1963: LIFE AS AN AVERAGE BRITISH KID STICK IN THE MIDDLE OF IT ALL:
STARTING SCHOOL - ONE OF OUR IMPORTANT RITES OF PASSAGE..
This was a big year for me: I started school. I did not want to start school, but it seemed that I had to…
To make matters worse, my two pals went to different schools: Marcus’s parents had a bob or two' (a British colloquial term for being a bit affluent), and so he went to a posh private school; Gerald went to the nearby Roman Catholic School. We had each tried to plead with our respective parents for the right to attend the same school (well, that was after attempting to politely decline the opportunity to go to school at all), but nothing doing.
My next door neighbour (who was also, from what my parents, older sisters and older brother kept insisting to me, my girlfriend (shrug)), Lorraine, went to my school, and was even in my class, but there was no way I was about to hang around with no girl at school. No way. None. With the guys, and around the neighbourhood – fine; but even then only when the important work was done: like digging up worms or throwing stones at the kids from across the way (and (and dodging the stones that they threw our way... ) – that was MAN’S work (don’t get on my case – this was early 60s!), but at school? – No.
I MADE A DEAL: BUY ME WINKLE-PICKER SHOES AS PART OF MY SCHOOL UNIFORM, AND I'LL GIVE SCHOOL A TRY...
A week or so before I started school my mom took me around the shops to get my new kit for school. Now, I’d seen Rockers strolling around the streets and had been in awe of their ‘Winkle-Picker’ shoes (loooong toed - that came to a point). My agreeing to give school a try (just a try, mind) was on condition that I’d be bought a pair of Winkle –Pickers’ as part of my uniform. I had pictured myself in the school playground: leaning nonchalantly at a corner, rebelliously chewing gum, with the conformity of my neat school uniform off-set by a pair of rocker 'Winkle-Pickers'; one foot tapping a rhythm, so as to attract attention to my racy footwear. - Not realising, of course, that the ludicrous sight of a school uniformed five year old in 'Winkle-Pickers' would have needed no prompt to attract attention. - In my mind I'd be the envy of my classmates: the 'it' guy…
I WAS CONNED: THE WINKLE-PICKER PROMISE WAS A SHAM...
However, once my mom got me into the shoe shop, pair after pair of sensible, round toed, hard wearing shoes were brought out by the shop assistant, and practically crow-barred onto my suffering feet, with the observation - to my mother, never to me - "a very smart, but hard wearing wee shoe...".
I despaired, and bleated at each offering: “Ah want 'Winkle-Pickers'! You promised me 'Winkle-Pickers'!“ This was met with howls of mirth from both the shop assistant and my mom. When a pair of brutal, black and shiny, round toed, sensible shoes (which seemed to me like deep sea diving boots) was finally selected for me - by mutual agreement between shop assistant and mother - not me - I left the shop under a cloud…
MY FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL...
I did not take to school at all… I bawled and blubbed – and made several attempts to escape on that first day, which resulted in me being placed at a desk in the front row of class – where the dowdy, matronly, middle-aged, ‘twinset and pearls’ clad lady teacher could keep a watchful eye on me.
MY PLAN TO FREE MYSELF FROM THIS FORCED LABOUR...
I never really got over resenting being there, and made a plan to learn all that stuff that they said I had to learn – and learn it ASAP – so that I could get out of the place, also ASAP…
By Christmas holiday time I’d learned the alphabet; how to write my name and some rudimentary sentences; how to count to 10 and some basic adding up and subtractions, and my first term Report Card showed very good results: all had gone according to plan – or so I thought…
I got home from school on the last day before break-up thinking ‘that was that’. I announced to my mum: 'Well, that's it: I can read and write and do sums now, so I don't have to go to school anymore.' It seemed perfectly reasonable to me: after all, I'd been told in the first place that the reason for my having to go to school was that I had to learn to read and write and do sums. That my mother wasn't buying into my rationale was a blow in itself, but her outburst of uproarious laughter (so reminiscent of the shoe-shop affront) was something of a slight to my dignity... Clearly, it was time for another resort to the only diplomacy left to me – the diplomatic sulk…
SOME EARLY MUSIC INFLUENCES...
Music wise, my sisters continued their adoration of the Beatles, but me and my older bruv were entranced by the appearance on T.V of these 'new guys in town’ – the drum thumping, hard rockin’ beat sound of The Dave Clark Five. We were hooked, so I guess the first song that I ever got ‘into’ was their first BIG single: ‘Glad All Over’. Me and my bruv sat at any table we could find, or in front of an up turned bucket, and pretended to be the seriously cool Dave Clark – singing and drumming. The Beatles? Huh! – That was the first internecine war in our family between brothers on one side and sisters on the other – and it lasted until DC5's popularity faded about a year later…
(M).
Textual content:
© Copyright. MLM Arts 08.09.2013 Edited and re-posted 18. 09. 2014. Edited and re-posted: 19. 12. 2015; 02. 05. 2017. Edited and re-posted: 15. 08. 2018. Edited and reposted: 10. 10. 2019. Edited and re-posted; 07. 08. 2022New paragraph
1964: LIFE AS AN AVERAGE 5 – 6 YEAR OLD BRITISH KID STUCK IN THE MIDDLE OF IT ALL…
OVERVIEW OF SIGNIFICANT BACKGROUND...
The kid in the graphic that goes with this article is not me, it’s a photo that I found on the internet – but it is a 1960s U.K kid (a Glasgow kid, in fact) of about my age – and, minus the glasses, I did kinda resemble this wee fella…
But it’s actually a very significant image from the times, as it focusses on a contentious point that I’ve made on ‘Chronicles’, regarding the reasons for the direction and cohesion of youth culture and protest which arose in the 1960s, and powerful effect that it had in bringing about the paradigm shift in the social and cultural psyche of the times.
I’ve contended that the demonstrations of youth protest and rebelliousness during the 1950s (at that time centred in the USA): notably Beatniks and Rockers, were uncoordinated and ineffectual. The Beatniks were lofty, debating, theorising café culture intellectuals, whose protest was ineffectual in its aloof, elitist posturing; the Rockers were seen as no more than surly, malcontent youths who snarled at ‘the grown-ups’ but were ‘going through a phase’…
What brought about the change in the 1960s – which saw youth generations gel into the cohesive and coherent social and cultural revolution that was effective, was, I’ve suggested, that the post-WW2 better educated, better nourished and healthier, more robust British working class youth, which emerged after the social reforms of the 1945 – 1951 Labour government: the National Health Service; free school meals to all kids from poor families; free milk every day at school for ALL kids; and provision of High School education for all kids up the age of 15 (later extended to 16), resulted in a 1960s British working class youth with the health, vigour and education to better apply the ‘Bolshiness’ and sense of justice and inclination towards achieving social fairness that it had always had.
(*Please note: I say that these social provisions were 'free' - but by that I mean that the British voter happily and eagerly voted-in a Labour government that would introduce National Insurance Contributions and taxation that would fund these social improvements and make them equally available to all - and funded by all working people).
I suggested that it was after the early 1960s ‘British Invasion’ (the sudden massive appeal of British music artists in North America), when this vigorous British youth combined with the rebellious energy of the U.S Rockers and the thoughtful intelligence and expression of the Beatniks and Folkies - that something very powerful happened: social and cultural rebellion and revolution was born…
That wee lad in the photo? You see those specs he’s wearing? They were NHS free – so was his eye-sight test; dental checks and treatment; all medical care, in fact, was provided by the state. You see that 1/3 pint of milk he’s enjoying? That was introduced as compulsory for all school kids – every school day – so was free dinners to every kid whose parents were on low incomes. The result of these social reforms was that all malnutrition and poor health and social care provision related diseases and disorders were wiped among the British working class within a generation… And this little working class lad could, for the first time, use his health, strength and intelligence towards pursuing his education in whatever way he chose…
That kid in the photo isn’t me… but he IS me…
MY FAMILY ARE DECANTED TO THE TOWN PLANNERS' IDEA OF 'UTOPIAN' LIVING FOR THE WORKING CLASS...
This was the year that my family were finally re-housed by the City of Glasgow Council: moved out of our small, over-crowded flat (apartment) in the inner-city, to a roomier, top floor apartment in one of the new Housing Schemes, built on the outskirts of town…
These Housing Schemes were sprawling desolate landscapes of brick, concrete and pebble-dash, built on the outskirts of Glasgow. They consisted mostly of veranda fronted tenements, and were the modern, healthy answer to the cramped and crumbling living conditions of the post-war working class: or so the planners and architects responsible for their construction (who were not at all working class, and would never have to live in them) told everyone.
From the late 1950s and throughout the 1960s and 70s, people from bombed out (by WW2) or run down inner city areas were herded into these pebble-dashed paradises in droves, as plans were drawn up for the wholesale demolition of Glasgow's 'rotting old sandstone tenements', and their replacement with blocks of high-rise flats, and still more pebble-dash tenements.
It wasn't until the great Glasgow hurricane of 1968 that the demigods of 1960s urban planning realized that they had got it wrong, when in the aftermath of the tempest it was noted that the crumbling old tenements had lost no more than their slate roof tiles, or a chimney stack or two, while much of the ‘pebble-dash’ was reduced to... dashed pebbles…
The tenement demolition programme was stopped, but it wasn’t until the late 1970s that a programme of refurbishment of these fine old building was begun, and they were brought back to life: the black grime of industry stripped away to reveal stunning architecture, and buildings of multi-coloured sandstone: cream, silvery grey, orange, red and brown – that sparkled in the sunlight…
But in 1964 we’d been moved out of our old sandstone tenement– and into this ‘brave new world'...
AS KIDS, EVERYTHING IS NEW DURING OUR CHILDHOOD: WE CAN'T REALLY JUDGE IF THEY'RE GOOD OR BAD...
I’d say yippee, or something, but it really wasn’t much of that. As kids we are all blank slates and everything is new. We cannot make judgements on how things are or how things should be: it’s all new and we have nothing to compare it to. We can only judge in terms of feeling happy and secure – or not. In our crowded little flat in the Glasgow Gorbals area we lived in a community, and it all felt safe, friendly and familiar. I had no feeling of being in a too small flat: it was just our house – seemed O.K to me…But moved we were…
MY CHILDHOOD WAS ON A NEW PAGE HERE...
O.K I was still only 5 going on 6, but I’d never been in any fights before: not in my old school and neighbourhood – some reckless stone-throwing exchanges, but that was all; that soon changed in our new locality: it HAD to, as this was not a community – it was a collection of unconnected strangers, who had been uprooted from their communities - the almost tribal security and familiarity that they had known for generations - and herded together: by order, and in the name of some people's experiment in 'social improvement'… It made for a hostile environment, and before long I was a proper little scrapper – a match for most kids my age. I was also alert to ambush, and very fleet of foot: more of the necessary skills for survival! My education in life was on another page here…
FOR EXAMPLE...
One of my most vivid memories of living there is one that really captures the essence of it all...
It took place was one early evening, around December 1964. I was in our street, lounging against a wall in the company of my now teenage sister and her boyfriend, when suddenly a young guy of maybe 18 came hurtling out of one of the tenement entrances across from us and about 20 yards down the street to my left. He was sprinting like an Olympian this guy, and heading in our general direction, though happily, on the other side of the street. He was quickly followed by three others – in hot pursuit: two carried knives, the third a huge four pronged gardening fork.
I just stared at this spectacle – not shocked nor scared: it was all just part of the ‘matter of fact’ of life as a young kid, when everything is a learning experience, and your immediate environment is the only one you know or have ever known - so you just accept everything as 'normal'... I had definitely concluded though, that these were NOT three overly keen gardeners making unseemly haste to their allotment…
The guy zipped past us. He was about 15 yards or so in front of his pursuers, and looked like he had the legs of them. The trio flashed past us too, and as they did so the one with the fork – probably realising that this guy was too fast for them – launched the horticultural weapon with full force at the escapees back. I watched it sail through the air… Losing trajectory…losing trajectory… and MISSED! It was on target alright - but ran out of momentum and dropped off just short of the escapees back. It hit the road forks down, and carried on its journey for another few yards in a hail of sparks, and the guy was off and gone….
‘Phew!’ said my sister. ‘He was lucky!’… Even at that age I had clearly developed a sense of irony, as I thought to myself: ‘is that your idea of ‘LUCK’???!!!’
A KID'S EYE VIEW OF POLITICAL EVENTS
In politics, there were two major elections that seemed to affect my parents (and so caught my otherwise bemused and disinterested attention...): the UK General Election, and the US Presidential Election... From what I gathered from my parents' response. the 'good-guys' won: Harold Wilson's Labour Party in the UK; Lindon B. Johnson's Democrats in the USA. Apparently, the world was going to be a safer and more peaceful place because of this... As time would tell, that's not actually how it worked out...
In terms of domestic politics though, people like our family in the UK got a fairer deal - and social reforms continued - that's fair to say. (However, the Wilson government was the one which, if I recall correctly, hiked taxes for the super-rich 95% of income over a certain amount. It's this that inspired the George Harrison song 'Taxman': '1 for you, 19 for me...'
In the USA, The Civil Rights Movement was probably helped by the election of LBJ and the Democratic Party (??? - I'll take advice from Americans on that suggestion..!) It was certainly the year of the passing of the Civil Rights Act in the USA...
AND MUSIC...
Musically, The Beatles were now well and truly established as an international phenomenon. To make things interesting, swaggering, punkish British R'n'B boys, The Rolling Stones now emerged as a serious rival to the cutesy, cheeky-chappie Mop Tops - and the first band rivalry was born...
All this, and the massive popularity of other British bands and artists in North America, added up to the success of the cultural phenomenon now recorded in history as 'The British Invasion'...
Music, and all modern culture - and youth social attitude - was changing in revolutionary ways - and in ways that would change the world...
(I found the Images for this collage online. My acknowledgment and thanks to whoever made them (identity unknown to me). )
(M).
© Copyright. MLM Arts. 14. 09. 2013 Edited and re-posted 29. 10. 2014. Edited and re-posted 01. 01. 2016. Edited and re-posted: 16. 06. 2017. Edited and re-posted: 20. 10. 2019. Edited and re-posted: 08. 09. 2022
1965: AN AVERAGE 6 / 7 YEAR OLD BRITISH KID STUCK IN THE MIDDLE OF IT ALL…
THE YOUTH COUNTER CULTURE IS TAKING OFF: AS A KID, I DON'T REALLY NOTICE - BUT THE OLDER GENERATION DOES...
I’m 6 / 7 years old by now and the gradual gelling of youth protest and the youth culture rebellion is not registering with me much at this stage, other than the disdain that it brought from my Old Man.
My oldest sister was off at college or living with my grandparents a lot of the time and, as a 1960s student, she’s embraced the fashion of the time, including Mary Quant’s shocking Mini Skirt… (Gasp! This really shook up old, traditional values. Tut! - shouldn’t be ALLOWED..! ). The old chap was not at all impressed, and whenever she was home she had to dress ‘appropriately’ LOL! (To my Old Man, 'appropriate' attire for a teenage daughter of his was something of the order of: skirt below knee length; starchy blouse - fully buttoned; stout, sensible shoes, with a flat sole... This, to him, was appropriate dress at all times - including at college in.the 1960s - not just at home... . ).
Bless ‘er though – she rebelled and dressed as she pleased ( so did my other sister) – which caused some ructions, I can tell you…
THE RISE OF THE 'LONG-HAIRS'...
Long hair on guys was getting to be part of the youth revolution and anti-Establishment demonstration too – and that also didn’t please ‘Glasgow’s answer to Alf Garnett’ (in America that’d be Archie Bunker). This was probably the first time I heard the expressions: ‘weirdo’; ‘freak’ (though not in the good ‘freak’ way…); ‘he, she or IT..?’ and all that socially conservative angry flapping of the chops that 1960s and 70s youth culture was met with…
BUT SOME PARENTS WERE COOL WITH IT ALL...
But, like I say – it all meant very little to me, and the old fellow’s views obviously made no impression on me, as I was to become one of those long-haired weirdoes as soon as I possibly could, thanks to my more bohemian and arty mom insisting that I should be allowed to ‘go with the fashion of my age’: at about 12 actually, and by about 14 / 15 my hair was nearly half way down my back… (The Old Man never got around to adopting any kind of philosophical attitude to this either… LOL! )
BUT ANYHOW - TO MY ACTUAL LIFE AT THE TIME...
But anyway – In 1965 I was still at primary (elementary) school, and dealing with life at that level…
My family was still living in the concrete and pebble-dash ‘paradise’ on the edge of Glasgow. After over a year there I was quick on my feet when I had to be; a useful little scrapper when I wasn’t quick enough; and learned to keep my wits about me at all times. The same could be said for most kids in the area: it was a necessity…
OLD STYLE CHIVALRIC VALUES STILL HELD SWAY...
When I say kids though – I mean boys: those were the days when girls were fragile wee things who never got involved in fighting, or any such thing – In fact boys would be sure not to fight in front of them (unless it was in their defence from some dastardly cur who had slighted them..)
This sounds very grand and gallant for a community like the one I describe - but it is true. Also, as kids in this community we’d rarely use bad language – and even then only guys did - and always felt kinda guilty, and a dread that our parents or any adult – or in fact, any GIRL - might have been in earshot when a cuss or two did sneak out: because we NEVER swore in front of adults or girls; to have been overheard by an adult or a girl meant big trouble for a guy if it was reported to his parents.
As for the adults: any man who (accidentally) cussed in front of a kid or a woman (anywhere – on a bus; in the street – anywhere) was ‘spoken to’ by the other men around, and was (ahem) ‘obliged’ to apologise, as such a thing was abhorrent – shocking. People may think I’m looking back with ‘rose tinted specs’, but I assure you this was my experience…
AT SCHOOL: WHEN BOYS WOULD BE BOYS - AND GIRLS WOULD BE GIRLS...
(...But we still had tomboy girls - and boys of a more genteel nature, mind you: but it was all good... )
In this year there was a phenomenon at our school: the movie ‘The Vikings’ had shown on T.V one weekend – and just seemed to ‘click’ with the collective psyche of most of us boys at primary school. On Monday – and every day after that for nearly two weeks – every break time and lunchtime, almost every boy in school would line up across the playground in two packs facing each other: one pack was for ‘Vikings’ the others were ‘Saxons’ (the Vikings' foes in the movie). Some lads changed sides from day to day, but me and my older bruv were ALWAYS Vikings..!
Once assembled, we’d charge headlong at each other – fists and feet flying, head-locks, rolling around on the ground – full blooded stuff! This was a twice a day full on riot of punches and kicks involving most of the boys in the school! – But it was OK – because it was just play – just a game… A lot of the girls would watch from the side-lines – tutting and shaking their heads, and saying: ‘Huh! Boys! – Such idiots…!’ They did not, of course, enjoy this martial spectacle… No. Of course not…
When break was over we’d troop back to class: a trickle of blood at some noses or lips, what looked like a sure black eye by afternoon here and there, and various cuts and bruises. – But no tears – it was all in fun... A Viking might be sitting in class beside a Saxon – but away from the game they were pals… We felt like heroes. The girls, meanwhile, would berate us – but there was a lot of giggling going on with that too…
CORPORAL PUNISHMENT IN SCHOOLS...
This 'game' was brought to an end when some teacher or other finally observed it from the staffroom window and decided that this free-for-all fight fest might be a little 'over boisterous'. One day all boys were confined to the cloakrooms at break time. The Head teacher (a tall, grim, balding, elderly looking fellow in a severe Tweed suit) walked from one class to the next selecting two or three from each (I was one of them) for – THE BELT! – This now seems to me like something medieval, but back then in Scottish schools teachers could punish kids (usually only ever boys) by whacking them on the out stretched palm with a leather strap (about ¼ inch thick, two feet long and two or three inches wide, and split in two (sometimes three) for half its length – at ‘the business end’). We got two hefty whacks each. This was even greater status! – We took it – tightened our jaws – and conquered the tears. This was even more heroic than the cuts and bruises - and carried even more kudos…!
AS FOR MUSIC...
Up to this point I’d listened to my two older sisters’ sounds: The Beatles etc.., (later, The Monkees; Motown etc…) This was, however, the year of ‘The Sound of Music’ and there was musical blip… My oldest sister was away at college a lot of the time, and my other sister fell totally in love with that movie – and all the songs in it. Oh dear…
In those days cinemas showed two, sometimes three screenings a day of the same movie, and it was no great dodge to sit through one after the other, if you were so inclined. For ‘The Sound of Music’ my sister WAS so inclined - and on an industrial scale. Over two or three weeks she spent so much time at our local cinema that the management must have considered charging her rent… And when she wasn’t watching the movie she was at home – singing it… Over and over – and over…
So, musically, that was my 1965… I’m not a fan of ‘The Sound of Music’ – you won’t be surprised to hear. In fact, even after all these years I may consider seeking THERAPY for the effect it had on me, as a result of my sister’s obsession...
BUT – on the plus side..! - This was the year that I first dared to sneak into my sis’s room when she was out – to play a single of hers! A and B side – I loved them both – and couldn’t wait around for her to play them – I HAD to hear them! This was the first record I ever put on a turntable… Chris Andrews – ‘Yesterday Man’ and ‘Too Bad You Don’t Want Me…’
Much later (the 1990s, I think...(?)), I bought a Chris Andrews ‘Best Of’ CD, and I loved it, and I’m not afraid to admit it..!
(M).
Textual content:
© Copyright. MLM ARTS 01. 10. 2013. Edited and re-posted: 24. 11. 2014; 31. 01. 2016; 18. 07. 2017. Edited and re-posted: 22. 11. 2919. Edited and re-posted: 06. 10. 2022
LIFE AS AN AVERAGE 7/8 YEAR OLD BRITISH KID IN 1966…
My little life – as a 7/8 year old kid – was still spent in the concrete wastelands of a Glasgow housing estate...
A SUMMER HOLIDAY BY THE SEASIDE...
The main highlight of my 1966 was the two-week summer holiday I spent with my family, in the exotic (to me!) 'Costa Del Girvan' (LOL!) – Well, O.K – it's just called Girvan: it’s a seaside town about 60 miles south of Glasgow, on the Ayrshire coast...
This was my first family holiday, we were by the seaside, and the weather was scorching – it was brilliant! Girvan has a great beach, and back then (don’t know about now…) it had all the ingredients required for the traditional British family seaside holiday: a funfair and amusements arcade (slot machines for small-time penny gambling and those great old ‘grab-claw’ fish-around-for-a-prize machines); candy-floss (in the U.S that’s ‘cotton-candy’); our version of the burger-bar: in Scotland back then it was traditional sausages in a bread roll - burgers had not arrived yet; and, of course, ice cream stalls.
It was real old fashioned on the beach, bucket and spade, paddling in the sea and getting a thrill out of winning three pennies from a slot machine stuff…
'LUCK' WAS A LADY THAT NIGHT - IN VIVA! LAS GIRVAN... LOL...!
Gotta mention one little incident...
One day me, my older bruv and my older sister were given some few pennies to wander around in the arcade. After not very long we had gambled and lost the lot (shrug…) We felt a bit disheartened, but still walked around and enjoyed the whole wondrous audio-visual experience of the ping! Jingle! crash! sounds and the flashing, flickering multi-coloured lights - and the excitement of the milling crowd of people. We’d ‘awwww…’ with disappointment when someone else lost their pennyworth gamble, but be excited (but maybe a little envious) when someone got a win…
But our luck changed – as if by magic..! As we walked by one of those machines that push a spread of coins closer and closer to a precipice, inviting people to drop a penny in the hope that it’s the one to push a cascade of money down the chute, suddenly... - JINGLE-CRASH..! - without us doing anything, a whole pile of free money fell like rain into the collection tray..! There was even some silver in that treasure trove; we were RICH – and back in the game..!
That's a stand-out memory from many great memories from what was, for kids, a two week adventure in the magical world that was the British seaside holiday...
THE SONG OF THE SUMMER...
While I was on holiday I heard the song that was to be the joy – though presently the plague - of the summer and the rest of the year for just about everyone in the entire world: ‘Yellow Submarine’, by The Beatles…
A COUPLE OF WEEKS IN BASKING IN THE AWE OF THE LATEST 'MUST HAVE' DOMESTIC STATUS SYMBOL...
Another big deal for me on this holiday was that the holiday flat (apartment) that we rented boasted the new ‘gotta have that’ item for the home in the U.K: the RADIOGRAM…
This was one of those items (like the later items: a BBC 2 receiving T.V, and colour T.V) that British families would get, and, once acquired, would suddenly start inviting neighbours that they never, ever spoke to round for tea or whatever, just so they could sit around nonchalantly making small talk with these guests - whilst (desperately) waiting for them to ‘notice’ the long, stylish, pinewood effect object of desire that was just ‘there’ – not pointed out by the host – but just ‘there’ – like 'the elephant in the room’, but one that was dancing around in a bright pink leotard and purple tutu and twirling a cane – which made ignoring it an act of will that was pretty much impossible to sustain…
Tea or other refreshment would be constantly refilled and casual conversation determinedly forced for as long as it took to get the unlikely guest to mention this altar to material success. The ‘other refreshments’ might, in desperation, even run to the single malt whiskey and Harvey’s Bristol Cream (top brand) sherry, that was usually only for esteemed guests; but if getting these once-only guests to crack and do homage to the ‘goddess Radiogram’ meant having to get them drunk enough to do so, then so be it…
Finally the guest would crack, and say: ‘Oh! I see you’ve got one of those new….’ The host would shrug and say: ‘Oh that..! Yeah, yeah… Thought we’d ‘go modern’, you know..? I never use the darn thing (heh, heh… awkward smile)… That would be followed by a quick talk-through of the wonders of this status symbol - and a listen to a track or two from the hosts (usually meagre - and consisting of Easy-Listening) album collection... Then the guests would be entertained for just long enough for the hosts to soak up their thinly disguised envy - before being gently urged to clear-off... LOL!
We never actually got a radiogram of our own (too skint!), but it didn’t stop me bragging to my equally skint pals back home that I’d been in a house that had one..! (LOL!)
DE-NE-NE-NE - NE-NE-NE-NE... BATMAN...!!!
Batman debuted on T.V in 1966, and it was the must watch show – and the Bat Mobile was the ‘must have’ toy – for guys anyway: that was the way it was in those days – Batman was a bloke thing, and the toys were for guys - same with the toy James Bond kit (cars, etc…)
AN ASIDE REFLECTION ON BOY / GIRL TOYS CHOICES...
It seems odd looking back at it now, because just about every girl also watched Batman and James Bond and all that stuff – but no way would a girl get any of the merchandise toys. Just as odd was that all the Thunderbirds toys were for guys – EXCEPT! – Lady Penelope’s amazing Rolls Royce – that pink mean-machine with the all-round vision canopy cover – girls only for that one… I loved that car! I wanted that car! - But there was no way on earth I’d say so and ask for one as a present. I might as well have said to my pals and my Old Man that I wanted to be a ballet dancer when I grew up…
I’m guessing that there must have been girls who envied us guys the toys we had to choose from – while they were, by social indoctrination, confined to dolls, play make-up kits and all that ‘train them to know what’s expected of them in adulthood’ stuff…
Mind you, that’s why us guys were encouraged to play with things like toy soldiers, toy guns and - ‘Mechano Sets’...
CHRISTMAS: AND AN ASSUPTION ABOUT THOSE TOYS AS PRESENTS...
Speaking of Mechano Sets, I got one as a surprise Christmas present in 1966: these were 'serious play' engineering construction kits, which had quarter-inch wide (and of various lengths) strips and various sized square and rectangular thin plates of metal that had to be bolted together to make all sorts of ‘wonders’: like fully operating windmills; cranes; trains etc... I was bought it purely on the rationale that I was a boy, and therefore must naturally crave Mechano. But I didn’t get on with it at all: I couldn’t build any of the ‘easy construction’ models in the leaflet. I wound up pottering about with it aimlessly, and making what can most charitably be described as 'abstract art' - but was actually just a grotesque and directionless tangle of Mechano bits bolted together for no comprehendible reason…
MUSIC...
Musically, apart from practically having to go to an exorcist to have ‘Yellow Submarine’ expelled from my mind(!), it was The Monkees for me… The show was, like Batman, a ‘must watch’ for everyone, and we all loved the characters, the comedy, and the music. Come to think of it… I always think of Glam Rock as my intro to a personal musical taste, but really, I suppose it was The Monkees – although I didn’t buy the records (my sister did though), I listened to them, and I was a fan of the band and the show, after all…
AND THERE WAS SOME FOOTBALL TOURNAMENT OR OTHER... LOL...!
Erm… Something else happened in 1966 too… Hmm… Nope – it’s gone… Oh, wait – yeah..! England won the Jules Rimet Trophy (The World Cup), by beating West Germany 4 - 2 in the final at Wembley Stadium, London…
As a Scot I must be a little wry and ironic about my mention of this, but it was, of course, a great achievement; and It may surprise many, but I can honestly say that me and all my buddies supported England during that campaign, and celebrated the win…
(I found the pictures for this collage online; my acknowledgement and thanks to whoever made / owns them (identity unknown to me... :)) (M).
Textual content (and original artwork):
©Copyright: MLM Arts 10. 01. 2015. Edited and re-posted: 29. 02. 2016. Edited and re-posted: 20. 08. 2017. Edited and re-posted: 09. 12. 2019. Edited and re-posted: 02. 11. 2022
BEING AN AVERAGE 8/9 YEAR OLD BRITISH KID IN GLASGOW IN 1967…
THE 'HIPPIE THING WENT OVER MY HEAD...
I was 9 years old in 1967… To be honest, at that age all this 'Hippie' stuff and musical oddness mostly went right over my head. ('Hippie' being convenient (but inaccurate) 'catch-all' term for various expressions of youth culture: Hippies; Freaks; Heads; Flower Children; Children of God - etc...)
ATTUTUDES OF (SOME OF) THE OLDER GENERATION...
I had some strange fascination towards the 1960s social and cultural youth revolution that was happening around me, which that I couldn't quite understand, so I didn’t bother trying. Instead, like most kids of my age and background, I bought into my Old Man’s reaction: which was fairly typical Scottish working class of the older generation (O.K, maybe a bit to the right-wing even of that: think Alf Garnett – or in America: Archie Bunker…). There’s bitter irony in that, really: U.K guys like my Old Man tended to be staunch Trade Unionist, and to profess Left Wing socialist dogmas - politically; but socially they tended towards conservative intolerance.
Terms such as ‘long haired weirdoes’, ‘freaks’, ‘yobs’, ‘good for nothings’, and so on, and aspersions as to their sexual orientation, pretty much sums up the old fellow’s ‘considered’ views regarding the emerging ‘Hippie’ youth culture.
I WAS FASCINATED THOUGH...
Like I say, as a kid I was happy enough to nod and laugh in agreement – it’s what you do as a kid. (However, as soon I had finished primary school, in 1970, and dear old mom won the argument about letting me and my brother go with the trend and grow our hair long - that was the beginning of a clash of social, political and philosophical outlook between me and the old chap…)
WE MOVE TO A NEW NEIGHBOURHOOD...
My Old Man had changed jobs – from taxi driver to trucker, and our family had moved from the pebble-dash council housing estate in the East End of Glasgow to my Old Man’s dream location: he bought a place in the Ibrox district of Glasgow. It was his dream location because we were a family of Glasgow Rangers football fans, and the club’s stadium is there. I attended the primary school that was just across the road from it. (The building is still there, but it's no longer used as a primary school).
BACK TO THE FUTURE: A GRAND OLD TENEMENT...
Our new place was such a change from the concrete and paste-board ‘pebble-dash alley’ flat: it was a huge top floor flat in a grand old sandstone tenement. It was in a nice neighbourhood too. The week we moved in we were without a cooker; we were waiting for the one my parents had bought to be delivered - and deliveries from stores were not so reliable back then.
'OLD TECH' PROVES MORE RELIABLE THAN NEW TECH...
That's so often the case today... But even mopre so back in the day...
Youi see, this old place had a big coal fire in the kitchen, and built-in around that coal fire was an old Victorian / Edwardian oven, with a heavy cast iron door and a steel interior, and had various levers switches to transfer the heat from the fire to the oven (and regulate that heat) to make it work. There was also a solid metal circular grill-hob gizmo, which was attached to the front grate of the fire on a pivot, and could be swung over the fire, so that kettles or pots could be heated on it for boiling… It was like something out of Dickens..! While the coal fire itself was still active and in full use, the oven and grill-hob 'gizmo' were long obsolete and had clearly not been used in modern times…
THE SKILLS, RESOURCEFULNESS AND LEADERSHIP OF A GOOD OLD FASHIONED MUM...
While my Old Man was raging against the delivery people and wondering what to do about eating: suggesting a week of fish and chips etc., my mum’s eyes lit up – and she smiled nostalgically, saying: 'My mother cooked on one of these when I was a wean (child)… And I learned how to cook from her, on her cooker - just like that one. Let’s get some coal on and get a fire going – I’ll manage on that, once you all give it a good clean for me...' (she ordered..!)
(My Old Man had bought a couple of sacks of coal from local shop prior to moving in. After that, the local coal delivery man's truck was looked out for, by us and by everyone in the neighbourhood, on his regular delivery day).
On hearing my mum's solution, the Old Man thought that she was joking – or fooling herself. ‘That's not been used in – phoaaa… 20 years I’d say – at least..! It’s just useless fixtures and fittings now..!’
Mum was affronted: ‘These old fire-place cookers were built to last – and cook as well as anything modern – better, in fact - they’re more reliable. Now get cleaning and building that fire – while I mix up a pie…’
OLD (VERY OLD...) HOME COOKING...
Well – I too was doubtful, but we got on with the jobs – and after all was done, m’mum had worked the levers, did this, did that – and we had the most delicious steak and kidney pie – with boiled potatoes… Every day until the cooker arrived we had a great cooked meal – and the Old Lady was in her element. When the cooker arrived we still cheered hooray – but I think she was a bit saddened too… I was as well, strangely. There was a sense of history and coping with adversity in that week of old-fashioned cooking…
THE CHOICE OF NEW NEIGHBOURHOOD WAS BASED ON ONE MAIN CONSIDERATION...
Like I said earlier, the reason that my Old Man chose to buy a place in this location (apart from it being an O.K neighbourhood), was its proximity to Ibrox Stadium…
AN OVERVIEW OF THE VERY PARTICULAR GLASGOW SOCIAL DYNAMIC...
For those who don’t know: Glasgow Rangers and their rivals Glasgow Celtic (known in football collectively as ‘The Old Firm’ – as they are the power clubs in Scotland, and more or less control football there), are notorious as having the most vitriolic and hate filled rivalry in world football. It is an extension of the Protestant – Roman Catholic conflict in Ireland: played out on the football field(Rangers fans favour the Loyalist, Protestant tradition; Celtic fans the Irish Republican, Roman Catholic tradition).
In Glasgow this rivalry was, and still is, the main cause of social division. As a kid I was brought up being taught the history of it, and encouraged to play my part. However, just as I had a strange attraction towards all this 'Hippie' stuff – I also had a natural inner aversion to the bigotry of my Old Man, though being just a kid and not yet able to think this stuff through, I didn’t say so, and just went along with it.
WHEN GLASGOW FOOTBALL BOSSED EUROPE...
In 1967 these two clubs were among the top clubs in all of Europe: Celtic had beaten Inter Milan to become European Champions and Rangers had narrowly lost 1 – 0 to Bayern Munich in the final of the second top competition – the Cup Winners Cup…
MY FIRST INCLINATION THAT THIS SOCIAL DIVISION WAS ACTUALLY A LOAD OF GUFF... LOL...!
Probably the first occurrence that sparked my conscious rejection of my Old Man's bigotry into life happened this very year (1967) at my new school. At some point my Old Man had presented me with a ballpoint pen to use at school – it had emblazoned upon it a pledge that I’d ‘Guard Old Derry’s Walls’ (with a ballpoint pen, apparently…???) – Anyway, on the day that I took it to school – one of my fellow ‘defenders of the faith’ pinched it… I was actually glad. Not only was I freed from my pledge, but I reckoned that I wouldn’t have been much use at guarding Old Derry’s Walls anyway – I couldn’t even guard the flippin’ pen..! LOL!
MY (ALMOST OBLIGATORY) NEW BOY FIGHT WITH MY NEW SCHOOL CLASS 'BEST FIGHTER'...
Anyhow, it was a very nice school, and I have nice memories of it. The teachers were kindly middle aged ladies, and I had good mates. Soon after starting there, I got into the customary ‘new-boy’ fight with the class’s ‘best fighter’ – I got beat, but gave a darn good account of myself; with the result that he offered me his handshake with: ‘Yer a good fighter, pal…That was tough’, and my reply, taking his handshake and saying: ‘Aye, but ye beat me fair and square…’, and then he asked me (as team captain) if I wanted to be in the class football team. Certainly I did...! Happy days…
FOOTBALL WAS THE NUMBER 1 - BOYS! - RECREATION...
Football was a big part of my life in fact. There was a small public park right on the corner of the street where my family now lived, and between our tenement street and the tenement street facing ours at the rear was a long line of football pitches – right along the full length: must have been ¾ mile or so. We preferred to play in the park; sometimes in the street – with coats down for goalposts, because the pitches were too big – and the real goals that they had were as big as barn doors to us kids…
OUR NEIGHBOURHOOD RIVALS...
We had rivalries with other kids: that street across the football pitches was an enclave of Celtic supporters. There was some stone throwing; we’d try to steal each other’s Guy Fawkes Night firewood – but never a full on battle of hand-to-hand combat: because we’d take out our rivalry it on the football field – in the park. Every now and then both sides would make for the same stretch of grass to play on… The only solution was a match against one another… These games got pretty rough… No - VERY rough: tackles flying in like something from a Kung Fu movie… But it was not fighting; it was good old, full blooded football – and once done, bragging rights to the winners, but no animosity… until the next stone throwing exchange… LOL!
OTHER GAMES AND ADVENTURES FOR US AS KIDS...
When not playing football (which was guys only!) there were games that included girls and guys: hide and seek –which spanned across half the neighbourhood, which now seems bizarre: how did these games ever get concluded…???; cycling adventures to ‘far-off’ little explored parks and neighbourhoods (always an exciting sense of danger about those…); dodgy-ball: throwing a tennis ball at each other – if you got his three times – or if your throw got caught – you were OUT..! And, of course, the swings and roundabouts, which were also in the park…
MUSIC
Musically I was still not connected in my own right, to tell you the truth… I loved The Monkees, but mainly as a T.V show – I enjoyed the songs as a part of that - and to hear when my sister played their music on her record player. She had gone off The Beatles – reckoned they’d ‘gone weird’, and played songs that she couldn’t understand… Instead, as well as The Monkees, she started to get into Motown, and so I heard a lot of that too – and liked it, in my detached way. I was inclined to agree with my sister about The Beatles (for what my 9 year old opinion on music was worth).
The other new music that was happening at the time I only heard if it was on the BBC singles chart T.V show, Top of the Pops. I can recall being curiously interested in some of it, but not so much as to make me ‘into’ music at that age. I can see now that it was too abstract for most kids of my age – we weren’t at that stage yet… And besides, I was much too interested in football. But clearly music had gotten into my psyche even then…
(M).
Textual content:
© Copyright. ML M Arts 28. 08. 2012 Edited and reposted 15.11.2013. Edited and reposted: 02. 02. 2015; 15. 03. 2016. Edited and re-posted: 20. 09. 2017. Edited and reposted: 26. 11. 2022
BEING AN AVERAGE 9/10 YEAR OLD BRITISH KID IN GLASGOW IN 1968…
I turned 10 years old in 1968. I was still living in the Ibrox district of Glasgow; still attending a very nice friendly primary school across the road from Ibrox Stadium, where Rangers Football Club play their matches; still being ‘coached’ by my ‘Glasgow’s Alf Garnett’ (or Archie Bunker) Old Man in the age old tradition of bigotry that plagues Glasgow society (Protestant – Roman Catholic) and still finding it uncomfortably absurd – even as a 10 year old…
Well, I say ‘even as a 10 year old’, but actually, looking back now I can see that 1968 and the age of 10 was the most important and formative year of my life up to then, and events and lessons in my life in that year played a part in shaping my future and the person I was to become…
WHEN EDUCATION WAS ALL ABOUT LEARNING WHAT IT IS TO BE HUMAN, AND PREPARATION FOR DEALING WITH ALL ASPECTS OF LIFE:
The education that I got at my primary school(s) was really excellent when I look back. It was education as it was meant to be: essentially based on the model in Plato’s Republic, in that it addressed issues involved in learning about life and being human, and teaching us how to deal with all aspects of life: analytical skills of Maths and Science; English language (also French, but I wasn't much good at that..! ); physical education (PE); the appreciation of art and literature; knowledge of the world through History and Geography; and spiritual exploration: which taught us how to face emotional issues, and to ask 'the big questions' in life; this was not religion as such: it was all about the Platonic model, and recognising the emotional side of being human and how to cope with that kind of crisis - or joy: something that is necessary to the education process of every human being, but which cannot be taught in any scientific, material way...
In 1968 bad things happened in the world. When they did, they were not ignored at school; we had kindly teachers, who would explain the events’ importance in soft tones and in simple, but effective terms. We were talked through the assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and the Czechoslovakia crisis. If, as with these events, suffering and/or death had occurred – and kids always find that difficult to grasp and are desperate to help, but are helpless to do so – then after the talk our teachers, who were never overtly religious, nor was our education, would ask us to close our eyes and join them in a prayer for those who had suffered. In that moment we all felt, individually and as a class, that we had done something: expressed our empathy and sent out our care, love and our hope. We no longer felt helpless… I’m not a member of any faith and never have been, but it helped us, I know that. To this day I have difficulty with people who sneer at the act of prayer and scorn it as useless. It is not useless…
A big influence on me that year was receiving my first Ladybird history book for kids as a present: it was the history of Napoleon (because we were learning all about France in school). These books were amazing. They consisted of a page of text (largish print) faced by a page of art: this was not simple cartoon art that would have dumbed-down the content; it was beautifully composed dramatic paintings, specially commissioned for each book. (I know of a History professor at a renowned college who uses a Ladybird image of Richard the Lion Heart in his lectures..!) The text was perfectly pitched for kids around my age; it was intelligent and not patronising, but not too wordy, dry and uninteresting.
What’s more, that book on Napoleon got me thinking about how history is recorded… Everything I’d heard about Napoleon Bonaparte on British T.V or wherever (in dramas or potted histories etc.) said that he was one of the villains of history. But reading that book I decided that over-all I kinda liked this guy… That got me to thinking, even as a 10 year old, that what we get taught to think by ‘our side’ might not tally with any fair and impartially written account of history, and these simple Ladybird books were so well written that they were fair and impartial. That’s eye opening – and MIND opening – stuff… That book set me on my Historian path in life. I collected others in the series too…
PLANET OF THE APES: A POWERFUL MOVIE…
In a similar vein, I saw Planet of the Apes at the movies and immediately ‘got’ the ending: that this was a Cold War warning about the consequences of living in a world where nukes were rattled like sabres and we lived under the constant threat of nuclear annihilation. Actually, this was easy to ‘get’ - when I lived in a world where now and then ‘between programmes’ time slots on T.V were filled with short information films about what to do in the event of a nuclear attack; or about how we were kept ‘safe’ (LOL!) by plucky volunteers in underground tracking stations, who monitored early warning systems. (By ‘early warning’ that meant 4 minutes warning. – Oh! Tons of time… If ya fancied one last boiled egg before being blasted to smithereens… ) It was more food for my very young and still uncertain, but developing, Hippie psyche…
HOW I BECAME MORE FAMILIAR WITH POP MUSIC:
My interest in music, though still restricted to what my sister played, was stimulated further by the arrival of the Hallmark ‘Top of the Pops’ album series. These were cheapo albums of cover versions of current chart singles, specially recorded for the albums by nobodies - jobbing session musicians and singers – and released as a cheap way for young teens to have the all the latest chart sounds, without having to buy the singles: they could only afford a single a week at best anyway – maybe a couple if in some underpaid office junior or apprentice work.
My sister was listening to Motown and not much more, and I liked to listen to that, but I never heard much else, except on the T.V chart show Top of the Pops (which was not connected in any way to the album series). In 1968 she bought the first two volumes of these Top of the Pops albums, which contained a cross section of different chart sounds, so I got to hear different sounds regularly. I have to say that these cover versions usually ranged from pretty awful to VERY awful, but all the same I was hearing some interesting styles, more than just Motown, so this was a year when my musical interest was expanded…
T.V:
The big T.V phenomenon was ‘Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In’. It was on late at night, so I wasn’t allowed to watch it, but all the kids who were a couple of years older than me and at high school raved about it, and the catch-phrase from the show: ‘Ve-ry interesting… But stupid…’ was much repeated to great hilarity. I finally badgered my parents into letting me watch an episode. To be honest, the humour went over my head, but I did get to see the ‘Ve-ry interesting…’ skit, so I was pleased…
INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH FOOTBALLS: NOT FOR KIDS..!
Other than this, outdoor play: hide and seek; rope swings; dodge-ball; adventurous expeditions to far-flung neighbourhoods - but especially football - was still my number one free-time occupation. But one particular football memory from 1968 stands out: I had my first experience of the Mitre Mould Master football… This was almost enough to put me off playing football for life…
The Mould Master was the ball used by high schools, because it was so durable. It was not a regulation leather football (they can be fragile creatures: prone to burst seams etc.), it was made of rubberised canvass and coated with the same pimply rubber used on table tennis bats - usually orange in colour.
I think high schools used them because it was said to be almost impossible to puncture a Mould Master: a piercing by broken glass or whatever would close-up because of the rubberised inner part and the high pressure of the air inside. That combination also made these footballs instruments of torture: they were as hard as cannon balls! There was no ‘give’ – no compression – in them. They were regulation size and weight, but solid as a rock. This made being hit by one a thing to dread. Heading a ball is a necessary skill at football, but when playing with one of these boulders not a lot of heading was attempted: no one wanted a fractured skull, as it kind of tended to put you off your game (LOL!)
Anyway, this particular Saturday down the at our local park it was one of those the rare occasions when only us primary kids got together for a game (I think the few first year high school kids had gone to a Rangers football match). But one first year at high school kid, whom the others would never allow to join in the games, because he was such a totally naff player, showed up with one of these cannonballs; he had gotten an old one given to him at school, as the school had just received a new batch. This was the older kid’s way of finally getting allowed to join in our football games.
Now, at primary school age we had never played with one of these before, so at first we all thought: ‘Woo! A Mould Master! The next best thing to a real football!’ – Then the game started… (I must pause to shudder…)
Kids were going down like 9 Pins… I headed the thing early on… and discovered that that cartoon ‘stars swirling round the head’ thing is real… After not very long we placed it down as a goal post and went back to our usual 5 Bob (5 Shillings) plastic ball…
‘Why did you bring that..?!’ We demanded of the older kid. ‘You must have known what it’s like!’
‘Not really’ he replied, ‘I’m rubbish at football – you know that – so they stick me in goal. And I’m rubbish in goal too, so I almost never touch the ball. I know the guys in my class rarely head it though…’
We just stared at him… ‘Get in goal…’ we demanded, as retribution…
At high school, Mould Masters were compulsory for football in P.E lessons, and after a few years we got toughened up as we got used to them…
‘FILE UNDER: ‘YOU AIN’T FOOLIN’ US WITH THIS BALONEY..!’
In the U.K there was the ‘I’m Backing Britain’ campaign: began when a Conservative opposition M.P proclaimed that Britain’s current financial crisis could be solved if every worker put in a half day for free. So, just to put that in clearer terms: voluntary partial slavery by the masses to bail out political and economic incompetence by those running the country… It was taken up by some pompous small businessman, and his secretaries volunteered to be first. Unbelievably, it was backed by the Labour government, and a media campaign was rolled out, with badges, jingles on the radio and what-not: including a single - yes, even a SINGLE was released to promote this guff: recorded by much loved British Cabaret / TV song and dance man / comedian, Bruce Forsyth...
Happily, most people gave it short shrift – including the Trade Unions; showing that the age old con-trick of flag waving patriotism was, in the 1960s environment, losing its manipulative power. Bewildered by all this brow-beating rhetoric, as a kid I asked my mum one day: ‘Are WE ‘backing Britain’ mum..?’ She smiled and said ‘No son, we back each other – like all people should…’
A FINAL RECOLLECTION, WHICH COMBINES MUSIC WITH POLITICAL INTRIGUE
I was thoroughly upset when the U.K’s Cliff Richard, with the song ‘Congratulations’ was beaten into second place in the annual musical cheese-fest that is The Eurovision Song Contest - by the Spanish entry: "La, la, la", sung by Massiel. There were rumours of a ‘fix’ by Spain, on the orders of General Franco (I jest ye not!) In 2008 the Spanish documentary movie: ‘1968: I lived the Spanish May’, directed by Montse Fernandez Vila, made claims which corroborated the conspiracy theory apparently! My, oh my, if this doesn’t show-up the egotistical nature of politicians (all of ‘em – not just the dictators) and the petty lengths that they will go to claim prestige for their regimes – nothing will… LOL!
(M).
Textual content: ©Copyright MLM Arts 17. 02. 2015. Edited and re-posted: 20. 04. 2016. Edited and re-posted: 15. 10. 2017. Edited and re-posted: 11. 10. 2018. Edited and re-posted: 07. 01. 2020. Edited and re-posted: 04. 01. 2023; 15. 01. 2023. Edited and re-posted: 05. 07. 2023
BEING AN AVERAGE 10/11 YEAR OLD BRITISH KID IN GLASGOW IN 1969…
So, I'm 10 / 11 years old; still living in a big, old Victorian top floor flat (apartment) in a grand old tenement in Glasgow's South Side; and started my final year at the great, old fashioned primary (elementary) school about a mile away from home... But me and my buddies all walked to school and back - and appreciated the 'buddy time' and chance to laugh, joke and let off steam that our walks to and from school together allowed each day..!
PRIMARY SCHOOL AND THINGS THAT JUST DIDN’T ADD UP… OR SUBTRACT, MULTIPLY OR DIVIDE…
The one book that made me cringe at primary school (well, it was a cringe that followed me to high school too…) was our maths book: even though it was really just basic arithmetic at that age. I’m just not mathematically minded. The basic adding and subtracting stuff, even simple multiplication – I could bend my mind to, but division and the dreaded prefix LONG (division, multiplication) – put my mind into panic mode and shut down… And those ‘word problems’- i.e.: ‘If it takes one man two hours to dig a hole ten feet deep, how long does it take three men to dig one twenty feet deep..?’ Forget it. I didn’t know and I didn’t care… My teacher seemed to understand my difficulty and didn’t hassle me – just tried to help.
Nowadays I live in the real and adult world, and I can relate to bumper stickers like: ‘Well, another day goes by when I haven’t had to use long division or had to work out how long it takes three men to dig a hole (etc.).’ I have found in adult life that Arts / Humanities types and Science / Maths types are generally two distinct types of people – and rarely mix well. I dare say that Science / Maths types have bumper stickers that say: ‘Well, another day goes by when I haven’t had to give a monkey’s about metaphors, symbolism and imagery in any novel I ever read…’(LOL!)
POLITICS PERPLEXED ME…
Even as kids we were made aware of the danger we were in from The Cold War: from T.V info short films about 4 minute bomb alert warnings and what to do if the bomb is dropped… Well, on the T.V news I kept hearing reports about these ‘Salt Talks’ between the USA and USSR, aimed at a more peaceful world. S.A.L.T stood for Strategic Arms Limitation Talks - but as a kid, I didn't know that, and on the news they'd just keep referring to these 'salt talks'...
At that age ya kinda take things literally, and I was bemused about just how divided this world must be, when they even had to have big-time peace talks over SALT..! I imagined successive talks aimed at thrashing out differences over the range of condiments: pepper talks; vinegar talks; ketchup talks and so on and so forth… We’d be wiped out before they ever reached the big issues…
THE MOON LANDING AND ALL THINGS SPACE…
The moon landing was the big news in the world, of course – and as a kid I was thrilled about it. A shoe manufacturer made kids shoes that had silver soles with moon crater tread – I had a pair. For Christmas I got the newly released Action Man (U.K version of G.I Joe) Space Capsule (a one-seated orbiter, loosely based on the Apollo craft). A slight problem there though: the Christmas toy rush meant that the Space SUIT was sold out everywhere; my parents went for the nearest thing to it instead (in-so-much as it was the only other silver costume) – and, consequently, my Action Man went into space dressed to fight oil rig fires… (He wasn’t a busy man in space – there wasn’t a lot of call for it…)
But such was the importance of the moon landing to everyone in the world that it was the first time I was allowed to – more than that: MADE to – stay up late watching T.V. It went on hour after hour, in grainy, black and white pictures. It was not an all-action event, and I was SO tired, but riveted all the same. It was the historian in me, I suppose, I knew I was watching – in a way, being a part of – history being made. When I’d nod off on the couch, my parents would nudge me and say – stay awake! – If you miss this you’ll regret it for the rest of your life son..! I knew that I would, and I pried my eyes open and hung in there – and witness that historical moment and Neil Armstrong’s famous first words on the moon - which we all know…
MY EXPOSURE TO MUSIC IS EXTENDED
I mentioned in my 1968 history that the cheapo Hallmark label had started to release what they called Top of the Pops albums: covers of chart hits by jobbing musician nobodies, sold really cheaply to broke teens who couldn’t afford the singles. Well, their idea was clearly a success, because in 1969 they released six of them – and then a ‘Best Of’ (the impudence of that!) in December. My sister bought them, and so my range of knowledge of current music expanded…
OF MICE AND CATS… (and ghostly goings-on..!)
“Something to remember, that: cats for missiles.” (Steerpike quote from the novel ‘Titus Groan’: the first novel in the Gormenghast trilogy. (Mervyn Peake 1946)).
MICE AND CATS - WELL - ONE CAT, ACTUALLY...
Now, this old tenement of ours was already around 100 years old. The flats (apartments) were big: ours was top floor of three floors. The huge carved wooded front door opened into a long hallway, immediately to the left in the corner was a coat hanging area, the bathroom was the first door, next to the coat pegs – and then rooms all the way along the hallway. The top left room was the kitchen; across from that a special room that was used only for occasions and was kept pristine; there was a living room for flop-out family T.V viewing; the rest were bedrooms.
This year was the year of the mice..! For some reason a whole bunch of mice moved into the flats in the block. The council sent people to investigate; everyone bought traps and so on – and we got ourselves a cat: a young, pink nosed, black and white female cat, which we called Kimbo. Kimbo is possibly the most memorable of all the pets we had throughout my at home years – what a character…
Kimbo’s first sighting of a mouse – scampering along the side of the wall in the kitchen – was not glorious: she just sat and watched it, clearly puzzled… Ah – she was young yet… After a just a few weeks she’d grown in size and confidence and, with her help and the help of the council and everything else in the anti-mouse arsenal, the mice were vanquished…
But Kimbo became part of me and my two bruv’s gang (sometimes unwillingly), and between us we wreaked a bit of havoc with my older sister’s various suitors who came-a-courtin’ and had to be shown to that ‘special room’ to await interview with my Old Man (prospects, job – what football team they supported- that was the biggie…LOL!) Yep – 1960s and this scene like something from The Walton’s was still being acted out for real…
Anyway – Kimbo liked nothing better than to escape from hectic family life by curling up inside an empty pillow case and snoozing. We had a plan to freak out these nervous romantic young gents… We played this prank on a few of 'em over a couple of years. It played-out like this:
Timing it to about 10 minutes before the latest young hopeful arrived, we gathered up our furry accomplice and gently put her inside an empty cushion cover, then carry her to the couch in the ‘special room’ and lay her down. She was pleased – and in seconds she was zzzzzz-ing away. Then we’d zip it almost closed…
The nervous young Sir Galahad arrived and we showed him to the room and his place on the couch – at the opposite side to our booby-trap cushion, to await interrogation… Then we’d watch from through the gap in the nearly closed door…
First a twitching of this ‘cushion’ - and the lad was startled… Then it moved… Then it was rolling around… The hapless chappie was totally freaked by this time… Then a small white paw appeared in the unzipped part of the opening, and forced the gap wider… Boyo was frozen in horrific fascination… Then an angry cat head would push through the gap in the zip – and fix him with an accusative stare… ‘Aww… Hello puss..!’ and a sigh of relief from our spooked guest… But puss was having none of it – this was her captor, as far as she knew, and she flew at him from the bag like a ball of barbed-wire… ‘Yeeeoooch! Yargh! No puss! No..!’ But Kimbo had her fill of venting her indignation on him before she fled out the room into our arms – triumphantly basking in our hugs and affections, while we nearly choked on stifling our hysterics…
Sometimes, if short of time, we’d just cut to the chase: no cushion-cover ploy – just sit the guy down in the room, go out and gather up puss-kins, then (one.. two... three…) rush into the room and toss our fluffy – but barbed – projectile at the latest nervous romeo, then run out… The result was much the same… Kids eh..? Tut! What were we like..?
CATS AND GHOSTLY GOINGS-ON...
To end this little reminiscence - a tale of ghostly happenings…
The long hallway in this house was almost pitch dark when the light was off. Now, it’s an odd thing, but when the hall was in darkness we all saw a ball of hazy green light, about three feet in diameter, hovering a few inches off the ground in the corner coat-hanging area…
We all saw this luminous verdant apparition, but not one of us ever said so. We all just thought it was light glare: from going from a lighted room into a dark hallway. Yet it was only ever a green hazy ball - and always in that corner… When Kimbo arrived our blithe acceptance and ignoring of this ‘thing’ changed. Often when she was in that hallway we’d hear her going crazy: screeching and meowling, hissing and spitting. We’d go check that out – and find her in ‘combat’ with this green ball – which would float up and down the hallway, following her… (SHRIEK..!)
It was the first time that we witnessed this that one of us said: ‘it’s the green…’ and someone else completed: ‘ball of light..?’ Then we all shared our stories of how we always saw that thing… Now we began to think it was maybe more than just light glare… (Brrrrrrr..!) We talked it through and came up with our own family folklore: deciding that it was the ghost of a pet cat from long ago, which had been lost in the maze-like cellars that honeycombed the basement and foundations of these old apartments – linked to all connecting blocks. The entrances to these labyrinthine corridors were mostly walled or boarded up, but they were known to be home to scores of feral cats; once, when workmen were required to gain access to these forbidden vaults, we all looked in by torchlight and found several carcasses of long dead moggies (Shhhhh-iver…) Perhaps one of them our ghost…???
Hmm… Maybe that explains the mice deciding to clear-off: what with crazy Kimbo and ol’ floaty green puss, that was no place for mice..! LOL!
Well, make of that what you will folks – I ain’t saying it was definitely this or that… Whatever that thing was, it never did anything more than startle our cat a few times, so nothing worthy of a Hollywood ghost movie, but it makes good family reminiscing fayre…
SADLY, THAT WAS MY LAST FULL YEAR IN THAT GREAT OLD HOUSE...
We had to leave this great old tenement and comfortable, homely, close community neighbourhood in the summer of 1970, due to our side of our street being demolished for motorway building (more of that ‘progress we were always being sold.
We were sad to leave - that was a beautiful apartment, a good neighbourhood - and nice schools...
(M).
Textual content:
©Copyright MLM Arts 04. 03. 2015 Edited and re-posted: 17. 05. 2016. Edited and re-posted: 28. 11. 2017. Edited and re-posted: 08. 01. 2019. Edited and re-posted: 22. 01. 2020. Edited and re-posted: 07. 02. 2023. Edited and re-posted: 05. 07. 2023