tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055649622975959812024-03-13T20:18:40.755-07:00COULD DO BETTERA roughly sculptured collection of words to record my existance on this planet of ours.Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-90530035535102276642010-07-31T08:18:00.000-07:002010-07-31T08:21:29.242-07:00THE HOUSE BOAT<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level:1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was a youth Club night, Eric bounced in our quiet room to disturb us at a critical point in our card game of brag, the betting was getting heavy. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ What do you reckon to that?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">Eric asked as he dropped a photograph under our noses on the makeshift card table. The photograph showed a very large houseboat, it was a chalet type building, built on a pontoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It had a flat roof and open balcony’s at either end and sported colourful window boxes at each window. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ Very pretty.” Someone remarked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ I have purchased it; it is moored at Trent lock.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">We remembered above the lock at Trent lock on the Erriwash Canal along its banking was a string of these colourful floating homes. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ How much did that set you back Eric?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Five shillings.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">We fell about laughing and asked what the catch was.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ It needs a bit of doing up.” He replied, we could see he was in need of volunteers. He did not need to look any further. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ I’ll take you to see it at the weekend.” As he left he said, and as we continued with our game of cards, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ By the way bring your swimming trunks and a towel.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ I’ll raise you a shilling and bet you five bloody pounds the fucking boats on the bottom,” my friend Alan remarked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">Eric picked all of us up in a big van, which was towing a small dingy; the van was laden with sheets of hardboard, bits of rope, lengths of timber and tools. We arrived at Trent lock and we expected to follow the road that runs adjacent to the canal, but Eric headed in the opposite direction to the main riverbank. We scrambled out of the back of the van and stood looking across the wide river. On the opposite bank was the sad looking houseboat hanging on its side from the banking half submerged? The story was the owners were moving it up the river to a boatyard where it was going to be put up for sale, they had decided to leave the house boat tied up for the night on the river bank, over night the level of the river fell by about five feet, the poor owners had left it on very short but strong mooring lines, not good practice on moving water. The boat clearly tipped on its side, river was now up again at high level.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ What did I tell you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Remarked Alan.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">Eric started to shout out the orders of the day, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ Right get that dingy in the river and load up those sheets of hardboard.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">The dingy was around three foot six inches wide and six feet long; the sheets of hardboard were eight feet by four feet. Once loaded the dingy disappeared underneath the load with the sheets of hardboard dipping in the river on both sides. Two brave lads jumped on top of the boarding and they drifted hopelessly out of control into the fast current spinning round and round as they attempted to paddle. They were unable to paddle or maneuver, it was time now for us all to change in to our swimming trunks and diving in after it. Once we were all across the river and after reading the warning notice from the British Waterways Board that was stuck to the side of what was once a floating home. The notice stated the craft had no license and would be removed in fourteen days, Eric bellowed out more orders as he handed out hammers and nails.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Right lads take a sheet of hard board a hammer and some nails into the river and fasten it over the windows.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">We believed we could do it so in we went, the sheet of hardboard were difficult to put in place as they wished to float around, a deep breath under we went, nail in place, swing the hammer! Slow motion took over; for it is impossible to swing a hammer under water.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">Not to be put off Eric ordered us back across the river as he had brought some large tractor tire inner tubes’ and a foot pump. After an afternoon of blowing up inner tubes, which were, fasten to the houseboat we only succeeded in making them look like a string giant black puddings and the houseboat had not moved an inch. It was now the lads turn to make a suggestion,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ We’re going to the pub.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">Eric desperately seemed to want to own a boat, he had approached the British Waterways who said for a price they would re-float the houseboat but pointed out it would be hardly worth it as the craft was fairly rotten and in the same breath said the craft would be removed anyway on the following Friday evening.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ Why cant you ask them if you can have it after they move it,” we suggested, “ its worth a try.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">The Friday evening came along we stood on the banking, across the river was a workboat tied up along side of the houseboat, the workmen were busy aboard. We wondered how they were going to shift it but had assumed we could have the houseboat after they done so it if we wanted. Eric waved to attract the attention of the workmen, he was ignored, the workboat pulled away from the houseboat with all the crew aboard and headed down river, after some distance it turned around and faced up stream and hovered in mid stream with its engine ticking over. We stood there wondering what was happening, we did not have to wait long, BOOM, the houseboat exploded, disintegrating the mass of the craft into thousands of little pieces, the workboat and its crew slowly started collecting the larger pieces of the boat with boat hooks as it gently drifted past them. The houseboat was worth every penny of five shillings for the entertainment value. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Several years later I was pleased to help Eric fulfill his dream. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-6965253270852848442010-07-31T07:23:00.000-07:002010-07-31T07:25:43.144-07:00BEAUTY AND THE BLACKHEADS<!--StartFragment--> <h1><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";font-weight:normal"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></h1><h1><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>I had stopped being in a hurry to loose my virginity and tried to be laid back as far as possible as girls were concerned. However at the age of fifteen I was still very naïve and told my friends I was an expert in the art of love making and could keep an erection for hours, how far from the truth could that possibly be?<o:p></o:p></span></h1> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">One night, one of the lads came bursting into classroom come card room at the youth club. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ You lucky bastard Roger,” he shouted, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ What do ya mean?” I enquired. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ I’ve just been talking to Susan, she told me Wendy fancies you,” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Not the sultry Wendy who hangs about with the older guys?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Yeah the very same,”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“Wow.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I did not believe him and was sure Susan must have been having us on. Wendy was a natural blonde who had a classical sulky high cheek boned face, she was a super model, an untouchable as far as I was concerned, she had an exotic air about her and hardly said a word or smiled for that matter, I wondered why she ever came to such a youth club except to look very appealing sitting on the forms in the hall for most part on her own and only occasionally talking to her friends who were mostly going out with the older lads. Clearly most of my friends found her very attractive too but they felt like myself that she could have her pick of any boy in the club and we felt sure she had no interest at all of any in our peer group.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level:1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ I’ll go and find Susan she can tell you,” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">With in a short time he was back with Susan in tow,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Yes its true Roger she would like to meet you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">I asked Susan to tell her I will leave early and will meet her at the entrance, my plan was to get away quickly with her, as it was rumoured the older guys did not like you taking what they considered their group of chicks, not that we ever did, but I felt there was a first time for everything. I met up with Wendy outside the club; we walked to the bus stop. She was truly a lovely looking girl, she had beautiful long creamy blonde straight hair that came half way down her back, she had a slight but shapely figure. She nearly always seemed to dress in black which heightened the agreeable appearance of her smooth pale skin, she also always wore exceptionally high stiletto heeled shoes at the end of her lovely long legs, she suffered for her passion for fashion as these shoes used to dig into her heels make holes in her stockings, then taking off a layer of skin so for most of the time she wore discrete plasters on her heels to protect them. She told me were she lived; it was way past my own home. I asked why she came so far to the youth club, she said she had one or two girls friends and her farther suggested she should get out with them as she spent a considerable time in the home. The girls she knew were also beauties, they had been quickly snapped up by the older more mature lads, I could not understand why the older lads had no interest in this particular beauty of nature and wondered why she was not spoken for and wondered why she wished to have a date with myself. However I clearly was clearly flattered and a very happy chappy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">Virtually a daily meeting started to take place between us, she had a job working in the Co Op Seed Factory, I started to meet her on my pushbike every morning and if time permitted I would walk with her part way down the factory drive before I set off to work. Each time I saw her I saw her beauty I could not believe my good fortune. Soon I was to be introduced to a wonderful family, who made me welcome. Her farther was a talented engineer, he had a great sense of humour and was a good mate to his son and had made him on his lathe at work a great set of training weights, her mother was a caring person, and they all did not seem to mind me, I was dumb struck by my luck.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">With the help of her and my friends I started to learn how to dance the jive a little better, but really I couldn’t wait for the slow romantic records to come on so I could hold Wendy tight, in what we called a creep, it seemed we both were enjoying youth. So it was a few dates to the cinema, nights at the club, meeting her after night school. We continued to see each other on a regular basis. She had however very little to say for herself and I could not find out what she was most interested in, she had no ambitions as for a career as far as I could find out, I thought at times maybe she just wanted to get married and start a family, but we both were far too young for that. I was having trouble making conversation with her but probed and probed to find some common grounds with her to build on but this was of no real importance. She did help me become a more trendier dresser, we were told we had become a handsome couple, I was the envy of many a friend and always enjoyed having her on my arm as if she was a proud trophy and I certainly loved to show her off when out socializing. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">She was to me a beautiful possession I adored but I wanted more, so started pushing for a sexual encounter. It was time I took her home and show her where I was brought up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A seduction there could now be possible for my aunt had got too difficult to care for, the family needed a break, she was packed off to the City Hospital, my aunts worst fear, as she had never put one foot in a hospital in all her life she was afraid of them. I thought this would kill her off and it did. The hospital took over her pension book and her life savings some six thousand pounds, she died within the two weeks respite care, her bank book was never returned, I wondered where my family’s share of that money was after seven years of caring for her, this is the heavy hand of the hidden establishment, hopefully her money went to help somebody else who needed it. In hind sight we should have painted the front room all white given her a metal framed bed, and possibly should have dressed up as doctors and nurses and told her she was now in hospital, for my family could have done with just a little of the money at that point in time. At least now she was gone we had our front room back where I at least could entertain my friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">I loved the winter time when you are trying your best to seduce a girl, the dark nights, curtains drawn, lights off, music on with a big fire glowing in the hearth while you cuddle up together, you cannot do the same on a summers evening indoors, I tried it once; I drew all the curtains, lit a fire, got a sweat on when a neighbour called round to see who had died, when I told her nobody had died she said, “Oh I see now your not so well me duck, you’ve got a really high temperature, get yourself off to bed.” If only I could have!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">The scene was set and the house was empty, the front room cleaned, the fire was laid ready for lighting, the music was prepared ready for my seduction; my hopes were raised for a sexual encounter. I met Wendy at the top of the main road; we walked hand in hand to my home. I had planned everything in my fantasy I could think of, I made her a drink and suggested we go into the front room; I could not wait to get my hands on her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I put a match to the fire put on the seductive music, dropped on to the sofa and pulled her down next to me, gave her a passionate kiss and whispered,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“You look stunningly beautiful tonight.” Indeed she always did.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">She drew back and held my head in her hands, looked at me longingly and tipped her head to one side and said, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“You’ve got blackheads Roger.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">She then proceeded to squeeze these out from around my nose with her very pointed red painted fingernails. She really got down to the job of removing them one at a time, she pulled up her tight skirt higher to her waist showing off her smooth beautiful bare thighs above her nylon stocking tops, she sat straddled across my knees then pinned my head to the back of the sofa. I thought at least I could look at her breasts while this punishment was being administered, but she pushed my hands away from her top buttons so she could get the extra leverage to pop the next blackhead out, I slid my hands to her sides around her waist, underneath her black cardigan, I felt, there was not a blemish on her super soft skin, she had a waistline to die for, I could nearly span her waist with my hands. She did not move my hands as I think she was concentrating hard and had come across a particular blackhead that was difficult to remove, so I moved my hands slowly upwards pushing her bra up placing both of them on her breasts I desperately wanted to kiss her and her breasts. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ My dad gets blackheads as well.” she exclaimed,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">My moment of passion evaporated as immediately thoughts came of her sitting this way on her dads lap doing the same thing to him. I remarked most of us that work in engineering have this problem.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">I purchased every chemical the chemist had to rid myself from the dreaded black spots. I wanted to make love to this exquisite creature, I tried and tried many many times to seduce her to no avail, I failed miserably always my blackheads were too over powering for her when we were alone on the sofa. My nose felt like it was about to part company from my face.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">Communications on the subject of sex were difficult, as she did not share her view; clearly she did not physically take any lead to allow me to venture any further, which is clearly fair enough and how it should be. It would seem she was far wiser and not as eager as I to explore the unknown. Regrettably I wrote her a rather stupid irresponsible letter to try and tell her of my love and sexual feeling towards her. It read I would do anything for her which included me running around naked in the front room for her so she may find out if I had blackheads elsewhere on my body that she could amuse herself with, and if she took her own clothes off as well it may be great fun, and explained that we did not have to go all the way, I used parchment paper feeling it would be more romantic, then drew fine flowery adornments around the lettering, finally burning the paper around the edges, it ended up looking like the directions on an old treasure island map, and the X’s marked the spot where hidden treasure’s could be found and enjoyed, it was tied<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>up with a red ribbon and was presented to her inside<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>an old wine bottle. My friend Alan thought I had completely lost the plot, he was absolutely right.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">The very next day in the real world I was sent to work at the foundry where her farther worked, I smiled and waved to acknowledge him across the foundry floor, he however scowled back at me, the hatred in his eyes told me the worst news ever, I guessed he also had read the deadly scroll, I lowered my hand and was ready to run but he turned his back on me and walked away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He forbid her to see me again, who could blame him, she did not return to the youth club, my beautifully gorgeous girl was lost and gone forever, I sadly missed her on my arm and missed the intense passion of the hurried chase to loose my virginity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">After a short time I heard her new boy friend was the foreman gardener at the seed factory, he was some eight years her senior, she had often talked about him and told me she often spent time with him at his front garden gate where no doubt he planted many seeds in her head, it seemed no time at all before they were married. I was saddened and was only ever to see her once more many years later when out shopping in the posh end of town, she was now in her late thirties she looked just as attractive, she was dressed in a top shop swade suit that hung to her superb figure, she still wore the very same style high heels, she was gliding and floating around the superstore as if on a cat walk wearing that very same striking look with the natural waves of her lovely blonde hair framing her beautiful sulky sultry face. We came face to face with our shopping trolleys but never spoke. I had weathered beyond possible recognition and besides she was more interested in the contents of the cold cabinet than this man staring at her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I felt she surly would have forgotten all about the persistent advances of a naive fifteen year old virgin that sent her a message in a bottle and in that moment of time I bet to myself, her husband would be blackhead free, and that this true beauty of nature had a well kept garden and I wondered what kind of seeds they had sown together and what had <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>fully blossomed in their lives.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-86116917680256877582010-07-31T06:33:00.000-07:002010-07-31T06:37:23.183-07:00<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level:1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"">THE LADS NIGHT OUT<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">The newfound younger workmates always went out on the town on Friday nights for a pub-crawl, they encouraged me to go along with them although I was three years too young to drink legally. I looked of age, even at thirteen I did have to pay full fare on the buses, when I asked for half fare the conductor usually would threaten to throw me off if I declined to pay the full adult fare, so getting into a pub presented no problems for me, the encouragement given was not needed. If they’re ever was a raid on a pub by the police looking for under age drinking’s, most landlords would know about it before it happened and those under age would quickly disappear. I was brazen and daft enough to stick it out; the worst that could happen was a ticking off from the landlord and police. Today no doubt the landlord may loose his license and the young person would get an ASBO and yet the government wonders why at eighteen plus young people go binge drinking and are unable to handle it. Their answer to that is to put the price up per unit of alcohol, yeah I am sure that will do the trick, what a load of bollocks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">Now I was working and had money in my pocket for the weekend, this however would not last long as all would be spent by Sunday night then one would have to wait again for Friday to come around for another pay packet. My parents still supported me in those first few years of my working life. Everyone was now at work in my household except for my very old aunt who was retired and financially loaded, but didn’t know it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">I had been through the rituals of the Saturday afternoon trips to town with the lads from the club, where it seemed each week, one or the other of us was buying a suit on tick from the tailors. We would all meet together to catch a bus into town then head to our favorite tailor, we would stand around and watch the lucky guy of the day pick out his material, black with gold fleck, white with silver, or other fashionable colours of the day. We would point out our choice of linings to help the guy out. The assistant then would take over and start to take the measurements while asking the usual questions, “ Half drape or full drape, velvet collar or plain, one button or two buttons, fourteen inch bottoms or sixteen inch, turn ups or no turn ups.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">After a deposit was paid we then headed of to the shoe shop for another lad who wanted a pair of beetle crushers with one inch soles, then off with someone else to buy a cut back collared shirt in light blue with a lace tie to match, then on to the barbers shop for a blow wave for some of us, then we would wonder down to the Co-Op record bar to buy the latest extended play hit record. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Here I managed to get a date with the sales girl who had the very latest tulip cut hairstyle, which wasn’t the norm. The relationship did not last long her milkman father chased me from her front door step on several occasions and I got fed up with the hassle from him. Finally however our group would all finishing up at the Baccico coffee bar for an American express coffee. Week after week we trod this addictive path until all of us were fully kitted out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As we walked around the town, I say walked, most of us were trying to swagger, as if to get into an unheard rhythm. Sometimes as we tried to walk the walk, but we did not quite manage it and fell over our own blue swade shoes. The older general public usually made way for us on the pavement I expect we did look a frightful sight. I dare say today some of the same guys who will be now drawing their pensions will now be making way as they see a group of shaved headed youngsters who have tattoos and body piercing coming towards them, but it is now their time to enjoy youth and their fashion. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">We all had learnt how to prepare ones self for our Friday night out, it was an art form, but at least we did not have to screw ironmongery into our noses eyebrows, ears or any other part of our anatomy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">The first job after putting a rock and roll record on the gramophone was to press your trousers which were known as drain pipes due to the narrow bottoms, this was done with a hot iron and a clean damp tea towel pressing very hard, then finishing the pressing with some brown paper, if you could cut your finger on the crease you had done a good job. Next you iron your shirt, leave laid out while you have a scrub, practice isometrics while washing under the arms, screw corner of the flannel up to poke ears out, clean your teeth, shave off the bum fluff on your chin, straighten sideburns while always wishing they were longer, borrow dads cologne, dab under arms, cut finger nails as you might get lucky. Find clean kecks and yellow Florissant socks, steam swade shoes over boiling kettle, and finish off with small wire brush. Squeeze feet through narrow bottoms of drainpipes, put shirt on, take out melted or damaged plastic pieces of shirt collar stiffener and replace with two matchsticks or cherry sticks. Find large buckled belt and thread through trousers. Select Slim Jim or lace tie. Buff up white metal skull tie piece toddle on the back of the settee, thread lace tie through and place round the neck, find matching cuff links, buff the same to add to shirt, put on slightly damp shoes, take the drape of clothes hanger and slide in to it, now face the mirror checking all points, sponge the velvet collar lightly with damp cloth to remove spec of dandruff or your girls friends face powder, clothes brush jacket. Then apply a liberal coating of brycream to hair, if you have run out of this use liquid paraffin, however this will come off on your pillow in bed bringing your hair colour with it, if neither of these two is available a light mixture of soap and water will get you by for the night so long as you do not bang your head cracking the hard crust or it is raining hard. Now spend the next quarter of an hour getting every hair in place finishing off with one good straight slice down the back of your head for the perfect DA. Check with another mirror, a slanting ducks arse will not do. Place comb in your inside pocket then wash your hands carefully. Dig out matching scull ring from the soap dish, rinse and place on little finger. Place expanding bracelet watch on wrist taking care not to trap hairs when flicking it into position, put a clean handkerchief in trouser pocket, the less endowered guys can roll them up to elevate their manhood. Undo the new packet of ten fat Senior Service cigarettes and place them in the empty twenty packet you saved from the week before when you splashed out, or better still borrow your old mans silver cigarette case to make an even better impression. Then when you are in company you can flip it open with one hand remove a cigarette, tap it twice on the closed case lid before bringing the cigarette slowly up towards your mouth before throwing it the last few inches and catching it with your lips, then you can slide the cigarette case smoothly back into your inside jacket pocket, but to continue, place a clean handkerchief in the top pocket if you haven’t got that piece of cardboard cut out with three points wrapped in handkerchief material that came with your new suit, place one piece of chewing gum in your mouth, pick up your money, put your last thin Park Drive cigarette in the corner of your mouth, don’t light if your using liquid paraffin until your outside, stand back from the mirror dance up and down on the balls of your feet, point at your refection, click your fingers and you are ready for a night on the town.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">As usual no body was in on Friday nights so I made my Aunt a sandwich, banked the fire up for her with slag and coal dust to make it last the evening, then fastened the fire guard on tight with some twisted wire, then put the radio on for her, kissed her forehead and said,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ I’ll see you babe.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">She then would ask me again for the third time, “ Are you a bell boy now George?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">After catching the number 31 bus into town, it was straight off and into the doors of the Royal Exchange pub. Here I was to meet not only my new work mates but also old school mates and youth club members. One such mate was Jack Smith an exceptional lad who had been brought up in a violent family surrounding, he and his elder brother used to get pasted by their bully of a farther, both boys were very handsome and had strong physiques, I had seen their farther take a poker to Jack and whip him on the back with it. Both lads had now grown much bigger and much much stronger and they had both put there farther in his place, for now he was the old cockerel and was broken man and was to lurk in the corner of their sitting room, we use to see him twitching on the occasions we called for Jack. Jack was loud and confident and now was a womanizer and had to date one child somewhere and was to spread his seeds around many times in the future, when Jack left school he took a job on the bread round and was to soon learn how to drive a electric bread van he moved on to a three toner and finally to a heavy goods vehicle by the age of twenty one. He always earned more money than myself, I did expect to catch him up and earn more than him at the age of twenty-one after I had finished my apprenticeship. This was not going to be the case as our society changed, as people could earn more money putting on one car wheel nut on a production line, day in, day out, than a skilled mechanical fitter, who could build the whole damn car himself, so much for consomerization. We were to take Jack to the seaside a few months later he had never ever seen the sea before, he ran in fully clothed he was like a five year old. Jack eventually was to finish up running his own business, stripping out blue asbestos from factories; nobody asked him where he got rid of it. He was later to become the first millionaire to come out of class M4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>One night we asked him how he managed to pick up so many girls, while others and I were struggling,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ You just sniff them out go and ask them, you see those two over there, I’ve had my eye on one of them.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">At that he was off across the pub like a terrier as if one of them were on heat, we watched him chat, we watched him get a slap, and he returned, “ No good there,” he said, “ She is waiting for her husband.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">We laughed at him. Two other girls came into the pub he was off again chasing and chatting to them before they reached the bar. To my utter surprise they even bought him a drink. He was doing something I could never do. In a short while he was back at our table for his half finished drink he had left. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Do you know them,” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ No never seen them in my life before, but I am in with one of them.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ Which one,” I was interested to know. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ The one on the left.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">I said the other one was prettier, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Don’t care about that,” he said, “ all I want is my tail away, I’ll see you lads later.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">He scampered off again and joined the girls.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">He was soon to make his way back to our group.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ The other girl fancies you Roger,” he announced, the group cheered me and pushed me forward. I walked over with Jack; he had told them I was the strong silent type. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">At last I thought I had found a way to find girls without saying much and I was determined to build up such a reputation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So from then on through out my teenage years it worked a treat. I did not have to small chat or embarrass myself with what I had said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I let the lads do the running for me. On Saturday evenings at the cinema no sooner we were in the lads were off around the stalls before the film started chatting up various parties of girls, inevitably one lad would return to where I was sitting saving their seats, he would say that a girl over there fancies me, I would tell him to send her across. When they came over with the girl I would stand up shake her hand and say, “ Hi I’m Roger.” push the seat swab down next to me, and keep hold of one of her hands if I liked the look of her then take it slowly from there.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">The two girls in the pub were older than Jack and I and they were well into Rock and Roll, they suggested we should take them to see Rock Around the Clock at the Cavendish cinema the following Saturday, it was the first rock film to hit Derby. We all agreed and Jack was off with his new conquest. I had been left with this pretty girl after a couple more drinks with her she asked me to walk her to the bus station, as we waited for the bus she put her arms around my neck, I leaned down and kissed her teeth, shock and horror went through me, she kisses with her mouth open, fortunately her bus arrived, I promised to meet her outside the Cavendish cinema the following Saturday night. I rushed back to the pub, the group howled with laughter at me when I told them she kisses with her mouth open.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">I spent the whole week practicing kissing the back of my wrist, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ What you doing?” my mum would ask.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">“ Sucking a spot.” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">I had come into true Rock and Roll era at the latter years; most teddy boys were older than I and my own group of friends, we all were trying to catch up with them. There was talk about Teddy Boy fights and flick knives and knuckle-dusters, in general we all had a bad reputation, the public were weary of us no matter what our age was. Most of us who had flick knives would casually take them out of our pockets hold them at the tips of our fingers and thumb press the catch to flick the blade open and enjoy the click as the blade locked in place then we would clean our fingernails with them, it was just silly youthful showmanship.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">The following Saturday I met up with Jack and a few other friends with their girl friends, our little gang thought safety in numbers was the best policy as we too were still weary of the much bigger much older lads. The big teddy boys did not seem to mind or notice our teeny bobber presents. The crowd outside the cinema was huge I wondered if we would all get in, the scene was very colourful as everyone was dressed up for the part, the boys and girls were having a competition on whose hair styles could stick up the highest. All the girls, each in a hundred and one petty coats of multi- coloured fabrics .The girls we had met turned up we joined the long queue, we managed to get good seats in the stalls. The film started, eventually the music of Bill Haley and the Comets started to play, everyone was up and started bopping in the isles, my girl grabbed my hand and started pulling me out of my seat, horror struck I had not learnt how to dance yet, I was dying on my feet what was I to do? I just got into the isle when the film was shut down and the lights came up, I thought there was going to be a riot, the doors where flung open by a mob of policemen with truncheons drawn who started pushing people back into their seats. We watched the film with a row of policemen at the back of the cinema; I was saved from the embarrassment. When coming out of the cinema, my girl met up with an older ex- boyfriend that she was pleased to see; he was much older and much bigger than I. So I did not argue with him when he asked her to leave with him and asked me if I had any objections as he held my lace tie up under my chin in his fist.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">I had however figured Friday nights was not just necessarily a drinking night out with the boys, it was a girl hunt as well, so I continued being laid back and enjoyed practicing to be a strong and silent type and waited patiently for someone else’s lead.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-21078063968501637422010-07-30T07:17:00.000-07:002010-07-30T07:44:27.793-07:00GUINEA PIGS IN THE BLACK MOUNTAINS<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level:1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi- Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">GUINEA PIGS IN THE BLACK MOUNTAINS<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">It was another night at the youth club, with my close knit group of the friends, we were standing around watching a game of snooker, when Eric popped in to put a proposal to us, Eric stood about five foot ten he had a strong physic, a hansom face that was toped out with a wavy mop of hair. Eric was a laid back character, as a young man he attended Loughbourgh University here he gained his teachers qualification specializing in physical education. He worked in a hard school where pupils were difficult to manage he did the two evenings a week at the youth club for extra cash. I learnt a lot about life from this man, he and myself were to cross paths in our lives several times, I always will be grateful in knowing him. He lived in his own world, he was not really interested what you had to say to him, if you tried to talk to him you could usually only get about three words in. Tonight was not going to be the exception.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Right lads we are going to be Guinea pigs for the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme, Mobil Camping on Horse Back in South Wales, we are going to see if this is possible, get your names down we are going at Whitson half term holiday.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He was gone before we could ask anything. Ten of us agreed to go, we hoped one or two girls might be joining us, but all the girls at the youth club declined. We were told to meet up at the Railway Station on the Saturday morning of that weekend with all our camping gear and food for four days, Eric had informed us that two other lads who were older would be joining the group, they were police cadets.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">That Saturday came around, the motley crew poured out onto Derby railway station platform. We all decided to wear the appropriate headgear; we had five Cowboys, one Davy Crocket, a Daniel Boone, one Indian, a Confederate soldier and one Union cavalry officer. To top it off Eric the Sheriff turned up with two Mounted Police Cadets, the posy was all-together. We boarded the train and headed to the Welsh hills.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Late afternoon we arrived at a small remote Railway station above Hay –on- Wye, it must be one of the most beautiful views seen from any railway station in the country, the River Wye runs along side of the station, the view across the valley was breath taking. We were greeted by the broad smile of Ronnie Miller, a ruddy-faced chap with bushy eyebrows who was no bigger than a jockey. He wore an old ratting cap pushed to the back of his head and a worn out wax jacket and downed an extra large pair of Wellington boots that he could possibly drown in. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ Welcome boy o’s.” he said in a broad Whelsh accent as he pushed his hat further back and scratched the top of his forehead, I bet he wondered what he had let himself in for.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Outside the station was Ronnie’s mode of transport an old series one Landrover that looked like it had seen better days. We threw all our gear in to the back of it; off it went in a cloud of blue-black smoke. We started off walking up the lane after it. On and on we walked, the only marked difference in the lane as we made our way up was the gradient which got steeper and steeper, after an hour we eventually reached Ronnie’s Farm and our camp site high up in the Brecon Beacons.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">The tents were quickly erected as the evening was drawing in. It was Pub time, but nobody was looking forward to another walk. We walked down the lane past the Farm only to meet up with Ronnie again; we persuaded to get him to give us a lift to the closes pub. Ronnie reluctantly agreed, so all thirteen of us plus Ronnie managed to get aboard. We climbed in it, on its bonnet, on the roof and we were hanging on the back opening of this short wheel based Landrover. The engine started and consumed us all in a cloud of black smoke. The Landrover struggled to get out of the farmyard on to the lane, but what the hell it was down hill all the way.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">We arrived safely at The Thee Horseshoes Pub and piled in for a nights drinking session.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Most of us were under age drinkers apart from the leaders, all but two of the group and the two police cadets had been regular drinkers in our local pub back home. We had learnt how to be brazen enough to order our pints, in these establishments. I remember my first time in ordering a drink I was twelve, I had gone with most of the group I was here today with on a school trip to London to see the schoolboys final at Wembley Stadium to watch England play Wales. None of us was interested in football so we sold our tickets outside the stadium to a ticket tout. We hung around outside until the game had finished then boarded the awaiting coach to take us to the next venue, which was the London Palladium. We had one-hour free time before the show. Our little group headed of to find a pub. We sheepishly entered a pub; I was pushed to the front because I was the tallest. All the names I could think of was Guinness and mild. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">The barman snapped, “We have light an heavy” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“Oh we’ll have heavy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">To my surprise over the bar came my order, even though most of our heads were not much higher than the bar. The barman asked where were we off to; I said,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“We’re just killing time before the show at the Palladium.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“Where are you from” he enquired, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“Derby.” shouted one of the lads. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“Oh,” he said. “ I thought you were from Epsom I thought you were jockeys.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">We got away with it. At that time I couldn’t think why adults drank this liquid, as it tasted pretty foul to me. Now I had acquired the taste and was enjoying it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Our group was made welcome in the Three Horse Shoes, the hours rolled by and we were soon in lock in time. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“What if the local copper comes by,” someone asked Ronnie.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“He will,” he replied,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“any minute now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>At that moment there was a knock at the door, the landlord went to unlock it, in stepped a round ruddy-faced policeman. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Busy tonight Dye.” He remarked as he removed his helmet and made his way to the bar, where a pint was waiting for him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">The two police cadets were trying to make themselves inconspicuous, which was pretty hard for them to do as Steve was six foot six and Dave was not much shorter. They were obviously worried about putting their careers into jeopardy. The two smallest lads in our group had magically changed their drinks to lemonade. It turned out the landlord had exchanged them while they were not looking. Eventually we said our goodnights and thanked the landlord for his hospitality and returned to the Landrover and climbed aboard. The Landrover chugged into action the fumes made us all cough, it painfully crawled its way slowly back up the hill to the campsite.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">We were up bright and early in the morning, after breakfast we were to be introduced to our mounts. We were all given a piece of rope with a loop in it; apparently this is called a halter. Once you have got this round a ponies neck it supposedly stops. We went into the next field each horse or pony was pointed out in according to our body size, we were told to keep an eye on the one allocated to us. The names of the horses and ponies rolled off Ronnie’s tongue, they match our dress Trigger, Smoky, Thunder, Silver, Rusty, the only name that came out that didn’t match was Lollipop. We were told to herd the ponies and horses into the corner of the field while trying to keep an eye on our own mount. We headed towards what seemed to us a wild pack. We edged them into the corner as one horse headed to freedom, our line broke and the others followed it. Ronnie told us to hold the line and not be frightened of them. We were to try again in the bottom corner of the field. We had cornered them again when Ronnie took a sweet from his pocket and rattled the wrapping paper, over came lollipop for his treat the halter was on hand, the pony was handed to my friend Alan, Alan smiled while leading his pony away to the next field. One down fourteen to go. The line broke again, two hours later after many times up and down the field we had caught the last pony. Now we were going to have to learn how to tack them up.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">I was to learn about these animals quickly, you are in charge or they are, the horse kept dropping the bit every time I put it in, the horse was having me for a fool. Eventually I mastered this operation. Next to come was the saddle, first on with the blanket, off came the blanket as the horse shook. On again, off again.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">I said, “ Don’t piss me about you stupid mute.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Then I prodded with two fingers in her side, to my surprise she rolled her eyes at me and stood perfectly still. On with the saddle blanket on with the saddle, girth strapped up, stirups lengthened, I was ready. I stood back to admire my handy-work then looked round the field, it was pandemonium.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">One cowboy’s horse was wearing its saddle on its stomach, another cowboys horse had broke free and a cowboy was in hot pursuit. Daniel Boone’s horse was walking round in circles going backward with its reigns tangled round its front feet. The union cavalry’s horse had found some tip bits inside one of the tents and when he lifted its head took the small tent with it. The Confederates horse had tramped across someone’s remains of breakfast kicking all the cooking stove, plates and pans all over the place. Right at the top of the field was only two mounted riders surveying the scene that was Steve and Dave dressed in full uniform, jodhpurs, black riding boots and black hard hats bearing the word Police. They looked like they were about to set off on riot control duties.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Eventually order was restored; we all set off for a short trek. The majority of the ponies were Whelsh mountain ponies, however some had a different fathers from over seas, they were much bigger and darker they had fiery tempers, mine was one of them called Flash we seemed to be getting on fine after our initial troubles.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">On return to the campsite we let the ponies loose in a much smaller field, we were grateful for that. Tomorrow was going to be fun, how on earth were we going to tie all our equipment to these small riding saddles; we thought this was going to be interesting. We decided we would not go down to the pub that evening, as we were not too well of money wise at fifteen years of age. After a meal a campfire was quickly made, we sat around telling stories. Eric however had nipped off to the pub with Ronnie.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Eric was to return later with some beer and another man, a Mr. Norman Pugh, a Wheslh man through and through, he was a big powerful looking man with dark curly hair and bushy eyebrows. He had the nicest Whelsh twang I had ever heard, he introduced himself and in a jovial voice, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ Helloo you little Englarsh bastards I’m Norman Pugh.” He said as if it was to mean something to us. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">He then set us all off singing, we carried this on for the next three hours or so, before creeping off to our tents for a goodnights rest.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">I awoke the next morning, the tent was flapping in the wind and the pitter-patter of rain was hitting the canvas. The sound of a primas stove could be heard in the distance, the smell of bacon cooking drifted across my nostrils. Norman broke into song, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ Oh what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">It was time to get up to start the day. Eric had the foresight to bring along with him some bright yellow waterproof yacht stuffing bags, he handed these out with lengths of bailing string. We were to stuff all our belongings into these bags and tie them to the saddle with the string. When all the bags had been packed it looked like there was a giant crop of bananas crowing on the hillside. The lads had figured out a strategy to catch the ponies, we were to walk in a line cornering the ponies leaving a little gap at one end, Alan was to be at the end near the gap, he was to rattle a sweet paper for Lollipop, hopefully she would head up to Alan and the other ponies would follow her to the gap, hopefully lollipop would stop for her sweet and block the gap, we would rush in and catch the closes pony, not necessarily our own. It worked a treat. We swapped our mounts, tacked up in good time, the problem came in threading the bailing string though the only possible place on a riding saddle which was where the stirrups hung from, so we threw the bananas over the ponies shoulders in front of the saddle and strung them on as best we could. We mounted up, we were on our Mobil Camping Expedition with our knees pressing against the yellow banana bags, the ride was uncomfortable, little did we know it was going to take us eight hours to get to our destination. The rain had eased and the sure-footed ponies took us up the mountainside we now had time now to enjoy the views and the experience, with only a few minor adjustments. On our way up to the higher mountains we past several rotting carcasses of dead ponies, which had got the interest of several crows that were picking away at them. The narrow track got steeper the higher we went. It was felt we all should dismount to help the ponies reach the summit. Our troubles then began, once we had dismounted, the yellow bananas started to slip, as it was only our knees that had kept them in position. The heavy movement of the pony’s shoulders as they climbed the steep gradient bounced the bananas all over the place. Strings started to come adrift. The bags began hanging from one side or other of the ponies, other bags hung lower and started dragging on the ground, some split open, scattering the contents out which then proceeded rolling down the mountain side. The posy started falling over the hanging bags they were forced to let go of their mounts leaving them to make their own way to the summit. Two cowboys and the Indian set off running down the mountainside in an effort to retrieve their belongings. Davy crocket and the Confederate Officer were swearing sweet profanities at one another as their bags had got tangled together. I seemed to be OK until I tripped over someone’s yellow bag, Flash walked past me carrying on up to the top on her own. I climbed to the top only to find the Mounties and the leaders sitting on their horses surrounded by our mounts. Apparently they had come up the less steep route and had never dismounted at all. We waited for the rest of them to make their way to the ridge. Last to arrive was Davy Crocket and Confederate Officer who were still swearing sweet profanities at each other, sweat was pouring from under their headwear. It took sometime to sort ourselves out before we could get going again. Once we did we headed down the ridge of the mountain. As we looked down either side it seemed along way to the bottom should we fall off. No one spoke for some time so we moved on in silence. At the end of the ridge we could see where we were heading to, a small hamlet, which supported two farms, a pub and a red telephone box. We zig zaged our way down the mountainside until reaching the open fields at the base of the mountain. The rain returned as the ground flattened out. Alan who was ridding lollipop decided to put on his bicycle cape, he let go off his reins while fumbling in his anorak pocket to retrieve it, he took out a bight yellow cape and gave it a good shake. This startled the majority of the ponies, they had up to now, put up with the yellow bags, but now they had a larger one flying in the air that they did not like. Lollipop bolted at a full speed canter down the long field. Others and I chased after him. Alan was struggling to put his cape on, keep his balance while trying to find his reins at the same time. Only the Famous Five had got their ponies in control. Fortunately the ponies slowed down to a trot, we all bounced around on our Ponies like sacks of potatoes, nearly all of us once again lost our yellow bananas. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Norman came riding past me doing a perfect rising trot.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ How the hell do you do that,” I asked, as I bounced up and down in my saddle trying stop my teeth from chattering together. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ That’s a military trot that you’re doing boy o,” he explained, “ squeeze your knees together, lift up your arse.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">In a very short time, he said, “ That’s it, you’ve got it boy o.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">I must say it was a far more comfortable ride. I started to really enjoy myself but felt sorry for the Household Cavalry. I had mastered something today, so I rode past my mates going round and round showing off while screaming out with pleasure. Luckily we were to camp at the end of this long field, which was opposite the pub. We reach the end of the field. I dismounted only to find out I could hardly stand or walk. We removed the tack from the ponies and let them loose in an adjoining field then set off hobbling up the mountainside to gather our gear and belongings.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">We spent the next two hour extracting the jumble out of the bags, the primas stove had come out of its container the bits from it had buried themselves into the butter container which had lost its lid, the bacon had come unwrapped and was sticking to the sides of the tent bag, the plastic milk bottle had split and its contents were nicely soaking into my sleeping bag. A large piece of cheese had also come undone it had picked up anything that would stick to it, I took hold of this a threw it across the lane into a chicken pen which was owned by the pub, the chickens attacked it they seemed to enjoy it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">The mess was eventually sorted out, the tents were erected, it was time to make a brew, I went down to the little stream that ran down the edge of the field to collect some water while wishing the pub was open. Alan and I enjoyed a warm drink, we soon had a meal cooked and eaten. It was time to wash the pots and have a wash ourselves, so we collected all the gear together then headed for the stream, did the pots then had a strip down wash. As I washed my face I felt the bum fluff bristles on my chin, I was self conscious of these whiskery hairs sticking out of my face. I had brought a razor with me, Eric had told us about lightweight camping in preparation for this trip. He had told us to cut the handle off them to save weight, in those days all razors were made out of metal. I went back to the tent to get it, and poured myself out a cup of warm water then realized I had not got a mirror but recalled every telephone box had one. I headed to the phone box; I wondered why they put a mirror in them, maybe it was for this reason I thought as I placed my mug on the conveniently placed shelf. I finished my shave, turned around only to find a few lads had formed a small line with towels wrapped around their necks, all were holding mugs of warm water, half way down the queue was a little old lady who wished to make a phone call. One of the lads asked her what time the pub opened. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Why it never closes,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">The queue immediately dispersed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Eric, Norman and Ronnie had apparently been in there for over two hours.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">One entered the pub through a stable door you came to a flag floored sitting room, there was no bars or hand pumps, there was settees and arm chairs scattered about and a kitchen table with chairs around, a half side of pig was hanging from the low ceiling beams the best of all was a large open fire roaring away, beer and cider came out in jugs from somewhere in the kitchen. Alan suggested we should try the rough cider, we were in the company of Steve and Dave the police cadets, we agreed to buy a round each. Four-pint jug of amber liquid with no frothy head on was brought forth; we filled our glasses as we lifted the glasses we noticed bits floating about, but dare not ask what it was. We settled in and laughed about the day’s events. Two little down syndrome children came out of the kitchen to see what we were laughing about, we made a fuss of them, they smiled at us their special smile with their tongues sticking out on their bottom lips. The rest of our party was now settling in for a night of drinking. The news must have got around the area that we were in the hamlet as the pub started filling up with the local population. They were eager to tell us of the history of the area and how the ponies were set loose on the mountains to fend for themselves during the winter months. They told us how they rounded them up in late spring then divided the herd up between four families in the area. They told us how close knit these families were and who was married to whom within this little community. They explained how they broke the ponies in with the use of a halter, how after catching the ponies, they would leave them for days tied up with this piece of rope, until the pony realized it could not escape. They told the tale of Old Sam who last year jumped the hedge across the lane which had a steep banking down to the lane surface. Old Sam who was sitting in a high backed kitchen chair gave us a nod and a smile and told us it was true. We marveled at this old man who was eighty six years old, he told us we could catch trout in the stream we had collected our water from, we humoured him and said we would have a go tomorrow. I ordered another round of cider it was cheap and it was going down well. Norman broke in to song, everybody joined in, and one by one each of us had to do our party piece. After each performer they raised their glass and shouted something like,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Yagidar, Yek cum bum sise,” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">We all raised our glasses we all repeated it, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ Yagidar yek cum bum sise.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">The pub now was filling to capacity, as each new comer came in they had more to offer, we had spoon players, bone players an accordion player .The songs went on and on, we would raise our classes and shout in unison, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ Yagidar, Yek cum bum sis,” and every body applauded and cheered.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">The next act to take the floor was the stick man. He looked like he had just stepped of a painting by Lowry. He took the centre stage, all the locals moved back a pace to give him room, they started beating the table in a slow drum beat rhythm, the musicians started playing a different type of music. The stick man took to the floor and started dancing a jig like an old man who thinks he can keep up with the younger generation, he danced round and round to the music he then bent down and pulled the raffia rug off the floor and wrapped it around his body disappearing into a cone shaped matting which proceeded to hover across the floor, first in the largest circle he could manage, as he decreased the size of the circle the faster he went until he stopped with the music in the centre of the room. Cheers went up and it was, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ Yagidar, Yek cum bum sis,” again the glasses went up in the air.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">He called it a Tiger Dance; I was to see a similar dance ten years later in a bush village in Africa. We were now on our third pint of rough cider it was beginning to take affect, Steve said he must go to the privy which was in the back yard, he headed to the door opened the top half of the stable door and walked ahead I just saw his nice shiny riding boots disappear into the darkness over the bottom half of the door which he forgot to undo, he did not return. This rough cider had a strange effect on you, you were all right sitting down but when you stood up you had little control of your legs. I saw Alan returning from the kitchen he was having serious problems balancing three more glasses of ciders on a tray and was losing directions as he attempted to get them over to us. Another song, another player, another Yagidar and another Yek cum bun sise. I asked Norman what yegidar meant in the Welsh language.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">He replied, “ Cheers.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ So what is Yek cum bum sise?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ That’s arse holes to all English men.” He replied with hearty laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">A cruel thought raced through my head, had all these Welshmen grown up and learnt to be prejudice towards the English through some misdemeanor of an English government some distant years past or was this inbred, most with in the room were related to one another, I felt they should do what they have done with their ponies introduce outsiders into the fold which would produce better stock that has not got this inbred loathing. I was drunk, I was saddened, was I too to become prejudice now towards them or was it just a light hearted joke at us, at our expense, it was time to leave. The four pints of rough cider had made its mark; I stood up and found I was not in control of my legs below my kneecaps, my lower legs bent in peculiar angles. Alan and Dave were having the same problem, we headed towards the door bumping, banging, and hanging on to people on the way out, who all laughed at our efforts. We made it, the three of us leaned back against the outside wall of the pub, we had now to negotiate the lane and the embankment opposite the pub, we took stock, Alan said, “ Right lads one, two, three go.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">We set off at a wobble across the lane hit the grass slope, crumbled and fell over. We started to climb the slope on our hands and knees.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Dave blurted out, “ How the hell did an eighty six year old man after jumping over the hedge manage to get his pony down this sloop without falling off? ” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ Because they bloody well strapped him to his ponies saddle.” Alan replied in hysterical laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The more we laughed at this silly remark the harder the climb got. I reached out and put my hand on something soft, “ Oh hello Steve what you doing here.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ I can’t get up, so I sleeping here tonight,” said a sleepy drunken voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">The next morning, Norman, who was still in good baritone voice, woke us up. “ Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Alan shouted,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Shut the fuck up Norman.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">We both pulled our sleeping bags over our heads. Eventually we crept out of our pits, I had the distinct smell of sour milk on me. Alan swore again, as he searched around our small stock of provisions. Most of our provisions had fallen down the mountainside out of Alan’s bag he had not retrieved some of the items, “ We’ve got no bloody food left,” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">I told him it was his fault for not packing properly and for not picking it all up.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ Where’s that lump of bloody cheese you had, we have to make a pack up lunch.” he shouted. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ I’ve thrown it to the chickens.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Alan moaned in anger “ I’II bloody well go and get it.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He stormed off to the chicken run; I thought I better follow him. At the run we could see our dirty heavily pecked block of cheese in the corner. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ That’s bloody good cheese you’ve thrown away Roger,” he scolded me with more abuses as we entered the pen. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ And you bloody well smell like vomit,” he added.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">The chickens now came under his attack as he booted them out of his way. While he was retrieving the cheese, I stole six eggs out of the nesting boxes and slipped them in my jacket pocket. Alan and I made up, as I made him a bacon and egg butty for his breakfast. We were good friends again our hang over’s were clearing. We took stock of what we had left, a half loaf of sliced bread, two dinted tins of beans, a tin of peas, four packets of dried soup, two packets of Smash dehydrated potatoes, a tub of butter without a lid which tasted like paraffin. We had lost quite a lot of our rations. We made some hard-boiled egg and cheese sandwiches for our pack up, broke camp, re packed our yellow bags then headed to the stream to have a scrub.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As we stood straddling the stream having our wash, a large trout swam between our legs, “Look at that,” I shouted. Alan and I were immediately in hot pursuit. The old man was not having us on. We slowed down and started feeling under each rock slowly moving up this tiny stream. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">As my fingers felt a trout, I shouted, “ I can feel one, what do you do next?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level:1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ Squash the bloody thing, stun the fucker on a rock,” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">This I did then scooped it out on the bank. Very shortly after Alan did the same, we were pleased as punch with our catch we both knew what was on the menu that night.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">As we walked back to the campsite, we could see there was a meeting going on, Ronnie, Eric and Norman were facing the posse, pointing and waving their arms at times.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ I hope they have not discovered the pub is six eggs down this morning,” I said. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“ Better put the fish down our tops, we might get done for poaching too,” Alan replied. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“ It’s a good job we didn’t take a bloody chicken.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Fortunately for us, it was a discussion about the day’s trek and what they were planning doing for the day. Ronnie was to telephone his brother to come and collect the yellow bags in the Landrover and transport them over to the original campsite. For those who did not feel confident they would be taking them back an easy route, for those who were, they would take different route over the mountain. Alan and I stepped forwards volunteering for this party. Norman and Ronnie spoke in their native tongue to each other, frowning.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Norman nodded, “ Go get your ponies.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">The ponies did not run away from us this time we just went over and led them away, they too probably wanted to get home. We had been told it had been a hard winter this year on the mountains with not much good grazing, which accounted for the dead ponies we had seen, Ronnie had a load of hay at his farm and the ponies probably knew it. We were soon tacked up and on our way, Norman said we would have to make could pace and led the way .We cantered down a long track, all the party was once again on a high, we quickly got to the foot of the mountain then started to climb. This time we reached the ridge with ease, we paused here to take in the Mountain View, it was wonderful, this is truly a beautiful land. I thought perhaps the Welsh were right not to want outsiders here, especially the English. I realized at that point the horse-riding bug had bitten me, I would return one day. Over the top we went, we made our way down to a wide track on the other side from which we could see a river running way below in the valley. We could see this track meandering down the mountainside; we could presume it would inevitably come to a bridge or ford to cross the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Rain had set in; Norman turned off the track then announced we were going to take a short cut. We leaned back in our saddles and headed down to the tree line in the valley. Once in the trees we had to virtually lie on the ponies backs to miss the branches of this thick wooded area, we could hear the river getting closer we weaved our way through the undergrowth that got thicker and thicker, eventually we reached the river bank. Norman rode his mount into the river without any hesitation, we all struggled with ours to get them in, the river was running fast, the ponies were probably feeling like we were, very nervous. I wished I had gone with the other party. We ventured in uneasily following Norman, the river got deeper and deeper. Soon the River was touching our feet then our knees and soon we were nearly sitting in the water. As the animals raised their heads we thought we all would be soon swimming, we never noticed how cold the river was until we had made safe ground on the opposite bank. We made our way through more deep undergrowth and trees we soon came out on a main road, Norman twanged out,” We are going to see Mrs. Evans for a nice cup of tea.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">“Yeah hee,” we shouted, as we trotted, dripping down the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">I could now feel my already sore knees having their skin taken off them, as they rubbed between my wet jeans and the saddle. I was pleased to see Mrs. Evens. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">Mrs. Evans had a proper Welsh Dresser in her house, it was as big as one wall in her sitting room, opposite it was a huge stone fireplace with an extra large fire in it, her husband must have been a coal miner, the hearth supported four large coal scuttles which must have been needed to feed it. Seven of us stood in front of this fire while drinking our tea and eating our sandwiches and at times our legs would disappear in a steamy mist. We thanked her for her kindness, we were sorry to leave her fire. By the time we arrived back at the campsite we had done ten hours on the back of our ponies, the last few miles had been painful, we all virtually fell off the ponies backs on arrival. The ponies too were very tired, after we took the tack of them they never moved, they eased one back leg up to fall asleep. We were very slow in making the camp that night; everything was an effort to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Every muscle in my body seemed to ache; everyone in our party was well and truly knackered. The only highlight of the evening for Alan and I was our fresh trout dinner topped with peas and creamed Smash potatoes with a hint of paraffin. We were the envy of all those camping. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">As young people we had learnt a lot over those few days.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">We all slept on the train most of the time on the way back home.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;">I was glad to get home, I was going to tell of my adventure, but nobody was in, the backdoor key was found under the mat on the back doorstep. I ran a hot bath, eased myself in to it gently and felt the hot water sting my open chafes, I lay back closed my eyes then dreamed of returning to the Black Mountains again. I dreamed of entering the rodeo they have each year, when they bring the wild ponies off the mountainside and have a competition at staying on a wild pony the longest, I dreamed that I would surely win this prize. In years to come I did have a go and lasted four seconds.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-20274865806542131352010-07-30T07:12:00.000-07:002010-07-30T07:15:03.162-07:00AN INDENTURED APPRENTICESHIPIt was my first day in the real world of work. I was just fifteen and was lucky enough to secure a job in engineering; I was not going into the profession I would have wished for, that would have been to join the police force, unfortunately they would never have accepted me, for it would be impossible for me to take statements from people nor was I to get a job where I could have used my artistic flare. However I felt lucky, so I put this behind me, there were no more worries about school. I was to do one year’s probationary period, and if I was to do all right I was to sign up for a five years indentured apprenticeship in mechanical engineering with W. T. Avery Ltd.<br />Avery’s, was a weighing, counting and testing machine maker, whose main factory, was in Soho in Birmingham, it was a long established company whose history dated back to James Watt’s time, they had one of his preserved steam beam engines in the factory premises. When one starts to think about weighing, every product in the world or its ingrieance or components has been weighed somewhere along the line, the history of scales dates back over the centuries to the early great civilizations, but my new place of work was a narrow street in Derby town which only dated back some six hundred years. Sadler gate, I think the name gives it away; the Bell Hotel an old coaching Inn started the businesses off at the top of the street followed by butchers, bakers and candlestick makers all the way to the end. Avery’s service workshop and showroom was half way down this narrow street.<br />As I stood in the doorway waiting for someone to arrive, I was pleased with myself I was early and had figured out the time of the bus I needed to catch but was apprehensive too as I did not know what they expected from me. There were numerous young people rushing around the shops and business premises preparing for the days trading. Most of the businesses had three or four young people not much older than I. The butchers shop across the road had three lads and two master butchers. These big men were ordering around the three lads. One simple lad was being told off for wiping his nose on his sleeve, the butcher cut a piece of mutton cloth off a big roll, gave it to him then clipped him round the ear, then handed him a brush and instructed him to sweep the pavement outside the shop, with in minutes the butcher was outside chastising the lad again for not using the sweeping brush properly, he took the brush off him, demonstrated how to use it, he handed him the brush back with one hand then clipped him again with the other hand. You could see the lad was simple but at least he had a job, I wondered how long he would stay working for this bully. I thought if that treatment happened to me in this job, I wouldn’t last five minutes. My physical punishments were behind me. I need not have worried, as the first person to arrive was a young man of eighteen years of age. He introduced himself he said he was pleased to see me, as he was the youngest apprentice, he had been waiting for three years to pass his job on to someone else. Colin shook my hand unlocked the door saying he would get me a key before the day was out. We walked through the show room into a scruffy mechanic’s workshop, with numerous weighing machines on rows of benches which stuck out at right angle from the walls, on one wall was racking with drawers and shelves that held all the spare parts for a great variety of machines. Colin flicked the light switch on which made little difference to this darkened workshop, Christ, I thought of the next three years in here a daunting prospect. He went through the workshop then up a couple of steps into the back room, to one side was a coke forge and an anvil, the room was full of scales piled up on top of each other, Colin pointed to them he said that they were trade-in’s, he explained,<br />“ When the salesmen sell a new machine the customer gets a trade in price for their old one.”<br />To one side I could see an old type range fire. I figured this must have been someone’s kitchen once upon a time. Underneath the window was an old brown pot sink with a little water heater above it. There was a narrow passage through the old and ancient machines to the back door.<br />“ The bogs out there.” he pointed then opened another door to the upstairs,“ This is where we keep the new stock of the smaller machines.”<br />The whole of the floor upstairs was stacked with large thick cardboard packing boxes with strange numbers on.<br />“ You will soon get to know the type numbers of each machine,” he told me, as we turned around to go back down.“ The heavy machines are kept in the entry down the side of the shop.”<br />We went downstairs and walked out of the backdoor into an old overgrown walled back yard, there was a huge pile of scraped machines broken in to small pieces.<br />“ We smash all the trade- in's so they don’t get back on to the market. That will be your job now.”<br />He showed me the covered in entry where they stored all the new large machines, which were in large wooden crates and along side rows, and rows of 56 lb. test weights.<br />By the time we re-entered the workshop the rest of the workforce had arrived, I was introduced to each one as they all shook my hand. Harry was the working Forman the boss of this small band of men, I had met him before during my interview, Harry was also new to the Derby branch workshop, he was a Sheffield born man and had been promoted and moved here. Ernie was the oldest guy in his late fifties he had been with the company all his working life. Sid was the next eldest, he had been a recognisant pilot during the war, he was to return home to find his own house had been bombed and had recently moved to a council house from the ex-army tin huts built in the Marketon Park, which was home for such families, he had lived there for several years some reward for fighting a war. Tom was a young man in his thirties, Richard followed close behind, then David in his early twenties then Colin an eighteen year old, I liked them all, I think the feeling was mutual, so was a lucky lad, and had escaped being the fodder to big industrial companies of Derby, where I suspected a lot of my school friends to be. There were three other folk who worked here on the sales team Stan and Malcolm and a dizzy secretary Shirley who had a hand shake like a wet lettuce.<br />Colin said he would show me how to do the first job; we went into the backroom,<br />“ You will have to make them all a cup of tea or coffee, here’s a list on the wall what everybody has and how many sugars they take, I will do it today and you will take over tomorrow.”<br />The blokes were sorting out there work for the day and discussing problems and generally chit chatting. They had their brews and were soon gone; they were out on service contracts throughout the whole of Derbyshire, from chemist shops to quarries, from pin makers to aero engine builders from Gold Smiths to Power Stations.<br />“ Your second daily job,” Colin said, with a smile, “ is to clean the workshop.”<br />He handed me the broom. I did not need to be told how to use a brush so started sweeping around the benches, I soon realized that this had not been done for some time, but what the hell, it was a job that needed doing.<br />“ I’ll get some overhauls for you, as my spare pair will not fit you.” Colin stated.<br />Colin was a short stocky guy, his upper body was muscular, but he wasn’t very long in the leg I was well over be a foot taller than him, he had black curly bushy hair and a great sense of humour. Another brew and Colin said he would show me and teach me how to repair dead weights, dead weights were coal merchants weighing machines, coal was king at that time, there must have been a few hundred coal merchants feeding the fires of every household in Derbyshire, central heating for most, was not installed. Every merchant had to by law to carry one of these machines around with them on the back of their lorries or drays. It would seem that the weights and measures inspectors had a running battle with them, chasing them around the streets of Derbyshire to test their weighing equipment. The coal merchants used to cuss and swear about the inspectors, they told tales of how they had been cornered in dead end streets by the inspectors who had tested their scales and rejected them. Every legal weighing machine carries a lead plug on which is stamped the year of inspection and testing and a royal crown to show it is an accurate measure of weight, should they reject and condemn them the inspector obliterated these marks with a star. Many machines also fell off the back of the lorries sometimes when in hot pursuit by the inspectors. There were always twenty or so machines waiting in the workshop for repair. Colin for the last three years had the job of keeping the pile as low as possible. He had got this job down to a fine art. <br />Colin told me. “ You can book twelve hours on these for the first six months of your training then they expect you to repair them within nine hours.”<br />The thought of spending three years repairing these seemed even more daunting. At that time one worked a forty-eight hour week, but within a few months the working week was reduced down to forty-four hours, most in the country were grateful and delighted.<br />I soon learnt about engineering and how much pressures to apply when tightening up machine screws, at first I broke off several heads then had to learn how to extract the broken bit re- drill and re- tap the thread. With in a short time I learnt how to repair these machines and became known as the two a day and paint them apprentice. Colin was now of out of the workshop working along side one of the other lads. I was getting more time in than I needed and kept the pile as low as possible. This gave me lots of time in hand, so set about cleaning the workshop up, starting with cleaning the windows, painting the walls and finally painting the floor, we all now had a bright workshop in which to work. On occasions mechanics would bring in a machine to repair, slowly I got to know the men personally, they taught me about the other machines. The average wage for a top mechanic was around fourteen pounds a week; my wage was one pound eighteen shilling and six pence.<br />I was yet to meet the area manager a seven foot three man by the name of Mr. Whitaker, we were at the point in our history were we had slowly started dropping peoples titles, we always showed what I suppose one could call respect, our elders did that also even to their next door neighbours, it would always be Mister and Misses Smith, today it is Tom and Mary.<br />The day he came in he towering above everyone and everything.<br />“ How you getting along laddie?” he bellowed.<br />“ Fine thanks.” I replied.<br />He went round the back to the toilet; he came back in and stood at the top of the steps up to the backroom, his head was thirteen feet from the workshop floor.<br />“ Laddie” he bellowed again, “ next time I speak to you, you either call me Mr. Whitaker or Sir,”<br />“ Yes Mr. Whittaker.” I replied.<br />He added, “ You can call me what you like when you are twenty one.”<br />“ Thank you very much Mr. Whittaker.”<br />He turned to Harry who had just stepped in to the workshop.<br />“ You have done a grand job here Harry.” he said as he looked around.<br />“ Its all Roger’s doing.”<br />“ Well done laddie, get him booked in for college Harry.”<br />My heart sank not more schooling.<br />“ Right laddie come with me and bring the sledge hammer,”<br />We went up to the backroom he started to read the names of customers off his list, I had to find their label on the machines that had been traded in. I asked why they did not send them to undeveloped countries as most weighed perfectly well.<br />He said, “ We sell them new ones too, Avery’s is developing new ones all the time, we in return can buy as a country off them, what they are good at producing.”<br />I think he was right. Today that simple kid in the butchers shop could no longer get a job or apprenticeship, as we knew them. The young man who lives down the road from you gets at least fifty pounds a week from the job centre he doesn’t know a great lot except how to use a computer but he is a part of our wonderful flexible work force.<br />I feel sometimes that the powers that be got it all wrong in the Thatcher years and that greed instead of common sense took over. They sold the whole of the manufacturing base to companies operating overseas, instead of smashing the machinery up, the whole greedy world joined in. We buy today virtually everything from overseas, weighing machines now mostly come from Hong Gong and our Electrical goods from all over and so on and so on, sorry what did you say there is a world recession.<br />“ What is that Mrs. Thatcher, they don’t want our newly developed looms because they have just purchased a whole factory full of old ones in Manchester at the same price, “ Oh what a surprise.”<br />The greedy got greedier, the yuppies had a ball. Avery’s were eventually bought out by G.E.C. and the company was asset stripped. Maggie Thatcher called them Captains of Industry and encourage everyone to buy shares in the sold off Nationalized company’s, today most are owned by foreign firms and we are told they are not really foreign as they are part of the European Union.<br />Out of the forty five kids in class 4B many went into apprenticeships for five or six years with the large local companies, Rolls Royce took the cream, The Loco Works and Carriage Side, Fletcher’s Brothers, Atone pipe works, Parker Foundry, Qualcast, Leys Castings, Brown’s Foundry, The Combustion and many more engineering companies big and small took us on. Their owners were the true captains of industry. The lads knew full well at the age of twenty one only the best were kept on while the others walked out of the gates with a bag of tools as skilled tradesmen. Today the government boasts we have 250,000 apprentices in the country in 1950 and 60 we had that many in Derbyshire alone. MacDonald’s is hardly an in-depth apprenticeship in catering. They said of us comprehensive kids we were near the bottom of the barrel and cheap labour; so it was of interest when visiting friends reunited on internet recently, one-third of class 4B kids had held down some pretty high powered careers in engineering and the like around the world, some turned out to be self-employed creating new work then employed others. Now the cheap labour is not in our country, the corporate companies have transferred the manufacturing base abroad at a great rate. I just heard a toothpaste company has just transferred everything to the Far East that results into the fact we can’t make even something to clean our teeth with. I clearly believe no country can survive economically on service and financial industries alone. The money people believed London would be the hub of European Economics, they got that wrong as well as we aren’t. If we were that good at it British Investment Companies would own German Power Stations not the other way round.<br />Clearly also the cheaper labour overseas will demand a greater income and the cost of that and higher fuel prices will be past on to us as we import goods into the country. We now have a job finding the engineering skills within the country as less are being trained. In our senior schools today I hear they have a hard job to make a selotape dispenser which incidentally you can get free with Christmas paper let alone good metal work or any building craftwork, but good news I just heard from a teacher at a special needs school, he tells me they are now teaching 12 year old kids how to lay bricks, what’s all that about, a skills catch up program? We are now watching America very slowly struggling with their balance of payment as the world dominating financial and industrial power slowly transfers from the West to the East where they already have more reserved funds, but enough of my cynical old mans ramblings!<br />In those days I felt, let me smash another trade-in machine into pieces and weigh it in for scrap for beer money, Macmillan is in power, we’ve never had it so good. It’s Friday night, I’ve just got paid and rock and roll is in town tonight. I’m fifteen and want to loose my virginity.Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-48909363880356286152010-07-30T06:34:00.000-07:002010-07-30T06:37:36.387-07:00going with the flowGOING WITH THE FLOW<br />For two evenings a week my friends and my time was taken up with the youth club. Several enthusiastic young teachers organized and ran the club; slowly we were all getting to know them. One youth leader was Eric Wood he was affectionately known to some of the lads as Timber Wood. He bounced into the classroom where our gang were arguing over the rules of a new card game we were trying to learn.<br />“Right lads,” he announced in a commanding manner “ Get your names down for a weekend of canoeing and sailing, we are going in a fortnights time; I’ve got the use of some canoes, a mirror dinghy and a national. I’ve got a fifteen man bell tent for you all to kip in, we’re camping in the orchard behind the Fisherman’s Rest pub at Trent Lock.”<br />He was out of the door before we had time to ask any questions.<br />“What’s a bloody national?” somebody remarked over the top of his cards, we guessed it was a small yacht.<br />There were ten of us in our peer group; all agreed to go, I was building a canoe and had the two weeks to finish it off. This double canoe was made out of thin plywood fastened to a pine framework. To finish it, it only required the top putting on and a lick of paint; it was to be ready well in time.<br />My good friend, Alan, who was nearly two years older was the eldest in his year group and I was the youngest in mine, we decided to paired up for the weekend. Alan was a strong individual who had different opinions and viewpoints on most subjects, he would swear constantly. He was thickset with a curly mop of hair with long sideburns that framed his broken-tooth smile. He broke his tooth one night after we had been scrumping, all of us were running out of someone’s backyard and he ran straight into an unexpectedly parked lorry in the avenue. After this accident he started mimicking Terry Thomas a brilliant comedy actor of our time who had a gap in his front teeth, he was often filmed smoking with a cigarette holder and his catch phrase was ‘You’re an absolute shower.’ Alan could not resist buying himself a cigarette holder. If you want to know how good an actor Terry Thomas was look out for the old take of Tom Thumb in which he paired up with Peter Sellers. While most of our group were doing up racing bikes with plastic mini mudguards, very narrow saddles, drop handle bars and concentrating on lightness, Alan had a classical sit up and beg green Raleigh bike that supported a three coil spring leather seat, a rod braking system, a hub gear change, metal mud and chain guards with a wire basket carrier front and back. He was a powerful lad; he had to be to get his heavy old-fashioned bike moving. Alan and I arrived at the youth club the following week, it was suggested to us we should paddle down the River Trent to Trent Lock on the Friday night setting off from Weston-on-Trent as there was some problem with transporting everyone and the equipment to the campsite. Alan and I agreed. This area was familiar to us, the River Trent was once an artery of the country, it was a magnet for young boys. Our bikes had given us the freedom and opportunity to explore a considerable length of the riverbanks and discover old world names and the history of yesteryear. At Weston close to the river was Black Pool a good fishing pond where we learnt how to fish; further downstream on the far bank was the site of an old monastery at Castle Donnington. At the weir at Kings Mills they had dammed the river to power the water wheel at the birth of the industrial revolution, I expect there was at one time a lock and probably before that a flash lock to allow the larger sailing barges to travel further up the river to Burton-on-Trent. Just a little further down the river was the site of a last drop where a scaffold on which a person in metal cage was hung to rot to remind us all to keep on the straight and narrow path of life, here it is said that the ghostly figure of The Lady in Grey is seen. Further on up near Swarkestone we played in the Bull Ring and swam on the rapids under the bridge, here we usually got covered in leeches, beyond the bridge it is said seven sisters built the crooked causeway over the flood plain so their loved one’s would not be drowned as others had been when they returned home from a crusade. On this longest stone bridge in Britain Bonnie Prince Charlie received the news that an army had set off from London to engage in battle with him, so he turned here to head back to the highlands. A short distance from this point was another play area; the hermit’s caves with its multi-rooms carved out of the rocks on the riverbank, at one time travellers enjoyed a rest here. A little higher up river was the Twyford ferry where we boarded the chained ferry to cross the river for thr’pence per person per trip; this took us over to have an adventure in Ticknall woods beyond. There we would collect the fruits of autumn wood. Still further up nearer to Burton was another favourite swimming spot in the River Dove where it joins the Trent at Monks Bridge; the monks were the first to find the waters in the area most suitable for brewing fine ale. As the river meanders through the country each bend had its own fascinating story to tell.<br />Eric arrived at my house on the said evening to collect the pair of us; after loading the heavy flat-bottomed canoe on top of his old Morris Minor shooting brake we headed off. The Trent and Mersey Canal runs through Weston Cliff, we struggled to carry the canoe over a little footbridge that crossed it to gain access to the river beyond. Why we did not float it across, I can’t imagine. After carrying it across a large open field, we managed with difficulty to drop the canoe down the steep banking and scrambled aboard. The pair of us settled in for it’s maiden voyage and the bonus was it was watertight. Eric shouted from the high banking, <br />“It’s now six o’clock you should be there in an hour, you may get there before the rest of us.” <br />Then he was gone; Alan and I were just about ready to set off when Eric reappeared.<br />“Do you know about the weir at Kings Mills?”<br />We shouted back that we did, he disappeared again, we got to paddle a few strokes when he reappeared yet again.<br />“You will know when you get to Trent Lock as there is a bit of white water just before you get there, it will be fun, it will be an experience for you.” <br />“Piss off Eric.” Alan said under his breath.<br />We waved him goodbye, he was finally gone, we tried to get into some sort of rhythm with paddling, but the canoe had a mind of its own. We stopped paddling to see what was happening, the canoe veered off to the right hand side.<br />“You’ve built a bloody banana boat,” Alan cried out as we struggled to straighten the craft. <br />I guessed the plank former it had been built on had warped. We agreed to paddle twice on the right then once on the left and were soon above the weir heading towards the middle of it, we paddled hard just on the right side only bringing the canoe around bumping it into a familiar little island above the weir. Throughout the previous summer the gang used to come swimming here on one evening a week. All of us had bet each other that we would be the last one to swim in the river as the winter months approached. In late November nine of us stood on the bank of the island in our swimming trunks with towels round our necks shivering away not daring to go in. We watched John Smith a hard headed lad step forward, he lowered himself in, he lost his breath, he was gasping, he changed colour to deep blotchy red, he started to shiver uncontrollably, when he turned blue he was unanimously declared the winner and the rest of us ran for our clothes. The canoe was dragged out and carried to the bottom of the weir, where Alan came up with the idea of strapping a piece of driftwood to stern as a makeshift rudder to correct the swim of the canoe. The current pushed us off again at speed and to some degree the rudder was working. We paddled for two more hours, the sun was starting to fall, at times we seemed to be going way out of direction as the river meandered back and forth in great loops.<br />“This is why they built the bloody canal,” Alan moaned.<br />Another hour went by and the talking had stopped, the sun had disappeared over the horizon, the darkness of the night had crept over us. Not a soul had been seen since we set off, the only company was herd of cows that had made their way to the bank and had waded in the river to have a drink, they all stopped drinking to stare as we flouted past. Our eyes were straining to catch light of civilization; our ears strained for the sound of white water going over a rapid. In front of us mist was rising from the river, soon we were in the thick of it. The dark outline of the high banks disappeared from view. Everything seemed to go deathly silent; the only sound was from the ripples of the river hitting the sides of the canoe and the gentle sound of our paddles as we dipped them in and out. Our vision was now limited to a few feet in every direction, this eerie steamy scary fog had engulfed us, our senses seemed heightened, the smell of the river more pungent. Suddenly a swan came gliding out of the mist giving the three of us a fearsome scare, we jumped at being startled which nearly tipped us out of the canoe. <br />“Fuck this,” cried Alan breaking the silence, “let’s get the fuck out of this.”<br />A frantic paddle was made to where we thought the bank maybe, we hit a hard dirty grey concrete side of a power station that loomed high above us. Here the thick bars of the water intake grid were covered in the disgorged crap of mankind and it looked like a huge gateway to hell and it was there to stop those who deserve to be in there from coming back out. You could make out the outline of the cooling towers standing out against the darkened sky like the devils giant eggcups.<br />“It’s the fucking hot water from the cooling towers that’s making this fog,” Alan said as he dipped his hand in the water. “They’re trying to boil the fucking river.”<br />Soon we were out of the mist, the river seemed to narrow and quicken its pace. Eventually lights could be seen near stone pillars sticking out of the river, beyond this we could see the outline of a Bailey bridge with the lights of the traffic crossing it. We were at Shardlow, as we knew the old Cavendish Bridge that stood there had been washed away in a flood, they had put a bailey bridge up to replace it. The river seemed to be flowing faster still as we shot under this temporary bridge.<br />“What time is it?” I enquired.<br />Alan strained to read his watch, “ Its bloody well gone half past ten,” he curst away, “I’ll give Eric a bloody hour when I see him.”<br />The darkness of the night and fatigue was getting to us; we were running on nervous energy and heading to yet another bridge, discovering later it was known as long rope bridge to the old bargees who had horse drawn boats, at one time of day they were to shorten their long tow ropes used on the river to the shorter length required for the canal. We paddled under then met odd currents, the Trent and Mersey canal joined the river and came in on our left, on the opposite bank the mouth of the River Derwent joined the Trent bringing us turbulent currents to ride. With the power of two adjoining river we now started travelling at a fair pace on the current, we were tired and thankful and hoped we would soon be there.<br />“What the fuck is that?” Alan shouted. Both of us stopped paddling, the roar of water could be heard in front of us.<br />“Get to the fucking bank, fucking quick,” Alan shouted in panic.<br />Both of us paddled for all we were worth, the current had got hold of us and started pulling us sideways to the white water which lit up the darkness, you could now see the great turbulences below the weir bubbling up stretching the full width of the river.<br />“Fucking hell we are going to go over,” I screamed.<br />Both of us dug in harder with our paddles trying desperately to make it to the banking. We were nearly there with just a few yards to go when the current lifted us pushing sideways the canoe lurched with a bang on its side we both plunged our arms and paddles into the river pushing hard against the capping of the weir to stop us flipping over into the rushing water. We were pinned there.<br />“I’m fucking well out of here.” Alan shouted.<br />I screamed, “Bloody well hang on, we’ll do it together, you’re not bloody well getting out without me.” <br />Alan prodded the bottom with his paddle, “We can stand here.”<br />“Lets get out together very slowly.” I pleaded; I was petrified. As Alan eased himself out and as his weight came out of the canoe, I thought I would end up going over the weir on my own.<br />Both of us slipped into the river up to our waists; while grabbing at the cockpit of the canoe, we very slowly waded making our way across the top of the weir across to the banking all the time fighting the pressure of water flowing against us. An age passed as we heaved at the canoe that wanted to float over the weir. Somehow we made to the banking, with great effort we lifted the canoe above our heads and pushed it on to dry ground, grabbing out at tuffs of grass above a concrete edging, we scrambled out of the river, safe. Both of us stood there shaking from head to toe as the adrenaline took complete control over our limbs. The river was pounded over the weir, its raging power created great waves below; the noise seemed to deafen us. I sat down and got my cigarettes from my shirt pocket, luckily they were dry, I tried lighting up, this proved to be difficult as the matchbox came to pieces as I fumbled to get a match out, then after having managed to strike a light with shaking hands, I couldn’t keep the end of my cigarette still in my quivering lips. Eventually I calmed down and took stock.<br />“Bloody Eric,” Alan exclaimed, “He wants fucking stuffing.”<br />I couldn’t have agreed more with him.<br />“Where does this go to?” I pointed to a wide stretch of water going down to the left of us above the weir.<br />“Fuck knows,” Alan, snapped, “ Let’s go and fucking look.”<br />We walked down the banking stumbling in the darkness until a pair of lock gates came into view. <br />“The river feeds a fucking canal,” Alan said,“ But I don’t know where the bloody canal goes to, so we’d better put the fucking canoe in at the bottom of the fucking weir, let get fucking going it can’t be bloody far now.”<br />I personally was beginning to think we had come down the wrong river or that we had passed our party way back, perhaps in the mist, I had no idea where Trent Lock was. We pushed and shoved the canoe down and along the banking trying to find a safe place to get in, we struggled up and down through deep undergrowth until eventually we came across a little quieter backwater in the banking with no fast current. Alan was in full flow, eff-ing and blinding as I asked the time.<br />“It was half past fucking eleven last time I looked, but now my frigging watch has packed in, I’ve drowned the bastard thing and I’m scratched to fucking bits.” He went on to curse Eric some more.<br />After passing under another main road bridge, a footbridge could be seen with folk walking across we could hear shouting.<br />“Alan, Roger, Alan, Roger.”<br />“They’ve sent out a bloody search party for us,” Alan whispered, “Don’t let the fuckers see us, lets paddle into the bushes.<br />We shot into the overhanging undergrowth, the makeshift rudder was lost way back so the bend in the canoe helped us in this manoeuvre, we hid until their shouting could not be heard. Slowly we pulled ourselves out of the bushes then quietly paddled on down the river keeping close into the bank. The boathouse and the pub could be seen, we had arrived and let everyone else know, both of us became nearly hysterical, shouting and yelling at the top of our voices, waking up all the pleasure boaters who were moored along the riverside, they had been long in their berths. Heads popped out from all manner of craft, the owners waved their fists as they threw abuse calling us typical foul mouth yobbos who had no consideration for others, these remarks were returned with kafuffles of laughter and Alan shouted out as we paddled past them,<br />“You’re an absolute fucking shower.’” <br />The search party heard the commotions; they soon returned to help us get the canoe out and were to show us the way to the campsite. After changing out of our wet clothing and having a hot drink we were so tired all we need were our sleeping bags. I was soon fast asleep but the night was unkind to me as I half woke in the early hours with a cold sweat, screaming and shouting while trashing around trying to get my arms out of my sleeping bag as I relived the nightmare. Years later I was to read about eight soldiers going over a weir on the river Trent in their canoes, it cost all of them their lives.<br />The following day the sun shone bright, the group were introduced to the art of sailing. After a few lessons all the lads were in to it, everyone started enjoying the experience. Alan and I were now to take out the mirror dinghy on our own. A mirror dinghy is a little pram shaped sailing boat, there is just about enough room in them for two people. A push off the embankment we were off on our own once more. Sails up and away, the wind was brisk, we skipped along quite merrily listening to the river lap around he edges of our little tub while tacking up steam against the wind and were very happy with our progress. Alan was enjoying being the skipper, I enjoyed crewing, changing the foresail from one side to the other. Alan had been watching the many skilled crews of all manner of yachts that sailed in all directions around us, they were leaving tacking to the very last moment to come about, these folk almost went ashore before they changed course. He said this would be our last tack before turning and heading down stream. He headed into the bank, the centreboard started grinding against the riverbed, we were in the shallows. The centreboard passes through the hull and is the resistance against the wind; it lives in its own holder in the centre of the boat, it is held in place by two large rubber straps.<br />“Lift the fucking centre board.” <br />“Oui, môn Capitaine.” <br />I flipped the rubber straps off and pulled the centreboard up, Alan brought the head of the dingy around, the boom moved over, the wind filled the mainsail.<br />“Get the fucking foresail across.”<br />The wind took hold, we shot away from the bank at what seemed a great speed, the foresail was over and the line jammed into its cleat. Alan was fighting the mainsail, while I was fighting with the rubber straps that had got jammed into the slot of the housing of the centreboard, the rubber wouldn’t allow me to push the board fully home. I shouted at Alan as I let loose the foresail.<br />“Let the sail out, let the bloody sail out.”<br />“This is fucking great,” he shouted with excitement.<br />He pulled the sail in more as he leaned further and further out of the tub. The exhilaration was indeed great but with no centreboard our resistance in body weight to the wind was no match, so over we went, we were catapulted into the river on top of the sunken sail.<br />As we surfaced, Alan spluttered, “You’re a bloody jinx Roger.”<br />At that moment the centreboard slipped out of its holder and hit him on the back of his head, it was never seen again. <br />The afternoon came; the dinghy was out of action so I dragged my canoe down to the waters edge. We could launch our canoes with ease in the entrance of the Erewash Canal where it joins the river close to the Fisherman’s Rest pub where Alan had planned to spend his afternoon behind a pint of beer or two. As I dropped the canoe in from the concrete stepping I noticed on the footbridge over the canal a few of the other lads chatting to a couple of girls who were on their bicycles.<br />I shouted up, “Would one of you girls like to go for a paddle down the river?”<br />My luck was in; the good-looking one said she would love to. She left her bike with her friend and bounced down the steps and introduced herself.<br />“Hello I’m Sandra.” She smiled.<br />“Hi I’m Roger,” I replied as I took hold of her hand, “Be careful how you get in.”<br />Sandra was a very attractive girl, she had fairly long dark hair that flowed around her shoulders, she wore a white sleeveless vest type t-shirt that showed a small amount of cleavage, she had incredibly short shorts, white socks and bumper boots, the forerunner to modern day trainers. Girls who wore bumper boots or baseball boots were usually tomboy in nature. She had a pretty face with one or two freckles around her nose, but you would have to look awfully close to spot them. Why do attractive girls seem to mate up with a less attractive girl? I wondered if girls looked at boys in the same manner. Whatever, I was glad Alan was not around as this opportunity may not have happened. Soon I learnt her friends name was Maggie, Maggie was a much stronger built girl with a large bosom, I suppose if I was attracted to her I would have called them breasts, although dressed similar to Sandra her top clung to her body showing creases round her middle, her heavy bra strap was on show around her shoulders and her strong legs would not have looked out of place on a rugby field. As I looked up as we paddled under the bridge the lads looked disgruntled, not to worry; I was off downstream to navigate the entrance of the mouth of the River Soar with a beautiful kidnapped prize. Quickly we got to know a little bit about each other, she was sixteen and worked in her friend’s father’s chemist shop. Being only fourteen, I lied and told her I was also sixteen but I was having time out before starting a job in September. This seemed to impress her, as she said not many young people could afford to do that. So I had to lie again to balance the first lie but then had to continue with them to try and impress her further. We paddled away from the Erewash Canal across and down the River Trent until we met the River Soar. The mouth of the river is a pretty place where there are little huts and cabins built along on of its banks against an embankment. One could imagine the well to do would spend their leisure time here as most had boats tied up against little jetties at the bottom of their pretty gardens. Sandra and I spent time talking about how nice it would be to own such a cabin with a boat and other trivial topics. We shipped our paddles to let the river take us where it would, the canoe took us a sharp right, we drifted straight into a tall reed bed where it glided to a halt. I blessed the shape of my canoe when Sandra suggested staying there for a little while to enjoy the sun. With her backrest removed as suggested Sandra moved back a little to lay the back of her head on my chest; my arms were quickly round her, I was a delighted boy who could not believe his luck. Time passed as we talked much about nothing just enjoying the sun, our surroundings, enjoying a mother moorhen scuttling in and out of the reeds with her new family. The smell of Sandra’s hair was wonderful, the feel of her warm skin was pleasant, looking down her top was enjoyable. The pleasures were broken when Sandra said she must go and find her friend. We extracted ourselves out of the reed bed and headed back; as I paddled hard upstream a pain develop in my groin, not an unpleasant pain but a pain never the less. When we arrived back at the steps and lifted the canoe out, there was nobody around, I told Sandra the lads had made arrangements to go up to the café for their tea, and suspected they will have taken Maggie with them. After pointing her in the right direction for the café that was a broken down wooden shack on the river banking, I said I would join her shortly as I needed to brush up a bit. What I really meant was I was bursting for a pee, which I hoped, would relieve the pain I was in. After calling in the pub’s loo I headed back to the campsite, I notice the girls bikes leaning against the picket fencing, as I got to the gate laughing and jeering could be heard coming from the large bell tent. As I reached the tent Alan was coming out through the flap, he grabbed my arm and said with a solemn face, <br />“You don’t want to go in there Roger,”<br />“I need to change”<br />In a truly sombre manner he repeated, “No, Roger, you don’t want to go in there.” <br />I pushed his arm aside to enter the tent, five lads were holding Maggie down her t-shirt and bra were round her neck, some were fondling her large breasts, and others were attempting to get her shorts off. Maggie looked up at me with big wide –open eyes that showed more white than iris, she had a forced frightened half smile on her face.<br />I was stunned speechless, Alan followed me in and grabbed hold of me hard and said, <br />“Don’t be a party to rape.”<br />“What the fuck are you doing?” I shouted angrily and grabbed at of one of the lads pulling him off Maggie.<br />Alan joined in, “You lot could be fucking locked up for rape.”<br />We had joined forces; our words and action must have gone home in the lads’ heads. They all let her go and backed away from her; Maggie got up and pulled herself together. I helped her up and Alan and I escorted her to her bike under a barrage of verbal abuse and chicken calls. We both apologized for their behaviour and said we were sorry for what had happened. We asked if she was all right, she got on her bike without saying a word and she was gone. I picked up Sandra’s bike and started walking with Alan to the café; we walked in silence. How could I tell Sandra my so-called mates have just attempted to rape her friend, I couldn’t do it. I broke the silence and told Alan about Sandra saying she was gorgeous and where we had been, the told him that I had got a worrying problem.<br />“I've this terrible pain in my groin, it ‘s getting worse and it aches the more I walk.”<br />Alan laughed out loud, “You’ve got courtiers balls, go and have a bloody whank that will get rid of it.”<br />He explained, “If you have an erection and you have it for a fucking long period of time and if you don’t get rid of the hundreds of sperms that have built themselves up ready to go walk about and they don’t get the chance, the little fuckers try to blow your bloody balls off.”<br />He chuckled to himself until we got inside the café. Our sex education was limited as most was passed down from older friends not from parents or teachers as they saw this subject as a taboo topic to talk about, this I found hard to understand as they could talk about your nose, your ears and everything else but never your genitals. Eric was sitting with Sandra they seemed to be in deep discussion. A couple of the other lads were sitting elsewhere, one shouted in a stupid manner.<br />“How far did ya get Roger?" <br />He giggled while prating about, then the other lad shouted out.<br />“Don’t you mean how far did he go?”<br />I was not amused at all, my so-called mates embarrassed me. Alan brought over our drinks to join Eric, Sandra and I, he soon got talking to Sandra he told her, her friend had gone home. Eric was his usual self and quickly took over the conversation hogging Sandra’s attention, he half listened when Sandra spoke, she was privileged. I couldn’t get a word in edge ways; I felt with these older guys I was a little inferior or inadequate. Sandra bounced up after finishing her drink and said she would have to go. I escorted her out trying to ignore the stupid remarks shouted out from the two lads.<br />“Going for a ride?”<br />“How far do you think you will get?” <br />I was glad to be outside, I struggled to explain.<br />“I’m not like them Sandra. ”<br />She jumped on her bike then leaned over the handlebars and gave me a kiss on the cheek.<br />“It’s okay Roger,” she softly said, “I do like Alan and Eric.”<br />“Will you come back tomorrow I’d love to see you again? ”<br />She held my chin in her hands as if I were a little boy and said, “I’ll see.”<br />She then kissed me on the lips, she was the first girl I had fallen for her so hoped and prayed she would return the next day. The following morning I woke up with an excruciating pain in my groin, I dressed slowly and staggered out of the tent; Eric was sitting in front of his tent leaning over his primus stove cooking his breakfast.<br />“You’ve just missed Sandra, she called to say she could not make it today, she’s going out with her boyfriend. She said I am to say thank you for everything you did yesterday.”<br /> At that moment I developed even a greater saddening pain high up in my stomach and chest, she had bothered to come back with this message and I had missed her and I knew I would never see her again. My emotions were running high, I wanted out of the place and away from the company. I wished to be elsewhere.<br />Over that weekend I had learnt a little more about life and a little more about respect.<br />Respect for the great power of nature, the water, the wind but more importantly I had gained more respect for my friend Alan, I found regard for Sandra, respect for Maggie and wished things had been different. I lost regard and respect for some of my friends and I knew in time we probably would drift apart.<br /><br /> <br /> The very first canoe I built.Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-59714922724453084102008-07-21T07:54:00.001-07:002008-07-21T07:54:47.998-07:00RETURN OF THE CIGARETTE BARONRoger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-49379609053064836762008-07-21T07:48:00.000-07:002008-08-24T10:25:53.600-07:00THE RETURN OF THE CIGARETTE BARONHaving spent most of the time away from school I had now been caught out. Unbeknown to me a truant inspector had traced the family to the tobacconist shop, my mother was in a convalescent hospital, my eldest sister Janet was told if I did not return to school the following day I would be found and taken into the care system and my parents would be taken to court. The whole family made a hunt for me; eventually my sisters found me working late at night in the plaster casting workshop in a broken down old house in Eagle Street. After my sister Janet had finished ripping a strip off my work-master she threatened to treat me like a little boy to take me by the hand to school and sit in the classroom if I did not do as she said. I respected my sister therefore obeyed her. She and Ron had moved out of the family home as they had fallen out with my mum, but she still found the time to sort me out.<br /><br />On entered the school gates a little late; the late monitor was waiting behind the tall brick pillar of one the double gates. <br />“ What’s ya name?” he enquired in a voice of authority as he held his book and pencil up at arms length.<br />With no uncertainties I told him he was not having my name. If you were late for school three times you got the cane from the Headmaster, I had, had enough of the caning. <br />“ I’ll find out ya name.” He shouted after me waving his pencil at me.<br />I turned round and went back again and put my face a few inches from his own. <br />“ If me name ever appears in your bloody little red book I’ll promise you I’ll break your bloody fingers.”<br /> He must have believed me, as he was never to ask for my name again.<br />I entered in to my form class.<br />“ Who’s the new boy Sir,” some joker shouted from the back of the classroom. I was greeted once again with laughter but I was old enough and big enough to take it now.<br /> Mr. Christian the form teacher said with a kindly nod, “ Sit down somewhere Sharp.” <br />Where I had sat some time back was now occupied. One lad waved over to me pointing to the empty seat next to him. The desks seemed much smaller than I had remembered them.<br />Luck was in, Mr. Christian was our new form teacher; he was a good teacher, a good man and a professional teacher, however he also labelled me as a slow learner, but he was the only one who had not caned me for it to date, I never saw him cane anyone for that matter. School got better for me, we were at the beginning of my last but one years schooling, I suppose my secondary school was the same as all secondary schools of my time, we were fodder for industry and manual work. The grammar school boys mostly went into white-collar jobs. They spilt the schools population two or three times, once when you reached the age of eleven with the eleven plus exam, which you could have ago again at thirteen years of age, you could try another exam if you wanted to go to art school. This art exam I past but my parents did not encourage me to take the place up, whether this was because they could not afford the uniform or whether they were not interested I do not know, but I always regretted not going as art had played an enjoyable part in my school life. As far as art was concerned I stayed a big fish in a little pool, but felt I should have been a little fish in that big pool of the Joseph Wright School of Art. I felt as if I would have loved it but it was not to be.<br />In a few years time they were to close down the secondary schools, the art and music schools, and the comprehensive schools were born. I expect some middle class adults who were in a position of power who had children were disappointed their off-springs had failed the eleven plus exam, I firmly believe this fact brought comprehensive schools in quicker, as they did not like the thought of their little darlings mixing with the riff raff of the likes of the majority of us whom were bound to end up there, they not only had power they were snobs. These so called experts of the day stating those of us, who had attended the secondary schools, left us with a feeling of inadequacy because we trailed behind the others. Most of us had no such feelings as we remembered well the eleven plus exam, they like I stared at the exam paper and could not understand much of what they asked, I doubt today I would pass if I were to sit this exam again. I knew some of my friends had brighter academic minds, they past in flying colours then went on to grammar school, when we meet up after school they would talk on subjects I did not understand, I never felt inadequate because of this, they would have been completely lost in my school as I certainly would have been in theirs.<br />In this last two years of my schooling they started teaching us and educate us in a different way that suited my particular learning difficulty and many of my peer group. They were preparing us for industry, with double lessons in all practical subjects, plumbing, woodwork, metalwork, art, engineering drawing and sport, all the other subjects were single lessons, at the practical subjects I excelled and was for the first time in this school very happy the weeks sailed by. At the end of the first term back I had accumulated a bedside cabinet, many drawings and paintings, metal scrollwork, metal boxes, pewter jewelry, large engineering drawings, elaborate wall plaques, and even lathe turnings and an adjustable spanner. These were all on show on the open night, I would have been more proud of them, if only my parents would have shown, I always did expect them too but they never did in my whole schooling years, from forty third out forty four in the class I was now second in the class but still could not spell properly. At that point in time I found I had an unusual gift, I could enter a room then leave, hours later recall from memory and draw the shape of the room with the main fixtures and fittings and when checking the room measurements against the scale of the drawing, it was less then two feet in accuracy, although this has help me throughout my working life in those days I had a wild dream of being an arqutec (architect). Clearly I see policy makers trying to emulate what we had in some senior schools today but they can only make a cellotape dispenser as the godforsaken national curriculum states they should make one of these, I expect the pupils get really excited about it. One lad in my class had no interest in woodwork but he did like mice, the teacher got him to design and make a box, you’d never seen such a beautiful glass fronted three-storied mouse box. He eventually became top in woodwork so I pour shame on the policy makers.<br /><br />My school life had turned around but home life remained the same. Our house was a busy house, with not very private living accommodation, I slept in one room with my brother and farther having never known my parents to sleep together all but for one night when my father was invited into bed by my mother, my sister Nora and I had heard him go into her room I jumped out of bed full of glee and went into my sister Nora’s bedroom we started running around her bedroom and jumping up and down on her bed stifling our giggles and silently clapping our hands together. They had parted physical company shortly after I was born but remained in the same household together we wished something else for them but it was never to be.<br />We had my senile great aunt Nelly living in the front room. It was Nora and I who now had the job of looking after her. At times I would find the house over bearing, especially when my mum and dad started one of their frequent rows, I would run upstairs, lie on my bed and punch hell out of my pillow then put it over my head to drown out the shouting. As often as I could to I would escape to my elder sisters home, she had moved out of her lodgings and had just got a new council house on the other side of town, it was quite there and my sister fed me well. Ron was an expert decorator, he too had little in his life and so it was both of them were becoming house-proud, they soon had the house immaculate.<br />Things had been looking up for my mother over the last year or so, she had taken over the tobacconist shop which belonged to my grandmother on my fathers side after she died nobody else in the family wanted it. She had a rise in status, she was now a businesswoman and she was happy with this, she claimed in brought in an extra income for the family, I am sure it did. <br />After a month or two of me being back at school, she announced the profits were down. She never expected that this could be mainly put down to me. The tobacconist shop was my Aladdin’s cave, no other shop had this magical rich smell, the cigarette packets carried exotic names, Passing Clouds, Sobronie Cocktail, Black Cat, Craven A, Dunhill. Capstan Full Strength, Woodbine, Park Drive, Players Weights, Turf, Robin, Woodbine, Senior Service, the list went on and on, all of them displayed in ten and twenty packets. Then it was on to the pipes and pipe tobaccos, rolled or flake, the cigars, king size panatelas and miniatures, chewing tobaccos, Snuff, cigarette rolling tobacco, lighters and matches, spills, tobacco knives, cigarette holders and cases, a truly wonderful treasure cave, was this little shop which was perched on the top of Green Lane hill near the town centre.<br /><br />The Tobacco Baron had arrived back at school, stealing became all too easy for me. My mother was later to introduce sweets to boost up the profit margin. Another colourful array of bottles, jars, blocks and boxes of chocolates and sweets arrived in my cave. Eating these and the smoking did not help my health; I became fatter and coughed more. In my infant days and junior days at school, rationing was still around after the war, we only had a half penny or penny to spend on sweets which were limited in choice, we used to go to the corner shop with our weekly coupon to buy what we could, this usually was a stick of Spanish root, a bag of tiger nuts, or gob stopper or humbug. Most boys and girls had the same. Now the coupons had gone the sweet manufactures started making all new kinds of goodies for us to eat. To day the nations children were never going to be as fit again or our dentists so busy. I personnel cannot recall one fat child in all my school days up to this point in time, on most of us you could pinch an inch, we were as fit as butchers dogs but I was now renamed the Fat Cigarette Baron.<br />Instead of practical caring for her family, my mother was now too busy running her little emporium and had berried nearly all her time in it, I was now getting spoilt, and was fobbed of with extra pocket money, when calling in to the shop she would send me home on my bike to fetch some coal for the fire in the back parlour. I would ride the three or so miles home, fill an old rucksack up with coal and ride back only to find the fire out. She would say it did not matter as she was closing the shop anyway. Whether she did it to get me out of the way or to keep me busy as to not get into any trouble I can not say, but in trouble and in danger I did get, for I stopped going to the shop, except for the times I needed to build up my stock levels that were hidden under a loose floor board inside the built in cupboard in my bedroom.<br /><br />I was now back in with my old school mate’s full time, I was popular as I was the only one with a constant supply of cigarettes. They had told me they had found an excellent hide out, in the form of a railway brake truck that was in the sidings near Peartree Railway station. The brake van had been left there for some time on the rusty lines in this little siding; they had broken into this and made it their head quarters. I could not wait to join them and arranged to meet them there in the evening. I rushed home to check on my aunt who was getting worse by the day, it was hard for me to not get angered at her, she had become an embarrassment to me, especially when friends called round to call for me. Today she was waiting at the gate with her cossets being worn on top of her black dress which was covered in white wash, I had got into the habit of locking the side gate to keep her in the garden, as she used to go wondering off, I must have forgotten on this day. She told me someone had been in pinching the coal out of the coalhouse, so she had white washed the coal. I steered her past the mess in the coal house into the kitchen, on the stove was burning potatoes in the bottom of a pan, my sister and I were now preparing all the families meals each day, the night before we had left the potatoes in water on the stove, my aunt had switched the stove on, to top this catastrophe she had crapped in the bottom of the bath. <br />“ You need to go,” I shouted at her in a very unpleasant manner.<br />Without an expression she replied“ Yes George.” <br />“ You need to clean your own crap up.”<br />“ Yes George.”<br />She could never remember my name, <br />I was too young to take care of her and was becoming close to getting to really hate her one felt I could easly give her an overdose of something. My sister Nora arrived back home from work and we sorted her out; I grabbed a sandwich and was gone, leaving Nora with the remains of the terrible mess.<br />I went over to call for my friend Alan who’s house was across the street, they always made welcome there, I sat down and waited for Alan and his family to finish their evening meal, which made my mouth water, his home was a comfortable place, his farther owned one of the few cars in the street and they were the also first to have a television set, we were fascinated by this new invention and starred at this large box with a magnifying glass screen. Alan was only allowed one mate in at a time to watch it, we would watch old films of Hop-along Cassidy, most of these we had seen before at the tanner rush, the Saturday morning children’s show at the Regal cinema, a tanner was six pence, in today’s money it represents two and a half pence. Here they sometimes put on talent competitions, we once persuaded our comedian friend to get up as he knew every joke going around, to our surprise he got up and was introduced, he stood in centre stage, he went on to start telling bawdy jokes but was quickly pulled off the stage we were all thrown out of the cinema. That night Alan quickly ate his dinner; we were soon off out in to the darkness of the evening to the new hide out.<br />We made our way down the railway embankment and climbed aboard the brake van, this was a double ended type, it had two little seats on each side where the guard could sit and see down the sides of the train out of little windows, these became good look out points. The wagon even supported a pot bellied stove although we never light it, as this would surely attract attention. The rest of our little group soon arrived; mostly we sat about talking and sometimes came up with ideas of things to do. We got to know what times trains past and wondered where they were heading for. We learnt the types of deferent loco’s we memorized the fancy names of the iron monsters that bore one as they steamed past, we got exited when a large berergarate loco came trundling past us. <br /> “ Another namer coming.” some one would shout and we would all rush over to see if we could catch it’s name as it thundered past travelling to somewhere we could only dream of.<br />This was to become our second home for several weeks, nobody ever looked over the bridge parapet down on to this little siding, if they had they would have surly seen the comings and goings of our little band of street urchins.<br />Behind the brake van was a string of old fish vans; we decided to break into them .One by one we made our way down the line to see if there was anything in them. In several of these vans we found empty wooden ammunition boxes, all boys love boxes, one by one they turned up at our homes, we started selling them at school. The trade dried up, we became bored once again, one night we sat in our head quarters, the nightly goods train stopped across the main lines in another siding to wait for the London express train to pass. The signals would change, and this 060 type black steam engine would puff into action making its way out of the sidings, clanging all its wagons as they were taken hold of. <br />“ Lets go train ridding on it tomorrow night,” someone bright spark suggested. <br /> “ We don’t know where it’s going,” somebody replied, <br />“ I bet it bloody well stops out side Derby station,” Alan said in his knowing voice, <br />“ We can find out tomorrow night.” <br />We meet the following evening on our bikes, we all rode down to London Road bridge just outside of Derby station, we propped up our bikes against the tall parapet of the bridge, climbed on the frames of them and stood on our saddles to hang our heads over the high bridge wall, we waited in anticipation for our goods train to appear. Right on time we saw it heading our way, the signal rattled and banged into action the goods train came to a halt outside Derby Station where it waited for another main line passenger train to puff its way out of a platform.<br /> “ Look out for the guard,” someone shouted, as our goods train started to move.<br /> As it went under the bridge the smoke engulfed us and we strained to see if there was a guard or not. We had an argument on the way home, as to whether they did or not carry a guard. <br />“ What the hell,” Alan said, “ it will be bloody dark so he wouldn’t see us anyway.” <br />So it was planned to ride the goods train the following night.<br />The following evening I meet up with Alan we both smiled when we saw each other, we were both dressed up in black as we had both dug out our old balaclavas, we looked and felt like cockle shell heroes. We reached our hide out, only three out of the eight lads had turned up, the others had thought better of it. <br />“ Well let’s go.” <br />We dropped out of the guards van ran across the two main lines over to the siding line and dived into the undergrowth. Time now seemed to go very slowly as we crept along the banking to where we had judged the middle of the goods train would be, we sat down and waited for our train to arrive. I could feel my heart pounding as the train was heard coming in the distance; every thing now to me seemed to go in slow motion. The mighty steam engine rolled past us blowing steam over us, the wagons rattled by, I began to wish it would not stop, but stop it did, the three of us scrabble aboard a flat plate wagon using the wheel bearing boxes as a foot hold. We all lay down flat on it; it seemed an age before the express passenger train came hurtling through. We stated to move and be on our way, the train crawled it’s way down the line under the several bridges down to the signal outside of Derby station, I just prayed it would stop, and began to wonder, why on earth were we doing this, we also had not figured out what we were going to do when we got off. Thankfully the train did stop and we were off quickly running across another rail and another until we found ourselves alongside the backs of a long row of heavy industrial factories. We started to make our way down this line of factories, the way we had come from, we looked into these lit up factory’s were furnaces and metal pouring was being carried out, we saw the night sift worker sweating away in front of cupolas, which crackled as their jaws opened to except more food that was shovelled in my these men working the night shift, nobody seemed to noticed us as we crept past these large wide open doorways. We were distancing ourselves away from the train we had arrived on. A night express train came charging by us at great speed, which made us jump even though it was on the opposite lines from us. I wanted the hell out of there, it was not fun. We soon came up to the foot bride where we knew a fence was, here we use to train spot from, we were quickly over the fence and safe. We were never to do it again.<br /><br /><br />School carried on, the caning for poor English had ceased and being asked to read out loud had stopped, they now knew I would point blankly refuse to do this and caning for that was not going to make me do it. I had found some mutual respect; I think they half understood why I could not grasp something’s. The teachers stopped calling me thick or stupid but still added I could do better on my report, even after I had moved forty odd places up the form position, I was achieving in other areas and I had learnt some strategies of how to cope better in maths, I still did not know off by heart or parrot fashion my six seven, eight and twelve times tables but I knew my elevens fives and nines and could add and subtract and in science I starting drawing more pictures to explain processes and abbreviated the spellings of the chemicals etc. Even my hate of doing competitive sport was not an issue, the last period on Fridays was football, I could not kick or catch or throw a ball, my coordination did not work as other boys, I was to join the D group for this period, a small group of none ball players. We all use to head down to Brackens Field Park with old man Leaversly, a man I was happy to call Sir, he had no interest in sport either, so all our little group sournted slowly making our way to the unkempt park where the grass was as high as our knees. Throwing a couple of jackets down, we just had a kick about; we didn’t even have to have any kit. The jackets disappeared somewhere in the long grass as did the ball, we stood around as nobody ran, if the ball just happened to land at your feet you just gave it a kick in the direction of our coats, others may go and look to see where it landed, that’s if they were interested. The old man sat quietly having a cigarette on the bottom of a children’s slide waiting for the time to pass, inevitably he judged the time when he thought it safe to call it a day and let us go which was usually early, as we walked home through the better Osmaston park we would catch the end of the other teams games. <br />As we all moved up to the big boys classes, those who had bullied us had now left school, we had become in charge of the little kids especially in the canteen at the dinner tables, were we to control what they ate, dishing out their food keeping the larges portions ourselves. We employed gofers, to fetch and to put things away and go to the shops for us but we did not bully them as we had been. I adopted a scruffy scorny little kid who looked under nourished; I made sure he had a big dinner for his reward in attending to me. School was now all right and I had no problems now of attending and of course had the additional incentive of making extra cash each day. This did not go unnoticed by the headmaster who added on a note with my school report stating I was a strong member of the smokers union. His comment, strong was a positive word for me.<br />My evenings and weekends started to be more productive as we started building bikes up, on the odd occasions when we needed a new wheel or other parts we would head down at night to Rolls Royce factory with a few spanners, to pinch our spares off a nightshift workers bikes in the bicycle racks conveniently provided out of sight. When we were short of money we would go bottling, that is climbing into the backyard of a public house steal their empty beer bottles only to take them round to the front of the pub, to their off licence hole in the wall to reclaim the deposit back on them. We then started collecting scrap metal, stripping it down to none furess metals and feress metal and weigh this in on Saturday mornings. This was so lucrative we started collecting items from our homes and others people’s property, we all got in trouble with our fathers and neighbours as one or two lawnmowers and garden rollers had gone missing. The local gardens had become devoid of any metal, our supply had dried up. This activity helped me loose weigh and gain several inches in height.<br />Having put this thieving behind me I turned my skills into building my first canoe. We were now older enough to join the local youth club, which was held on two nights a week, and our interest had turned to going there and to girls. <br />The social life now revolved round the youth club, here the gang would meet and have an hour or so playing cards, snooker or billiards, after which we would head to the hall to listen to the rock and roll music and to watch the girls dance with the older guys for the last hour. The peer groups spread around the hall, with no one going into any one else’s territory, except for the big guys who had been our bullies at school would invade the girl’s areas. At first we were worried about these guys, but they must have thought we had reached the required age of none bullying so they never bothered us. All of us had grown up and had gained a little more maturity as we entered our teenage years. The profits were to go up in my mothers little shop; she claimed it was her business acumen. <br />The girls were pretty and Rock and Roll was in.Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-60312394396293000732008-07-21T07:41:00.000-07:002008-07-21T07:44:41.137-07:00A PAINFUL PRACTISEMy parents did not seem to mind or care about which school I was to attend for the next phase of my education. My brother Colin and my elder sister Janet had attended Pear Tree School my other sister Nora went to Homelands Grammar School. I was to go to Allenton Secondary Modern School; fortunately I was going with a few school friends who also had failed the eleven plus exam.<br />This time around I did not have my brothers cast off clothes, as the school uniform was slightly different. Here they wore black blazers with a yellow stripe around the lapels and blazer cuffs, I put the brand new blazer on with pride over a brand new white shirt, school tie, pullover, with new shoes and socks. I was made up and set off to school, which is a fair walk away from my home; this walk usually took about forty-five minutes, that day I had half ran half walked eager to go into the big school to enter a big boys world, I rushed in to the school yard, horror struck me, every one was in long trousers, immediately I turned on my heels and ran all the way home again cursing my mother for not buying me any long trousers. My mother turned me around, but I refused to go unless I had long trousers, she went up stairs to go through my brother’s clothes returning with a pair. <br /> “ Here try these on,” <br />They were terrible; I had about a foot spare around my waist and they were far too long. My mother got the scissors cut the bottoms off; she gave me a belt to put on. I felt stupid, but she pushed me out of the door anyway. Slowly I walked back to school then hung until one o clock when they went in for the afternoon’s lessons. I did not know which class I was to be in or where to go. All the lads disappeared into their classrooms I was left standing alone in the corridor, A teacher came past and asked me why I was not in my classroom, I explained I did not know where to go, he asked me who my teacher was I said, “ I duna no know Sir,” <br /> “ What form are you in.” <br /> “ I duna no know Sir.” <br />“ What’s your name?”<br />“ Sharp Sir,” <br />“ You don’t know much do you boy, follow me.”<br /> He went into two or three classrooms to ask if they had anybody missing,<br /> “ Right boy you must be in 1B.” <br /> We walked up to the next classroom, <br />“ This is yours,” he said as he pushed me in.<br /> The form teacher bellowed from behind his large desk, “ What’s your name boy?” <br />“ Sharp Sir.”<br />“ You are not very sharp are you boy,” <br />The lads laughed. <br />“ Where were you this morning?” <br />“ I couldn’t find the school Sir,” the classroom fell about laughing.<br />The clown had arrived and he was in costume too.<br />The introduction had started off badly and it continued. The school operated under a strict raceme, corporal pushishment was the norm. Every teacher carried a cane even if they were teaching away from their own classroom. Baxter the English teacher carried his cane around down inside his trouser leg and would pull it out like a duelling sword when some lad was challenged and ready to be punished. In their own classrooms they had an assortment of implements with which to punish you with. The music teacher had a full set of slippers ranging from size six to size twelve, depending on the size of your misdemeanour, depended on what size he would use on you, for laughs he would add a swastika in chalk to the soles which would transfer into print on your backside. The science teacher preferred straps, but the worse offender by far was the art teacher Mr. Green he had a whole cupboard door full of corporal punishment tools hanging on hooks, slippers, straps and canes all hanging on a neat display, he took it one step further, he had names for them all, named after snakes they were labelled on the door next to the hooks. He could bring tears into the hardest of boy’s eyes. Lucky for me I was good at art and only fell under his wrath once, the beating I received from him was nothing to do with discipline.<br /> He started a quiz off in the classroom on football clubs; it came round to my turn to answer a question, <br />“ What is the team name of Wolverhampton? ” <br />I hadn’t a clue; I had no interest in football what so ever.<br />“ I don’t know Sir,” <br />“ Right,” he shouted, as he stood up, he seemed angry with me for some reason,<br />“ Go and fetch me the Blackmamber.” <br /> I went to the cupboard to collect the largest of all slippers,<br />“ Bend down boy,” <br />He would lift your jacket tail and fold it over to expose your trousers.<br />With each stroke he beat the name on my buttocks,<br />“ Wanderers,” he yelled.<br />Each time the slipper landed it would knock me off balance to send me lunging forward, finally collapsing at the bottom of the wall under the blackboard. <br />“ Wanderers” <br />I remembered the information but what use was that to me,<br /> “ Wanderers.”<br />I pick myself up again for the third time; I squeezed the muscles in my buttocks together as hard as I could to control the pain in them. I walked back to my seat agonizingly slowly holding my breath in a silent classroom that became out of focus as tears flooded my eyes. I possible believe to this day I was beaten either because my artwork was better than his as he never corrected or commented on any of my work or he didn’t want me to feel I was being treated differently to the other lads who had fallen under his wroth or that he just felt like doing it or even worse enjoyed it. He should be nowhere near young people as far as I was concerned; he seemed to relish making boys cry.<br />Most of our teachers had returned from the war they had been retrained to become teachers, Greeny was no exception, once a year he was taken down with Malaria. He would start to shiver; he would put his ex army grey coat on then sit next to a radiator shaking uncontrollably. I do not think one boy in my class had any sympathy for him. <br />The majority of the teachers had seen the harshness and horrors of the war, even after the punishments that they dished out on us; they had our respect for what they had been through for king and country, and for ourselves, clearly I had no respect or regard for old man Greeny. <br />Mr. Leaversely, a tall gaunt man with little flesh covering his bones, it was said he had been a prisoner of war in Japan, he had been tortured he had a piece of his tongue missing, if you sat at the front of his Maths class you got sprayed as he talked, he would constantly be wiping his lips with a handkerchief. How could you not respect this man, no one ever made fun out of him, if one did, the rest of us would beat them up. His caning was fair in every instance he was only administered it if school rules were broken and he never hit you too hard. Unfortunately we had many rules that were easily broken, late for school, dirty shoes, noisy in the corridors, swearing, rude to teachers, fighting and bullying. Other teachers made up their own rules, looking out of the window, talking in class, not paying attention or doing your work, running in the corridors, chewing in class and for anything else that up set them.<br />They use to take us to Reginald Street Swimming Baths once a week, it was old Victorian baths which incorporated slipper baths for those folk who did not have a bath in their homes. It was a place I did not care for much, most of us could not swim properly as our previous school or our parents did not take us swimming too often. In my first year I could not swim very well, in the fifteen minutes free time the teacher left us without supervision, two big older bully lads ducked the smaller kids, I fought them, but they were much stronger, I tried shouting for help under water and blacked out. I think they might have realised what they had done and dragged me out for when I came around I was on the side of the pool. They shipped us there in a double decker bus, after our swim they piled us on to the bus back to school again with no supervision, one lad started to ring the bell on the bus continually, this was reported to the school. The next morning three teachers rounded up the whole bus full of us in the hall then asked who was ringing the bell, our unwritten code of not snitching held good, so the three teachers, each gave the whole lot of us, two stokes each on both hands, by the time they had finished they were pouring with sweat, we all spent the rest off the day trying to hold our pens with swollen throbbing fingers.<br />Mr Woolly, who had a club foot which we reckoned was trench foot but really did not know his story he may well have had one all his life, he also had his way of keeping your attention in his classroom, he would take the long window pole, a pole with a hook on the end made for opening the high up windows, he would swing this at desk level, if you did not duck below desk level it would crack you on the elbow, the further back you sat in the classroom, the more it hurt, there was always a rush for front and the corner seats in his classroom. His other party piece was when administering punishment was to make us balance a wooden ruler across our closed thumbs, if we could move our hands apart as he picked up one end of the ruler to bring it down again on your thumbs, you had escaped punishment, which very few did, for if he missed your thumbs he would bring it back up again then hit you on the head with it.<br />One a big lad was brought out in front of the class for talking in the music lesson, he was told to bend over to receive his punishment, he refused, the teacher grabbed hold of his neck and forced him to bend over. He received what I can only describe as a whipping, violence provoked violence so the lad was pulled out of the classroom by his hair and was dragged to the headmasters office, as our classroom was stunned into silence we listened as he received twelve extra cane strokes, the boy did not return to school the following day, I had became to hate the school. I felt the same may happen to me as in this first year as I was getting into great difficulties, the lines had stopped, the cane had taken their place especially in English, I am sure they thought I was playing the fool. It seemed to me some teachers were trying to beat information into me. It also was not just the teachers I was having trouble with, it was my peer group, who had started to make fun of me, I dreaded being called upon to read out loud in the class, the last time I was ever called to read out loud, we were reading the Wooden Horse a great true story of escaping from a prisoner of war camp, the class fell about laughing as I tried to read, the teacher joined in, I expect I had a reading age of six or less, I closed the book, threw it across the classroom, walked out of the classroom and out the school. Then on days when English was on the timetable I never went to school. Punishment was administered on the following days for having no note from home, which was twice a week. I got a friend who went to grammar school to write me a sick note for days I was away stating I had asthma attacks, this worked a treat as it got my out of cross county running and sports as well. The funny thing was, I had started to develop chronic asmere for real. The doctor said it might be brought on by fur and feather, so my mother changed my pillow for a hard flock one and threatened to kill the cat. I put it down to nerves as I had also started wetting the bed, which was clearly embarrassing. The school quickly caught on to the fact my mother had not written the letters so double punishment was administered. As I looked at my bare bottom in a mirror it looked like it had been sown on with red darning wool, so time at school got less and less. I had decided I would only accept one caning a week then later felt they couldn’t caned me if I wasn’t there at all.<br />My grandmother had died; my mother was looking after a tobacconist shop she had owned, so she spent much of her time there. I pretended to go out ready for school then hide and waited just inside the park gate, once she had left for town I sneaked back home. This became very boring so I used to go out for a walk about around the area, I was soon to come across other latch door kids who were also playing truant, we got into mischief and petty thiefing from corner shops then generally became a nuisance to folk. My newfound friends had a friend who use to knock about with us in the evenings, his name was Reg. His parents were very busy people who had their own business making and selling plaster cast figures and wall plaques they used to sell them on Birmingham Smithfield market on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Rex was to have a short life, as he was cycling to school one morning something snapped in the back of his neck, he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. I attended his funeral and was invited back to their home afterwards. Rex had an older brother Alan, he a pretty adopted sister, they fought like cat and dog; I became a friend of Allen and was to spend much of my time at his home. His kindly parents took me under their wings, whether this was anything to do with loosing their loved son or not I do not know, clearly I felt for the family, they always put a good meal on the table for me. They seemed not to want to know or care why I was not at school, life became exciting. They first took me to the Saturday market; the market was a wonderful place for a young lad. I quickly learnt how to become a gofer, go for this and go for that, go for their teas and bacon butty’s, go for change, collect boxes from the van, clean the area up and load up the van after a full days work. I did it with pleasure; I believe Alan was pleased I had taken on his younger brothers role. <br />“ What’s Tuesday market like?” I enquired. <br />My mother now had split her time up between home and the shop but spending more time at the shop, we had the added problem in the family; my senile great aunt who had moved in was getting worse. Her husband had died some time ago, she had no children and no relatives to care for her, she had alziaimas decease. She had lived in Bolton all her life; she had started work at the age of nine as a cotton picker in the mills, working on her hands and knees underneath moving loom machinery clearing them of loose cotton, she worked up to running her own loom, she stayed there for fifty-four years, she did not have one day off apart from holidays and did not have a grey hair in her head. I went with my mother to pick her up and clear out her little terraced house in a cobbled street with a looming mill at the end of it. Her husband had been a clock repairer, so the house was full of every type of clock you could think of, these were going to be given the neighbours who had been keeping an eye on her. I took a pillar clock off the mantle piece but could not resist having a look inside, to my surprise I found a roll made up of a ten shilling notes full of sixpenny pieces, the hunt was now on, I recovered two hundred and fifty pounds and one hundred and forty packets of soap hidden all around the house. This was a vast sum of money in those days; my mother must have thought she had won the jackpot. Before we left Bolton my mother steered my aunt down to the Co-Op to collect her divvy money, “ Sign at the bottom, there,” my mother told her three times, over came the money some three hundred pounds or so, I had never seen such large amounts of cash; my aunt had truly lost her marbles. My mum treated me to cream cakes on the way to catch the train home. Once we got her home the family started to disperse, my elder sister Janet and my brother in law Ron had left the house hold, my brother went off to do his national service in the RAF, my farther who could not stand my aunt took to going out more. Which left my sister Nora and I to fend for ourselves. This suited me down to the ground, as nobody knew where I was. So the following week was Saturday market, down to London to pick up some lampshades on Sunday, workshop on Monday, Tuesday market, casting on Wednesday, spray painting on Thursday and Friday off, I was in full time work and had been missing from school for nearly two full terms, I was pleased as it was only two weeks away from the schools summer holidays in case they were looking for me.<br />One morning as I was about to leave home to go to the workshop, there was only my aunt and I in the house, I saw an official looking man with a brief case coming down the garden path to the front door, I steered my aunt to the front door, ran in the front room, now my aunts room and dived into her bed fully clothed.<br /> The front door knocker rattled, my aunt on cue answered it.<br /> She greeted him, “ Hello Mr. Brown,” <br />“ My name is Mr. Bradshaw I am from the School Board.” <br />“ Come in, would you like a cup of tea.” <br />“ No thank you, I have come about Roger, he has not been in school for some time.” <br />“ I’ll get the rent money,” she said.<br /> I shouted from the front room in a croaky voice, “ Who is it Aunty.”<br /> They both entered the front room, “ What’s wrong with you,” the inspector asked, <br />“ I don’t really know but they wont let me climb the stairs.” <br />“ Oh, dear,” he remarked, <br />My aunt leaned over to collect her handbag off her bedside cabinet, took her purse out, counted out five pounds and offered this to the inspector, she asked him how Mrs. Brown was. He waved a hand at me and asked her how long had I had I been in bed. <br /> She looked down at me, “ I think twelve years.” She replied, at that he left.<br /> When I thought the coast was clear, I jumped out of bed, and said to my Aunt, <br />“ Oh. Dear he forgot t’ take the rent money,” I took it out of her hand, <br />“ I’ll go un catch him up and give it t’ him.”<br />During my time off school I had learnt a lot, how to make moulds, how to mix casting material, how to cast, how to spray paint, how to buy and sell to a make profit, as well as how to lie, steal, smoke, gamble and drink beer. The bed-wetting had stopped but the asthma lingered on.Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-54157471617903582092008-07-20T03:55:00.000-07:002008-07-20T03:59:40.905-07:00OW"T OUT O"TNOWTJunior school was becoming a real concern not only with my learning but I was getting picked on by a lad who was in a higher form, who came from a well to do family he had an evil streak, he made mine and other young kids life a misery, one day he caught me on my own on the way to school, he dragged me in the woods and kicked the hell out of me, he was a nasty piece of work. Many years later I was to bump into him in a pubic house in Derby, he was inebriated and obnoxious, I reminded him of his seamy past, telling him what a bully he was and embarrassing him in front of the perceptive smiles of the regulars, he did not deny it but said he could not remember me. School was difficult for me so it was I couldn’t wait for the weekends to arrive so I could live in a safe haven for a couple of days. On the Fridays after school I would rush through the Osmaston Park to my very crowded home, practicing another word I couldn’t say properly, trying to pronounce it over and over again, <br />“ Rorry, shit, lorry, lorry lorry, rorry shit again.” <br />This was a simple word, not one of my usual longer words that could not be pronounced. I could not pronounce it correctly for more than three times on the trot, “ rorry,” it sounded like baby talk, I kept thinking about how stupid it must sound to other kids at school, once at home it did not matter any more until Monday morning came around.<br />On Friday nights the house was hustle and bustle, my mother would be collecting the house keeping money off all the working family members. My eldest sister Janet and her husband Ron who had just moved in, my brother Colin who had just started his apprenticeship as a pattern maker, all would sort out our family’s finances.<br />My sister Nora and myself always hopped the electric meter man had been to read the meter during the week, so we too may have some pocket money to spend. We would enjoy watching this man when he called in the holidays, he would empty it of the pennies, sixpences and shillings on to the work surface of the kitchen cabinet my dad had made, he would count out at great speed the coins stacking them up in columns, he would check the amount against the meter readings, the meter was set at a higher amount to the price of electricity. He would slide this money due into little paper bags and seal them with a flick of his wrist, drop these in his leather bag then dash off to his next call leaving the extra amount in small piles. My mother would divide these up into piles decreasing in size, one to put back into the metre, one for her and two for pocket money for my sister and myself, this was all we got for pocket money until he called again; I always hoped we had used a lot of electricity so there may be extra high piles of coins in the rebate. <br />Usually I could not wait to see what my dad had brought home from work for the caravan he was building in the back garden.<br />My father had decided to build a large six-berth caravan, my uncle who was in charge of the millwright section at Rolls Royce had started to build one. My mother must have told my farther he could easily build one as he was a coach body builder at carriage side, the name given locally for the British Railways Coach Building Works. It was interesting how these two men tackled this job, one from an engineer’s perspective and one from a joiners view; one had metal struts for a framework the other timber. My uncle Roger built his inside a garage in two half’s lowering the top half on to the bottom half as it would not fit in one piece in his garage. My father had started the project sometime back and was now reaching the fitting out and finishing off stage, the project was moving on quicker as my brother Colin and brother in law Ron were giving him a hand. To fit this twenty-foot caravan into the back yard he had demolished his work shed and the greenhouse then started building a chassis out of an old axle, springs and bed irons from old metal beds from a scrap yard. Visits to various scrap yards were common, from one scrap yard situated in the middle of town tucked in behind Cockpit Hill where they specialised in scraping old trolley buses, he purchased the middle section, the floor of upstairs the ceiling of downstairs of one of these buses, a huge amount of material in this one section contained all useful stuff with which to build with. <br />Cockpit Hill was a fun place to visit on Saturday market, a visit to Sid Sharrots the pet and tropical fish shop who had branched out upstairs into a model shop, here all the kids would go and stare at the rows and rows of model railway engines and rolling stock in locked glass cabinets, a visit here to see them was never missed although knowing full well we could not afford any of them. On Cockpit Hill the market trader’s set out their stalls and folk would gather round as they shouted out touting for business, offering cut-price goods. Nobody was as good at it as Mad Harry, he would do his usual act every week, and nobody knew what he was going to sell you next.<br /> “ I’m not asking four pounds, not three pounds not two pounds not even one pound.” slapping his hand down on the goods ever time the price was lowered,<br />“ I am asking one pound ten shilling for these beautiful bed sheets and there are four in a pack.”<br /> The ladies would clabber forward to buy these, my mother included; he took six pounds off each of them. On getting them home she discovered they only fitted a two-foot mattress, I could see the look of disappointment on her face, but she made out she knew and said they were for the caravan. My mum was always a sucker for Mad Harry’s chat, she was to replace our round cider stone pot bottles we used for hot water bottles with rubber ones from Mad Harry’s, she was please as punch with her purchase until she came to fill them up, the sealing washers were missing on their screw caps. My farther sorted them out so we could enjoy this new luxury that we could hold between our knees in bed after they had cooled down a little.<br /> My sister Nora and I did miss our nightly race across the living room floor balancing and rolling on our old pot bottles like log roller’s on the Mississippi river, it was apart of the nightly ritual after she had her rags put in her hair to curl it for the next day and after we had our toes smeared with black ointment to help cure our chilblains. After our race it was supper, the stale bread that had been placed in the range to be baked to a crisp was covered with dripping from some part of an animal my mother had cooked and saved the fat drippings in a beaker. The range was the focal point in the house, built with two ovens either side of the fire, it had little flue covers made in cast iron all around it s main casting, it was soon to become my job on Saturday mornings to dismantle the entire range, empty the soot out and clean the whole range with Zebra stove blacking.<br />My dad returned home always dead on the dot, five forty five, never a minute early never a minute late, the old wall clock’s chime struck-out three times to announce his arrival, I did not know how he did this; I peered from behind the clothes maiden that was covered in steaming clothes that were hugged round the range fire, he took a hidden bundle of wood from under his heavy mackintosh tied up in thick string, which he had made a loop in to throw across his shoulder, he lowered the bundle to floor. My father was a giant of a man with a square chin and huge hands a real gentle giant, he took his pay packet out of his jacket pocket counted out some notes for my mother then replaced the packet back into his pocket, my mother never knew how much he earnt, a topic of many an argument. I undid the knots and rolled up the string, everything was saved in those days, my mum took it off me to place in a tin marked string, this would be used at Christmas to tie up the linen on top of our home made Christmas puddings, I knew she would be soon asking me to return the sixpenny joeys that I had found in the puddings last year to stir in with the mixture this year while making a wish. I played with the pieces of timber making an imaginary fort out of them. My dad nipped out to his shed and brought in a wood chisel, he picked up the largest piece of flat wood, he prized the chisel into the end of it, to my surprise out of the plank end slid a mirror, the kind you got in the toilets on railway carriages which had etched in the corner L.M.S, with the remaining pieces he placed round the mirror to frame it.<br />He told me I could go with him the next day to collect a barrow full of timber he had bought from the scrap off cuts at work. The following day we were in the carriage side works loading up a four-wheeled trolley the type that they used on stations that had a big handle you steered and pulled them with. <br />This was loaded high; we headed for the gate, “ OK Fred.” The man said, as my dad gave him a chitty.<br /> As we pushed and pulled it out of the gate, I could see the pleasure on my dads face. After getting the trolley home we unloaded it and he started again with his chisel on long lengths of timber, many were hollow, out poured the goodies, sliding track, strip brass and aluminium, screws and screw cups, nuts and bolts, door catches and the like. Also on the trolley were bundles of maroon painted destination boards with exotic names sign written on them EDINBOUROUGH dash LONDON, NEWCASTLE dash BIRMINGHAM and other cities of the country. These boards use to fit on the roof of the maroon and custard railway carriages of the L.M.S. the London Midland Scotland railway company, my dad smiled again as he sanded one of the boards, and ran his hand over the fine red grain of the timber, “ Do you know these are all made out of Brazilian mahogany” The caravan indeed was taking shape at the expense of British Rail.<br />I was privileged to have such a clever dad, who could with scrape and a bit of pilfering make something out of nothing. There was kids around who had nothing, some others who had a far worse deal, there fathers had died during the war or left their mothers and their mothers had abandon them too, eventually these poor kids were asked to line up in some schools in front of cards, marked New Zealand, Australia, and Canada, and bluntly told to pick a country, then were marched off to have their tonsils pulled out and shipped out overseas, some thanks to some of their dads for dying in action. My father had escaped going to war, he was the eldest in his own family and he was fairly deaf, the family raised their voices an octave or two when speaking to him. Before the war he was a model builder for Rolls Royce on the car manufacturing side, building full size wooden models of new cars, then during the war he worked away from home doing long hours, he must have had a little time off or I would not be here today. His own farther had died in an accident on the LMS railway where he worked. The London Midland Scotland Railways had an orphanage in Derby town, Saint Christopher’s for railway children, his mother now left on her own could not afford to feed all her children my farther volunteered himself to go there. Here he suffered. Every individual had their head shaved on arrival then given harsh hardwearing clothes to wear. He told me he would have never survived those days if it weren’t for his friend, as he could not hear the wake up bell in the mornings. His friend woke him up and helped him through the long days then in the evening his friend told him what he had missed throughout the day in lessons, a true friend. He learnt how to use his hands in the woodwork classes, he excelled at this, and this helped him in his future work. A few weeks before Christmas you would never see him, he would be out in his shed making Christmas presents not only for us but also for our cousins. The best toys he made always seem to leave the house, large rocking horses, wooden trains, small brick trolleys, wooden rattles, wooden guns that fired elastic bands, farmyards and dolls houses, forts, model theatre stages and the like.<br />I had been told my eldest sister Janet had received a sack of ashes one Christmas for being naughty, I could never imagine my sister being naughty, my sister more or less looked after me since I was born. I awoke this Christmas to find an empty sack at the bottom of my bed, I could not think what I had done wrong. I stepped out of bed and stood on a small white cowshed, a trail of small building lead out of the bedroom down the stairs, I found the last piece with all the farm animals in front of the large range. My dad was fast asleep in his chair still holding a paintbrush, I knew then who the real farther Christmas was. I was pleased to have him, although as a youngster he hardly spoke to me, I did not get to know him very well until I was eighteen or so. This giant of a man was only ever to hit me once, we had our cousins around for a weekend I had a crush on my cousin Unise and thought she was beautiful, she was my sister Nora’s age, the girls did not want to play with me, I got upset, hit my cousin then ran out of the house, my dad was soon in hot pursuit, I ran down the garden, jumped over next doors hedge and jumped and dived over the whole row of hedges in the avenue I thought I had lost him but he followed me over the lot, he caught up with me, gave me a walloping and dragged me home by the scruff of the neck crying. Mum and dad had another argument over it; these were commonplace in the house they happened over the smallest thing, they even argued about where furniture should go.<br /> “ We’ll have the settee over there Fred.” my mother would say.<br /> He would move it, <br />“ No, over here.” he would move it again,<br /> On the sixth time of moving it backward and forward an argument erupted, my giant of a farther picked up this heavily made three-seater settee to shoulder height and flung it across the room, it bounced off the wall and fell to the floor.<br /> “ It can bloody well stay there.” <br />He then stormed out of the house, but this argument was of my making, which made me feel worse.<br /> “ How dare you hit my child?” She shouted as if he had no authority over me.<br /> Later on in the evening my dad pulled me to his side, even though he was not a tactile man who had few words for his children he said,<br /> “ Son, in your future life promise me you will not ever hit another girl or women.” I vowed I wouldn’t.<br />I got to thinking it was my sister Nora’s fault anyway so one day I waited upstairs in my mothers bedroom window for her to come out of the back door and dropped an old encyclopaedia on her head which knocked her out, I thought I killed her. I found this encyclopaedia on a piece of furniture that very few homes in our avenue possessed, that was a bookcase, most homes in the area were devoid of books, my mother was really middle class and had this set of books before they were married, my father was working class. Even today this meagre item of furniture and what it contains draws a line within our social structure and standing differences. <br />My mother also contributed to making things out of very little. Most of our clothes she made for us, she took in extra sewing for other folk. On one occasion when I was a very small child, she was asked to make a small boy a satin shirt for a wedding, after she made it, it was modelled on me, she like it so much before the woman came to pay for it my sister and I were whisked down into town to Jerome photographers to have our pictures taken. She taught us all how to knit, to sow and how to darn our own holes up in our woollen socks with the aid of a wooden mushroom. She made rag rugs to cover our flooring, in winter months we would drag these on to our beds to be used for extra blankets. My mother wore outlandish clothes for the times and continued to do so throughout her life however she had become a frail short woman who had a lot of medical problems so spent a lot of time in hospitals; she seemed to enjoy her visits there, I dare say it might have been the bed rest, I thought it part of my education visiting those hospitals scattered around Derby, I started making a list, <br />Nightingale Women’s Hospital,<br />DRI, Derbyshire Royal Infirmary,<br />Manor Hospital,<br />City Hospital,<br />Bretby Hospital where a trip into the country was to be had.<br />She would come out of hospital and proudly showed everyone the latest operation scar. I don’t know what they did at her but it must have worked for she lived until she was ninety-four. Like most women she could do several jobs at a time, even when convalescing she could read a book, listen to a play on the wireless, knit a jumper keeping up with the knitting pattern as well as tell me off for drawing rude pictures in the ice on the inside of her bedroom window. She loved little children but did not seem interested in us after a certain age, so as a small children she looked after us all well but my sister Janet was the constant influence in my life as she was around when my mother wasn’t. <br />My mother took on a part time job working in a children’s home and if she was working over the weekend I was dragged along to stay with her. In the home were abused little children of my own age; I was fed, bathed and bedded with them. At times they terrified me, I was playing cowboys and Indians with them one night as we got ready for bed, I tied a little black boys wrists up with his pyjama cord, as I was playing a cowboy who had captured an Indian, he screamed the house down. I could not have known he was a twin to his sister and they had been tied up and left by their parents, the twins were a bad omen for this family. I did not know I had done wrong but was chastised by another residential care worker who said I should know better, she roughly pushed me out of the room hurting my arm, I asked to stop going there, my sister took over once again.<br />My mother enjoyed party times and always made sure we had plenty in for Christmas, everything was still on ration so she saved a little of something each week throughout the year for this celebration. She would store this up in the top cupboard; no one was to touch it until a week before Christmas. I would go along with her on her weekly shopping expedition to the local Elton road co-op. The co-op was spacious building with long counters down each side, diary produces and the like down one side, fruit and veg down the other. Behind the counters was as busy as in the front of them. You would start at the door to work your way around, my mother clutching her ration book in her hand.<br /> “ Two pounds of sugar please.”<br />This would be weighed out into thick blue bags, folded neatly at the top dabbed with a little glue, placed upside down while the glue dried.<br /> “ Anything else?” <br />“A half-pound of butter.” <br />This would be cut with wire from a large block and battered into to shape with a couple of grooved wooden butter pats and wrapped up in grease proof paper which we also saved for greasing cake and pudding dishes. After each purchase my mother would hand over a coupon to cover them, <br /> “ Has the brown sugar come in yet?” <br />“ Yes but your only allowed a pound of it.” <br />It seemed everything was weighed out unless it came in a tin and there wasn’t many tins, the only item you could get without a coupon was a limited amount of broken biscuits or not so fresh greens. At the far end of the store stuck high in the air like a pulpit in an old church was the cashier sitting in a box, from this box was wires stretching out either side down to the counters some ten in total to above the shop assistance heads, when your shopping was done the assistant placed your money along with the coupons and your divvy number in a brass cup that screwed on to a holder on the wire, the assistant would pull this back against a spring then would release the cup and holder by pulling a handle, your money would be catapulted up the wire to the cashier in his ivory tower, your change would return by gravity. <br />The posh folk got the delivery boy to get your goods home on his big black and white painted bicycle with a big basket on the front, no such luck for our family I had got my trolley made out of our old pram. A quick stop in the butchers department next door for a small joint for Sunday, my mother was one from last generation to know every cut of a cow, sheep or pig and would explain to the butcher in detail the very little piece of the anatomy she wanted. <br />One item from the shopping, usually the hard to get hold of like brown sugar, sultanas, raisins and the rare tins of fruit were placed in the top cupboard for a Christmas feast.<br /><br />My farther later in life said my mother was mutton dressed as lamb, but at least I thought she knew the cut.<br />My mother said my father could have made more of his life, to me he made everything.<br />At one time when they first met things must have been different for them both, it would seem that my mother was a beautiful little feisty temperamental red headed girl who fell for a placid tall dark and handsome young man with a motorbike, they both shared an accident on it, nursed each other back to good health and later married, although they stayed together for life it would seem both of them nursed dispirited hearts. <br /><br />The adults in the family worked hard to finish the caravan off, a site was booked at Ingoldmels Point near Skegness on the east coast.<br />The only problem was we did not own a car to tow it there.Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-44740329246201286962008-07-19T06:38:00.000-07:002008-07-19T07:23:42.228-07:00NIGHTINGALE ROAD SCHOOLMonday morning arrived far too quickly, my mother had spread my new school clothes out on the bed, my brothers jacket drowned me, the sleeves hid my hands, the new badge had been sown on but one could tell there had been another one on before, I tried pulling the strings of cotton around it out. <br />My mother remarked as she squeezed the shoulders in, “ You will grow into it.” <br />After a slice of toast she forced the new cap down on my head pushed me out of the front door and told me to be good at school. As if flatfooted in the stiff new durable shoes I walked up the avenue listening to the soles flopping on the pavement and already I could feel them making new blisters on my heels. Soon I was into our local park that had to be crossed to get to the school. To be less noticeable I struggled with the jacket sleeves trying to turn them in on themselves, I felt stupid but there was a worse problem, it was the first time I had worn a cap, it seemed to be digging in as the perspiration gathered on my forehead, I hated it. Jumping on the stand-on roundabout in the park, I felt if it went three times round at speed it might propel me faster in the direction of the school, this became a compulsive daily ritual, then with head down and hands in my pockets pressed on to the wooded part of the park, here I met up with a couple of boys I knew who were sitting on the exposed roots of a large elm tree.<br />“ Hi ya Rog,” they greeted, “ we’re going to the crater t’ throw our caps away, are ya coming? ”<br />In the woods was an old bomb crater, a mark left over from the war. The tale had been told, the German Loufwaffer had been trying to bomb the Rolls Royce factory, and one bomb had gone astray. This great hollow was now our play area; we used its sides as a slide, we had imaginary war-games here, the park keeper and corporation workers use to throw all the grass cuttings and pruned branches of trees and other rubbish into it so we had great material to make dens. The three of us stood at the top of the crater after a count of three we skimmed our caps into the air, the boys watched them hover to the bottom of the crater, while I watched my hand disappear as a sleeve of my jacket came unfolded; we then slowly and silently made our way to have our very first day in junior school.<br />We were apprehensive waiting to go in, we stood there hanging on to the dark green heavy wrought iron railings of the school gate. Having hated every minute of the infant school I wondered however was I going to cope. One remembered my very first day at infant school, my mother pushed me through the gates with my sister Nora who was three years older, that was the closes my mother ever got to any of my schools. She had told me to wait for my sister when school finished, as she would bring me back home. The teachers name was Miss Frost, one felt she was Herr Frost who had been working behind enemy lines for the Germans, one could believe she was taking her revenge out on as many small children she could for Britain winning the war. Her weapon was a black pointer she never let go of it, with white knuckles she would wave and waft it around as if casting a magical spells, pointing at charts pinned to the walls of the class-room with large brightly coloured spots on them, when doing simple sums she would smack the pointer on a desk if the class did not chant out the correct answer all together.<br />Herr Frost, pointed, poked, prodded and whacked herself across the classroom via the knuckles of every small child, whom were all wondering why they were there.<br /> It was,<br /> “ A,” <br />Poke, <br />“ You boy,” <br />“ Err.” <br />“ Wrong,” <br />Whack. <br />Sob, “ B Miss.” <br />Next prod and poke for twenty-four more times before she reached her desk again, then she would start at A again, my knuckles were sore from the constant tapping from this witch. Those many times of running home sobbing were far too frequent. Indeed I was pleased to leave that hell-hole, but was now back at the gates of hell again, Nightingale Road Junior School, a pre war built school with a concrete yard surrounded by high walls and spiked railings put there to keep people out or keep you in.<br />My worries now were I could not read or write and I did not know the alphabet but far worst more serious and embarrassing I still could not tie my shoelaces properly.<br />The school faced the Rolls Royce works offices and factory, more council houses backed right up to these works, the only bright thing around was inside the foyer of the offices, a large stained glassed window depicting a young air pilot standing on a globe of the world which had wings on, I thought this to be beautiful, when feeling low I would try to get a better view of it through the doorway but mainly bumped into the commissionaire who was dressed up in his grand black uniform, a peaked flat military cap with a white cover, his shiny black leather belt and boots, he always said the same words, “ Bugger off.” <br />The school bell rang, all the older children formed lines in the playground, all the new kids stood around in one big group, so we joined them. The teachers filed out of the school, the neat lines of little boys were marched into the building, the girls had already been segregated from the boys they had there own entrance their own playground they were to attend their lessons up stairs. Our names were called out, the sticks and stones and puppy dog’s tails of the little boys formed new lines. All of us were marched in to our new classrooms; we were never see the sugar or spice of the girls until we walked home after school.<br /><br />This first year however surprisingly turned out to become my best ever year in all my schooling life, for fortunately I had found this one teacher who seemed to understand my learning problem, she knew what was required. The teachers name was Mrs. Draper, although she will now be long gone, I will always be grateful for the time she gave me that year.<br /> “ Be neat Roger,” she said, over and over again.<br /> “ If you are neat you will escape,” at that time I did not know what she meant.<br /> “ Build on your artistic flare” she told me, “ you’ll be all right.” <br />I did become neat with my work even though I did not produce much of it. The year was a happy one; winning the only prize I ever won in any school, a progress prize, a small tin plate globe of the world. Mrs Draper said, “ Roger you will find this more interesting than a book.” She was right.<br /><br />Over the half term holiday a girl had also come to my rescue, she showed me how to tie my shoe laces in another way by making two loops out of the laces and tie another knot with them, she explain it was not the proper way but nobody would notice. From that day onwards as we held hands I noticed girls were softer to touch and unexpectedly had started to appear very pretty.<br />The school labelled me as slow but it was a happy abuse free year; I felt I had achieved something.<br /><br />All too soon it was over, I was to leave Mrs Drapers class and shortly would learn the next two teachers at this school were to make my life miserable, the dread of going to school quickly returned. My English was appalling, my maths much worse, I was to find out I could no longer do the sums in my head as the calculations were getting longer and one had to start recording numbers down on paper. Chastisement was received for putting 6 and 9 the wrong way around and for not knowing b from d. I was having difficulties pronouncing words, these would be practised on the way home, saying them over and over again, if I could not get them right, I tried to stop using those words. <br />My family used to laugh at my farther he always-mispronounced words, they would correct him time and time again, on occasions I could see him get angered with frustration. I did not want people to do that to me, they said it was because my farther was partualy deaf that he pronounced words incorrectly, today I wonder if he was inflicted with the same problem. I continued practicing.<br />The only things I hung on to at this school was my art and neatness, the only areas I excelled at.<br />Having reached the age of realization, I found myself different from the majority of boys and had written thousands of lines out on reams of paper to prove it. <br />I am a stupid boy who does not know his d from his b, b is for ball, and d is for drum and other such lines. <br />Each day I joined the classroom clown to do lines, his lines were ‘I must not fool around in the classroom,’ he enjoyed lines he always did extra for the next time, he seemed to have exercise books full of them. <br />For me lines were a serious punishment for I was a very slow writer and the concentration to get them correct was tiring.<br />One teacher known as Old man Butler was the worst of my nightmares, he was ex RAF, he wore his obligatory wings under his nose and would twist the ends of them with his finger tips, he would call me out to check on the lines, as I walked up to his desk he would hum and play the dam busters march on his teeth with his finger nails, all the class would laugh. He would take my very neat lines tear them up in front of me then throw them straight in his waste paper bin at his feet without even looking at them.<br />I would return to my desk and write.<br />The douncing dome dlew up the bam, in yet another essay, then I would repeat yet another hours exercise in line writing.<br />I somehow managed to escape corporal punishment in this school, as only the headmaster administered this, I had been sent to see him many times. Fortunately for me the head masters office was opposite Mrs Drapers class room, if she saw me while I was standing waiting to see the head master she always came out of her classroom to enquire why had I been sent to see him yet again, I would hand her the note from Mr Butler.<br /><br />This boy is distractible and he is not paying attention in class again.<br /><br />Each time Mrs Drapper would speak to the headmaster, I would return unscathed to the classroom to the annoyance of the fight lieutenant Butler, he to be not out beaten would make me stand on top of the desk until the end of the lesson, I can imagine I must have been very frustrating for him.<br />Mrs Draper was rewarded every time with a bag of apples from the trees in our back garden when in season, at other times I made a home made card with a picture I had drawn for her.<br />Once I did manage to get some recompense with Battler Butler. Britain was having a very busy period, we had seen the death of the King, at his funeral we had pomp and pageantry this country is never of the likes to see ever again in our history. We had Kings, Queens, Heads of States, Presidents, Prime Ministers, Princes, Princesses, Ambassadors, Earls, Barons, Counts, Countesses, Lords and Ladies, Knights of the round table and all the military entourage plus all the hanger on’s of each one of them who turned up mostly supporting greying beards and moustaches in their dress uniforms of gold braid, fancy feathered headgear, medals and swords. Flags were called for; they placed the Kings Coffin on a gun carriage covered it over with a flag of the union jack and dragged him through the streets of London. All followed him on foot or in fine horse drawn carriages, all of them seemed to have popped out of our history books from yesteryear and will never ever reappear again. <br />Then we had the conquest of Everest, followed by the Crowning of Queen Elizabeth the second. For this we had a street party, we were given at school a half crown as well as a spoon with the queen’s head on the handle. Later in the year we had some time out of the classroom to be taken to the cinema to watch two films, The Conquest of Everest followed by the Coronation, a three an a half hour marathon sitting. Every child in the county was to go, ours was a morning slot, after which we arrived late back at school, our school dinners were plated up for us to save the kitchen staff time. We were handed our plates, they had put swedes on mine which I hated intensely, I ate around these leaving them on my plate, I stood up to hand my plate back in,<br /> “ Eat your swedes Sharp,” Butler bellowed, <br />“ I don’t like em, Sir.” <br />“ Eat them;” he yelled again, <br />“ I‘ll be sick if I eat em Sir” I protested.<br /> “ I do not care, eat them,” <br />So I stuck my fork gingerly into them, heaved and heaved then took a mouth full, swallowed then immediately did a projectile vomit, which hit him square in the stomach then ran down his front. He took a swing at me, I ducked down low behind my plate, which he caught with his hand sending it hurtling down the dinning room hitting another boy on the head, he immediately started crying out in pain. The remaining Swedes on my plate mixed in well with the blood coming from the wound on the boy’s forehead.<br />The following day I picked up 500 extra lines, I must not waste food. I was getting to be very good at neat lines, so the school entered me in a national good hand writing style competition.<br />Relief from the classroom came at break times or when the health visitors came to check out every child in the school. We were called out of our normal lesson, to line up in the hall. The nit nurse had arrived, she was examining every ones hair; we waited patiently for our turn. No sooner as one child was out of the seat another took his place, his head would be pushed backward and forward, then to one side then the other as the nit nurse pulled at their hair as if plucking feathers from a turkey. By the time it was your turn you had convinced yourself you had head lice, the line of boys were all scratching their heads. Robert Ormsley a school bully whispered, “ If you've got um ya get your ead shaved then they give ya a bath in disinfectant.” <br />On return to our classroom I was told to immediately report to the headmaster’s office, the classroom murmured as I left. Surly I thought they were not going to cut my hair off and give me a bath. <br />Baths at home consisted of getting into the dolly tub after the weeks washing was done, I could sit in the bottom of the tub then spin round and round in the soapy grey mixture clicking the groves on the sides of the tub with a wooden clothes peg. I wondered why the block of carbolic soap my mother used on my hair had not have killed the nits.<br />I was to join six other lads standing outside the headmasters office, some younger some older. <br />An older lad said, “ If ya joining this group ya ad not better laugh at me or I’ll do ya,” he showed me his fist.<br />The lad already had short hair; I thought they might have cut it off the week before and that he was only to have a bath this time. I will protest, I will tell the headmaster I have one bath a week, on every Sunday night. I was getting worried and would certainly not laugh at this big boy.<br />The headmaster’s door opened, we were all called in, we were handed different reading books. I was given an Old Lob reading book others were given different coloured books of Dick and Dora. I thought we had left these books behind in infant school. I liked Old Lob the artists work in them was great as the pictures told the story, all one had to do was remember the names of the animals, Dobbin the horse, Percy the pig and so on. All the other lads read aloud to the headmaster, now it was my turn. I started, got stuck on a word, glanced at the picture and guessed what came next. I looked up at the Headmaster, he was leaning on his desk with his head buried in his hands; he raised one hand to wave us all out of his office without saying a word.<br />I think my class was surprised to see me return with a full head of hair. I told Ormy that I had been to sort out the nits but they had made a mistake, I had a tick next to my name but I had noticed his name had a cross against it, also adding, “ They don’t cut your hair off, they use a chemical to kill the nits but it dyes your hair bright green.” Orme looked horrified, he was a bully but I was bigger than him, I knew one day I would have to fight him so it might as well be today.<br />Our other health visitor was the dentist; we followed the same procedures but this time you were attacked with a dental mirror along with a sharp pointed instrument that was dipped into the same solution each time a new boy sat down in the chair. To pass this exam all you had to do was not flinch as they poked your teeth, very few past this test of nerves, green cards were issued to take home to our mother’s to attend Mill Hill Dental Clinic. <br />On the day in question, mothers would wrap up their children then make their way to the dreaded hill. On one side of the road was a stream of parents dragging the kids up by their arms, on the other side coming down was a stream of kids who had their mothers arms around them, each kid had a scarf wrapped round their head or mouth. I knew why that day I just happened to be wearing one.<br />Mill Hill Clinic was always packed solid, nearly every kid in Derbyshire some time or other must have been sent there. There was queuing up the stairs in the stark passage to get into the waiting room. Children would be tumbling past you on their way out with their mothers, all were pale some were crying others looked in shock, all were holding handkerchiefs or scarf’s to their mouths. The surgery waiting room was worse; long rows of mothers and children, their height varying on the seats, from some of the lower levels sobbing could be heard. Two seats were kept vacant near the surgery door for those coming out after treatment. Those coming out had protruding rolls of cotton wool sticking out of their mouths they would flop into these seats with vacant expressions on their pale faces, then start to make strange faces as they tried to count with their tongue how many teeth they had got left. <br />Two kids at a time went in, you were made to climb up into the big black dentist chairs that had a plank of wood across the arms for you to sit on. Your head was yanked back and held in place by an assistant, the dentist would screw a clamp to your upper front and lower teeth, and then he would turn another screw to jack your mouth wide open until it hurt your jaw where it connects to your skull. The next you know is this hissing mask heading your way and someone is saying count to ten, which is impossible, the huge horrible indescribable smelling rubber mask was forced on to your face, the gas hits your nose and throat, in seconds you are out cold. Next someone is slapping you round the face telling you to wake up, you don’t know where you are, but you do know you are falling. Your picked up off the surgery floor then dragged to the waiting room recovery chair, you would have a cold sweat with two pieces of cotton wool sticking out of each side of your mouth, you are unable to control the saliva and blood, and it over-flows over ones bottom lip as you stare blankly at all the rows of strange faces looking at you, you try as you twist your head and tongue round to count how many teeth you have got left.<br />The daily relief at school was the dinner break or play times, we all played the usual games of marbles, some owning glass ones, others have clay ones, those who’s fathers worked in engineering turn up with huge steel balls from bearings called steely's but some of us played with aniseed balls. For one big steely you could swap it for ten glass or twenty clay marballs. Fag cards games became the craze, everybody would raid the new Kellogg’s packet or have the pre-war cigarette cards which we would skim against the wall to land on someone else’s in order to enlarge our collections, snobs or jacks and other playground games were going on in each corner of the school playground. We also became experts in the making of small hand weapons, we had a list of arson from pea shooters, dobbers or catapults, throwing arrows, an arrow we could throw with a piece of string, sling shots, bows and arrows, wooden guns that fired elastic bands, to staffs and spears, the majority of which we hid in someone’s privet hedge close to the school before entering the play ground but on occasions we hand grafted new ones with a little pen knife somewhere out of sight in the school yard shelter. In today’s world young people will find it surprising we had knives at eight years old, all I can say they were as common as snake buckle belts and everybody wanted a snake belt. I clearly remember one teacher saying, “All boys should carry a pen knife, a piece of string and one shilling.” As we moved on up to senior school the size of the pen knife increased along with the skill of using it, at 12 years old the craze was to intricately whittle pieces of square hard wood three eighth of an inch square by six inches long into chain links, miniature totem poles, cages with carved balls inside, animals and other pieces of art work. Groups of us would stand around during breaks addicted to the pass time.<br />We were quite fit kids to be attending school, others who never made it there were in isolation hospitals suffering with illnesses there was not a real cure for at that time. Due to rationing our diet was controlled, but we did suffer from some vitamin deficiency as we did have many boils, warts, chilblains, sty’s and cold sores, most were taken control of by the school clinic on Friday afternoons, we would line up for a mouth full of malt extract, be given a bottle of cod liver oil to take home or supplied with a bottle of concentrated orange juice. For warts or other marks on our skin we were dabbed with blue iodine, most small boys had grazes or scratches all over so we left for home looking like a bright blue alien race.<br />Boils became a playground pastime, for those of us who had been referred to the family doctor; had no desire to return again with another one. The doctor had a quick way of getting rid of these; he lanced them ready or not. He would jab in a hollow needle then suck the puss out, it felt like it had taken half your face or any other part the boil happened to be growing on with it. So the boys were in to do it yourself, we would sit around in the playground inspecting each other’s boils. That one is not ready yet it is only pink, that one is coming on nicely its turned red, that one is ready it has turned a bluey red and has got a nice yellowy white head in the middle. Everyone would gather round to have a look. Should you have one that was ripe and everybody agreed you were instructed to peel the head off with your fingernails; you hooked your fingernails on the top then pulled as hard and as quick as you could. Your best mate would take his two thumbs place them either side of your boil and squeeze, the others would gather round to watch as the puss coiling out, <br /> “ Ya gota get blood ort of it,” some enthusiastic kid would shout, <br />“ If ya dun’na get blood it will grow again.” <br />The worst dread was to have one on your nose as this operation made your eyes water, this could be easily mistaken as you crying and that was not on in our boys world<br /><br />We all wore the regulation grey short trousers, in the winter months we tried to keep our long woollen socks pulled up but inevitably the elastic in tops was worn out so we used elastic bands to do the job, these however tended to cut your blood circulation down giving you pins and needles in your toes and you would see an occasional kid as they stood up to cross the classroom hobbling to the point of nearly collapsing. <br />This time of year we had the additional chaps on our bare legs, mostly this was our own fault as when visits to the cold outside toilets we could not be bothered to undo our buttoned fly’s, we would yank up our trouser legs to go, inevitably the drips would run down your leg to be dried out by the frosty air, the course grey material of the short trousers would irritate the area leaving sore red blotches on our upper legs.<br /><br />On occasions at add hock times we also escaped the classroom for a short time when the factories tested their air-raid sirens or the schools fire alarm was set off, but back in the classroom we tried to keep our heads down and out of trouble, you would at times be lulled in to a false sense of security then you would receive a clout on the back of your head for sucking the end of your pen. One poor lad with leg irons who used to constantly chew the end of his pen was a challenge to Battler Butler, the end of his pen was wrapped in elastic bands dipped in mustard; the boy grew fond of rubber and mustard.<br />You would glance up from your book at times to watch the teachers favourite blue eyed boy, go to ring the school bell, fetch the milk, hand out papers, fill the ink wells up, attend to the nature table that was usually full of dead leaves and acorns then watch him receive another gold star to put on the chart for doing so. At the end of the term Butler would announce he had got nineteen gold stars, fifteen silver stars and was given a book voucher, I had only got three blue ones and one green, I believed he announced this for the stupid boys like me who he thought that we couldn’t see the large chart with them all on. The lads farther owned the bookie shop down the end of the road.<br /> <br />I still did not know the alphabet, I knew there was 26 letters but did not know what order they came in, I would write all the letters I could think of down, then count them then spend the next fifteen minutes figuring out the ones that had been missed.<br />I still did not know my times tables. Exams and tests came and went. I was informed that if I did not pass the eleven plus exam I would be moving on after my schooling here to Allenton Secondary Modern School, a school with a reputation, of being hard on its pupils, where the teachers ruled by the fear of the cane and the school was said to be filled with very hard-nosed bullyboys. I couldn’t say I was looking forward to it.Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805564962297595981.post-38572505577630735842008-07-13T11:30:00.000-07:002008-07-15T02:16:04.737-07:00THE GREY AREA<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Iv8Gsjupq6g/SHxqy-XOo0I/AAAAAAAAAAQ/KWcxjNYIWJg/s1600-h/iss_23_a.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Iv8Gsjupq6g/SHxqy-XOo0I/AAAAAAAAAAQ/KWcxjNYIWJg/s320/iss_23_a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223167091809362754" /></a><br />INTRODUCTION<br /><br />One of my grandchild's teachers told her that she should get one of her grandparents to write down their life story as a record of their time. My granddaughter added that I should get it down quickly before I die. Over the years I have been told that I should compile the tales that I have told and put them in a book, they seem to think many would like to read it. Personally I could not see why but felt it might be creative and also help me. Therefore I have attempted to put the stories on paper, warts an all, and made a promise to Freya my grand child. Clearly to understand how one is moulded on your passage through life one has to look to your past to the experiences and influences that has shaped your life, this is what I have endeavoured to achieve in several short stories as working class youngster, who was born in the forties and grew up in the fifties, tales of youth and growing up in that era and trying to become a useful adult and further stories about gaining and loosing on the journey through life. <br /><br />For one who struggles with spelling and grammar let alone reading, to write an autobiography was a daunting prospect. When reading as a child I had trouble with each individual word printed on the pages in schoolbooks that I did not know what each sentence was about after reaching the end of it, as it just took too much concentration to read just one very small printed word. In to day’s world we are aware there is a problem for some people but in those early days of growing up they were unaware how to teach us differently, I had been labeled along with other children as having word blindness, my mother was informed on a school report that another reason for me being literary backward was due to me being very lazy and slow. It is only in most recent years this form of word blindness has been recognised as a learning problem and labeled as dyslexia.<br /><br />Clearly today I do believe everyone has a touch of this dyslexic problem. When you ask someone, how do spell such and such a word, they pause and say, “ I’ll just write it down,” they will find a scrape piece of paper and jot the letters down, then they will announce and confirm it is the right spelling of the word you have asked for, so the correct spelling of words do pop out when you see them written down its just a matter of remembering them. For a marked dyslexic person it is one word in every hundred words that we cannot spell or remember, it can be even worse for others.<br />People like myself will use more spoken words than written words. Our comprehension and understanding of what people are saying is fine, but when we have to come to writing the words down, we limit them to what we think we can spell correctly, as not to make ourselves look foolish in the eyes of others, or we scribble down some illegible marks that we think are nearly correct and just hope to recognize the meaning of the words later, our hand and mind go completely out of synchronisation for a split second, unfortunately nobody can read it or recognize the word at a later date, including ourselves. We try to remember simple rules when we get stuck as others do to help us, i before e except after c. but some of us have another hidden flaw in our make up, we cannot remember, for some of us possess a short term memory problem. We cannot hold a five-figure number from one room to the next; a new telephone number of our own homes will take months to learn. To be given information then asked for it in reverse order is a near impossibility for us after four numbers, it will have taken many of us years to learn the order of the months of the year, so you will not see many of us entering many quizzes or competitions. Some of us also have a problem pronouncing the longer words so we self limit our own vocabulary. Those of you that are hugely talented, who are literate will have made an almost immediate judgement of this writing as you skip and scan the first page in record time, you will have already analysed the quality and possibly joined the ranks of those who think it is all poppy cock and there is no such thing as dyslexia and agree with several teachers who still teach in our schools today, you possibly will cast it aside, where as the dyslexics among us, would have just finished reading the first few paragraphs.<br />Hopefully if you do persist with the reading you may have a better understand of this difficulty as you clearly see the shortcomings, hopefully you will not dismiss this as laziness on my part and may understand there are many individuals who also have this learning problem. Most of us continue to fight it on a daily bases but have come to terms with it. There are those who are less fortunate and have not come to terms or are not even aware they have a problem, for several individuals they can become a serious hindrance to our modern society.<br />Ahh, I hear you cry that there are other people at the top end of our society that also have the same problem and it has not held them back, Sir Richard Branson for one. This absolutely true there are those at the top who will shape our lives and society for the better as others do but there are those at the bottom of the pile who do shape our society and affect other people’s lives for the worse. I am informed only half of one per cent of the population have dyslexia related learning problem, on controlled assessment 80% of our inmates in prison, in our secure units and youth offenders institutes have a similar related problems, so they are banging many of us up. Hopefully this book may encourage some of those people should they get a chance to read these short stories to endeavour to write their own story down, if they did I am sure many would make more compelling reading than my own story but if not it may encourage them to have a go at something positive and creative in the life. I believe if those who have failed in our education system were to be channelled in a different direction, and if they used this gift to benefit themselves and others then our society would be a slightly better place to live. I call it a gift, as many I know who are dyslexic are clearly creative people. I am hoping in the near future there maybe some changes for that little horror of a child at the back of the class room, who is spoiling the day for the teacher and pupils and school alike, because they cannot understand much of the national curriculum or what their teacher is trying to do for them, so instead they continue to gain negative attention. <br /><br />Having said all this I have been lucky being just one of those that has bubbled through life with a brain that figures things out with a three dimensional picture process, which until several years ago I was unaware I was thinking any different and had just assumed that everybody thought things out with the same logical process but I understood most could store and hold more information than myself, how wrong could I be and how happy I was when I eventually found out in my late thirties I was dyslexic. We are told there is a revolutionary space age cure for the problem as it is to do with the inner balance in our heads and with exercises the balance will correct the flaw. I do not believe it, clearly I believe it is genetic, but hey I can’t wait to give it try anyway for I would love to be artickqulut, (articulate). <br /><br />As I sat there in front of a computer looking at a blank screen many people told me to use a voice programme on my computer, all one had to do was speak into a microphone, this sounded a great idea so I rushed out and purchased the latest programme and installed it into my computer. Firstly the programme had to be trained to recognize my voice; it brought up Alice in Wonderland for me to read out aloud. I started to read the story labouriously slowly to get every word correct. With the reading finished, it was now time to get the words down that were racing through my head. I felt good and important sitting in my new imitation leather office chair speaking into the microphone that was strapped on to my head. I didn’t understand much of what came onto the screen as I dictated; words and letters flowed on to the screen as if they were on a child’s game. The screen eventually became stationary, the screen was full of gobbledygook, It seemed as if the computer had got my words mixed up, (the) and (and) were the wrong way around, my computer was now also dyslexic and does what a lot of dyslexics do, that is swap words about as we read, (and the) becomes (the and). Other words on the screen I could not read and did not know what they should have been for I had already forgotten the story line. I tried to correct the programme and read Alice in Wonderland again even more slowly and carefully, when this was done I clicked the mouse to start over my story again. I breathed softly trying to think where I was up to, words were appearing on the screen but I hadn’t spoken a word, it read (pale child appear next cold corpse,) the computer either had a virus or it was reading my sub conscious or someone from the other side of the grave was trying to make contact with me, I gave up and returned to typing with two fingers. So here I go.<br /><br /><br />THE GREY AREA<br /><br />“ I’ll tell you a story,” was a catch phrase of Max Bygraves an entertainer in a radio programme called Educating Archie in the year 1950, I was then 7 years old and every Sunday afternoon would glue one of my ears to the loud speaker of the wireless to listen to him and Archie Andrews who was in fact Peter Brough a ventriloquist, what dummy’s we all were at that time. I will now venture to tell you a story of how I saw my world in those informative years.<br /><br />My home the place I was born was a pre-war built corporation house on the outskirts of Derby Town in the Osmaston area. The three bed roomed houses built there had been allocated to the large working class families. In every house there was at least two children but in many there were far more. The houses built out of poor brick as all were partially pebble dashed, all the doors and window frames were painted with the standardised corporation colour of dull olive green; privet hedges surrounded all the houses marking out the individual plots. The corporation housing estate spread off the Omaston Park Road into Victoria Road, a road that lead to some of the industries of Derby town, the Co-Op Boot and Shoe factory, Qualcast Iron Foundry, Rolls Royce Engineering Works and their Aero Engine Test Beds, the road eventually ran into the open countryside, here around several ponds on the Sinfin Moor, and in the Calvary and Red Woods adventures were to be had. <br /><br />All though we did not know it we were to be the children of a new bright age, a privileged generation. The avenue was an over sized playground for all young people, we indulged ourselves in creative play out on the green, a fair size circle of grass outside our homes. On the green was a large round empty open toped water cistern standing up out of the ground, a left over from the war years, one may presume this was put here to supply the fire engines with water should the estate get bombed or to supply water to the homes should the supply get damaged, what ever the reason they had not got around to removing it, this construction was many things in our imaginations, on occasions we would lower a play mate prisoner into the tank, it was impossible to get out of it without assistance, mostly it was just one poor lad placed in there who suffered with impetigo, his whole body was covered in scabs which would crack the skin and bleed at his joints, he would be left in there for hours unless his mother came searching for him, how cruel young folk can be to each other.<br /><br />There was just one little shop supporting the small estate, a shop where very small measures of provisions and groceries could be purchased, the proprietors were Mr. and Mrs. Burrows, they were to be the proud owners of the first car that was to come into the avenue, they were good folk but gave no tick (credit).<br />Their next door neighbours had a simple-minded girl of fourteen or so who all day long rode round and round the green on her bicycle, she to us was like a second hand on a clock, her constant movement for most part was ignored as was the constant hum of noise in the distance from the factories down the road. Her family were to leave the area but did not take the girl with them and it was said they sold her to the childless Burrows.<br /><br /><br />The long warm days of the summer school holiday were coming to a close; in those early September mornings my anxiety was increasing as the sense of panic and fear returned for I knew the time was shortly due to for me to return to school.<br /> <br />One day it was my turn to be called in from playing out with my street mates by my mother to have my hands, face and knees washed and scrubbed with a rough flannel then to be taken to Derby Town Centre to the Co-Op Department Store to be partially kitted out with a new school uniform for my new junior school.<br />This department store was large, they clearly seemed to supply every school in the county with school uniforms, for in the window was displayed every single one of Derbyshire schools badges; my mother moved her leather gloved hand over the large glass pane and pointed out Nightingale Road Junior School badge, I stared intently as if interested at this little embroidered badge that depicted a flaming beacon.<br />We entered the store through the large, heavily etched glazed doors which were furnished in heavy polished brass handles and plates, it did seem that every mother in Derbyshire with their sons and daughters were doing the same type of clothes shopping, it was crowded with children being dragged about by their mothers, most seemed to show the same lack of eager enthusiasm as myself.<br />The store was full of drab coloured clothing, grey socks, grey short pants, grey long pants, grey jackets, grey shirts, grey pullovers and grey caps. For the big boys and girls going on to senior schools there was more desirable coloured clothing, black. Only one other colour was present, the dark navy blues of the girl’s gymslips and the regulation school mackintoshes. The smaller items for sale were placed in glass fronted drawers with various sizes marked up on them, they reached high up in huge wooden cabinets placed round the walls, items capsulated inside were made accessible by a sliding ladders attached to the cabinets. Above us hung a large brass and glass globe electric light which gave out a yellowy glow, below all the young people were being tugged about as clothes were held up against them and they were being pushed this way and that as caps and hats were being roughly forced down on their heads. One by one the girls and the boys were kitted out then ushered by their mothers armed with clothing to the high highly polished wooden counter where our school badges and ties were selected. My mother purchased the badge and tie. I had been told my elder brothers old blazer would have to make do; I just knew somehow I was going to hate that. We stood at the counter watching the smartly dressed poker faced shop assistance dressed in a white blouse with a frill round her neck take full control of the little group now in front of her, in a high pitch voice that carried a learnt plumb in the mouth accent, she seemed to hover above to talk down to all the mothers telling them what they required and reminding them about the sports wear which was in another department at a different level in the store. As all youngsters do we fidgeted about as we watched her take the money, put it in a cylindrical holder, close it up and post it in to a pipe and flip a lever, you could hear a hiss, the cylinder rattled round the bend and shot up the pipe that was coming down from the ceiling, the pipe joined a maze of other pipes coming from every department in the store, one imagined there was a little man with bottle top glasses sitting in a little room somewhere high in the building, who was being inundated with hundreds of pounds that arrived on his deck in cylinders. All would then have to wait patiently for the change to come back. The small group stood about waiting and listening for the cylinders to arrive back at the counter. Our sales person flipped the lever, the pipe made a hissing noise again as the vacuum released and the cylinder would fall with a metallic clunk into a brass wire cage basket, with a twist the shop assistant would undo the cylinder read off a little yellow strip of paper then shout out the divvy numbers like a roll call over the heads of the mothers and children. Every child in the store knew their number; it had been drilled into all of our little heads at an early age, for me this number took some considerable time to put it to memory so it was written at my eye level in pencil on the architrave around the doorframe of our front door. The cooperative society gave a small dividend that one could collect every now and then, it was about a half penny in the pound, if we were sent to the local co-op shop, you had to remember your number, the grocer wanted it, the butcher, the coalman, the bread man, the milkman all wanted your number, the co-op seemed to supply the entire needs of the post war families like mine. <br />The sales assistant looked down her nose then shouted out through her heavily painted red lipstick, “ 58442;” <br />“ Thank goodness.” We could now escape out of this store and go into the market hall, where a vibrant atmosphere was to be had, where a pikelet man sold his wares at the entrance from a three wheeled box bicycle, there in the fish market, fish were laid out on cold marble slabs as a beautiful cholarge of ice and dead flesh, next door was the meat and poultry, it was here we would make a yearly pilgrimage on Christmas eve to get our treat of one chicken for our Christmas dinner, this was the only time we ate chicken, my mother would have us wait around until the end of the days trading to purchase one of the last of them as they were sold off cheaply. In the main bustling hall my mother purchased a pound of loose broken biscuits selected from square glass topped biscuit tins without producing the war ration coupon, a few of these biscuits were nibbled like a mouse knobble by knobble as we rode the number 31 trolley bus back home.Roger Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02430238571281602532noreply@blogger.com2