Non-fiction / oh what fun we had (Analysis)

Oh what fun we had?
By
Gavin Watson ©
Introduction

The reason for this new document is that I felt I had an obligation to explain a bit about the people behind my first book Skins. The lack of explanation was deliberate, in the first book, I wanted the photography to speak for itself. This book is a photographic record too. I found myself with more than 3,000 images after the book and my exhibition Brothers Under The Skin, and felt I could do at least another ten on how I grew up as a Skinhead, let alone the work I have done in the music industry, the rave photos and the thousands of pictures I have taken of my life up to now. I believe there is some broader reason for all of these images that I have recorded. I have not got a clue what it is, but it might be revealed one day. What made me take them in the first place is an absolute mystery.

The influence of Skinheads spread far and wide, and still does. It wasn’t just small groups of people wearing big boots and shaving their heads. Our presence affected neighbours, family, the community, the people we inspired, the people that hated us. Unlike punk, which was arguably the calculated creation of art school designers, Skinhead culture has always been a home-grown, grass roots movement of urban youths with a real need for hard-wearing, practical clothing. Skinhead fashion has been copied over and over again, often by the mainstream, although the fashion industry rarely acknowledges its debt to true Skinheads.

For me the stories, the myths and the memories are the most important things now, and that’s what this book is really about. The memories of a time when we were young and didn’t give a fuck, or at least pretended we didn’t. I feel it is important to try and explain the amount of transformations I went through while growing up in the early Eighties, and the complexities of being a young, white, working class male in a rapidly changing, culturally diverse society. One thing remained constant from my adolescence until my early twenties: being a Skinhead always seemed to be there, whether I was losing my virginity, getting drunk for the first time, leaving home, becoming a Dad, or standing in a field nearly ten years later with thousands of ravers.

-—---—---—---—---—---—---—-—-

OH WHAT FUN WE HAD?

NEVILLE, SYMOND, RICHARD PARSLOW, STUART EDEMA, BARRY GEORGE, PHIL CRAWLEY, P.J, LEE EVANS, LEE HILL, PROVIDENCE’S, FELIX, ALVIN, GODDARD, HALLIDAY, SMUDGE, ZIMMERMAN, CASS, MUM, DAD, MARK WATSON, ALF, SHAUN SIMPSON, SYD BURR, McCormack, NIGEL MARTIN, WALTER, AIDAN, LORP.

CHAPTER 1

My name is Gavin Watson. I was born in Kingsbury, Northwest London on the 7th September 1965. My mother was from PortLaoise, Ireland, and my father from Palmers Green, North London. The family moved from London to Buckinghamshire when I was a baby, firstly to Aylesbury, and then to High Wycombe when I was six. My dad worked on the Railway and then as an engineering fitter and my mother as a cleaner at the USAF Air base at Naphill.  I have two brothers, Mark, three-and-a-half years my senior, and NEVILLE, three-and-a-half years my junior. I was the dreaded middle child, the one place in the family that seems to breed ‘black sheep’.  I might as well start this book with the memories, or at least the most striking memories. I would have to write the equivalent of War And Peace to get them all in.
I was a shy child, living in my own fantasy world, one which was a lot more exciting, and in a way more real, than my reality, which wasn’t much cop. Dyslexic, painfully shy; trouble at home, unhappy parents. When I talk about my childhood to some of my mates their instant reaction is, “It can’t have been that bad,” and they tell me what a brilliant childhood they had, and how the many abuses society passed on to our parents and then down to us haven’t affected them at all, as they drag on their spliff, take a swig of their beer and tell me of the latest relationship that has broken down.
When I look back to the days of my childhood, the times I remember being the happiest (and it is the same with my friends,) are those I spent with friends away from the house, and the heavy atmosphere of home. It was on one of those nights that this whole Skinhead story begins. I was out with my friends, causing mischief and mayhem in High Wycombe on a dark October evening, ransacking the bins of Woolworth’s and playing “He” (also known as “Tag” or “Tin Tan Tallyo”) in the multistory car park in the centre of town.  There were about twenty of us, all mongrels from a pretty grim estate called Micklefield to the east of High Wycombe. Being only fourteen I had to be in fairly early during the week.
Little did I know that this evening something was to happen that would change my life for good. I came in as usual, took my shoes off at the back door (one of Mum’s iron rules), and came into the front room where my mum was in her favourite chair, my dad in his. Top of the Pops was on and there was a band playing, a group of young guys jumping around to a tune the likes of which I had never heard before.  I was transfixed and then blown away, the affect of this band on me was incredible.  Who are they?  What’s their name? I must have that record now.  I must have it.  The band, I found out, was called Madness.  The next morning I think I nicked a pound from somewhere in the house before leaving for school.  There, all my friends were talking about “Madness.”  Rumors and conjecture about who they were abounded.  Were they Mods? Yanks? Punks? Nobody knew.  I went straight to Woolworth’s after school and bought the single that was to completely change my way of life and set me on an unbelievable journey.  I played that record to death, until the grooves practically wore away, and I was on the verge of being hung, drawn and quartered by my family.  The record was “The Prince”; the year was 1979.
The debate on where “Madness” fitted in continued.  Eager teenage researchers gleaned countless sources, and slowly a composite picture of the group emerged.  Although part of the Two Tone/ Mod revival scene, their influences and image strongly echoed late Sixties Skinhead culture.  “The Prince” was a tribute to Jamaican bluebeat legend and Skinhead icon, Prince Buster.  The alternative A-side of the single was a cover of Prince Buster’s song “Madness”, which had inspired the band’s choice of name.  It began to emerge that Madness were really more of a Skinhead band than any other kind of band.
I certainly felt this, and became a Skinhead very soon after discovering them. I became a Skinhead because of the music, and the attention I received, especially from girls.  I loved dancing, music and girls, and the Two-Tone scene seemed to have it all.  It totally spoke to me, spoke to me about my environment in which a new multicultural generation of kids was coming of age: Pakistani, Polish, Jamaican, Irish etc. etc.
Being a Skinhead also drew me to Oi! Music because it was directly geared towards the Skinhead movement.
The first exposure and I am sure the first time I had heard about Oi! Music was on one Saturday hanging out downtown.  I was wandering about when I bumped into one of my friends (Sean Taylor I think it was) who excitedly informed me of the latest musical addition to the Skinhead playlist, he took me to OUR PRICE the small record shop. The record shop was full of my mates excitedly surrounding one of the record racks and passing around an album with a yellow cover.  I demanded a look and that was the first moment I was introduced to
OI! THE ALBUM with a picture of Stinky Turner of the “Cockney Rejects” giving an energetic two fingered salute to the world.  Here was a whole album of music dedicated to being a Skinhead, and street urchins bands that were unashamedly Working class and proud of it.
In a world where nearly every close friend and the whole neighborhood and what looked like the whole country was affected by Skinheads there was hardly ever a mention of the cult in any of the media.  If Skinheads were mentioned it was in an extremely negative light. I feel this sort of attitude to deny anything that is a little hard to understand was prevalent throughout the whole of society from top to bottom. If you had a fight you were out of control, if you wanted sex you were a pervert, if you wanted to be a little different you were a freak.  There seemed to be Skinheads everywhere, buying records, buying clothes, hanging about in gangs, pairs, females, young kids to adults.  From my angle the cult seemed to have penetrated every part of my world and more likely than not contributing somehow to society (I had a Skinhead friend Chris who is now a very rich inventor, he invented a contraption to make life a little easier for the physically handicapped when he was still a Skinhead.) But at the time Skinheads were given as much attention by the media as prize marrow growing contests in Scunthorpe.  Here was a music and a movement that was totally dedicated to this massive underbelly of youth that were being totally ignored by the mainstream in the hope that if they disregarded it we might just all go away like good little children.  But we didn’t and the Oi! Movement grew to become a worldwide influence.
When you have bands like Dinosaur JR quoting little known OI! Bands as their greatest musical influence it makes you think there are these kids in some backwater town in the States eagerly awaiting the next OI! Album to be sent over from England.  OI! Was looked down on from a great height by the music press, considered the laughing stock by music journalists, so much so towards the mid eighties if it was not for the fanzines and the die hard supporters of OI! You may have been mistaken that Skinhead and street punk just did not exist.  But it did, and a few independent record companies supplied the still growing demand especially abroad. When these kids in America decided to get out of their bedrooms and start their own punk and OI! Bands then matured, grew their hair long and came over to England in the guise of bands like Dinosaur JR, the same Journalists were spunking in their pants over the new sound.  It just sounded like the OI! Music that I had been listening to for years.  If you want to succeed go abroad give your material to a bunch of scruffy yanks and watch them come back with the same stuff a few years later and make a million bucks
“Buster Blood Vessel” from the group “Bad Manners” was the only singer in a successful chart band to mention the word Skinhead in his songs “I’m just a Skinhead YOB.”  Because of the likes of bands like the “Cockney Rejects” I remember being terrified of going to the East End for years thinking you were bound to get your head kicked in if you as much got off the bus in Bethnal Green.  “The Business” educated us in the joys of drink driving and introduced us to such savoury characters as HARRY MAY with his shooter in the boot.  “The Four Skins” Sung about all coppers being bastards and leaving school with fuck all prospects.  “Cock Sparrer” demanded that the kids needed more than just masturbation to pass the time.  And let’s not forget that truly class band with lyrics Bob Dylan would die for and tunes Andrew Lloyd Webber would have been proud of, you guessed it the one and only “LAST RESORT”… “Smashing every thing up in sight, making old ladies die with fright” It became a disappointment to my friends and me that at the time “Madness” denied their Skinhead roots out of fear of bad publicity.
As time went on I left school and became part of an even tighter gang.  I felt our Wycombe mob was different from a lot of Skinhead gangs, as we were quite isolated from the rest of the Skinhead world, which in the early to mid Eighties was largely focused on the more right wing side of the Oi! Movement.  The reason we probably remained Skins longer than most was we were good friends with one Aiden Sterling, who played a very large part in bringing Skins together at the time.  Originally from Bedford, he moved to Aylesbury and, due to the force of his personality, was highly respected by all who met him. One of my strongest memories of Aiden was before I really became a fully-fledged Skin, and how he influenced me.  I’d had my haircut, it was growing out and my dress sense left a lot to be desired.  I loved “Madness” but I also was deeply into – wait for it – “Gary Numan.”
At this time I knew some of the bigger, older Skins through my ten-year-old brother Neville, strangely enough. Like me, Neville had also become a Skinhead. In fact, he was undoubtedly the smartest young Skinhead in town, and had rapidly become the older Skinheads’ mascot.  I had just bought a Gary Numan LP and was talking to one of the older lot in the centre of town when around the corner came Aiden, seven years older than me, and distinctly scary looking to a fourteen year old.  He came straight up to me, grabbed my bag from my hand and showed great disgust at my choice of music and dress sense.  He said something about how people like me shouldn’t have the nerve to have a Skinhead and I was an embarrassment to the Skinhead cause.  I laughed nervously, and prayed I would walk away with my records and body parts intact.
Aiden was proud, strong, and had a hardness and presence that commanded respect. I always recognized him as one the hardest men I knew, and it wasn’t necessarily to do with violence, although he had his fair share in life, as he came from the generation of Skins before us.

The Tilbury mob were another bunch from this generation.  These men seemed harder and less concerned about authority.  Nearly all of the main Skins in Wycombe during the late Seventies and early Eighties, the “59-“61 generation, seemed to be constantly in and out of jail.  These Skins: Mark Goddard, Stuart Smith, Headbutt McCormack, Melvin Brownless to name a few, were all in their early twenties when I was fourteen, and I always thought our gang of Skins were mummy’s boys compared with the Skinheads that went before us.
As I said, Neville was the link to this gang of highly exciting huge Skinheads, who, it seemed to me, lorded over the town.  Neville looked like a sharp six-foot Skin who had been shrunk in the wash.  At ten he was the size of an eight-year-old, but had the face and demeanor of someone twice his age. He had been a Teddy Boy at the age of six (even having his Drape jacket tailor-made), Rockabilly at nine and eventually giving in to the consensus and becoming a Skinhead at ten.  But not just your average little kid who follows his big brother and has a haircut and wanders the playground informing everyone that he is now a Skinhead in his black Woolworth’s plimsolls and flared hipsters.  Oh, no.  I mean Neville turned Skinhead full on, all the way, even though it was a quest to find the clothes to fit him.  There was I in zip-up cardigans and plimsolls, and there was Nev, his Tonic trousers Tailor-made in Kilburn, diddy Docs, braces, button-down shirt, Fred Perry jumper, Crombie, (not your usual Carnaby Street job but a really nice, quality one) the works.  Then again he is a Leo, and his clothes have always been the most important thing to him.  As for me, when I first turned Skinhead properly I was pretty concerned about my clothes and from the ages of fifteen too about seventeen I dressed in Sta Press, button down shirts Doc Martin shoes the lot, but as I got older I couldn’t give a fuck.  Black army trousers, flight jacket, steel-capped boots, shaved head.  That was enough for me.
Neville’s discovery by the Wycombe Skins and his
Subsequent promotion to the rank of mascot was the beginning of our journey into the world of the Wycombe Skin.  My father once answered a knock on the door and opened it to a gang of Skins in their twenties asking if Neville, (half their age and still in primary school) was in and was he coming out.  What effect this had on a ten-year-old boy, not to mention the effect it must have had on Dad I sometimes wonder.  Neville picked up on the real Skinhead look in a big way as soon as he became a Skinhead.  I was sort of into it but my personal wardrobe left a lot to be desired.  Neville on the other hand was straight in at the deep end and had a full Skinhead kit within the month, he also went for the OI! Look.  I think Neville understood the power of the image before I did.  He was the only proper Skinhead in his year the at middle school and was receiving massive attention outside in the street by the coolest mob in town.  I can’t remember when I finally just transformed into a full time Skinhead but it was a while after Neville had started dressing in full Skinhead fashion.
I remember walking home from town one sunny summer’s day, and passing the magistrates’ court.  On the other side of the road, standing in the midday sun, were three men striking a contrast against the brown glass entrance to the courthouse. Two were tall, immaculately dressed solicitors in expensive suits, and in the middle stood a Skinhead, shorter than the two solicitors, dressed in a red Ben Sherman shirt, immaculate white Sta-Press, Crombie and cherry red Doc Marten’s.  What struck me strongly was how proud and dignified the Skinhead looked between these two obviously very professional, confident and successful men.  How he stood his own in his chosen lifestyle. He was a Skin, but also a man in his own right and at that moment he seemed to preside over these two men. There were no intrinsic differences between these men despite the obvious, superficial contrast. They all looked brilliant in their respective worlds.  This memory is one of the most distinct from my early Skinhead days, a scene, which was lasered onto my memory as surely as light onto a negative.
I remember meeting some older Skinheads from London at the Royal Wedding, (Charles and DI) and asking them why they weren’t Skins any more.  They said they had been Skins in ’78, and now it was all over for them.  In their eyes it was old hat.  I was shocked.  Being a Skinhead was still so new to my friends and me and we believed it was for life.  I was so intense about being a Skinhead to me it was final.  Anybody who grew their hair for work, school, their girlfriend, whatever, was severely mentally impaired.  I would be downtown and would see an older Skin who was growing his hair for some reason.  I would feel very disappointed and could not understand how one could ever not be a Skinhead once the step had been taken. I truly believed that it was a way of life. Being a Skinhead was not just about clothes and style, but something that went unfathomably deep.  I feel this even today.  After years spent trying to understand myself, my actions and life, I still have not got a clue as to what the indefinable meaning of being a Skinhead is.  Sociology, anthropology and psychology might offer some answers, but I still believe there is a spiritual and mystical part of being a Skinhead that is inexplicable.  It’s like being in love: you just can’t explain it or put it into a nice neat little definition in order to feel more in control of yourself.
I always felt being a Skinhead was far beyond my personal choice. Frequently over the years I used to catch glimpses of myself in shop windows and think, ‘Who the hell is that thug? The way I felt about myself inside contrasted greatly with my outer appearance.  I still viewed myself as a shy, sensitive human being, but, looking back, I was also deeply insecure and very angry.  Always on the defensive, intense, with enough energy to start up a power plant.  I despised all authority, yet was also pretty authoritarian myself.  Full of complexities and contradictions.  All of this had to come out somewhere.  I thank God I had the sense to take photos and pour at least some of this angst into an art form, and not just aggro, getting into trouble with the Old Bill, gang fighting, rowing with my girlfriends and generally being a sociopath.  It wasn’t always that bad, really.  Much of the time spent being in a Skinhead gang meant just sitting around drinking beer and taking the piss out of everything and everyone, talking shit and boring our girlfriends to death with old war stories that happened years ago – and some that never happened at all.
Girls, now that’s a subject.  In the years at secondary school. I had my first taste of the opposite sex.  Being painfully shy and insecure I never felt there was much hope for me.  I always seemed to fancy girls that didn’t fancy me. Or if I was the object of someone’s desire they would leave it years before I was told, or they were damn ugly or I was severely slow in picking up a hint.  All was not lost though because Symond and I did go out on the pull.  Well Symond did the pulling and I settled for second best. Neville I must confess was used as bait by Symond and I when we cruised round town looking for members of the opposite sex and maybe the chance of a quick grope over the RYE (A large park outside of town).  But I don’t think it ever really worked but we made a lot of friends though.  Neville always received such a lot of attention from girls and we hoped some of that glory would reflect onto us. He also was the perfect height for all those lovely girls that thought he was the sweetest thing they had ever seen and had to give him a big hug to prove it.  He must have had more breasts shoved into his face then any of us hormone raging teenagers could hope to achieve.  You know what it’s like as a teenage boy?  All the girls seem to go in pairs, a rough one and a good looking one.  Weird that really or maybe it’s because one lives through the other and the other uses the one to emphasize her own beauty.
Londons East End was the Skinheads spiritual home.  We were carrot crunchers from the countryside and we believed that the Skins in London were the Hardest Mother fuckers ever to walk the Earth.  I remember going to the Last Resort, London’s only pure Skinhead shop at the time, with my Mum and Dad and Neville.  The sight of all those Monsters coupled with the Last Resorts’ sales methods (buy something, or you may not walk out of this shop Alive, Vibe) will stay with me for the rest off my life.  My brother and I being tourists bought Skinhead T-shirts and were ecstatic at visiting a Skinhead Mecc full of The real East End kids, the ones in Nicks Nights’ book “SKINHEAD”.  A book I never really liked because I felt I had taken better photos even though I was only fifteen. Also he wasn’t a real Skin, just jumping on the bandwagon.  Sour grapes on my part really. But looking back his book “Skinhead” was the only modern reference point that me and my mates and any other Skinhead had at the time.  Without Nick Nights book there would have been even less literature about our chosen path.  Until he published that book it was just negative news clippings and archive stuff from the late sixties.  I don’t think I even saw a copy of Richard Allan’s ‘Skinhead’ till I was about eighteen.
What amazes me is how insecure we all were, I mean all of us, girls, boys, Blacks, whites.   No real role models very few wise adults that could offer guidance.  I always had a very strong feeling from the age of fourteen that I was on my own when it came down to it.  The world I was living in was so incredibly different from my parents and the adults around me that I SEVERELY RESENTED being told what to do by people who to me had no experience to speak of.  A line in a “FOUR SKINS” song goes “You could be a laborer or an office clerk, you wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen and I’m only seventeen, what a wonderful world, what a wonderful world this is.”   This line really spoke to me, I always had the feeling that by the time I was eighteen I had lived a pretty unusual and intense life.

Beginning of chapter two

I was once put in charge of the music for the Christmas nativity play.  We rehearsed the birth of the baby Jesus for a week in the mornings.  There was Joseph, Mary, the cardboard sheep, blankets for robes.  My job was that when the shepherds said, “HARK WHAT IS THAT I HEAR”?  I was to put some music of angels singing on over the P.A. system, which consisted of a tape machine amp and two fuck off great speakers attached to the assembly hall wall.  To me they looked about 6 feet tall. Whilst in practice waiting for my interracial part in this dramatic epic I was struck with a Vision of what I should do. Lets call it a religious experience “A MOMENT OF CLARITY” It being a religious play and all. I felt that I had my own divine intervention.  The day came for our great biblical effort to be performed, the actors ready. The soundman (that was me) poised ready for action in my first ever sound effects job. The assembly started, the actors went through their roles remembering every line perfectly.  Three wise men “a bright star we must follow, tis a great King been born” “We must go bearing gifts.” I was ready and waiting for my part to come, my whole concentration focused on the award winning script
my fellow thespians were reciting.  I was stuck behind the curtain finger on the play button of the school assembly tape recorder. The whole effect depended on my timing and my skill in advanced theatre sound effects.  Then it came. I heard the all-important lines, the cue for me put on the sound effects that supported the immortal school nativity play.  A young boy in a cheap white sheet portraying a shepherd in the hills surrounding Jerusalem 2000 years ago. “HARK WHAT IS THAT I HEAR”? At this point I was meant to play harmonious mellow tones of angels singing.  But, having been sent a message from GOD to be aware of the massive coming of Madness I took out the Angel tape and stuck in my own creation, a tape I had painstakingly prepared the night before.  I was under instruction from God.  With my tape in place my finger on the play button I waited for the classic lines “HARK WHAT IS THAT I HEAR? At that moment I whacked every button up to number 11, full blast on the amp out boomed “ONE STEP BEYOND” so loud and so distorted that my whole year jumped out of their skin. In fact you couldn’t hear a thing it was just a distorted immense noise. Kids were putting their hands over their ears; teachers were jumping up and running in my direction.  I panicked, tried to turn the awesome noise off but in my alarm I just made it worse.  A teacher ran over and turned the tape off.  Stunned silence descended upon the assembly broken by the next line in the script delivered buy a true but unknowing professional… “HARK MY BROTHER I HEAR NOTHING.” I got the cane for that little escapade but it was well worth it.
School plays.  I never got picked to act in a major school play and they were pretty good. Very well put together musicals written and composed by one of the teachers Mrs. Phipps and her husband, all original words and music. Quite grand productions when I think about it.  Symond and Darrell were in all of the big school plays.  It took me to my last year at school to finally get a part in one. (I don’t think Mrs Phipps liked me very much.)  And what a part it was, it was in a Play called Benny Green.  I was to play Benny Greens sort of Gypsy father, and to play it safe I was given only a few one liners.  In fact one syllable one liners.  I was to say “yeah” and “no” a few times. The teachers thinking I couldn’t fuck that one up.
School plays were good because you got out of lessons to rehearse.  It was always a rather chaotic time building up to the end of term.  The director would run the whole play in front of the second years when it was near completion, a sort of test run.  No costumes or make up just a walk through so every one knew their lines.  The day of the run through there was an impromptu party at lunchtime round this girls Debbie Ambrose’s house.  The house she lived in backed onto the school playing fields so she technically lived on top of the place.   Christ I could have got up at 2 minutes to 9 every morning if I had lived there the lucky bugger.  The party was outrageous, bottles of stolen vodka, glue being sniffed girls being snogged, all of this crammed into an hour, we went mad, a classic teenagers impromptu alcohol party, utter chaos and back to classes after lunch.  We staggered back across the cold bleak playing fields towards the dark School buildings, it was overcast and gray but a whole heap of us were in high spirits, literally.  I could not see straight at all.  A large Mob of drunken school kids staggered off to their various lessons.  I ended up in the assembly hall, which was strange at that time of day.  The head master was circling the assembly gathering sniffing the air like a predatory hyena. We were pissed, 15 and out of our heads sniffing lady esquire. What was I doing here anyway? Me and a bunch of fourth year alchys.  I looked up at the stage, well tried to focus, there seemed to be some sort of activity up there. Other kids were starting to turn around and look at us and the rumors were already spreading that the Skins were pissed, I lent forward shoved some kid and said what the fucks going on. “Oh” he said “it’s a run through of the school play” Then it all came into crystal clear focus, I was meant to be up there on stage doing my first ever stage performance, in actual fact I was meant to be up on stage, right now.  My stage wife and stage headmaster in my scene were up on the stage without me and my only line “N0” was really important to the whole play.  That’s why the headmaster must have been hovering around looking into the crowd, the teachers were looking for me, and me hiding my face paranoid that he might smell the booze.  Then I noticed I wasn’t standing with my usual mob, that’s because they were all in the play and were behind the curtain, a moment of clarity hit me I pushed and shoved my way through the line of kids I was in the middle of, ran down the side of the hall, through the stage door, entered stage right and confronted the actors who were staring blankly at me, I stood there nothing in focus the room swimming, 100s of kids staring at me you, could hear the old cartoon crickets chirping it seemed that silent. I had been given one line, one fucking line, not only one line but one syllable to say and I forgot it, I forgot to say NO, in fact I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing up there in the first place, what my name was and what planet I was on.  The look of horror on Mrs. Phipps face, it was all there “he can’t even remember one syllable I knew it.”  My fellow actors prompted me I uttered my line sat down in a drunken stupor and let the rest of my scene drift past in a haze.  I can’t remember a thing about the rest of the day, how I got home even.
The play went ahead, lots of evenings rehearsing, time to molest girls, muck about and act with the freedom only artistes are allowed in draconian environments.  We had three performances over three nights at the end of school term before the summer holiday.  We were the next 5th formers.  The school play symbolized a shift in power, out with the old kids, out with the old order, out with last summers favorite music, and in with the new  ‘erberts, a new dawn, a new hierarchy, a new Labour, whoops! I mean a new bunch of big kids influencing the younger ones.
After all of Mrs. Phipps attempts to give me the safest non fuckupable part the play went ahead as planned if not better.  I remembered my lines and only made one cock up in the actual real performance. I was watching telly in the girls gym which doubled as the dressing room, again all on my own lost in my own little world not really noticing the entire cast was absent, when a kid ran in and shouted “your on now right now”.  Christ you would have thought I would have learnt something. This time it was OK though because I managed to run on stage, skid to a halt in the middle of the scene and make up some excuse why I was late. It got a really good laugh as well and resulted in my first (and only as of yet) rave acting review In the Bucks Free Press.  My first role as a thick but friendly Gypsy Father of lovable singing dancing Benny Green, with my monologue of “NO” “YEAH” delivered at all the right places in perfect comic timing got one of the only mentions out of the whole cast In the Bucks free Press review section. I was destined for stardom from that moment onwards!!!
So I started to hang out with Symond after School and roam the streets with a very large group of mongrel London overspill town dogs, a real motley crew, blacks, whites, a few girls and a few Asians who had managed to stick the abuse and act a bit more westernized, but these guys were few and far between.  It was to be another generation before the Asian kids started to mix.                                                                  We would do all sorts of fun things, a favorite was breaking into the Bowmans meat vans that were parked in Bowmans yard and steal out of date pies and pasties, sausage’s, the lot.  Then we would go into the woods or over the railway bank, start a fire and cook and eat them.  I am surprised we never got food poisoning from them.  We thought we were being great thieves when really we were just stealing the outdated stock they had picked up on their delivery rounds.  Of course we would also throw pies at each other and passing cars, unsuspecting, passersby, trains, small animals you name it we pied it.  On Sunny days we would go for huge walks along the railway track heading towards Beaconsfield keeping a very close eye out for trains.  I grew up a lot closer to the railway lines than Symond but the rail line was a big part of Micklefield estate.  You could see it from almost anywhere on the estate and if you couldn’t see it you could hear the trains as the line run right over the start of Micklefield Rd. An exciting place if your a kid.  One of the biggest buzzes I use to get was hiding under the green signal box that was a few feet from the track and waiting for the train to come, a pretty hairy experience being that close to a thundering speeding train.
I went through a stage of nicking toys from Hunters Hill estate (the home for British airways Staff) and putting them on the track, then investigating the wreckage after a train had run over the poor unsuspecting toy that had been sacrificed to feed a sick young mind.  I used to imagine what carnage would have befallen the object if it had been real.  The best ones were the Toy cars, you could fit a plastic soldier into, then you could really see the remains of twisted metal and mangled plastic soldier after a million ton train had just passed over it.  I would hide in the Grass and as close to the line as possible so I could watch the toy car and Its Innocent passenger.  Then I would hear the hiss of the rail, it was sort of a pinging sound and then I knew the train was coming, I would find my place hoping I hadn’t been spotted by the driver, sometimes they would stop the train and chase me off or call the police.  Then in a comfortable position I would stare at the rail and wait for what would seem like ages for the train to crush and mangle that little toy.  It would get all quite and then suddenly I would be deafened by the roar, and all I could see would be the huge steel train wheels that seemed to come out of nowhere and I would see a few sparks. Then it would pass, I would wait for a little while and I would be out of my hiding place eagerly searching along the track for the remnants of my artwork.  Sometimes the little toy would be carried a long way up the track but I would always find it and gleefully study the damage done to the toy soldier or any other toy type character that would fit into a toy car.
The best one I ever did was to poor little Jason Mitchell’s American police car, it was big enough to hold a whole action man and made of tin, working siren and all.  His sister Nichola Mitchell was one of my best friends and a secret fantasy of mine for years, she was in my class in the last two terms of middle school and was in the year above me.  She was part of the intelligent elite at that time so I never really had much contact with her.  It was only when we went to our separate secondary schools that we got to know each other and become good mates.  She lived next door to Scott Burnell who’s Dad worked at Heathrow, Scott was a very good mate of mine and Nev. up until he went back to Australia never to be seen again.  So that’s when I started getting aquainted with Nikki who would be a part of my life for years.  Anyway she had three half siblings, and it was one of these kids toys that was the main attraction for me and my destructive mates on that specific day.  He stupidly left it outside his house, and the house being the one that bordered on the path that lead into a small wood that lead onto the rail tracks, it was an easy swipe.  We nicked one of his action men as well for good measure.  We never thought we would derail a train, we never put anything on the track that would not disintegrate, we weren’t stupid.  We never put iron girder’s or car axle’s on the line, we were not interested in damaging the train we were just interested in the damage it did to small objects, especially if those objects were scaled down versions of everyday human life.  So here we are with our brave action man strapped into the large American police car made of tin (which pleased Symond no end the yank hater he was,) we waited for the next train to come.  This was by far the biggest toy that had been sacrificed so there was an air of anticipation in our small group.  The familiar hiss and pinging sound of an approaching train was soon to be heard.  I ran out before it came round the corner, which was about a quarter of a mile down the track on the side heading for London.  I placed the car lengthwise on the rail, the action man looking serious, but sort of spaced out as well.  I faced him so his back was towards the oncoming train that was going to bring about his untimely demise.  I thought it was unfair to let him watch what was going to happen to him, it was probably better that he got it by surprise.  I mean one moment your the object and play thing of a young boy that may be a little rough with you at times but still loves and cherishes you and spends more time with you than any other member of his household and the next your dragged away from that and squashed by a train for nothing more then feeding sick teenage minds.  “He was just on the wrong porch at the wrong time.”  We all lay there excited, not breathing, ready to run like the wind if we heard those brakes screeching.  Stopping the evening train to Marylebone is not looked upon as a great laugh by the powers that be.  Closer it came, the evening summer sun shining down upon our sacrificial lamb. He seemed totally oblivious to what was about to happen. Maybe he was on tranquilizers you never know? Oh well at least he was going to die a true Action Mans death, cut down in his prime, not left to rot armless and legless in some old cardboard box in the loft, like so many of his Comrades, abandoned and forgotten like real life old soldiers.
The train was getting closer the horn blasting out, we had been spotted, not only that, the vibration was shaking the car and it looked as if it was going to fall of, oh no, the train was starting to slow down.  I was poised in the grass eyes transfixed on the Car but the rest of my body twisted in a sort of ready to run very fast position.  It got closer and closer whistle blowing and then bang, crash, it hit the car dragging it under the wheels.  We could see it in-between the speeding wheels bouncing around sparks flying accompanying the locomotive on its way to London.  Yes it worked, we killed the fucker.  Up the track we ran to find the remains.  We spotted the wreck up near the bridge that ran over Cock Lane that was about 400 yards up the track.  Anxious to see the remains we eagerly examined the wreckage.  The car was a twisted lump of metal, chunks of tin were embedded in the action man, his whole right side was part of the mangled car and he had lost an arm that we never found.  I think for a laugh we left the mortally wounded action man back where we found him, nice kids eh.
One of the largest expeditions we ever made was to the railway tunnel that was between High Wycombe and Beaconsfield. It was about five miles from MICKLEFIELD. It was a very long tunnel and it was a fantastic exhilaration to get through it especially if a train came. There were small alcoves cut into the sides of the tunnel so if a train came and there were workers in the tunnel they wouldn’t get killed. You could just about fit two kids in one hole. The dreaded, “if you stand too close the train would suck you under” that’s what we all believed any way. They were quite widely spaced out so if you were caught in the middle of two alcoves when a train came you still had to make a bit of an effort to get to safety.  This day there was a huge bunch of us, it was the height of the summer holidays and we organized a trip up the track to The Tunnel.
There was about fifteen of the usual mob plus a few more to boot.  It was a boiling hot day with a heat haze rising of the tracks as they stretched off into the distance cutting through the Chiltern Hills.  We walked along mucking about, throwing stones at things. We passed Bambergers the big wood yard.  It was in a valley, the rail track overlooking it.  We stoned the outside security lights and various other targets along the way, pushed each other about, play fighting, balancing on the rails pushing people off that were balancing on the rails, hiding when a train came.  A few idiots stoned the trains.  As always there are a few kids trying to make an impression.  After what seemed a really long walk in the hot sun we came closer to the entrance of the tunnel.  It was a pretty awesome sight flanked on both sides by almost shear chalk banks, a black gaping hole, you could not see the other end because of a bend in the middle.  Getting into the tunnel was more dangerous because of the high steep banks, pretty dodgy if a train came but what the fuck did we care?  We were young and don’t you know when you’re young you’re indestructible.   At the other end of the tunnel was a place you could climb up and climb over a fence and you would be on a tiny country road that was full of orchards, apples, pears, the lot. So there was a gift awaiting our dice with death.  We all waited for the trains to pass so we knew it would be at least another half-hour before the next ones. We made our way with trepidation along the valley into the mouth of the tunnel.  I was in front and we were on the side that led to Wycombe because the last train had been heading towards High Wycombe so we were reasonably safe for a while. If a train came it would most certainly be a London train.  We were all walking in single file making our way through the blackness feeling our way along the wall.  The light from the other side slowly coming into view as we neared the middle of the tunnels bend.  At last the end was in sight, we had got through the worst of it, there was light at the end of the tunnel.  “TRAIN, TRAIN” I screamed.  I couldn’t fucking believe it, there was a fucking great train steaming into the tunnel on our side of the track. Oh shit.  “TRAIN” I screamed again we turned and fled back further into the tunnel desperately trying to find an alcove.  But of course the ones at the back and in the middle were already cramming themselves into every available haven so the first alcove was full of desperate kids trying to blend into the bricks laughing their heads off, so I ran to the next, “No room fuck OFF” so onto the next alcove stumbling on the sleeper ends, the train getting closer and closer.  This was getting serious. As I ran I could feel the ground shaking and almost feel the train on top of me, the sound was incredible.  I could feel the wind on the back of my neck, there was the alcove I had to reach, it was only a few feet away, could I make it or would I be sucked under the wheels of a great Iron horse, Karma from all those sacrificed toys.  I knew I shouldn’t have killed that action man.  I lurched towards the tiny alcove, there was another cringing soul in there but at least there was room for me.  No sooner had I got into the hole the train roared passed bringing with it a tremendous blast of air.  Then I knew it was true: You could be sucked under.  I clung to my equally terrified alcove partner.  I didn’t have a clue who it was. The train passed.  I just stayed crouched, so did the kid that was with me.  Slowly and surely we plucked up the courage to tentatively emerge from our hiding places.  Dead silence until someone shouted “Fucking hell” and we all laughed nervously which was followed by adrenaline pumping animated conversation “fucking hell”!!!! “I thought it was all over”, “who was that trying to get into our hole?” “It was me you bastard I nearly got killed.”  As we chatted excitedly about the very recent brush with death we crossed over to the other side of the track, we were nearing the end on the tunnel when some one shouted train, we had stayed in the alcoves so long that the next train was coming through. “TRAIN, RUN,” I was all right this time because I was right next to a safety hole so I just stepped into it and kneeled down.  Lee Hill was in there also so we watched the train as it sped through lighting up the dark tunnel.  You could make out the people sitting on the train like some mad cartoon flicking past.  As soon as that train passed we all legged towards the exit as fast as we could and climbed up the very steep bank which was a task in itself.  The actual place looked very much like the scene out of PINK FLOYD’S “THE WALL” where the young Punk is putting a bullet on the rail line and the train comes through.  I always thought it might have been filmed at the same spot?  It must have been August time because we raided the orchard and stuffed ourselves with pears, threw some at each other and started on our quest back to civilization.
The trip back through the tunnel went without a hitch until we got out the other side.  A train came and we all had to scramble up these very steep chalk banks.  In our group was Kevin Providence a half cast kid, he had a brother Martin, they were both rude boys.  Kevin was also called lop head due to the fact that after he had his afro cut into a Skinhead it revealed his head had a rather odd slant to it.  Kevin was struggling to reach the top of the cliff when he was given an unwelcome hand by John Alloway the groups Ginger contingent.  He dragged poor old Kevin who was doing all right on his lonesome through a thorn bush, scratching his face to fuck.  Kevin wasn’t to pleased with this painful drag to safety, he jumped up and started to kick and punch John and a small scrap started.  The rest of us seizing any opportunity to laugh at anothers misfortune were rolling about the place laughing as Kevin ran after John kicking him up the arse with his face all scratched to fuck.  There was only one thing he could be known as from that moment onwards, there was only one song that sprung to mind as we we looked at Kevin standing there blood running down his scratched face.  It sprung up almost instantaneously among the group “don’t call me scar face” the famous words in a song by the “Specials.” Very apt, Kevin being one of the gangs’ main instigators of piss taking and abuse deserved a bit of his own medicine.  It seemed to take ages for those scars to heal; poor old John was just trying to save his mates life.  We managed to get home in one piece that time.  If our parents knew what we were getting up to they would have had kittens.
Dotted along the railway track were a few workmen’s huts and sometimes we would find rail detonators, small explosive devices put on the rail to warn workers that a train was coming.  They were small metal objects oval in shape and painted blue, a proper little land mine, (Really!) and of course we would risk eyesight and finger parts just to try and get these things to explode. I remember Stuart Horgan throwing a brick on top of one, his shirt off, dangerously close, he ended up kneeling over the thing smacking it with the brick.  Thank fuck it never went off.  We used to find shot gun rounds in the fields around the tracks as well and they would get the same brick treatment I’m sure we were all on some sort of death wish, there is definitely a sort of force field around you when your young.
         As all young tribesmen we yearned for our own hut, we had grown out of building tree houses but still needed a base. One of the first of these was a rail workmen’s hut just pass the wood yard and the Bucks Free Press Building.  It had a little stove, the lot.  We would gather there and make tea, smoke fags, though I never smoked then. And sometimes cook stolen Bowmens sausages.  We covered the walls with punk and madness posters and graffiti.  We had seats in there, the lot, it was all very civil.
Neville was still into his rock and roll image and was fighting fiercely against the new wave that had overcome his big brother and his mates.  He had started to change slowly from a Teddy Boy to a Rockabillly and it was the time that we had the railway hut that all this musical and fashion transition was being played out.  Eventually Neville gave in to the new way and became a Skinhead; in fact he went the whole hog and became a full fledged Skin. I was into Madness and had had my haircut but hadn’t really made the leap to a full time Skinhead.  So there we all were in our workman’s hut taking the piss out of each other talking about music girls and laughing a lot.  We used to go there in the evening after school and one night we were waiting for the kettle to boil, Nobby Bird was in charge of the tea, Nobby Bird was a short but tough little bugger with a cheeky hard face, he had been one of my first mates in first school and came up my house a few times but we weren’t that close in secondary school even thought he was in the gang.  He was in the The Bucks Free Press once pointing to a burnt hole in the woods where he said he and his Pals saw a U.F.O, it was total load of old bollocks, all they done was have a little fire and then phone up the paper, there was a big photo and story to go with it, Little Nobby Bird pointing to this burnt patch in the woods looking all concerned. On this one evening the kettle was just boiling and we were all siting quietly for change, when the door to the hut opened and in walked a policeman followed by another policeman, we all just sat there and stared at the Coppers and the Police man in front was a bit lost for words and looked a little uncomfortable, there was silence for what seemed like ages until Nobby crouched over our little stove looked up and said “Cup of tea mate”. We all cracked up the policemen as well but they still marched us off and told us not to come back. Oh well on to the next hideout.
Talking about getting up to it I will tell you the story about when we went camping for a week at Lullworth cove in Dorset.  Symond, Lee Hill and I (my English teachers would be proud of that “I”) Symond and I were in the fourth year at school and it was the summer holidays.  Lee had recently turned from punk to Skinhead, (he looked good as a Skin), Lee had left school as he was in the year above us.  We were going to stay at a campsite where another mate Lorp, parents had a caravan.  I organized that my Dad would give us a lift down.  Symond was grounded for some reason or another and wasn’t allowed to come, but at the last minute I told my dad to go and get him, we drove up to his house and kidnapped him, fuck the consequences, adventure called.  After kidnapping Symond we set off on the long drive to Dorset.  I loved Dorset then, it felt like a different world, wild, magical and steeped in history and mystery, and it also seemed a long way away.  It’s strange how when you get older places seem to lose their distance.  We were dropped off at the campsite and my dad had to say he was staying with us as the owner seemed a little worried about having these three Skinheads on his lovely site.  Dad left and we put our tent up, I think it was Scabs tent.  The front pole was missing so we had to make do with a small branch, it was a bit bent but it did the job.  The campsite was large and you had caravans on one side and a sort of wood with spaced out huge trees where the tents were.  It was close to the sea and the cliffs so it was a very nice spot, the sun was shining and it was the middle of summer, we had a whole week ahead of us and a bit of cash, I think about fifteen quid each.
We pitched our tent among the huge trees and it wasn’t long before we were joined by some more young campers just a tad different than Symond, Lee and me.  Two girls about our age and a younger boy.  They really did look and speak like something out of Enid Blytons “Famous five go camping.”  We came to the conclusion they were rough, a bit on the plump side and far too posh.  So off we went into the village looking for adventure booze and birds.  I decided to go for a wander and ended up sitting on the rocks looking out to sea. It is a very beautiful place Lullwoth cove.  There was no night entertainment really except a very small youth hostel in the small town and nothing on the campsite.  The girls next to us were very kind and used to offer us food, they had taken quite a fancy to us, but not even Lawesy was interested in pursuing a grope thinking that three handsome young Skins are bound to pull.
In the mornings we were woken by the most horrendous squawking and crowing you have ever heard in your life, every huge black crow in Dorset must have lived in the top of the trees on the campsite and would take it upon themselves to give the sleepy campsite a five o’clock alarm call.  It was a scene out of Hitchcocks “THE BIRDS.”  On one occasion Symond jumped out of the tent and started lobbing stones into the trees out of pure desperation, a futile exercise, he just succeeded in hitting the tops of caravans at five in the morning with large flint rocks, much to the annoyance of the other campers.  We were lucky not to get thrown off the site.

From the cliffs at Lulworth Cove at nighttime you can see Weymouth, and I was convinced it stood just around the bay about one mile away.  I conveyed this theory to my two mates, Scab replied saying “Shut up you cunt, its got to be at least 5 miles away, but worth an adventure,” a short trek for us youngsters across the cliffs and along the stony beach.  We planned to take off early one day for our short journey taking with us some money.  Little did we know that Weymouth was fifteen miles away across terrain the S.A.S would have been proud to complete.  Miles and miles we trekked in the boiling sun up and down cliffs along awkward rocky beaches, in the misty distance we could see Weymouth, never once seeming like it was getting any closer, of course I was slagged off. “Watson you silly cunt you said it was just down the road.”  Because I had been to Dorset before I was a bit cocksure and looked upon myself as an expert on the varying distances between the Dorset coastal resorts, a belief that was soon shattered.  By the time we realized we were on an epic quest it was too late to turn back.  With no supplies, not a shop, pub or house anywhere to be seen we grimly marched on determined to get to Weymouth.
On a particularly high cliff top someone noticed a movement in the grass, we all quickly pursued the movement and found and caught our first grass snake, well what we thought was a grass snake.  After manhandling the thing, picking it up and passing it around we were excited, as the only snakes we had seen were slow worms that we found under rocks over the railway banks.  So we had no realization that we were having hours of teenage fun and fascination with England’s one and only poisonous snake the viper, this was discovered when it took a lunge at my camera case and sunk its rather nasty looking fangs into it.  We ran away laughing and a bit shocked.  Thank God nobody was bitten, we were miles from anywhere with no food or drink.  That could have been a serious situation but we were young and its only now, just when I wrote this little story did I have a shiver about what might have happened.
Eventually the hills and vales mellowed out and we found ourselves on the beach that leads into Weymouth.  Dehydrated, hungry and exhausted we staggered into town and made a beeline for Sainsburys.  To get sustenance after our intrepid journey? To fill our empty stomachs with nutrients?  No, to buy bottles of cider, yes bottles of cheap strong Sainsburys cider.  On the way we were followed buy a big kid and his mates on their bikes, I was a bit concerned that a scrap would follow, but Lee who was older and pretty tough stopped and screwed the geezer out and off they went.  With the cider in hand off we went to find a suitable spot to drink it, which turned out to be Weymouth harbor with all it boats drifting in and out.  So there we were sitting on the harbor wall drinking our cider and feeling very good indeed after our great achievement.  I used to be called Tin Throat Watson because of my ability to consume a bottle of cider in almost one hit.  The warmth of the alcohol started to rise up, all the familiar feelings that the buzz of the first pint or the first drink of the day gives, makes you feel great but it never stops there, you just can’t be happy with that mild warm glow, you have to have more, lots more, so off we went.  Now this is where I get a little foggy on the memory, I think Symond and Lee went off to get food or they got another bottle each and I bought two, but whatever happened I don’t remember a thing except something about being set adrift in somebody’s little boat.  They managed to get me back before I drifted out to sea or was sunk by some rich geezers yacht.  I was left on the harbor steps puking into the sea and all over myself much to the amusement of Scab and Lee.  I remember none of this but was told about it after the event.  Eventually I came too and the first thing I realized as consciousness returned was the tide had come in and I was up to my knees in shitty sea water, up to my knees in all the crap people had chucked into the harbor, lumps of shite, green scum and god knows what else.  I had been spotted in my grim state by a couple in their thirties, sort of old hippies that were in a boat in the harbor, they came over and asked if I was OK. I had passed out again by this time and when I came too the second time I was in the back of an old black van with Symond holding a bag to my mouth as I could not stop puking.  As this was going on there was a conversation between the couple and the more coherent of us.  I could only catch bits of this conversation but at one point the woman started talking about her daughters bra size and I added to the conversation with “fuck me she’s got big tits” Lee and Scab were trying not to piss themselves whilst trying to shut up a pissed obnoxious little tit.  These good Samaritans gave us a lift fifteen miles back to the campsite, being verbally abused all the way, but I think they quite enjoyed themselves.
I woke up the next morning breathing all over Symond with my stale puke ridden breath and was shunned for the rest of the morning.  Then Lorps Dad and Step mum turned up with their daughters, from that moment on we were looked after.  We moved our tent from the tent section to outside their caravan, a far more distinguished part of the campsite. One gorgeous sunny morning we were awoken by one of the most beautiful smells there is on earth!  a good old fashioned fry up.  I unzipped the tent stuck my head out and was instantly confronted by three enormous plates full with bacon and eggs and sausage’s.  I must have really needed that meal because that image has always stayed strong in my mind.  We were driven around the magical county of Dorset with Lorps family. His dad was cool, he was a Samaritan in his spare time and had this most incredibly soothing voice.  He was short, stocky and slightly hunched.  Outside the caravan one day he bet us that he could do a certain number of back flips, well to us he looked far to old to do such a fantastic feat not even us young whipper snappers could do. Before our very eyes he back flipped a dozen time with the agility of a cat.  We were dead impressed, this geezer was cool.  Lorp had told us that he was a bit of a scrapper so I took the opportunity to ask him about his scraps.  We knew from Lorp that he had been a teddy boy and played guitar in a Rock and Roll band and also had been a bit of a lad.  It was Lorps dad who told me never ever to hesitate in a fight, he said you could always tell inexperienced scrappers, especially young blokes who would always hesitate, but older guys would just get straight in there as soon as they realized there was going to be a fight.  This piece of fighting wisdom I held close to my heart.  Don’t get me wrong he seemed like he had never had a fight in his life and was a really laid back sort of chap.
One very famous story about Lorps dad was when he heard two guys breaking into his car in the middle of the night He ran out of his house more or less naked and the would be robbers were given a rather nasty seeing to by the usually mild mannered Mr. Morris.  A sort of car door slammed on legs and a few headbutts type of deal.  It’s strange how we all loved these legends that were passed down from our fathers and older men, it’s as if we really needed people to be hard and tough and unrelenting.
Lorps family life was a strange one, an older stepbrother Phil who was his step mums kid, a big lad, and there was Lorp and his younger sister from his dads’ previous marriage and a younger sister who was his dads and step mums.  Lorp had massive problems at home and ran away a lot eventually leaving home at sixteen.  After which his step mum died of cancer, he treated her pretty rough really, I feel he regretted that even though he has never said so.  Well our Dorset journey had come to an end and it was time to go home.  There was no room in Lorps dads car so we decided to hitch it back.  Five Miles down the road we realized we had made a grave mistake, the romance of hitchhiking wore very thin very quickly.  A soldier gave us a lift after identifying with our short hair and back packs, he knew what we were going through, mind you he only gave us a lift to the end of the fence, that’s a little joke for any of you that have seen Steve Martins “THE JERK.”  He basically gave us a lift from one junction to the next.  It was time to phone the parents so they could come and save us from our grim situation.  My family was out probably visiting my granddad in London or had strategically gone out because they knew I would be on the phone begging and using all my knowledge of emotional blackmail to persuade them to pick us up.  So Symond phoned his Dad who wasn’t the most helpful, giving fathers I have ever known.  As I remember it we weren’t sure if he was going to pick us up or not so we carried on.  An hour or so later a car pulled up and we were saved by Scabs Dad, probably the only thing he ever done for his son.  That was our trip to Dorset well what I can remember from it.
A year later we went to Lulworth cove with the school on a day trip with the geography department, in fact it was the geography department that took us on all our trips.  I can’t remember any of us liking or being particularly good at geography but we went on most of our educational field trips with them. (Suckers).

Autumn! That time when the clocks go back and you can disappear into the night. When you could cause havoc and merge into the woods and back gardens and alleyways. Before, you had to be in for school the next day. I loved that time when it would get dark early, that is my memories of my school years, rainy days and dark autumn evenings. The summer memories seem to be reserved for those years before puberty and sex got to me. It was on these nights that I had some of the best times in my life. This was when everything was new and exciting, well everything that your not supposed to do was. It was in those days that I discovered the joys of Cider, that nectar of winos and youngsters. In the days before marketing got hold of the stuff and ponced it up.
Because I was the biggest It was my job to buy the stuff. Like most things we humans do we soon got into the routine o

You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.