IN A week or two, the book I’m editing – a tribute to Ken Loach and Kes – it will be ready to send to the publishers.

The task of collecting and editing the stories has been thrilling and the tales told will evoke laughter and sometimes tears.

Altogether there are 44 pieces of outstanding work by professional authors, intellectuals, film-makers, trade unionists, artists, musicians, journalists – plus five submissions from people who actually acted in the iconic film. But what I believe will delight Ken more than anything – because it fits in with his modus operandi -– is the number of marvellous contributions made by ordinary people who’ve never had anything published before in their lives.

Only two contributions didn’t pass muster because, although they were of a good standard, they came from an overt sympathiser of the far-right. And as you might well know, Ken Loach would never entertain those of that ilk.

The self-publishing costs will be funded by me with later reimbursement through book sales.

Any residue (and I expect a lot) will be donated to a cause of Ken’s choice.

Below is one tale from the book, picked out at random, which might whet your appetite.

LOST IN TRANSLATION

By Gerald Platts

I used to live in a house at Hoyland, next door to the one temporarily used by Billy Casper’s fictional family.

During the summer of 1968, Ken Loach, Tony Garnett, and all the film crew and actors, descended on Parkside Road to shoot part of the movie. It was a thrilling time for everyone on the street because none of us had ever before witnessed a movie being made. The guy appointed as stills photographer, Mike Barnett, made it known to my father that he needed accommodation for a few weeks whilst the filming was undertaken.

“I might be able to fix you up,” said my father. “We’ve a spare room.”

So, Mike came to lodge with us for a few weeks and we all got on like a house on fire.

However, he did have a serious problem tuning in to the Barnsley accent, but nobody’s perfect.

Many-a-time we would say something to him and he would cock his head to one side as if he hadn’t heard.

That was a sign that we had to put on our posh voice to be understood.

Each evening, Mike would return from his work on the set and deliver some sort of funny story – and it was usually because of a verbal misunderstanding.

On the day they shot the football scene, Mike arrived back at our house to tell us this:

“You’ll never guess in a month of Sundays, what happened today,” he announced, as we sat eating our tea.

“This morning, Ken Loach paid for the fire brigade to come onto the football field to flood it with thousands of gallons of water.

It turned a hard summer football pitch into a winter quagmire. Some areas were soon ankle deep in mud.”

(Mike stopped talking while he chewed his ham salad.)

“You wouldn’t believe how filthy some of the lads became as they slid into tackles.

“My job was to take snaps of them as they got back in the changing room and showered – being careful not to photograph anything inappropriate.

“I was talking to a colleague at the time, when a lad, caked up with mud, approached me with his towel wrapped around his waist.

“’Have you got any soo-up?’ he asked, hopping, impatiently, from one foot to the other.

“’Erm... I’m sorry. Didn’t quite catch that.’

“The lad breathed out, irritated. ‘I said, have you got any soo-up?’

“I looked at my colleague, hoping for some sort of interpretation but he just shrugged his shoulders.

“’Look, I really am terribly sorry,’ I told the lad, looking all apologetic. ‘But what is it you’re asking for? Is it soup you want?’”

“’Soup? No!’ he bawled, impatiently. ‘I’m after some soo-up. You know what soo-up is, don’t you? It’s that stuff you rub between your hands and it meks bubbles.’

“’Ah! That kind of soo-up! Well why didn’t you say?

“Yes, there’s plenty of soap on that draining tray over there.’”