rubbish,â he used to complain. âItâll never last like the old songs.â And heâd quickly turn over to ITV, much to my great disappointment. In the mid-1950s, many Victorian and Edwardian Music Hall songs were still well known. We are now about as far away from the mid-1950s as they were from the late Victorian and Edwardian period so I think itâs safe to say we can dismiss the theory that rockânâroll singers and songs will never last as long! I mean, whatever happened to Cliff Richard anyway?
It was with the start of Junior School that I began to make some real friends with whom I played outside of school. In particular, there were Andy Shalders, Bob Marriott, Peter Hannaford, John Walker, Howard Bradbury and Terry Gregory. We formed a group â I think it would be wrong to say a gang â and stuck together for the whole of the time we were in Junior School. Of these boys, my best friend was Andy, a slightly tubby boy, who, like me, was very keen on playing and watching sports. His father managed a grocerâs shop in Chatsworth Roadand, although it wasnât one we frequented as shoppers, I did go round there quite a lot to play with Andy. There was one occasion when I was there alone in the shop after he had gone off to the toilet. For some reason I decided to see how sharp the bacon slicer was. I can confirm that it was very sharp indeed â I just touched it and it almost sliced my finger off! There was blood everywhere. I ran home as fast as I could. Fortunately, it looked worse than it was and Mum was able to sort everything out with an Elastoplast. Andy must have wondered what had happened when he came back from the loo and saw a trail of blood on the floor but no sign of me.
Bob Marriott lived closest to me. He had quite striking ginger hair and lived on the top floor of a terraced house in Chippendale Street. The bottom floor was occupied by the owner, Mrs Percy, a widowed woman in her eighties. She had snow-white hair and was always dressed completely in black from head to toe as though in perpetual mourning. I had strict instructions to knock on the door twice if I wanted to see Bob as one knock was for Mrs Percy and she wasnât happy if a caller knocked once and made her come to the door and then it turned out to be for upstairs. Bob said when that happened she complained to his parents and wouldnât let him forget it for days afterwards. His father was in the wood trade like my dad and also worked in Shoreditch. Bob was the only friend I had whose parents actually owned a car, a Ford Zephyr, which enabled them to go off to such exotic locations as Cornwall for their holidays.
I often walked back from school with Terry Gregory as he had to pass my house on his way home and, whereas conversationswith most of my friends revolved around sport, Terry and I used to discuss some deep scientific conundrums such as when did time start and did the Universe come to an end. It was all very deep stuff for Junior School children. Terry lives in Australia these days but I am still in touch with him and even visited him a few years ago.
Peter Hannaford was the boy who introduced us all to the wonders of the female form. He had discovered a newsagentâs shop in Lower Clapton Road that displayed copies of H&E ( Health & Efficiency ) in their front window and took us up there one day after school. So there we were, seven ten-year-olds stood gazing in the window at the front covers of these magazines for some minutes. Iâm not sure what we all made of the experience other than somehow knowing we were doing something a bit rude that our parents and teachers wouldnât approve of and that this was our little collective secret. I donât think actually looking at bare female breasts in itself really did anything for us at that age. It was more the fact of doing something a bit naughty that we knew we shouldnât be doing that was the thrill. It also enhanced
It was with the start of Junior School that I began to make some real friends with whom I played outside of school. In particular, there were Andy Shalders, Bob Marriott, Peter Hannaford, John Walker, Howard Bradbury and Terry Gregory. We formed a group â I think it would be wrong to say a gang â and stuck together for the whole of the time we were in Junior School. Of these boys, my best friend was Andy, a slightly tubby boy, who, like me, was very keen on playing and watching sports. His father managed a grocerâs shop in Chatsworth Roadand, although it wasnât one we frequented as shoppers, I did go round there quite a lot to play with Andy. There was one occasion when I was there alone in the shop after he had gone off to the toilet. For some reason I decided to see how sharp the bacon slicer was. I can confirm that it was very sharp indeed â I just touched it and it almost sliced my finger off! There was blood everywhere. I ran home as fast as I could. Fortunately, it looked worse than it was and Mum was able to sort everything out with an Elastoplast. Andy must have wondered what had happened when he came back from the loo and saw a trail of blood on the floor but no sign of me.
Bob Marriott lived closest to me. He had quite striking ginger hair and lived on the top floor of a terraced house in Chippendale Street. The bottom floor was occupied by the owner, Mrs Percy, a widowed woman in her eighties. She had snow-white hair and was always dressed completely in black from head to toe as though in perpetual mourning. I had strict instructions to knock on the door twice if I wanted to see Bob as one knock was for Mrs Percy and she wasnât happy if a caller knocked once and made her come to the door and then it turned out to be for upstairs. Bob said when that happened she complained to his parents and wouldnât let him forget it for days afterwards. His father was in the wood trade like my dad and also worked in Shoreditch. Bob was the only friend I had whose parents actually owned a car, a Ford Zephyr, which enabled them to go off to such exotic locations as Cornwall for their holidays.
I often walked back from school with Terry Gregory as he had to pass my house on his way home and, whereas conversationswith most of my friends revolved around sport, Terry and I used to discuss some deep scientific conundrums such as when did time start and did the Universe come to an end. It was all very deep stuff for Junior School children. Terry lives in Australia these days but I am still in touch with him and even visited him a few years ago.
Peter Hannaford was the boy who introduced us all to the wonders of the female form. He had discovered a newsagentâs shop in Lower Clapton Road that displayed copies of H&E ( Health & Efficiency ) in their front window and took us up there one day after school. So there we were, seven ten-year-olds stood gazing in the window at the front covers of these magazines for some minutes. Iâm not sure what we all made of the experience other than somehow knowing we were doing something a bit rude that our parents and teachers wouldnât approve of and that this was our little collective secret. I donât think actually looking at bare female breasts in itself really did anything for us at that age. It was more the fact of doing something a bit naughty that we knew we shouldnât be doing that was the thrill. It also enhanced
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