I don't think I can quite say I liked reading this: it's an autobiography of a miner who worked in various mines for most of his life. While parts of it are fictionalised slightly to avoid libel and so on, and there isn't much of Bert Coombes as a person in it, it's very informative about the conditions in the mines and the kind of men who worked there.
The title has been thought self-pitying, but I think it's perfect. In the introduction to The Valley, The City, The Village, by Glyn Jones, by Stevie Davies, he points out that 'hands' has many meanings, that the miners themselves are referred to as 'hands'. They were referred to by the use they were put to, as so many pairs of hands rather than as people. Coombes' title for his work takes on so many meanings then... his own hands, no doubt cut and bruised and twisted by his work; the likewise mistreated hands of those he refers to; the miners as a whole; their poverty...
You get the idea.