Where does this St Helens saying come from? We turned to an old Whalley's World column to find out

One that cropped up a few times that we didn't include is the expression: "Thick as a Greenbank butty."

It's a saying (or should that be insult) that harks back to the days of the old Irish quarter in St Helens – but where does it come from.

Looking for the best explanation we turned to an old column by a master of his craft – the late, great former Star feature writer and editor Alan Whalley.

Alan passed away in 2019 but his brilliant features about St Helens life down the years live on.

Alan's column from the Star archives in 1997

'Thick as a Greenbank butty'

THERE was the severe risk of a quick punch on the nose, during bygone times, in describing a person as being "thick as a Greenbank butty."

For those monster items, which for decades swelled stomachs in that old Irish quarter of St Helens, were not so much butties as edible doorsteps.

Never, in the proud history of sandwich-making, have there been any to compete with those jaw-busters of the 1930s and 40s. They came stuffed with wedges of cheese, jam trowelled on like mortar, or complete with lashings of pork fat.

One who remembers those butties well is Phil Reid, a well-known customer of this column who is chairman of the St Helens branch of the Burma Star Association.

The famous Greenbank butty, Phil would have us believe, could have been utilised most effectively as defence barriers during the second world war.

And he recalls with relish the tactics employed when tackling those Greenbank jaw-breakers. The first wave of assault would be a central one.

The middle of the butty would be skilfully taken out by a toothy frontal attack.

With the inner contents quickly disposed of, the remaining huge ring of outer-crust was left for the birds. Over-indulgent sparrows down Greenbank way were reputed to be rendered flightless for several hours after mopping-up those crusty leavings.

Alan Whalley penned this column in 1997

Phil whets our appetites with memories of other delicacies from his St Helens boyhood.

"Many's the time I called at Phythians, the pork butchers in Liverpool Road, armed with a big basin." Into this would be popped six 'savoury ducks' – not ducks of the quacking variety, but items now known by the fancy title of faggots.

These pre-war faggots, though, were in a different league altogether, as far as flavour and content were concerned. Phil, during childhood, used to refer to the mouth-watering items as slavvery ducks. And he insisted on picking out the ones "with veils on 'em."

He explains: "The veils were thin layers of fat, looking like spiders' webs, which completely covered the ducks." Gravy would then be poured on top of this rich culinary treat. It was a veritable feast when accompanied by 'barm joeys' or oven-bottomed bread. And it proved food fit for future heroes as the storm clouds of war gathered overhead. "Certainly it put us in fine fettle for the hardship ahead," recalls Phil who was among the many young local lads drafted into the 14th Army in Burma.

Among those Burma Star veterans of the future were Lawrence Powers (secretary of the St Helens BSA branch) former funeral director Bill Dixon and Jimmy Richardson, one-time boxing champion of Bombay.

Phil sighs for those earlier times when folk could leave their doors and windows open without any fear of burglary. It was common practice to go out, leaving the rent to be collected from the table top. "Not something you could even think of today, unless you had the Grenadier Guards watching over that rent money."

Phil can hardly credit that it is now 65 years since he was taken to Rowland Pennington, the local outfitter who had a shop at the corner of Crook Street and Liverpool Road, to be kitted out for the annual May Day church and school parade.

White shirt, red-and-white tie, short pants and jersey.

The various Catholic churches would be represented, in a sea of banners, led by the likes of the legendary Father Riley (scourge of Greenbank's drunks and back-sliders) and fellow priests Murphy and Dillon.

They'd march to the toot of Irish pipers.

Times were different then.

This was THE special day, with parents scraping together their last few coppers to make sure their kids looked smart for the grand parade. "They were proud people who walked every step of the way at the youngsters' sides until they reached their goal," Phil recalls.

The walk culminated with field-day fun at Bobbys Lane. "Our reward was a packed lunch, consisting of a meat pie and sausage roll, washed down with a bottle of pop.""

But those simple pleasures were priceless. "They were happy days," says Phil, "free from drugs and muggings. Wages were hard-earned at places such as Pilks.

"These are the memories of one boy who wiped his nose on his sleeve - and always got cracked for it. A lad who kicked an empty can all the way to school and then went on to fight for his country in the jungles of Burma. Who chased the Japanese on Ramree Island into the open mouths of alligators in the swamps."

Was it all worth it?

"Yes," says Phil, "because I had brothers and sisters to come home to - and, most importantly, Phythian's slavvery ducks!"