High Noon To Midnight - Drawings by Graham Ibbeson and Words by Paul Thwaites

o High No n to Midnight Drawings by

Graham Ibbeson Words by

Paul Thwaites

High Noon to Midnight

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№ / 100

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Contents

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Foreword

06–07

Flippertigibbett

32–33

Preface

08–09

Guardian

34–35

Against the Tide

10–11

High Flier

36–37

Basin Net

12–13

38–39

Bored

14–15

Hines Sight.

(Knave of Hearts).

Borne Aparte

16–17

In Be T Weaner

40–41

Bulldicca

18–19

Low Flyer (Ica Rust!)

42–43

Carol Nation.

20–21

Minister

44–45

Changeling

22–23

*Minnie Ha! Ha!

46–47

Childe Valkyrie

24–25

Spotter

48–49

Diplo Ma. (Battle of the Sexes)

26 –27

Tin Soldier

50–51

Under Sail

52–53

Drive

28–29

Texas Street. Ranger

54–55

Fallen Angel.

30–31

Acknowledgements

56–57

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Foreword As a woman proud to be born and bred in South Yorkshire who as Lord-Lieutenant now has the honour of being Her Majesty the Queen’s personal representative in that same county, you may wonder why it is I who have the utter privilege of leading you by the hand into this work.

My connection with these two local men, has probably been very much like yours. I viewed them as a pair of mighty oaks, with far-reaching branches into the heady world of international art yet with firm, solid, dependable roots in our country, our county, our community.

I’ve known of Graham’s work for many years. My parents talked of his representations of people who we knew from the black and white telly in the corner, characters from films and things I knew about having grown up around here. We all knew about the Miners, Eric Morecambe, Cary Grant, Benny Hill … of course we did but my real-life connection didn’t come until the end of last year, on the unveiling of one of the world’s first Covid memorials in Barnsley town centre; Graham’s sculpture, Paul’s spoken words, the NHS poem.

Graham and Paul are two artists who have grown up together, played together, “been daft” together and happen to be cousins. The utter strength of their relationship based on years of kinship is palpable when you meet them and that connection emanates from the pages of this volume.

The drawings emerged from a period of adversity in Graham’s life when he was so ill, he couldn’t lift a bag of clay. The drawings served as a channel for creative output free from the inevitable control that comes with commissioned work. He asked Paul to pen the words but afforded him the freedom to spread his wings rather than write words to directly accompany each drawing. The result of that is a collection of independent, yet strangely

co-dependant pieces, each amplifying the other, bringing it to life and taking it to another plane. What emerges are drawings and words; multidimensional, contrasting yet blended, a representation of a profound and unbreakable mutual understanding and a shared and deep love of family.

These men are self-effacing, funny, warm and humbling in their modesty, both craving anonymity yet luckily for us, thrust into the public eye and ear. Their work gives us a glimpse back into our youth when we went missing all day and came in when the streetlights came on. They bring back our heroes; angels, cowboys, pilots, sailors and knaves. For a few blissful moments, they take us back to a world of make-believe, dreams, hope and fantasy, “let’s pretend”….

Allow yourself to imagine, to smile, to reminisce, to cry, to be immersed in, to enjoy a blissful peek into the embers of childhood.

Professor Dame Hilary A Chapman DBE RN HM Lord-Lieutenant of South Yorkshire (June 2022)

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Preface It has been a pleasure and a privilege to write the poems, which will accompany the drawings of Graham Ibbeson in this collection to acknowledge his 70th birthday. I have grown up alongside Graham, being fortunate enough to be his cousin, friend and, more importantly, as far as the development of his work and aspects of this preface are concerned; his “playmate.”

That we were children, who spent our youth in the heydays of the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s, has not only influenced our attitudes, but also the content of our respective creative process.

When Harold Macmillan declared in 1957, that the British Public had “never had it so good,” he was referencing a period in British Post – War history, which introduced, additionally in the UK a rise in national optimism. Advances in technology after the war saw an increase in personal autonomy.

A new wave of individualism and aspiration had been born. For a start, the practice of mass inoculation revolutionised medicine and increased life expectancy and quality as many diseases, previously deemed fatal, came under the control of mass vaccination.

Gaining momentum from the first diphtheria vaccinations in the nineteen forties and the newly created NHS in 1948, there followed innoculation programmes for polio, MMR, BCG and Smallpox, which rolled out across the next three decades. Smallpox being eradicated globally in 1978.

In addition private bathing facilities and bathrooms, family telephones, televisions and automobiles, which once had been afforded by the well to do, became available to all. Increases in mass production, which had become necessary to support the war effort, meant an increased exposure to beneficial technology for everybody. The increasing affluence of the Working Classes, allowed them to escape their downtrodden, class ridden image, and aspire, in the way of their American counterparts, to

a better life. A plethora of working class artists showed their capabilty, becoming the “Working Class Heroes,” of a new creative generation.

The Beatles, Hockney, The Liverpool Poets and the Angry Young Playwrights of the sixties, some without the conventional University Education, were produced in this ferment of upward mobility. A new style was born, Carnaby Street brought new influences into fashion and new buildings such as the Gibberd designed Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral completed in 1967 and the Coventry Cathedral, consecrated in 1962 complete with its Epstein sculpture, became symbolic of a national pride resurrecting from the ashes of a destructive war.

For two little working class boys growing up in this milieu, the sky seemed to be the limit.

In 1961, when Yuri Gagarin made the first orbit of the planet and in 1969, when Aldrin and Armstrong walked upon the moon, what had been the stuff of childhood fantasy, suddenly entered the realms of the possible. It is hardly surprising, then, that much of Graham’s work is a paean to such optimism and yet it also contains a certain wistfulness, a lament for lost naivety and innocent belief. Despite this, such naivety is not wholly rooted in childhood, but also focuses on the credulity in pipe – dreams, that were once the aspirations of the working class. Graham, with integrity, has honoured his roots in the many civic sculptures he has produced of working people. Depicting their triumph over adversity.

The attitude of Graham’s personal work, as opposed to the large body of civic work he has undertaken, is able to gestalt for the observer a nostalgic era of change. The “land of milk and honey,” becomes not only possible, but also desirable. His iconography distils time and emotion and brings to life, such motifs as the tin bath, (symbolic of his mining heritage), the snake belt, (a common prized possession of 50’s and 60’s children), the “tin” sheriff’s star, (redolent of an innocent era of “cowboy and Indians) of childrens’ games of the period. His boy sculptures have partings and short back and sides hairstyles, the girls the braids and plaits of the era, harking back to a longed for, simpler

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time, a time of romance, a time when heroes and heroines were well defined and identifiable just like the period from which they came.

The Romanticism in Graham’s art cannot be ignored. The primacy of the individual is celebrated in his image of childhood and the “dream days,” of imaginative play. An old doggerel comes to mind, of the “what are little boys made of ?..” genre. Many of Graham’s portrayals of children have a pugilistic, or militaristic attitude, for the boys, definitely a “rats and snails and puppy dog’s tails,” inference. The girl images however, are different, they show a more sensible sensitivity, they are often portrayed as leaders, queens, ministers or judges, more stable, the givers into society, rather than the conquerors of it. It is interesting to note that he has endowed many of his female images with wings, they have become angels, they are “sugar and spice,” and able, with their down to earth attitudes, to rise above the “airy fairy” exploits of their male counterparts. This is not “pie in the sky,” it reflects Graham’s genuine faith in the self – belief of the self made man or woman.

It appreciates the value of possibility.

It is no mistake that the artist often refers to the fantastical, the world of animation and cartoon, its belief in the impossible becoming possible. Popeye, Laurel and Hardy, The Bash Street Kids, Superman and Batman have all been sources of inspiration. Such characters give us a flavour of what our dreams may be.

They shine a beam of hope into a mundane world. Neither does it come as any surprise, that much of Graham’s Civic work has been commissioned to represent persons from the world of entertainment in all its forms. As an artist, he champions that which would “take us out of ourselves,” that we may transcend both with laughter and with pathos, the merely commonplace.

Finally I come to that point, to which a close observation of the work has led me. Although much of the imagery is (Quasi Modo), seeming approximately to represent the almost, or super human, it also, in its execution gives a nod to that style which is Neo Classicism and is

evidenced in the amount of detail and “tongue in cheek” realism with which Graham imbues his characters. The casual viewer is thrown into a quandary, enabled to ask him/herself is this image real, or unreal.

For me, that lends the work a peculiar, Metaphysical quality. Although at first reading, the poems may seem to have a certain incongruity with the imagery, it is this, engendered by my own deeper observation of the work, which has inspired me. Throughout, Graham has said that his own work and mine should “remain alone,” I am grateful that he has not tried to influence me in any way. The result is a juxtaposition of styles that in their amalgamation, creates something new and separate, a third art form, so to speak. Graham’s images force many questions that we ask both of ourselves and the world we inhabit. I have questioned Graham’s work with my own and the result is the book you now have before you.

The world is presented by both artist and poet in a way that shows at the same time both its hope and impossibility. It brings together the feasible and absurd. In the way of all good art, we hope it is unsettling enough to make us question our cherished notions and beliefs.

Paul Thwaites (April 2021)

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Against the Tide

Fishes out of water, we, Are little bouys, floating on love’s pedestal, Against the tide to swim and be thus held In safety’s bosom by belief, Though far beneath dark fathoms run, Doubt’s undercurrents bare their teeth.

Through watery tempest, then, press on, For something solid lifts us here, And cheats the abysses of fear, To brave the coming swell, Yet far beneath, We sink without relief.

Equipped then ride abreast, The dark sea’s turbulence, What waves may make ~ Little fish, in big ponds wake, And onward hence, Go with the flow to face downstream, Their different strokes to pull, From murky depth and clouding silt, Across the platforms they have built, To reach the horizons of a dream.

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Basin Net

Little pudding, Caught between two bowls ~ Floating Moses in his bassinet, Ova domestic, Buddha of the bowls ~ Bulbed in your many layers, Wake in your seat ~ Stare with astonishment of God, Self – contained, Who is the world’s cocoon, Dawn explained.

From reptilian dreams you grow, Shed skin, Break Easter’s dreams ~ Of new beginning.

Shed your scales, come new, From upturned tin ~ Gaze on tomorrow little bowl ~ Think what you have given, Think the soul.

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Bored

Sometimes he gets under your skin, Persistent as shipworms, Swarf of you squirming like Slinky, Out of your mind, A Kaiser Bill helmet, spiky as hell ~ “I’m bored!” he says.

Twist, turn, you can’t get freed, Skewered!

A narwhal pins you down with it’s need, Face behind gigs, Goading the open wound of conscience, Got medals for it!

Pet lip, set in defiance, Insolent, strange brew, Subversive, Worm going underground, Down to the nitty gritty, Turns the screw ~ Comes on like a tank commander, Popped from the hatch to test the land, Strategy and thread Knows what strings to pull Messes with your head!

Blatant in ennui, Buddha from Bali, Stares from a spired crown, Subtle as a rhino charge, His single horn, Pins your shortcomings, Writes them large, And spears you like a unicorn!

Try to stand your ground, He’s got you sussed, the little man, Truculent, to the point, Faceless as the Ku Klux Klan, His nose put out of joint.

And pinioned he makes you laugh, Authority’s last epitaph, That has you floored ~ “Screw you! Screw you! I’m bored!”

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Borne Aparte

Why so thoughtful, little general?

Bicorn hat, folded, en bataille, Wondering what hearts you’ll conquer, Some future day ~ Empress of the origami, What oceans deep beneath that sail, Could launch a thousand ships, Or raise an army, Steadfast chin, nonchalant pigtail.

Is it, you gaze, to distant battle?

Lead us child, to deal in hope, Bouyed by the lifebelt of your triumphs, Stare at life’s flickering zoetrope, Take the field, land the beach, Let aspiration reach.

My seaside Bonaparte; “impossible,” A word you do not understand, No dictionary of fools can halt, The changing tide from lands, Who keep the poles apart, And holds this globe within your hands.

So to tomorrow, little general, Other times, another place, Make the world your own, my girl, Let me rest my case, Sit, await your coup d’etat, Ambition freed to soar like birds, And dream in skies of sepia, One picture, a thousand words.

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Bulldicca

Here she comes, the bulldog breed, Misfortune will not scupper, Her firm set chin, her fearless stare, Her lip, stiff upper ~ She’s a lass built of that creed, In whom resolve is burning, The expression says it all, agreed, * “The lady’s not for turning!” *“Close up no wall with English dead!”

Her spirit’s very much alive, Steadfast till the end, her head, Firm on her shoulders, will survive, *Just as “those feet in ancient time,” On England’s backbone made their stance, Gritty as the dark Pennines, Doggedly she’ll dance.

Brave as Boudicca, she’ll surf, *And wait for neither “time nor tide,” *The “meek do not inherit earth,” But those hard driven by their pride.

Therefore on this broad back you launch, Stout bride, to shrug off any sorrow, Roll with the punches, strong and staunch, To new tomorrow.

New Brittania this child, Is Albion’s daughter, sent to save, Futures for us, reconciled, Head on to face the coming wave.

Persistent through our term of trial, New daughter of an untold story, Prepared to go another mile, Ride the bulldog back to glory.

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Carol Nation.

With hope you knight me, queen, Lay claim, To this short solstice, where I sing, Praises to Saturn ~ And to you, My name I bring, Invested of this ancient gene, Carrying hence the sword, Of our inheritance and word.

Proud you bear a paper crown, My monarch child, Your day to seize, This rudis in your hand, A future frees, For crowned with paper, Or with thorn, We come to know another dawn.

What in this black shift you mourn?

On these poor shoulders place your blade, My noble child ~ Grieve not the past, Raise the future you have made, From later days: New mornings praise.

And let your majesty step forth, No more to sorrow, But bound, For richer gifts, More than diadems are worth ~ Love and gentleness are crowned, To inherit earth, Such gifts you give and on this head confer, Tomorrow’s blessings, morning air.

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Changeling

From that peak look down, Top of the world, a new resolve, Redemption’s in your frown.

Winged one come here, solve, New dawns of innocent offence, Heal the doctors bags of tricks, Let Love commence.

Step forward, bold, right, foot, In simple shift, beyond the fringe, With obstinate resign, Wake from squalid sleep Shadows that impinge, Heal with new intent, The rifts of law and bring a new design.

Wake us, child, Display the content of your heart, Unleash that angry Love, Rending ignorance apart.

Heal this wound of fools, Gaze with darkened eye, Though be not harsh, For we, as you, are children too, In Time’s long march.

Come with dark countenance, And spend your ire, Stem this world’s uneasy blood, Cauterise these veins with fire, All we squander and defile, The sun has risen in your eye, And new dawns smile.

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Childe Valkyrie

Give cold shoulder to the sinister, Innocence armoured and bright clad, Toga purpled warrior, To scan the distant field of battle.

Come, my winged daughter, Claim souls of the brave with eyes of sea, Who choose to sit in far Valhalla, Sweet meaded child in gilded time, Will you choose me?

Bear your flaxen braid, three stranded, Plait of life, of birth, of death, Dawn fresh to this battleground, Seeded with heroic breath.

Call forth my daughter, Asgard’s song, Flame the ships upon the water, Faith rewards the strong.

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Diplo Ma. (Battle of the Sexes)

East is east, west, west, Never twin shall meet, Cold wars continue deadlocks hold, Who’ll then, admit defeat?

Liberty may separate, Love’s balance tip the scale, Rough justice best to mete, Not fail.

Angelic forces pull apart, The dogs of war, Long they posture and they pout, Cannot settle on a score, One grave gesture of the heart, Punts no favourites here, All are equal in Love’s eyes, The wager’s clear.

Common ground, both factions grip, A “no man’s land,” Both is held alike, they will not slip, How fierce they stand, Tired tradition’s, ivory towers defend, Child ambitions understand, Pulled apart to bring us peace, When the deadlocks cease.

East is east, west, west, Round, round, we go, In war or peace, Until the seas have ceased to flow ~ Love holds fate in passive hands, Infinitely understands, What Eternities we know ~ The child is father of the man, Above as below.

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Drive

“Head like a colander!” they said, “Arguments full of holes!”

Ignored them anyway, Fixed firm eyes upon the road ahead, Such distant goals.

“Off on his Soap – Box, once again, Wind him up and watch him go,” Keep shoulders to the wheel, Each hole lets light in, Through a mind of steel.

Grip tight, keep hold, Always steer, A route from bigotry, Or fear ~ And if they want to “shoot you through,” That’s just fine, Keep a focus on the Winning Line.”

Go forward, Brave the winds of change Set face, Your on the final straight This Human race, Life’s engine is to be alive, To equal black and white you drive, Make that chequered flag, survive.

Imagination gives the cart, Wheels to run on axles of the heart.

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Fallen Angel

Heal the broken chance, Distant sadness of the eyes, Runner up, an also ran, Reserved to claim, what prize?

Return here, when your wings have grown, Claim love before it dies.

Make journey back, For you have flown, Too close the sun, And are downcast, My fallen angel of the earth, Hearts and wings both grown, Our measured worth.

No braided roses tress your hair, Simple blooms, gold as sun, Shine sorrowed child, Light in your hands And Life begun.

Heal this broken chance, For Sun may dip, And later rise, Then quell that lip and dry those eyes.

Do not look back, There is no angel with a flaming sword, My Eden’s little bird, For you are heaven fledged, And give the sky your word.

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Flippertigibbett

You may grow up to be a mermaid, Bathed in a dream sea, Far seeing, Blue tomorrows, Day flipped on it’s head ~ A font of stone has birthed you, Limpet grasping fast to grasp the pinnacle, And face tomorrows coming tide.

What horizons ride, Safe in coracle, Bobbing waves as if you knew Some oracle, Delivered of the sea Fins, a tail, the dolphin way, Wise as old salts who tame the sway, Sail, sail away.

Distant pools that stare Whilst worlds capsize, Feel sea wrack in your hair, Bear swell of war, Break tooth, take claw, Come down to size.

Time is a trophy that you wear, How deep to dive, Beneath the tide my mermaid love, Oh swim, thrive.

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Guardian

To what horizons scan your eyes, What distant daydreams of tomorrow, Time flies, such innocence to sorrow, Knowing how time makes its offence.

You are a warrior, my child, Fixed stare upon distant day, Baton aloft in lofty dreams, Of all tomorrow’s conquering, Upon the wooden horse of your ambition.

Take arms then, fly, Defend the household cavalry, Braid short these plaited days, Soft on your ear, The sky is yours there easy go, Bellerophon on Pegasus To chase the heady winds of change.

Topple to your sword, new dawns, Wake washed with blood, Each waking day?

You are the sun in dawn, Breaking the world with light your own Come with fire, Dark doubt slay.

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High Flier

Faith gives us wings that we may fly, Beyond all limiting belief, Hearts to reach the further sky, And make a blessing of naivety.

Therefore you come with open arms, Outstretched in child like joy, to soar, And glide aloft from life’s alarms, And cloudy grief.

Of ether born, In azure daydreams sown, Raising the choruses of dawn, By heaven’s shore flown~ Innocence will take your wings, Lifted in truth, Why ask the skylark why it sings, The far unknown?

Celestial dreams haunt sleep Cherubims who own the air, Higher than all doubt they leap, Tall on imaginations stair, Then leave behind this earth, And go already there.

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Hines Sight.

(Knave of Hearts).

Cannot tame you, nor be tamed More noble grows the widening gyre,* Make arc in cloud and will be famed, To forge this coaly child in Phoenix fire, Soaring aloft the lowly place of knaves, Casts off the world to treasure then, A Casper* boy, From joy of common things to soar, From earthy round to take his wings.

Finer things in realms of flight, The fancy takes, “Mere anarchy*, to clutch, Fast to its gauntlet where a love be welt, Yoked to conquered sky and tutored still, Of the weld purpose that will King a Knave, Coach a common pawn to Knight.

Wild sylphs, are we who break the bound, Of this grave earth and common herity, Stooped to take the taloned sun, In rising dawns ~ *“The falcon cannot hear the falconer”, But will return, To raptored rapture of his days, This jessied fortune freed, By captive hearts to fierce appraise, Loves quarry and its deed.

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In Be T Weaner

Sometime you will leave this place, Feel air beneath broad wings, Fledged from comfort of the pap’s dirigible Make the sky your own.

Far away the sun has called, Out of womb’s tomb, traveller, Pulled by the light of born days.

You go not far ~ Mother ship lies empty, Drifts in uterine darkness, Suckled on tomorrow, The Zeppelin cockpit of your struggles, Incandescent ~ Departure is a bird of sorrow, Discovery, a death of innocence, Feel its draw, Sure as wave washed shores, Unknown, A distant lore.

Find life, go weaned, From every nipple once sustained, Free and weightless, Of earth’s umbilicus, Endless soar, On Angel wings.

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Low Flyer (Ica Rust!)

The *only way is up, they say, Come here, toss the sky around, Jerry on the head a para’s way, In case you get too near the sun, Dreams made of wax, Wings undone!

Here’s what hope is: Standing in belief, Fibrillating like a Mayfly, Always bound to fall, die ~ *Old Masters knew, About suffering, they were never wrong ~ They knew the limits of the sky.

Stand up then, Icarus, boy, Wings on your sleeve, Worn on your heart, a distant star Melts with time, Ask Father Daedalus, Child like, impudent with desire, Aim not too high, There outs a greater fire.

Life’s a labyrinth we would surmount, *Slip surly bonds of earth, Take air, become the fount Of all transcendence, Once where sandaled angels trod.

Yet here, on earth, we see ~ *A boy falling out of sky, In this *untrespasssed sanctity, Meteoric to rise and *touch the face of God, Like Adam’s finger at Creations call, Or Icarus in Heaven, ere the Fall.

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Minister

Time has fledged you, Pensive child, Returned in sackcloth days to minister, Full life within your grasp.

By simple cord being bound, Cut the world’s umbilical, Bring simple freshness, To hallowed ground.

All winged tomorrow clasp ~ And thoughtful silence be your word, Mulling the earth’s uneasy day, Angelus who has come home, To roost the heart’s new way.

Something of heaven comes here, Saviour of the dawn, Restored to be reborn, Love’s souvenir.

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*Minnie Ha! Ha!

Minnie HaHa, Laughing Water, Come to us Earth’s sultry daughter, Face to face and meanly glaring, Is it with the truth you’re staring?

Eye asquint, lip filled with scorn, Can you be symbol of the Dawn?

Stepping forth with both guns blazing, Raised brow like a new sun raising?

Something makes your truth’s stare tickly, For inside the cactus prickly, Minnie Ha Ha, fierce and wild, Beats the soft heart of a child, Tames the condor and the vulture, Omens from a different culture, Straights the billhook, blunts the talons, Brings to the world a sense of balance.

Poke fingers and accuse with fun, The smoking barrel of a gun, One eye fast shut, one wide to sight, The ending of the Nations’ fight, David’s Star upon your chest, You meet the twain of east and west,* And hold the future in both hands, Returning Peace into the Lands.

Braid then, the strands of every Nation, Plaited to Unification, Build a band aid bridge to span, To right and left, unite each clan, Until our minds, our hearts awake, In Ouroborus circling snake.* Minnie HaHa, sow the seed, Of Peace the little child shall lead, Rough beasts with softer to lie down,* And sow for us a proving ground, For what immortal hand or eye, Could frame your fearful symmetry?

Minnie Ha Ha take us forth, Like an arrow shooting North, Wisdom reach from Pole to Pole, Uniting Mind and Heart and Soul, From heavy weather, bring us ease, Beneath white feather of your Peace, Minnie Ha Ha, Laughing Water, Indeed you are Tomorrow’s Daughter.

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Spotter

Devil at four o’clock, Watch the skies, Grandad’s dinghy galvanised, Historic ancestry, Bare kneed, short sleeved Distant as summer, Scanning horizons; history ~ You will not be lost, Kamikazes break no soul, Out of a screaming heaven.

Days grow small like ghosts, Back to front binoculars, Reduce those fears, Once you have grown, in years.

A trophy hachimaki taken, Triumphant crown, Wrapped with Pharoh’s snake, Sealing the casket of your dreams, Out of the harbour blown~ Still the future floats, Frail raft, Moses in his rushy boat, The sacred Nile, Bringing to Egypt, Wisdom’s Pearl, No days defile.

Rose tinted dawns glow through small fists, To see a world by fortune kissed, Bouyant in his tiny craft, Above the watery mill, To which we all are grist.

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Tin Soldier

Mark the end of things, Face resigned to war, What fame it brings ~ Infant of the infantry, Artillery, the Bomb, Bound for manhood’s Oddysey, Young Major Tom. Tape on the flag, Elastoplast, Should do the trick ~ It’s just a blast, What small devices make you tick.

Off to battle, Paschendale, The Marne, The Somme, Cajoled by bugles prattle, Major Tom. Be the hero, boy, Fight good, the fight, Take sword of wood, Into a place of night ~ And slaughter with a toy, All men who come, Into Thermopylae or Troy, Young Major Tom. And keep by your right hand, The banded sceptre of the Kings, Like Tutankhamen’s wand, For the authority it brings.

It is a surgeon barber’s pole, Striped in bandages and blood, Oh hear the call, Of fife and drum, Soldier boy, what dirges roll?

Young Major Tom.

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Under Sail

Sometimes you seem at sea, Unanchored, cast adrift, Scanning horizons for some land, Old tar weathering a gale, Too long under sail.

You need an even keel, Or else, you’re sunk, Life grips you in it’s swell, Though you’re no monk, Strike for better shores, Do not back, Hit the rum, get drunk, Take a different tack.

Towards the port, you yaw, No more South, Or else you’re sunk, Go home!

Find the harbour mouth, Too long you have been under sail, On the ocean wave, Plenty’s gone under the bridge to bail, ‘Twixt cradle and grave.

Though you may bear a scar, Turn the other cheek, You’ve voyaged far, And fairer winds you seek.

Captain of your ship, Callow matelot, The tides rise as they dip, Till time calls: “Land Ho!”

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Texas Street. Ranger

Do not forsake me though I’m scowlin’,

To be sung to the tune of ‘High Noon (Do Not Forsake Me)’ Song by Tex Ritter

When they see me guys throw the towel in,

I’ve practised my Clint Eastwood pout,

That I’m a tough guy there’s no doubt.

For I’m the bravest Texas Ranger, Tin star, two fingers make my Colt, When I roll in grunt “Howdy stranger,” I’ll lay bets on by my Stetson, When I draw I’ll see you bolt!

Just like a rattler filled with venom, Always the quickest on the draw, A snake belt holding up my denim, “Stick ‘em up!” you know the score.

Yes I’m a rootin’ tootin’ cowdy, In every Speakeasy, saloon, I’m rough and ready, mean and rowdy, Meet on the street with me, High Noon.

Do not forsake me o my darling’ I’m just a sucker for your dart, Your arrow’s got me and I’m falling, And love has struck me in the heart.

I’ll sling my guns from Dodge to Deadwood, At the corral I’ll be o.k, My brim is broad, my eyes are shaded, And though I swagger and I sway ~ Please don’t forsake me o my darlin’ As a gunfighter I’m the best, And you know that for all my snarlin’ I’ll love you from High Noon to midnight, For I’m the wildest in the West.

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Acknowledgements

Paul and I would like to give our sincere thanks to Barnsley MBC Museum Services for all their incredible support for this publication, especially Lynn Dunning. We would like to give our special thanks to Alison Cooper (Exhibition Officer), who has worked tirelessly to coordinate this book, my ‘Casting Characters’ exhibition, and our ‘High Noon to Midnight’ exhibition. Alison has advised, and guided us all the way, and her design skills and expertise have brought our work to life, we really can’t thank her enough. Also we would like to offer our thanks to the Cafeteria Studio, Graphic Designers, who have done an outstanding job, the staff at the Cooper Gallery and the Glass Works Gallery.

I personally also have to thank my grandchildren, Poppy, Mia, and Tom, for dressing up and posing for the majority of the drawings — it did cost me more in pocket money though.

Paul and I would like to give a huge thank you to Dame Hilary Chapman DBE RN HM Lord – Lieutenant of South Yorkshire, for her kind words and poignant observations.

Dame Hilary felt the bond between Paul and me immediately, a bond that’s been there for 68 years, and her wonderful foreword truly reflects our characters.

Lastly we both would like to give our thanks and love to our family and friends for their unfaltering support, and encouragement over the years.

Graham Ibbeson and Paul Thwaites (2022)

High Noon to Midnight

Barnsley Museums would like to thank the following people who without their patience and creativity this book would not be possible

Graham Ibbeson, for his continued support to the Museums Service and Barnsley Council, and for bringing joy and humour through his artwork to the people of the town he loves so much.

Paul Thwaites, for his very skilled wordsmanship.

Professor Dame Hilary A Chapman DBE RN, HM Lord-Lieutenant of South Yorkshire & Alison Riddell.

Cafeteria – Designers of Graham Ibbeson’s Summer Season.

Sue Thiedeman, Lynn Dunning, Natalie Murray, Alison Cooper, Devinia Skirrow.

The Trustees of the Cooper Gallery.

Ian McMillan.

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High Noon to Midnight

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High Noon to Midnight

First published in the United Kingdom in 2022

by Barnsley Museums

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High Noon to Midnight First edition of 150 copies. © Barnsley Museums Foreword © Professor Dame Hilary A Chapman DBE RN HM Lord-Lieutenant of South Yorkshire Preface © Paul Thwaites All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any other information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

A British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-7395971-0-8 Designed in the United Kingdom by Cafeteria www.thecafeteria.co.uk Printed and bound in the United Kingdom

by Jump www.barnsley-museums.com

In memory of Jason Thomson

High Noon to Midnight

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