do say British Waterways get millions and millions from the sale of land, but the boaters are still charged more each year. Sustainable waterways having to manage without subsidy but the railways get much more, hundreds of times more, and the roads, well they cost billions. Surely the millions raised like that from Wood Wharf which is being developed in London next to Docklands should keep the waterways going. But what do I know. I am just a thick bollard, not like those clever people at Watford. They just keep thinking up more ideas to raise money from boaters. I wouldn’t be able to do that. I just want to help boaters, not make them poor.
Gawd, look at the traffic. No chance to put your foot down, you can hardly move. When we did get a gap the lorry driver got flashed by a speed camera. Who would travel by road? Not me, rail's no better they say. We could have been shunted into a siding and forgotten about, just like some of the passengers. Here we go, here’s the canal. What’s it called? ‘Rochdale’. Rochdale. Wasn’t that Gracie Fields' home? We should be alright here; nice friendly northerners not like those southerners. We are being dropped in different areas. Let’s hope we get a lock or a nice mooring by a garden. Don’t want to be by a pub. I hear you get – shush - peed on - it’s true they say. It's people coming out of the pub, and don’t get me on the subject of doggy doos. There’s one woman big in many ways with a foghorn voice, has opinions on everything, but lets her pack of dogs go everywhere, just lets them loose from the boat.
Ohh! someone is picking me up. Nice soft warm hands, it’s a contractor for BW. I’m being put by a new concrete lock right next to the lock side. Good views. No grass though, just rough soil and concrete chippings. That hole's not going to be big enough. That hole needs to be much deeper. Where’s the BW men of old? These contractors don’t know what they are doing. Don’t hit me with that hammer, just make the hole bigger. Ulch that hurt.
I was out of there for a while. They think that hitting me with a sledge hammer will have no affect as I’m a fathead bollard. Still, they have gone now. Left the surroundings in a mess. My shoulders are above the ground level instead of deep down and no white paint. I’m naked. Still, it’s a good spot. I can see the traffic on the adjacent motorway cars and lorries rushing up and down. You would think they all would come to an agreement and stay where they are instead of the top half of the country heading south, and the bottom half going north.
Boaters have begun to use the lock - haughty private boaters who think they know what they are doing. Out for two weeks a year and know it all - banging the front gate and bumping the back. Arguments between married couples because they think no one is listening. Did they always argue? When they were young and courting did they argue then or has it come with sagging bodies and disillusionment; I often wonder. One-speed hire boaters rushing in, banging the lock sides, making me tremble. Splintering the lock gate as they can’t stop in time.
Hang on here comes that David character. He should know what he’s doing, he writes in the magazines. Yep, in nicely not touching the sides, bit fast. He’s hopping off the back with his rope in one hand and his camera in the other. Rope looped round me, taking a picture of the view, not paying attention and the rope is tightening, boat's going too fast. Argh! the rope is pulling me out of the ground. Help. Too late, here I go ripped out of the ground. It will be years before a BW maintenance crew comes out here and I will rust away, a lifetime wasted. That’s me out and naked in the cold wet air, damn, now he’s taking a photo of me, I’m rusting away and he’s taking a photograph. What’s he mean it’s not his fault? Came in too fast. Look on the bright side. I might come back as part of a 20 ton battle tank, that would be good, or Nicole Kidman’s foot scraper that would be even better. Bye. Not his fault!
