: Streic! 84-85 Strike!

In this series of Strike Stories we hear the highs and lows of that life changing year through the eyes of miners, families, police officers and politicians as they recall what life was like in 84–85.

The Strike Stories form part of the Streic 84–85 Strike exhibition which is on display at National Musem Cardiff until April 27 2025.

© Mike Thompson

Stephen Smith (former miner, Maerdy pit)

I was one of the last set of apprentices they took on with the old National Coal Board and ended up working at Maerdy colliery. I was a bit of a naughty boy in school and I applied for a few apprenticeships in gas, telecoms, all sorts. But I’m the fifth generation in a mining family and ended up following suit. At 17, I got a mining craft apprenticeship, which was to get you ready for management further along the line.

I’ll never forget my first day going underground. My stomach was churning as the cage dropped down the shaft.

We were on strike pretty much every year once I’d joined, usually about pay and conditions. The Strike in ’84 was different. It was all about the preservation of our jobs and the mining communities.

I was one of the lucky ones – I didn’t have a family to support and I was still living at home. My father made me pay rent right the way through the strike, he said that if I supported it then I should feel the hardship of having no money exactly the same as everyone else on strike.

We show of hands vote about coming out on the Sunday in the Maerdy Working Men’s Hall. The world’s media were on our doorstep waiting to see if we would back the Yorkshire miners (Cortonwood is where it started). We voted to come out on strike.

We started to travel to other mines and join picket lines to try and talk to the lads going to work and persuade them to join us. Often, we’d be turned back by the police en route – I was convinced we’d had our phones tapped as there was no way they’d have known about the little roads we took, otherwise. Once, we ended up getting pulled over and the coach driver was told he’d be arrested if he took us any further. So we got off the bus and in the middle of the night walked through the drizzle to our designated pits that we were going to picket.

There was a new employment Law – Tebbit’s Law, about not being allowed to picket in groups of more than six. Occasionally, we broke it. At Newstead Colliery, when we broke the line, a copper grabbed by finger and bent it back. then put my arm behind my back, another copper came alongside and was punching me in the side and I was bundled into a police van. I got taken to the station and put in a cell along with a few others from my pit. At about 3am I was taken from the cell and interviewed by CID who began with ‘Are you a member of the Communist Party? Are you a Scargill supporter?’ and so on. We were in overnight. We were given a piece of toast and something pretending to be tea and sent to court in handcuffs, which was humiliating. The police inspector told the court there were around fifty people and that I was the instigator, pulled from a group of 50 or so pickets. This was a lie.

I was charged with Breach of the Peace, the NUM lawyer said: ‘Plead guilty or you’ll be sent away, the NUM will pay your fine.’ I was still a teenager, so I took the advice and pleaded guilty, even before any statements were read out. The magistrate told me that if I appeared in front of him again he would be sent to Risley (Grisly Risley as it was known) remand centre.

It was rough. There were times we’d be kicked in the shins or have our feet stamped on so we’d end up wearing our work boots, for protection. Once, a copper started whacking my head repeatedly on the bonnet of a car. There were reporters there. I shouted ‘I hope you’re going to report this!’. The media were dead set against us, they painted this misconception that we were a bunch of thugs! It was the state and the police that were the thugs, and there should be an enquiry as to what involvement the government had on the strike and the police thuggery.

We were fighting for a full year – not just for our jobs, but for our communities. Going underground builds such incredible, tight camaraderie, we had each other’s backs. It was character-building and we were all in it together – before the strike, during and after. Everyone worked in or around the Pit. The impact was wide-reaching. I had an invitation from Oxford and went and spoke at a fund raising event. They raised an awful lot of money for us and sent us food parcels.

My only regrets - being unable to save our jobs, communities and subsidiary industries. And that I’d pleaded guilty to a breach of the peace when the police had lied. I was not guilty.

In this series of Strike Stories we hear the highs and lows of that life changing year through the eyes of miners, families, police officers and politicians as they recall what life was like in 84–85.

The Strike Stories form part of the Streic 84–85 Strike exhibition which is on display at National Musem Cardiff until April 27 2025.

© Imogen Young

Sian James, activist and politician.

I was married at 16, had two kids by the time I was twenty, with a hubby who worked underground. Within two years of starting work, he’d voted to back Scargill for the NUM and the whole family were behind him. Scargill was our leader, he’d fight on our behalf and we were immensely loyal. There was no hesitation when it came to the strike.

We stood strong. You did not cross a picket line. Our family didn’t understand those who did. People said, ‘well, hardship…’ but how the hell did I last on £20 a week with two kids? We did it by organising ourselves within our communities. Not just me and my community, but thousands of women.

The realities weren’t easy: hiding behind the sofa from the rent man. Hearing an ice cream van outside and telling my daughter there was no money. She told my husband to jump up and down. She could hear the change in his pocket. There were big changes for our family.

All extras were removed from the trolley. Debt would catch up with us, but we weren’t the only people experiencing that suffering. We all got involved to whatever degree we could. We got stuck in. There was a clear turning point for me. In the August, Thatcher and MacGregor started describing us as ‘the enemy within’. I was no-one’s enemy. We just wanted to retain our loving communities. We knew how it all worked, what made it tick.

I was amazed at how militant I’d become. The excitement of meeting women who fought and thought like I did, shoulder to shoulder and side by side. The thing is, they couldn’t touch us, sack us – we didn’t work for them.

We spoke on platforms all over the place. Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire. The men’s story had been ‘mined’ to death: we were a new voice. The attention shifted to how families were organising themselves. We told the women’s story: we are in this together. When we started getting invitations to speak publicly, we began to ask for a bit more. My role was organising and fundraising.

We had some support group rules.

• Every penny raised went into the pot.
• Everyone got the same out of the pot. Whether they had kids or not.
• If you turned up for the Sunday afternoon meeting, you had to vote.

At the lodges, only members – the men – could vote. But suddenly, women’s opinions were sought.

We were the Neath, Dulais and South Wales Valleys Miners’ Support Group. We had ten food centres feeding anything from thirty to several hundred miners. But this soon turned into us feeding over a thousand families, at £8 a bag, but the time we were finished.

The whole thing transformed my life. When the gay and lesbian groups came out in support of the miners, they brought a whole new level of experience and expertise: they were people who’d had to fight for justice, they were used to it. And they helped us in incredible ways. They were good socialists and campaigners. They understood the system.The people who supported us from those groups then, are still my friends, today.

I often say: my strike was a good strike. I was frightened it was all going to go back to how it had been before, to be honest. But I went to University, built a name as a media commentator on S4C, because I spoke Welsh – it was the language of the men who worked underground. I went on to work in public affairs, worked for all sorts of companies including National Trust, Save the Children and Welsh Women’s Aid before eventually standing and getting elected into Parliament in 2005.

During the strike, I had the chance to talk to speakers, women on strike like me across the country. We all had mouths to feed. We all had to keep going. But my God, I met such wonderful people, women and men. Someone once asked Julia Gillard what her best advice was for her fourteen-year-old granddaughter. She replied: ‘Don’t let anybody turn your volume down.’ And that’s the thing. Chopsy women change the world.

In this series of Strike Stories we hear the highs and lows of that life changing year through the eyes of miners, families, police officers and politicians as they recall what life was like in 84–85.

The Strike Stories form part of the Streic 84–85 Strike exhibition which is on display at National Musem Cardiff until April 27 2025.

© Mike Thompson

Ross Mather, retired police constable.

I was the lead escort for the first miner to go back to work in Wales, at Cwm Colliery. So it was me, in the patrol car, a special patrol group in a van and we were escorting the taxi transporting the miner.

That meant an early start. I’d get to work for 1.30am, to sort the patrol car out. It had spot lamps on the roof so we could see the way ahead, lighting up bridges to make sure it was safe to go under them. There had been word of some sort of ambush. I’d check the route every single day – and I’d take different routes so there was no consistency. No-one knew which route I’d choose on any given day, not even my Chief Constable. You just made sure it was as safe as possible. We knew something had been planned but nothing ever happened, until the awful day the second taxi was attacked.

Each day, I’d take them past the picket lines and the police. In truth, in Wales, we just saw a bit of pushing and shoving, as you’d expect. There was no real violence, because of the relationships we had. A lot of the pickets had relatives in the police force. A lot of the police had relatives underground. There was a lot of sympathy on both sides. I lived in Church Village and knew quite a few miners, we’d have a pint together in the pub. I knew they were stealing discarded coal waste from the old tip at Cwm Colliery, down the back lane – but it was never coal anyone was going to sell. It was theft, even though it was an old spoil tip. But I knew that if I had kids, I wouldn’t have let them go cold, either. I’d turn a blind eye. We all knew that there’d be a day when things would all go back to normal – and we’d all have to live together, back in our communities. We needed to live and let live, to an extent. But there’s still resentment in a lot of those valleys.

It was interesting how this sense of community played out. For much of the strike, the strikers on our patch were all out – so there was literally nothing to police, it was all quiet. At those times we were called across the border to help out in other locations – there’s a Mutual Aid arrangement in England and Wales where officers can be called in to help colleagues in other forces, where needed. So we’d find ourselves in Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Yorkshire... often we’d be despatched to a junction on the M1 to turn back cars, cans coaches that seemed to be carrying miners. We’d patrol back roads applying local knowledge, too. It was mostly respectful on both sides. There were a lot of rumours flying about in those days about army personnel dressed up as police, phone tapping, all sorts. None of them were true.

When we worked at certain mines, the miners welcomed the South Wales force. It was different from other parts of the country. So many of us sympathised because of the communities we lived in, ourselves. We understood what they were standing up for, their livelihoods and communities. You won’t find ex-pickets who claim that the police don’t understand – we did. We do.

Everyone likes to think of it as ‘police in riot gear’ but it wasn’t like that. Orgreave was, but that was orchestrated by Scargill and Thatcher as a one-off. It never happened in South Wales. Mostly it was good natured, a bit of jostling, but very little violence. In South Yorkshire they used to be pleased to see us. We’d swap our three feathers badges for an NUM one, pass on the odd sandwich from our lunch bags. They liked us because we understood.

When the rumours of taxi attacks started circulating, the general feeling everywhere, miners and communities and police alike, was one of: don’t be so bloody stupid, that just doesn’t need to happen. Then it did, on the Heads of the Valleys Road. We couldn’t believe it.

In this series of Strike Stories we hear the highs and lows of that life changing year through the eyes of miners, families, police officers and politicians as they recall what life was like in 84–85.

The Strike Stories form part of the Streic 84–85 Strike exhibition which is on display at National Musem Cardiff until April 27 2025.

© Getty Images / Alamy

Les Jackson (miner, Mardy Pit)

I left school at 16 to be a panel beater on £9 a week. But I had a chat with my brother-in-law and found out he was making £80 a week. I couldn’t get to the Pit fast enough. I was accepted at 17, excited by the money, and just wanted to get in as quick as I could.

I started in 78, 79. Did my basic training in Tondu, there was a simulation centre there. They teach you how to make a pack – pack out the sides where you’re working so no dangerous gases can seep out. But nothing frightened me, not going down in the cage, nothing. You’d sometimes have to take your belt off, it was so tight. Sometimes we were physically sick, you just don’t expect it.

The next bit was training on a four-foot face. They’d send us slim lads in because it was so tight. At one point, in face training, I was working on a lower face, just a bar above you. We’d cut the height in and the bigger blokes would go in after that. Once you’re trained, as soon as there’s a space you’re in. I knew everybody on the face and the first time down, they made a big fuss of me. There’s a really strong feeling of togetherness. And that sense of community was what we were fighting to save, under and above ground. It was more than just a job.

When I joined, I thought it was a job for life. I worked until the day the pit closed.

In ’84, Thatcher wanted us to go on strike. She’d stockpiled coal, got everything ready, and announced the closures. It was a deliberate provocation to get all of the trade unions to toe the line. She thought if she broke us the others would fall into place. But she hadn’t bargained on us having such a strong one. The first one I picketed was Caerphilly. We walked up and got a load of abuse from the wives on the way up to the colliery gates. But we formed the line and talked to the guys showing up for work – they turned back, didn’t go to work. Though we did hear that a few had gone in over the mountain. It wasn’t always like that though – once, they came to work, stopped to talk to us, agreed a management meeting to decide and came back out and told us they were joining us on the line. Once we’d gone the afternoon shift resumed business as usual!

We travelled all over the country. Orgreave was the one that changed everything. It was lovely weather, balmy and warm. A beautiful day. We’d slept on the pavement outside the NUM building.I was driving a transit. Usually, we’d always get stopped by the police. This time they stopped and spoke to us and said ‘We know where you’re going.’ But instead of turning us round or blocking the way, they ushered us on and directed us to a parking space. It was a trap.

Once everyone had gathered, I was right in front. I was a youngster, I was carried along, feet off the ground. Stones were raining down on us. The police suddenly opened up, a huge gap, and there were horses coming straight at me. I turned and ran, as fast as I could go. I leapt into a bush. Others jumped on top of me. More police were coming at us with batons. The guy on top of me was getting battered. I managed to get out and run. There was a three foot wall and I leapt over it – to find that it was six foot on the other side. And there, right in front of me was a load of police dogs on long leashes. I ran towards town – a woman shouted ‘Quick, get in here’ and I escaped out the back of her house into the local shopping centre where I caught my breath. Scargill showed up later that day, he came down the grassy bank towards the protest. He was arrested for inciting a riot.

I was due to get married on 22nd July and had my stag night at Blackwood Bierkeller. A few days beforehand, some coal lorries from a local firm had been torched, allegedly by some of the pickets – the police had had my card marked for a while, for some reason. There were convinced it was me and wanted me out of circulation. There were 45 of us on the stag do – a fight kicked off, and plain clothes police were involved. I lashed out and got arrested and was banged up for a week till two days before the wedding whilst they tried to pin it on me. I got married - my family had all chipped in to make sure it happened and that we’d have a nice honeymoon, despite how tough it was for everyone financially.

So, off we went on honeymoon and whilst I was away, the police dropped a leather jacket at my house and told the lodger they’d found my jacket. It wasn’t mine. They dropped by the day after I got back to search my house and arrest me for stealing a leather jacket. Then I got fined £200 for the stag do – and they agreed to let me defer payment for a bit as I had no money. Two months later they were on the doorstep again, trying to arrest me again for non-payment of the fine they’d ‘agreed’ to let me defer. They were determined to get me, one way or another.

I got a big family. They made sure we didn’t go without and my sister lent me the money to pay the fine and keep me out of prison. I was one of the lucky ones – I had a lodger which helped cover the mortgage interest and I was allowed to take out an endowment to cover the rest – that’s a whole other scandal.

We were getting wind that some NUM members had been having meetings to try and get us back to work because they knew we couldn’t win. When the news came that the strike was ending and we were ordered back to work, I was utterly heartbroken. We weren’t given a vote, just told to go back. I felt embarrassed at what I’d put everyone through. Let down by the powers that be – all kinds of feelings. I felt terrible because we’d lost.

I had to turn back the clock, I’d do it all again. It built me.

In this series of Strike Stories we hear the highs and lows of that life changing year through the eyes of miners, families, police officers and politicians as they recall what life was like in 84–85.

The Strike Stories form part of the Streic 84–85 Strike exhibition which is on display at National Musem Cardiff until April 27 2025.

© Richard Williams

Richard, photographer

I was a press photographer at the time of the strike, covering the south Wales mining valleys around me. I’d get calls when picket lines were broken, that kind of thing.

One of my most memorable days was in the Garw Valley, where Monty Morgan was the first miner in south Wales to break the strike. There were hundreds of police and pickets out. Monty had felt the strike was becoming futile, driving his return to work. There was a lot of anger – people’s livelihoods were at stake. He was shocked by the levels of anger towards him, but he wasn’t from the area: he was an Englishman, ex-military, and perhaps didn’t understand the sense of community there.

One of my shots shows the bus he’s travelling out of the colliery on, with hundreds of police surrounding it. One courageous striker is standing in its path and he was then arrested. When we were researching our book, we managed to track that miner down. He had kids and he’d known at the time that arrests were frequent. Despite all of that, he kept a sense of humour, even whilst he was locked up.

Earlier that year, I’d photographed Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher coming to Porthcawl for the Tory conference as hundreds of angry and frustrated protestors lined the seafront, behind steel barriers. After addressing the conference, as she left the building, she was pelted with eggs from the crowd. One egg hit her, then the police managed to shield her with an umbrella before she was rushed away.

It was an extreme time, with emotions and passions running high, which was very understandable as defeat meant communities would change forever. As winter set in and things were getting harder, miners were beginning to go back in some areas, although the strike remained remarkably solid in south Wales. Having covered the strike from the start, I was also there for the end and afterwards as miners returned and most traces of the industry began to disappear.

Amanda, journalist

I’m from a Rhymney Valley mining family originally, and these stories and the struggles people went through felt very important to remind people of, as none of us are getting any younger.

I was particularly struck by the role played by women during the strike: the way they organised and then began to speak out. In 2023, I interviewed a woman who had been in one of the miners’ support groups. She’d been quite a shy person, who was persuaded to stand up and speak at a big fundraising event in Maesteg, to a large crowd that included MPs and miners’ leaders. It changed her. She, and others I talked to, feel as strongly about it all today as they did then. Every single person said they’d put up the same fight again.

My brother, a former miner, describes great humour in and around the pits – it kept people going in a dangerous profession, where attitudes to health and safety could be somewhat relaxed at times. The stories are abundant. Injuries were commonplace and the washeries (coal processing plants) sometimes employed miners who could no longer work underground after injury. In our book we tell the story of a washery worker who’d been permanently disabled when the cage (lift) taking him underground malfunctioned and smashed into the pit bottom.

Many of the people in our book have now passed away. Fewer still will be around to tell these stories in the future. It’s critical we do so now, so that younger generations understand what their families fought for.

Authors, Coal and Community in Wales.